Snapped in Cornwall Page 12

  ‘Only what he wanted to hear. That you aren’t a murderess. Like I said, he fancies you. Now come on, woman, I’m gasping for a cup of coffee.’

  There were no messages on the answering machine, for which Rose was grateful. An hour with Laura, then she would have the afternoon to herself. If it didn’t rain she would clear the tubs of the summer flowers which were becoming brown and untidy.

  Laura sensed her friend was not in a communicative mood. ‘You’re not upset, are you?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About me discussing you with Jack. I didn’t say anything that you couldn’t have listened to.’

  ‘No, I’m not upset.’ She smiled to show it was true.

  Laura got up to leave. Rose watched her bob down the path, her long legs thin in her leggings, her hair blowing this way and that in the blustery wind. She looks better, Rose thought, happier. She wondered just how serious her problems had been.

  She was staring into the fridge when a tap on the side window made her jump. ‘Oh, sodding hell,’ she said, hoping it was loud enough for Jack Pearce to have heard her. ‘Yes? What is it now?’

  ‘May I come in?’

  Rose did not answer. He took this to mean yes. ‘I’m not staying. I was on my way to my mother’s actually. Mr Milton asked me to give you this.’ He handed her an envelope. Rose took it from him, frowning in confusion. It was unaddressed. She tore it open with her thumbnail. Inside was a cheque, made out to her and for a sum which meant nothing.

  ‘He said it was for the photographs.’

  ‘But he’s only had the proofs.’

  Jack shrugged. ‘Nothing to do with me. He simply said he remembered you hadn’t been paid for your work and apologised for leaving it so long.’

  ‘He could have posted it, or brought it personally.’

  ‘He wasn’t sure if that was possible.’

  ‘Why? What’s happened? Where is Dennis?’

  ‘He’s in Camborne at the moment.’ He waited to see what her reaction would be.

  Rose realised the implications of what he was saying. Dennis, then, was helping with inquiries or whatever euphemism it was they used for hauling someone in. His remembering she had not been paid could be interpreted in converse ways: a guilty man wishing to repay any debts before being locked up, an innocent man remembering a chore because he had nothing else on his conscience. She was not going to ask.

  ‘In case you believe we’re not doing anything, we’re going through a process of elimination.’

  ‘Like Sherlock Holmes, no doubt.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You know, when you’ve ruled out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the answer. Something like that, I can’t remember.’

  ‘Are you a Conan Doyle fan?’

  ‘Not particularly. And I don’t wish to spend Sunday afternoon discussing literature. Besides, your mother’ll have your dinner on the table by now.’

  Jack Pearce’s mouth tightened. He exhaled slowly, then said, ‘I do not expect my mother to run around after me. I’m taking her out to lunch. Then I shall spend the afternoon playing cards with her. She’s almost eighty and half crippled with arthritis and she’s lost most of her friends. I suspect she’s lonely and I am unable to see her as often as I’d like.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Rose turned away. What a bitch I am, she thought, and a hypocrite. She had shown no mercy to Anna either.

  ‘It’s OK, you weren’t to know.’ And then he spoilt it. ‘I did use to have a wife to run around after me, though.’

  When Rose looked up she saw he was smiling and changed her mind about the retort she had been about to make. And now he had made his marital status clear to her. Why? ‘Used to?’

  ‘She left me.’ There were no excuses, no explanations, just the honest statement.

  ‘I’m widowed.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  Of course he did, he would have made inquiries into the background of everyone who was at the party. ‘Well, you’d better not keep your mother waiting.’

  ‘Hint taken. I don’t know why you’re so prickly with me, Rose. I find it strange when everyone tells me what a nice person you are.’

  She did not rise to the bait. No way was she going to ask who else he had been discussing her with. ‘Inspector Pearce, I hope you’re not going to formally arrest Dennis Milton. He didn’t do it, you know.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’m sure he didn’t.’

  ‘Ah, the old gut reaction. Still, it’s often right. Now, I really must go.’ He managed to make it sound as if she had deliberately been trying to detain him. ‘You’ll be pleased to know we no longer consider you to be a suspect.’

  ‘I –’

  ‘But you are still a witness. However, I’d like to take you out to dinner, as a friend. And if anyone asks, I’m making further inquiries. May I telephone you tomorrow for your answer?’

  ‘I –’ For the second time Rose was lost for words. The door crashed behind him before she could speak.

  Later that afternoon she telephoned the Milton house. Doreen Clarke answered. ‘No one’s here at the minute. Can I take a message?’

  ‘No, it’s all right, thanks, Doreen, I’ll call back later.’

  ‘Have you heard?’

  ‘Heard what?’ She might have to explain from whom she had heard if she admitted anything.

  ‘All hell’s broken loose over this way. First Mr Milton gets taken away in a police car, then Eileen Penrose’s shot her mouth off and got Jim dragged into it too. Well, there’s nothing in it, of course, we all know why she’s done it.’ Rose had lost track of the conversation but knew Doreen would continue anyway. ‘Eileen found out Jim had taken another woman out. She must’ve told the police he was always at it and coupled his name with Mrs Milton’s. Me and Cyril think she’s probably gone and told them he was up at the house that night. He was out with someone though, me and a friend saw him.’

  ‘I expect the police’ll sort it out. ‘’Bye now.’ Could it be that simple? Rose wondered when she replaced the receiver. Was this Jim Penrose a womaniser, one with a jealous wife, one who needed to kill his lover to prevent her from dropping him in it? For now Rose had other things on her mind. What answer was she going to give Jack Pearce tomorrow?

  Jim Penrose had walked brazenly and deliberately into the pub knowing that at that time of night there would be quite a few customers he knew. He had met Rita Chynoweth by chance in another pub. Although there was no proof that she shared her sexual favours with anyone who asked, rumour declared it was so. Rita was unperturbed and had taken to dressing the part: tight jeans over amply fleshed thighs were complemented by a white knitted top which stopped short of her midriff, exposing a comfortable roll of brown flesh which rested on a studded leather belt. Around her shoulders was a red leather jacket. On her arm was Jim Penrose.

  Seeing Doreen and Teresa in the corner had prompted her to clutch at her escort as they came through the door. She flung back her hair, which was dyed a reddish purple.

  Jim had noticed the women too. It would be interesting to see what Eileen had to say when presented with what she would assume was unquestionable proof of his guilt.

  It took several days before it got back to Eileen when she overheard, as she was meant to, a conversation in the greengrocer’s. She purchased her vegetables and went home planning Jim’s punishment.

  When he came in for his evening meal he saw by her face that things were not right but, surprisingly, she said nothing. An hour later the police arrived.

  Rose telephoned the author she had photographed and asked if it was convenient for her to bring around the contact sheet from which he could make his choice. It was ready but there was no hurry, Rose simply wanted to be out of the house in case Jack rang early. She had not made up her mind what to say to him.

  She was out no more than an hour. The light on the answering machine glowed but was not flashing. No one had telephoned.

  It
was not until six fifteen whilst she was clearing up water-colours and brushes from the table where she had been completing some sketches that the telephone rang.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Rose? It’s me, Jack.’

  She waited.

  ‘Are you free this evening?’

  ‘This evening?’ She hadn’t washed her hair. Which means, she thought, that I intended saying yes.

  ‘I know it’s short notice, but I can’t guarantee another night this week.’

  ‘I … er … OK.’

  ‘Good. I’ll pick you up about eight. Anywhere you particularly like?’

  ‘No.’

  She ran a bath and looked through the small cupboard in her bedroom which served as a wardrobe. She picked a skirt, gathered at the waist, in striking shades of orange and red and black. It wasn’t really the weather for boots but she had no suitable shoes to go with it. Her top was a black leotard.

  She was ready by seven thirty and tried to read but found herself watching the minutes ticking by on the carriage clock on the mantelpiece.

  Jack Pearce was fifteen minutes late.

  ‘I’m sorry. Work.’

  ‘It’s all right.’ Rose was cool; she was not sure whether she would have preferred him not to have turned up. It was all too unsettling.

  ‘Can we call a truce?’ Jack asked as they headed towards Penzance. ‘And I would appreciate your opinion on some of the people involved.’

  ‘I see. You want me to be your … what’s the word? Grass? Informer?’

  Jack laughed loudly. ‘You slay me, Rose Trevelyan. I just meant that, being an artist, you must have an eye for detail.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I bought my wife one of your paintings once.’

  ‘You did? Which one was it?’ Rose, like many artists, had her work on display in local shops and cafés. Occasionally she sold a few that way, others were commissioned through word of mouth or sold via galleries which handled several artists’ work.

  ‘I don’t know. It was a view of Land’s End. Before it was ruined,’ he added, referring to the theme park.

  ‘You feel the same as me, then. I suppose tourists need things like that but I liked it as it was. Just the cliffs and the sea.’

  ‘And the signpost.’

  ‘Oh, yes, and the signpost.’ Under which visitors could stand and have a picture taken. Inserted would be the name of their home town and the distance away in miles. Rose realised it was the first time they had had any sort of interaction which did not involve the Miltons in some way and was not tense with undercurrents.

  ‘Marian – that’s my wife, ex-wife – she said, now don’t take offence, she said it was a little on the crude side but that’s what appealed to her. She said it showed feeling and you probably enjoyed painting it. I don’t know anything about art myself, but I liked it too.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Was the flattery genuine? ‘It was done a long time ago, not long after I came down here. I love wild landscapes. Unfortunately I can only make a real living out of photography.’

  ‘Will a curry suit you?’ Jack had slowed the car. He needed to know where to park.

  ‘Yes, fine.’

  ‘A drink first, though – I can’t imagine you refusing.’

  She glanced at his face – lined, pleasant – but could not see his eyes as he turned to reverse into a space on the sea front.

  They walked up the hill, several feet apart, Rose wishing she had brought a jacket. The evenings were cooler now and the heat of the previous weeks seemed to have become a thing of the past.

  ‘Barry Rowe told me you do a good line in greetings cards too. That you paint them and he reproduces them.’

  ‘Did he now?’

  ‘He’s very fond of you.’

  ‘And I of him. I’ve known him for over twenty years.’

  ‘Your boyfriend?’

  ‘Boyfriend? At my age? No, just a good friend.’

  They entered the Union Hotel and Jack went to the bar leaving Rose to pick a table.

  ‘Is there one?’ he asked when he returned with a pint of bitter and a glass of red wine. ‘A boyfriend?’

  ‘Not at the moment.’ Let him make of that what he liked, she thought as she sipped the red wine she had not asked for. He was taking a lot on to assume he knew her tastes.

  There was silence for several minutes. Jack was taller than her with dark springy hair, plenty of it for his age, she considered, guessing that he might be older than herself but that there were not many years between them.

  ‘Me neither,’ he volunteered. ‘I’ve been divorced for twelve years, I don’t seem to have the time for women somehow.’

  Was this another veiled compliment?

  ‘Anyway, as I said, what do you make of the Miltons?’

  Not a compliment, Rose realised. She was here to give him information, information he supposed she possessed but was keeping to herself. ‘I feel sorry for Dennis. He regrets his affair.’

  ‘No doubt he does. Now.’

  ‘I think he was manipulated into it. Maggie gives the impression she knows how to handle people. Paul? Well, to be honest, I think he’s just a fool.’

  Jack smiled as she took another sip of wine. So far, their opinions coincided. Enough of work, that was not the real reason he had invited her out. ‘How long have you lived here?’

  ‘Since I left college. I’ve never imagined being able to leave.’

  ‘I didn’t realise how much I loved it, either, not until I moved away. Come on, I’ll tell you about it while we eat.’

  They walked on to the Indian restaurant, where they ordered a main course each and opted to share a portion of rice and a couple of vegetables. ‘Why did you leave?’ Rose asked.

  ‘Usual story. I was young, thought life was lived elsewhere and that there was nothing here worth staying for. I went to London, then north. Leeds. I was in the force by then and that’s where I met my wife. We got married, had a couple of kids and then, sounds daft, but I was homesick. I requested a transfer and finally got it. Marian wasn’t keen, she’s a city girl, but she was prepared to give it a try. I pointed out the benefits of bringing the children up down here. Well, it all went wrong. I’m not blaming her. I think she felt the same way about her home as I did mine. Anyway, we decided to call it a day.’

  ‘And your children?’

  ‘The boys? They were fourteen and thirteen when Marian left. They took it better than we’d imagined. They’d spent most of their lives in Leeds so it wasn’t an entirely new start for them.’

  ‘Do you see them?’ Rose hoped she wasn’t asking questions which might cause pain.

  ‘Oh, yes. They used to come for holidays, begrudgingly at first. My mother looked after them if I was working, then they got involved in water sports and surfing and, of course, in the summer, there were girls. Funny to think they’re men now. Twenty-five and twenty-six. Makes me feel ancient.’

  ‘So you’re about fifty?’

  ‘Exactly. Had the big birthday last month.’

  ‘Equals us up a bit.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You got all my personal details from that first interview.’

  A waiter placed hot-plates on the table, then brought the food. Jack watched. Yes, he was right. Rose, having been told they were very hot, was one of those people who just had to touch. She drew her finger back quickly and placed her hands in her lap. ‘I know it’s daft,’ she said, aware he had seen her, ‘but you’re no different.’

  ‘How come?’ He leaned forward, elbows on the table.

  ‘When you sat down you automatically pushed your knife and fork in a bit. You watch, loads of people do that.’

  ‘Touché. Like I said, you’re a very observant lady.’

  ‘I was trained to be.’

  ‘So was I.’

  Stalemate, Rose thought as she helped herself to prawn dopiaza.

  Jack Pearce ran her home, watched her safely to the door and departed without getting out of the
car. Rose Trevelyan, he thought, as he made his way back to his flat, knows more than she is saying. What made him so sure was not what she had told him, but what she had not mentioned. And how come, if she was on friendly terms with the Miltons, she had not asked whether Dennis was still being held?

  9

  Rose’s mood the following morning was carefree and she knew she was now not going to fall into the pit which threatened each year. The anniversary was behind her. She had wanted to ask Jack what was going to happen to Dennis but did not wish to spoil the evening by referring back to that subject.

  She wrote a receipt for the cheque she had received, although it was not necessary, and used it as an excuse to visit the Milton household. Anna’s rudeness still rankled; it would be interesting to meet her on her own ground. But she was genuinely concerned about Dennis.

  Ignoring Jack Pearce’s warning to keep out of things, she drove to Gwithian and pulled into the driveway. The mobile police unit was no longer there, which made her think an arrest might have taken place.

  ‘Mrs Trevelyan.’ Doreen Clarke dried her hands on an apron. ‘Mr Milton’s out. I don’t know what to do.’ Her round face was creased with worry. ‘Come in. Come out to the kitchen for a minute. No one’ll disturb us there. Least of all madam.’

  The kitchen had every appliance a cook could wish for. Rose was impressed.

  ‘I expect you’d like some coffee.’ Doreen obviously wanted to detain her. ‘I don’t know whether to go in there or not.’ She nodded vaguely towards the hall. ‘The two of them were shouting at each other.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Anna, and the other one. Maggie something or other.’

  ‘Maggie?’

  ‘Turned up demanding to see Dennis. She said she had something she wanted to tell him. Anna asked her to leave, she said whatever it was could be done over the phone. She refused to go, said it wasn’t Anna’s house. That’s when the shouting started.’

  Rose wasn’t surprised. If Anna had been expecting the house to be left to Paul she would wonder how Maggie knew otherwise. ‘Where are they now?’