Snapped in Cornwall Page 14

  The front door closed quietly. Jim had left without even saying goodbye.

  ‘I’ve changed my mind, Paul, I think we should wait. What’ll people think if we get married so soon? I mean, your mother isn’t buried yet.’

  ‘You’ve never cared what people think, Anna. I love you, that’s the only thing that matters. Don’t you know I can see how all this has affected you? The sooner you’re my wife, the better.’

  ‘But, the thing is …’ She paused. Her shiny black hair fell forward, covering her face.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing, Paul. It doesn’t matter. Look, I think I’d like to return to London.’

  ‘Please, not yet. Just stay until the weekend. They’re not expecting you back at work yet.’

  Anna contemplated her fingernails. It might be better to remain. She had told the police she would be staying and the idea of being alone in her flat was not so appealing now she thought about it. ‘All right.’ She made an effort to smile. ‘Until the weekend.’

  ‘They’ll probably have arrested someone by then. They’re still going around asking a lot of questions.’

  ‘Paul, what if they don’t find who did it?’

  ‘Of course they will.’

  ‘Supposing it was a stranger, someone who just came by chance?’

  ‘By chance? With a houseful of people?’ But as he thought about it, he realised it was a possibility. It was not a pleasant thought, but who else could it have been? Realistically, it was worse to believe it was someone known to them who had killed Gabrielle.

  10

  ‘We have no proof and only one piece of circumstantial evidence, which certainly isn’t going to satisfy the CPS. They’ll laugh their bollocks off.’

  ‘Succinctly put, Jack,’ his chief inspector told him. ‘That’s why I want you to find the proof. I can’t believe no one at that party saw anything odd or suspicious. And the victim didn’t struggle, wasn’t expecting to be toppled over that balcony, so it was someone she knew. Someone she trusted, more than likely.’ He sighed. Like Jack he had hoped to have it neatly wrapped up by now. They knew all about the husband and his bit on the side, they knew what was in the will. They had also discovered that Mrs Milton may have intended altering that will, which left Dennis Milton firmly in the frame in view of his forthcoming redundancy. It had seemed perfect. Husband clobbers wife, inherits more than enough not to have to worry, then runs off with the bimbo. Better still, the bimbo’s present, they’d planned it together.

  But they wouldn’t crack, neither of them, and he was beginning to feel Jack Pearce’s theory was right. Only one little problem: the question of proof.

  ‘Leave ’em long enough and someone’ll make a mistake,’ he told Jack. ‘They’re ringing each other up, visiting each other willy-nilly, there’ll be a slip-up. Ease off on the pressure for a day or two. At least, let them think you have. Go on, shove off, you look tired.’

  Jack was relieved. Initially he didn’t think his superior had believed him. There was a way he thought he might be able to get that proof. It might be the only way. He didn’t want to do it. It meant involving Rose Trevelyan.

  ‘Shall I make a fresh pot?’

  ‘No, thanks, Eileen, I must be going.’ Maureen touched her sister’s arm but there was no response. Eileen was staring at the seersucker table-cloth, trying not to cry.

  ‘Come up for supper tonight.’ Maureen didn’t know what else she could say.

  ‘No, I’ll be fine. I’d better be here, in case he comes back. He’ll want feeding.’

  Eileen watched her sister leave and envied her easy-going attitude. Jim had not been in touch for several days now and she did not know where he was staying. Pride prevented her from asking around.

  It was a very odd thing, she reflected later, that it was on Doreen Clarke’s shoulder she had finally cried when she turned up with a pot plant from Cyril’s greenhouse to offer a bit of comfort.

  Paul Milton and Anna were the next to be requestioned. Individually. They had both so far refused to say what their argument had been about. More people than Rose and Barry had noticed they were barely on speaking terms. Paul now insisted that it was nothing more than a disagreement, that Anna was wound up about the wedding. The detective constable made a note of this. Jack Pearce would be interested. From what he knew, no wedding date had been set at that point.

  Anna claimed that whatever it was was so trivial she could no longer remember.

  They, too, were allowed to leave.

  When Rose heard Jack’s voice on the end of the line she was pleased. She listened to what he had to say and was puzzled. ‘I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it …’ He had been about to say ‘necessary’. ‘It would be helpful. You’re good at getting people chatting. Will you give it a go?’

  ‘I suppose so. It shouldn’t be difficult.’

  ‘Good girl.’

  Rose replaced the receiver. Good girl? How patronising. And no mention of seeing her again – apparently Jack Pearce simply wanted to use her. She would do as he wished, for her own satisfaction more than his. It was a very strange request he had made but he obviously had his reasons. And it had to be tomorrow.

  She rang the Miltons’ number. It was Dennis who answered.

  ‘I hope I’m not being a nuisance –’

  ‘Of course not,’ Dennis interrupted.

  ‘Only I’m doing some work on churches.’ So far it was true. ‘The thing is, I believe Gabrielle had some books on the history of Cornwall. I wondered if I might borrow one. You see, I thought I might try ancient monuments next.’

  ‘Certainly. She would’ve been pleased to think you shared an interest.’

  ‘Thank you. Would it be all right if I called in for them tomorrow? About three?’

  The arrangement made, she hung up. Why Jack Pearce wanted her to borrow books she either already possessed or could get from the library was beyond her comprehension, but she had agreed to do it. Dennis would be fixing the car in the morning.

  When the appointed time came Rose was shown into the lounge and Dennis asked if she wanted tea.

  ‘No, I’ve just had some, thanks. I won’t keep you, I feel I’ve taken up enough of your time.’

  ‘No trouble. And there’s no hurry to return them.’ His face dropped as he realised they would no longer be needed. ‘Ah, here’s Paul. Paul, would you show Rose where your mother keeps her books?’

  ‘I’d like to borrow a couple,’ Rose explained.

  ‘This way.’ Paul preceded her up the curved staircase which ended in a gallery off which rooms ran. Rose had not been upstairs before. Paul opened one of the doors. ‘This was Mum’s studio.’

  One wall was entirely of plate glass with a view over the garden and the sand dunes. There was nothing and no one to overlook the inhabitants.

  The floor was wood block and there were two bright rugs. A couch was covered in tough cloth, pattered with zigzags in primary colours. There was also a table holding a sewing machine and an old wooden kitchen table. White walls were adorned with pieces of patchwork.

  ‘Mum had several hobbies,’ Paul said.

  ‘It’s a lovely room to work in.’ It had a foreign feel, Mexican maybe. There was no sign the police had ever been in it but they must have searched everywhere thoroughly. Rose studied her surroundings, enjoying the smell of the new fabrics which covered the furniture but wishing she knew what she was doing there.

  ‘Look. Mum did this.’ Paul held out a cushion he had taken from a shelf. The cover consisted of many layers of material, slashed at random, letting the various colours show through, the edge of each gash neatened with minute stitches and, here and there, tiny beads, so small that Rose could not imagine a needle passing through them. But, more importantly, she was taking note of how Paul spoke of his mother. There was regret and fondness in his voice as he showed her the almost completed piece of work.

  ‘Would you like it?’

  ‘What?’ Rose’s head jerked up.

>   ‘This. You might even finish it, there’s only a corner to do.’

  ‘Oh, Paul, I couldn’t. I’d mess it up.’

  ‘No, you won’t. You paint, don’t you? You must have a steady hand. Here, go on, take it.’

  Rose did so. Of course she would love to possess it. She thanked him but wondered what Dennis would have to say about it.

  ‘The books don’t seem to be here, not the ones you wanted. They must be in the bedroom.’

  Rose followed Paul across the landing. Gabrielle’s bedroom was spacious and well furnished without being fussy. It was a room in which either sex could be comfortable. On the bedside table on the left of the bed were the two volumes Jack Pearce had asked her to borrow. Then he knew, Rose thought. He knew they were in here and guessed that no one would have removed them. But why? Unconsciously her head turned towards the tall windows which opened on to the balcony which ran around two sides of the house. Jack had wanted her to be in here, not in Gabrielle’s study or workroom. She let Paul pick up the books and hand them to her, then they went back downstairs.

  Dennis was on the phone so she smiled and waved and let herself out. The cushion and books she placed in a plastic bag she found under the dashboard. She saw many cars during the journey home but did not realise two of them held police officers.

  Rose began seeing Paul in a different light but she suspected he was weak. Anna was the strong one, someone Paul could look to to tell him what to do, who would sort him out emotionally as long as the cheques kept coming in. What am I supposed to do now? she thought as she turned into her driveway. Did Jack expect her to ring him or would he be the one to make contact? She decided to leave it to him.

  It had not crossed Doreen Clarke’s mind that someone up at the house might be the murderer. It was Maureen who pointed it out to her over an afternoon cup of tea.

  ‘Mr Milton? Don’t be daft. He’s too soft.’

  ‘Paul then,’ Maureen suggested.

  Doreen shook her head. ‘I’d know. You can always tell a killer by his eyes.’ Not that I’ve ever seen one, she thought, but she’d know somehow or other. ‘Besides, they’ve both spent hours with the police and they haven’t been arrested.’

  ‘There you are. They could be in it together. Dennis could have his bit on the side and they could share the money.’

  Doreen had not meant to mention Maggie Anderson’s name in relation to Dennis, but in the excitement it had come out. ‘I don’t know about that. I heard Paul asking his father for a loan the other day and Mr Milton said they couldn’t do anything with the money until the probate was sorted out. I thought they’d have gone back to London by now, but they’re all still there, the three of them. Madam expects me to wait on her hand and foot.’

  Maureen smiled. She could imagine her friend’s reaction to that. Doreen was quite capable of acting deaf or simply ignoring something if it was voiced as an order. ‘Well, they seem to be taking long enough to find out who did it.’

  ‘Yes, but think how many people were in the house that night.’

  ‘Yes, plenty of suspects. Including you.’

  ‘You’re daft at times, you are. Still, you make a nice cup of tea.’

  ‘Want another?’

  ‘Please.’ But Doreen’s mind was elsewhere. She hoped Mrs Milton had not taken it upon herself to leave her anything in her will. With her and Cyril’s present financial position, even a small amount might be considered as motive enough.

  Routine had been so much disrupted lately that Rose went to answer the door without feeling in the least irritated. Dennis Milton stood on the step, the wind blowing his thinning hair across his scalp.

  ‘They’ve arrested Paul,’ he told her without preamble.

  ‘Paul?’ Rose tucked her hair behind her ears as if seeing him better would belie what he was saying.

  ‘I don’t know where else to turn. Anna’s no good, she’s shut herself in her room.’

  ‘But I can’t … I’m sorry. Come in.’ The wind was whistling around the side of the house and there was a through-draught as the kitchen window was open.

  Dennis was defeated, it showed in his face. In the kitchen she plugged in the kettle before thinking something stronger might be called for. Dennis accepted a small glass of whisky, and Rose poured herself a glass of wine. Underneath her concern for the man was an underlying feeling that people were dumping their burdens on her indiscriminately. She had to remind herself that it was her own interest which had encouraged it. And, if Paul was under arrest, Jack Pearce had beaten her to it. Her own feeble deductions were wrong. She could not see how her presence at the Milton house and that strange thing with the books had anything to do with it.

  ‘What’ll happen now?’

  Dennis shrugged, his head bowed. ‘I don’t know. I’ll get him a lawyer, I suppose, but he’ll be lucky to get away with it.’

  ‘Get away with it?’

  ‘Oh, Rose! Surely you didn’t think …? No, no, it wasn’t anything to do with his mother. Fraud. He was up to all sorts in London. God knows why he didn’t come to me sooner. No, I do know.’ He paused. He and Gabrielle had agreed after the last time they had bailed him out that they weren’t doing him any good. ‘I don’t understand exactly what he’s been up to but they’ll be seeing his partner as well.’

  Rose just stopped herself from saying she didn’t believe Gareth was dishonest. She was not supposed to know him.

  ‘As far as I can make out it’s something to do with taking commission from property owners, showing them a signed lease then saying the lessee has backed out. Only eighty per cent of the commission’s repayable.’

  ‘But how can that happen? The people who sign can’t just back out.’

  ‘Quite. But it’s worse than it seems.’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Rose realised what Dennis was saying, that it was Paul who had forged signatures on the agreements between his firm and the landlords, drawn up without the services of a solicitor.

  ‘I’m afraid so. When questioned, Paul would give false details of the non-existent customer who obviously couldn’t be traced.’

  ‘You mustn’t blame yourself, Dennis. You’ve done more than many parents would have.’

  ‘I don’t. It’s Anna I blame. She puts so much pressure on him. Oh, I know that sounds as if I’m making excuses, but Paul’s weak, he always has been. And he loves the girl – whatever she says goes.’

  Rose had been right in her estimation of Paul’s character. If he was that weak was it possible Anna had persuaded him to kill his mother?

  ‘Another drink, Dennis?’ She hoped she had said it in a tone which suggested she would prefer the answer to be no.

  ‘I’d better not. I’ve got the car. I just hope that the engagement’s off now. That would be one good thing to come out of it. I’m so sorry, Rose, to bring all my troubles to your doorstep. I wish I knew more people here.’

  ‘You will, in time. If you decide to stay.’

  Once he had gone Rose poured out a second glass of wine. I must eat, she thought. Later there would be more drinks with Laura; even if they decided to have a meal somewhere, Rose needed some food inside her first. A buttered roll filled with salad and corned beef took the edge off her hunger. This was followed by coffee, then a bath. Closing her eyes, Rose lay with suds damping the back of her hair as images of Jack Pearce, Paul, Dennis and Anna floated through her mind. And Jack’s request. Was it of vital importance? What if he rang whilst she was out? And why did it matter so much?

  Forget it, she told her reflection in the full-length mirror as she towelled herself dry. Turning sideways she thought, all in all, what she saw wasn’t too bad. There was still a waist even if there was a little more padding on the hips than there once had been.

  Because she had the hairdryer on its strongest setting, she did not hear the telephone ringing. When she went downstairs the light was flashing on the answering machine. The message was from Jack; he would try her again later. There was no clue as to whether t
he call was personal or not. Tempted to put Laura off, Rose decided against it. She was not about to make the mistake of losing a friend for the sake of a man. If it was that important Jack would keep trying until he got an answer.

  The evening was not a success. Laura was not her normal vivacious self but rather withdrawn. Rose did not like to ask if it had anything to do with Trevor. Her own mind was preoccupied, too. So many ideas were jumbled and she was unable to concentrate on one thing at a time.

  ‘Do you mind if we go now?’ Laura asked at ten fifteen. They had walked as far as the Queen’s Hotel on the front, had one drink there, then retraced their steps to Newlyn. It was a landing day, the harbour a mass of masts, the pubs reflecting the number of boats in by the persistent ringing of the tills. Mostly they enjoyed the noise and laughter but the two women needed solitude and a chance to think.

  They parted outside the fish market, the shutters down now on the concrete building. ‘I’ll ring you tomorrow,’ Rose said as she turned to make her way up the hill.

  She had left a light on. The path was uneven and it was easier to see to fit her key in the lock. No danger of burglars tonight, she thought, seeing Jack Pearce’s car outside, Jack himself at the wheel.

  ‘Where have you been?’ he asked as soon as she was parallel with his window.

  ‘Out. Is it allowed?’

  Jack got out of the car.

  ‘I’m tired.’

  ‘So am I. Did you get my message?’

  Rose could not deny it. Had he looked, he would have been able to see through the front window that the message had been played back. The light was no longer flashing. Opening the kitchen door she realised he was right behind her. Without invitation he followed her inside.

  ‘You’ve arrested Paul, then,’ she said immediately, hoping to put him at a disadvantage.

  ‘Not much escapes you, does it, Rose?’

  ‘But not for the murder?’