Killed in Cornwall Page 3

  Their plates were empty. Dave lay on a bunk, his hands clasped behind his head. A combination of fresh air and physical work was tiring, but in a satisfying way, and he had never been more healthy. The fresh air and walking seemed to be having the same effect upon Eva.

  Eva washed the dishes then sat beside him and slipped a hand beneath his white T-shirt. Dave closed his eyes and thought of nothing but the touch of her fingers on his warm skin. Chance had brought her to him, he prayed it would not take her away. She was the sort of woman he had dreamt of in his more conventional days.

  Once the school holidays began and tourists were plentiful, Barry Rowe opened the shop on Sundays. But on dull weekends when early visitors who had visited all the attractions wandered around aimlessly he could also pick up quite a bit of trade. I might as well open today, he decided as he glanced at the sky from his front room window. Below, in the street, a few early risers were already looking in shop windows.

  Because he had to pay regular visits to the print works in Camborne, where many of his goods were produced, he employed two part-timers in the shop. But just recently he had been let down on several occasions and had made the decision to take on one person on a full time basis. Also it was hard to get sixth-formers to turn up in the holidays when the beaches and surfing were more appealing than earning a few pounds. Only two applicants had responded to the advertisement he had placed in the Cornishman. He had interviewed them both on Friday and informed them of his decision on Saturday. He had known immediately who was the more suitable but he wanted to let the unsuccessful woman down lightly, allowing her to believe he had more people to see. She had come across as domineering and prone to bad temper. Barry was not always comfortable with women, he would not have known how to deal with her.

  Daphne Hill had been his choice. She was a smartly dressed woman about his own age with two adult children who lived in Somerset from where the Hills had recently moved. She had a pleasant manner and a low-pitched voice with a trace of a West Country accent, although it wasn’t Cornish.

  At four o’clock the sky darkened and rain began to fall. The few people in the street hurried for shelter in pubs or restaurants or made their way home. Barry decided he would do little more trade so he shut the shop and locked the door. Having turned the sign to closed he went out to the back, through the small store-room and opened the door which led to his flat. He locked this behind him and went upstairs. I’ll read the paper, get something to eat and watch some TV, he decided, knowing that his life would seem dull and predictable to many. But he was contented; he had friends, friends who insisted he join them for meals or the cinema, outings, which, once he’d made up his mind to attend he always enjoyed. Work, of course, kept him busy, too. And there was Rose. He smiled. When Rose was around nothing was dull. Rose, his friend, but also the woman he had loved for years who would never be more than a friend. Rose, who had met David in his shop. It was Barry who had introduced them never imagining that they would be married less than a year later.

  In habitual manner he thumbed his ill-fitting glasses up his nose, settled his thin, hunch-shouldered frame in an armchair which had moulded itself to his shape and picked up a Sunday newspaper.

  He stared at the headlines without taking them in. Lately he had smartened himself up, bought some new clothes, but Rose was right, his flat was shabby and uncared for. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t be bothered because he only rented it – it was his, he owned the property, upstairs and down. The deeds were with his bank. The room was in shadow. All he could see through the salt-grimed windows was the frontage of the shops and their upstairs store-rooms opposite and a patch of sky. Now that summer had arrived he might redecorate. Maybe Rose would help him chose some new furniture. Of course she would, but he wished he was in a position to share it with her.

  He flung the paper on the floor and paced the room trying to imagine how it would look with painted walls rather than patterned paper. A sunny yellow, he thought, or white. Something to reflect as much light as possible. He couldn’t do much about the state of the windows. The window-cleaner did them once a week along with the plate glass ones which formed the shop front, but it was an endless battle against the salt-laden air, especially when the wind drove the rain and the spray straight off the sea.

  We’ll make a day of it, he decided, me and Rosie, when she can spare the time. Paint and curtains and furniture. Feeling optimistic he picked up the paper and started the cryptic crossword.

  ‘Aren’t you meeting Lucy?’ Joyce Jago asked, trying to keep the impatience from her voice. She had washed the Sunday lunchtime dishes and was drying her hands on a towel. Ivan had gone off to play golf, Joyce wanted nothing more than to spend a few hours on her own with her painting. ‘No.’

  Joyce sighed. ‘What’s the matter, Sam?’ Her daughter seemed to have everything going for her: youth, health, looks and a stable home. I was such a plain teenager, Joyce thought, but I was a damn sight happier.

  ‘Nothing’s the matter.’ Sam’s face was averted, her long, dark hair fell forward, hiding it altogether.

  ‘Have you fallen out with her?’

  ‘I wish you’d stop asking me questions. No, we haven’t fallen out, it’s just that she’s changed her mind.’

  Probably going through a late adolescence like you, my darling, Joyce thought but would never have dreamt of saying. Samantha believes she’s an adult, that she knows all there is to know about life and love and emotions. And I expect she thinks I’m totally past it now I’m almost forty.

  Sam picked up the mug of tea she had made. ‘I’m going to my room,’ she said.

  Then please don’t play your music too loudly. Joyce smiled at herself. Many of the sentences she addressed to Sam were silently spoken these days. It was a phase, this sullen awkwardness, she understood that, but one which she hoped would not last long.

  It had started to rain. Joyce made herself some tea then sat in the window of the large lounge where she could look down over the rooftops of the houses below, between which she just make out a triangle of sea. She picked up her sketchpad and began the homework Rose Trevelyan had set them at the end of their last class.

  Detective Inspector Jack Pearce swore under his breath. Another two attempted break-ins on Saturday night. No entry gained to either property but should they catch the perpetrators there would be a charge of criminal damage. He ran a hand through his dark, springy hair. Petty crime, now prevalent, was so time-consuming. Whoever was responsible for the latest spate of burglaries and attempted burglaries was by no means professional but they were not entirely stupid either or surely they would have caught them by now.

  He glanced at his watch. The face was plain, the numbers Arabic and the strap leather. It was comfortable on his muscular, olive-skinned arm and did not catch on the hairs like his old one with the expanding bracelet. It had once been his father’s. It was just after four on a Sunday afternoon. Too late to do anything useful with the day, apart from which it was raining. He was tempted to telephone Rose but he knew she had a busy week ahead of her and probably needed some time to relax.

  He pulled on his jacket and went out to the car. Driving back to Penzance from Camborne where he was based he decided he’d have a walk, something he rarely did voluntarily or unless Rose was with him. A walk, a couple of pints in the Alexandra, known to everyone as the Alex, where there might be some cricket on the television, then home. It would do him good to relax, too, to forget about work and all that went with it. It was a rare occasion when he could afford that luxury, unlike Barry Rowe who seemed totally at ease at all times.

  He parked outside his ground floor flat in Morrab Road. It was a longish road leading up from the seafront to the town centre. Large houses lined it, many now converted to guest houses or the offices of professional people; a few, like Jack’s, contained flats.

  When the rain fell more heavily he almost changed his mind about going out, but he had been sat behind his desk for much of the week and fresh air
was needed. Not a man who enjoyed drinking alone, he decided to give Barry a ring and see if he would join him.

  ‘Love to, Jack,’ Barry said when he answered the phone. ‘I was only reading the paper.’

  ‘Ah, well, good. See you in the Alex in about an hour?’ Well, well, what a surprise. Jack had been expecting a refusal or a feeble excuse as to why Barry couldn’t join him. He can be so damn lugubrious at times, he thought as he pulled on a raincoat, but that afternoon Barry had sounded quite positive.

  He walked towards the sea, head down against the rain and wondered if he was crazy. But the wind in his face was exhilarating and the worries of work disappeared. Soaked but feeling better for the exercise, Jack met Barry as arranged and a couple of pints turned into four.

  Even though it was over, Lucy Chandler kept her eyes closed. She was afraid to open them, afraid of what might follow. After ten minutes, juddering with cold and shock, she tried to get to her feet but couldn’t. On all fours she moved towards a tree and used the trunk to lever herself up.

  It was late, very late, and she had told her mother she would be home by ten in time for her father’s weekly telephone call. Her mother would be annoyed, she didn’t like speaking to Dad if she could avoid it.

  A sound escaped her, a sound she did not recognise as coming from her own throat. It was a mixture of terror and disgust. She tasted bile a split second before she bent double and vomited. She wiped her mouth on her sleeve and knew she had to get home.

  Sore and aching and filled with revulsion, she staggered towards the main road. Home, she thought, I must get home. It was only that one thought that ensured she did. Had she let her mind dwell upon what had happened she would have collapsed on the spot.

  It was a wet Sunday night with few pedestrians and even fewer cars. No one stopped for her, no one asked if she was all right. Seeing her, dishevelled and swaying, a stranger would have mistaken her for a teenage drunk. It was almost midnight when she reached home. Lights were on in all the rooms. She had no idea how she had got there, only that somehow she must have walked. ‘Mum.’ It might have been a whisper or a shout.

  At the third attempt she got her key in the door. ‘Mum.’

  Gwen Chandler stood in the hallway. Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘My God. Oh, my God, Lucy, whatever’s happened?’

  Lucy Chandler fell over the doorstep and lay still on the floor.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Rose turned into the narrow street and parked, hoping that no other car would require access for a few minutes. She opened the boot where the oils, carefully wrapped in sacking, were stacked between wads of newspaper. A rough wooden door to her left opened and a man in faded brown overalls came out to help her unload. Little sun penetrated the back street building but it was brightly lit within by fluorescent tubes suspended from the ceiling. Benches and tables held an assortment of sharp tools and samples of frames in the form of corners of wood and plastic in various colours.

  ‘No problem,’ the framer told her when she had stressed the importance of the paintings being ready by Wednesday. He liked Rose Trevelyan and found her unassuming, unlike some of the artists with whom he came into contact. No pretensions, no boastfulness because she happened to possess talent and certainly not a ‘luvvie’ like one or two he could mention. He stuck a pencil behind his ear and walked with her to the door.

  ‘Geoff Carter’s collecting them. About lunchtime, he said,’ she added as she hurried out and around to the driver’s side of the car because another vehicle had pulled up behind it, waiting for her to move.

  Thank you, she said silently to whatever forces governed the weather. Warmth seeped into her body as she negotiated the small labyrinth of lanes until she reached the main road and the roundabout where she turned left and headed towards Land’s End. Behind her was the reinforced bag which contained her camera equipment. After months of preparing for the exhibition, photography would make a nice change.

  She was going to tour the villages and take some preliminary shots for next season’s postcards: Sennen Cove, Porthcurno, Logan Rock and Lamorna on one trip, Porthleven, Poldhu Point, Kynance Cove and the Lizard on another. Sometimes she went further afield because although tourists tended to want pictures of the area in which they were staying they also bought views of places they had been to visit. So Falmouth, Helford and its river, Gweek and Rosemullion Head and the old fishing village of Coverack were other popular scenes.

  If the weather held, which was never a certainty, she might even get some shots Barry could use right away. The light and colours which drew artists to Cornwall might come across as unrealistic in a painting but it was said that the camera never lied. Rose laughed. It didn’t used to, now it could. Technology could turn a photograph into anything you wanted it to be.

  She arrived at Sennen under a clear azure sky. The various blues and greens of the sea which depended on its depth were of such brightness and purity it almost hurt her eyes to look at them. Purple patches denoted rocks below the surface. It was as if dyes had been added to enhance the natural beauty of the coastline. It was hot now, hot enough to deserve the acknowledgement that the climate was sub-tropical, allowing the palms and yuccas to flourish, to grow to great heights and flower every summer. And there were fleshy, black succulents and pink flowered echiums which reached towards the sun like giant phallic symbols. These things draw the tourists as well as the artists, Rose thought as she got out her camera bag, reminding herself the purpose of her visit was work, not day-dreaming. The summertime pictures she took would sell. You never saw postcards depicting a fishing village or beach half obscured by mist or rain with the granite cottages, sea and sky merging into one dour, grey landscape, nor did you see the obsolete mining communities with their closed shops and signs of poverty. Visitors turned a blind eye to such things even if they did visit a mine that had been turned into a museum. Cyril Clarke had been invited to the opening of the one from which he had been made redundant. ‘Bloody theme park now. Good men died there,’ was all he had said, refusing to go, refusing to discuss it further. He felt it was an insult to the generations of men who had spent their working lives below ground.

  Let’s get on with it, Rose told herself as she attached a wide-angle lens and headed for a high vantage point.

  The weather held, but not the clarity. As the heat increased, so did the haze and the shimmer over the sea. The water was now more silver than sapphire, the occasional ripple flashed gold in the sun. She experimented with various lenses and hoped she had created some worthwhile effects.

  Late in the afternoon, having taken in two other locations, she made her way home, her face tingling from the heat of the sun. She was aware there would be a few more freckles across her nose.

  Having unloaded her gear she took three rolls of film up to the attic where a small section had been sectioned off and adapted as a dark-room. Later, when she had eaten, she would develop the films. Making the prints could wait until tomorrow. Dust had accumulated on the table where she worked at her watercolours and gull droppings were splattered over the north facing velox windows. Fortunately they swung open at an angle of 180 degrees so she was able to clean them herself.

  She descended the backless, wooden steps from the attic then the carpeted stairs which led down to the hall. Meat tonight for a change, she decided. Many of her evening meals consisted of the fish which Trevor gave her or which she bought for next to nothing from one of the fish buyers she knew. With a glass of chilled wine to hand she began to prepare her evening meal.

  When she had eaten she rang her parents who had retired from farming in Gloucestershire and had moved to a cottage in the Cotswolds where the large garden kept them both occupied. Evelyn and Arthur Forbes were in their early seventies but were active and fit and travelled a lot, which they were unable to do when they had the farm. But they were no longer young, Rose never forgot that.

  ‘A gardener?’ Arthur said in disbelief when Rose mentioned Dave Fox.

  ‘Just to
do the heavy work.’

  ‘Fair enough. You’ve never been one for looking after it properly. I’ll put you on to your mother.’

  ‘Hello, darling. How are you?’

  ‘Oh, I’m fine, Mum, but busy.’

  ‘And how’s Jack?’

  ‘I haven’t seen much of him lately.’ Rose knew how much her mother liked him and how much she hoped they would become a couple, even marry.

  ‘Well, give him my love when you do see him.’

  ‘I will.’

  They chatted for a few more minutes then Rose hung up. Pleasantly tired from the effects of fresh air and sunshine, she went to bed.

  When she woke at six, narrow yellow bands of sunlight ran across the carpet from between the small gaps at the sides of the curtains. Dave Fox will be here this morning, was her first conscious thought. Pulling on her towelling robe, she went downstairs to make coffee and to smoke a cigarette, one of the few she allowed herself each day. By six forty-five she was in the dark-room making prints from the negatives. It was better to avoid working in the confined space beneath the eaves when the heat built up.

  When she had finished, she showered and dressed and rewarded herself with another mug of strong coffee, taking it outside to drink. Ahead, the stark outline of the curving coastline was in contrast to the turquoise sweep of Mount’s Bay and the blue sky, which was striated by a few wisps of cirrus cloud.

  Rose was sitting on the bench writing a shopping list when she heard a vehicle slow on the road below. A plain white van turned into the drive and parked behind her Metro. At the wheel sat a tanned man who looked to be in his early thirties.

  He got out and nodded at Rose who, for no logical reason, felt guilty to be found sitting in the garden. ‘Mrs Trevelyan? I’m Dave Fox.’ He held out his hand. Rose shook it. He had a firm grip and callused palms and was a good foot taller than her. ‘Thank you for coming.’