Caught Out in Cornwall (10 page)

‘Did I mention that Jenny and I are going on holiday?’

‘No.’ Rose and Arthur answered in unison, their surprise equally as apparent. Barry had never taken a holiday in all the years they had known him.

‘We’re going in January. Two weeks somewhere in the sun. The shop’ll be quiet then
and Daphne has assured me she’ll be able to cope. It means her working an extra day each week, but she said she’ll be glad of the money.’ Over the years Barry had had an assortment of part-time staff, but some months previously he had taken on Daphne Hill on a full time basis. The idea had been to give him more leisure time as he also had the print works in Camborne to run. It had taken Rose ages to persuade him to actually use that spare time for leisure. Now he was taking it a step further, which was a good sign; perhaps, of course, Jenny was responsible for his new attitude.

The evening came to an end when they saw that Arthur was beginning to look tired. Barry and Jenny had walked and were returning home the same way, Rose rang for a taxi. Stone’s, the local firm, were cheap and reliable and all the drivers knew her and chatted about her work when they drove her anywhere.

‘Please be careful, darling,’ Arthur said as they waited for the cab to arrive.

Rose knew he was not referring to her short trip home. ‘I will, Dad,’ she replied, kissing him on the cheek by way of reassurance. Perhaps she ought to keep out of things, her father had enough to worry about. But with the ideas which
had been racing around her mind all evening, she thought it was probably impossible she’d be able to simply do nothing.

It took her a long time to get to sleep that night because she had had an idea but absolutely no way of knowing how to implement it.

On Saturday morning Doreen Clarke was dressed for the weather. Her raincoat was tightly belted and her headscarf was knotted firmly in place. Over her arm was the wicker basket she always used for her shopping. She hated plastic carrier bags and the way in which they dug into her hands. She usually drove in to Penzance at the weekend but she’d decided against it as Cyril’s brother was coming later that day. She would shop in Hayle instead.

On the opposite side of the road she saw Susan and Katy. Katy was holding her mother’s hand. For once the child looked relaxed as she pointed to something amongst the reeds. Doreen waved but they didn’t see her. I wonder if Rose has said anything to Jack, she thought as she made her way towards the baker’s where she now bought her bread. Once, she had made it herself, but that was in the days when Cyril was in full-time employment and she didn’t have to go out to
work. Fortunately his redundancy hadn’t come until after her boys had left home.

At least Katy’s with her parents, not like that poor little Beth, Doreen told herself as she waited to cross the road. She decided she would telephone Rose later to see if there had been any developments on either count.

Jack spent Saturday afternoon at home. He had done all he could at the station and was satisfied that a tactful, fatherly officer would be despatched to the local schools on Monday morning. He had had to have his decision endorsed from above but when he explained that there might be a connection between the two, possibly three children the hesitation had only been brief. Anything was worth a try at this stage.

He had rung Rose’s number. There was no reply but he decided not to leave a message. Sitting in his armchair he wondered if the rain would ever stop. With a beer in his hand he watched some sport but it wasn’t long before he realised he was bored. He picked up the telephone and got someone at Camborne to check the computer to see if the name Overton appeared for any reason. ‘Call me back at home, please,’ he said. ‘I’ll be here for an hour or so.’

And then what? He really ought to go and visit his mother. It was over a fortnight since he had seen her. She was a proud and independent woman and wouldn’t dream of asking him to come and he knew he should make more of an effort. When he did visit he never stayed long. As much as she loved her son, Amelia Pearce only endured short visits. But she always takes an interest in my job, Jack thought. Perhaps he could see if she had any suggestions.

Twenty minutes later the telephone rang. ‘There’s nothing on anyone named Overton, sir,’ he was told.

Jack put on a jacket and picked up his car keys and drove to Newlyn then up to the village of Paul where his mother lived in a cottage which was badly in need of decoration – although she refused to have anyone in to do it, even though Jack had offered to pay the bill. ‘I like it as it is,’ she’d told him. ‘And it’s not as if it’s dirty. At my age people don’t want change. You’ll find that out for yourself one day, young man.’ Jack had smiled at that. He was fifty; to his mother, now seventy-seven, he probably did seem young.

Amelia was frowning when she answered the door. ‘Oh, it’s you.’ Her expression changed. She was always pleased to see Jack. ‘You haven’t
brought your lady friend to see me for some time. Is everything all right between you?’ she asked as he followed her to the kitchen. His mother drank more tea than anyone he had ever met.

‘Yes. Everything’s fine. She’s been busy lately so I haven’t seen much of her myself.’

‘Still doing your job for you, is she?’

Jack grinned. His mother didn’t miss much. ‘Hopefully, this time, she’s not.’

‘The missing child?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ah.’ Amelia turned her attention to the tea things.

Jack noticed that although she was smartly dressed and her hair pinned up neatly, there was more of a stoop in her shoulders than he recalled being there before. ‘Ah, what?’

‘She won’t be found alive, will she?’

‘That’s what we’re beginning to think.’

‘I spoke to Norma Penhalligon about it only this morning. She told me the child’s father turned up last night.’

Norma Penhalligon? That was a name Rose had come out with, too. Mrs Penhalligon was Sally’s landlady. He knew what Rose was like when it came to knowing people, but he hadn’t expected the same of his mother. ‘You know her?’

‘We went to school together. You must’ve heard me mention her name.’

Jack couldn’t recall her doing so, probably because until the case had started he had never met the woman. He had not met many of his mother’s friends for some time now because she discouraged them from visiting her. He did know, however, that her telephone bill was higher than most because this was the way in which she preferred to keep in touch with the outside world. ‘What’s Norma like?’

‘What an odd question,’ she said as she handed him his tea. ‘A normal old lady, like me.’

Jack smiled to himself. He did not see his mother as normal. ‘I mean, is she trustworthy?’ He was thinking about the visit to Carol Harte’s house she had made with Rose and if there was more to it than concern for the sister.

Why would the pair of them have put themselves out? In Rose’s case it was probably due to her innate curiosity but Norma Penhalligon may have had ulterior motives.

‘As much as anyone can be. She would never do anyone any harm and she’s not one to gossip, and that, as you know, is damn unusual round here. You can’t possibly think she’s got anything to do with it.’

Not until this minute, Jack thought. The woman obviously hadn’t taken the child herself but she knew the family and might have a reason for wishing Beth or her mother harm. ‘No, of course not,’ he answered. His mother was discreet but he could not risk her ringing her old friend and hinting that she might be a suspect.

‘You don’t know where you’re going with this,’ Amelia stated, seeing in her only child’s face what was going through his mind.

‘No, we really don’t. Rose claims the child went willingly. It has to be someone that knows them.’

‘Rose?’ Amelia smiled. ‘I might have guessed. I suppose you’re not best pleased that she’s involved, however peripherally’

‘You’re dead right I’m not.’

‘Is that the time? My favourite radio programme’s on in a minute.’ Amelia stood and walked over to the worktop where her old but reliable radio was placed.

Hint taken, Jack thought as he, too, stood. He kissed his mother’s wrinkled, powdery cheek. ‘I’ll be off then.’

‘Jack, dear, look to her relatives. If you ask me, someone’s not talking, or, at least not telling the whole truth.’

He nodded and let himself out, as his mother was busy fiddling with the volume control.

It had stopped raining. He started to make his way home, driving past the church in the village of Paul where the last woman to speak Cornish as her natural language was buried. The roads were wet and droplets of rain sparkled in the hedgerows but a drying wind was picking up. Jack no longer cared whether or not it was wet; his frustration was building up and he was beginning to feel useless. The empty evening stretched ahead of him with no Rose to share it. She had told him she was having dinner with her father. He wished that he had also been invited. Maybe Barry Rowe fancied a drink or something to eat. He was far more sociable in recent months.

But when he got home and dialled Barry’s number there was no reply. The man hadn’t even got an answering machine for the flat although there was one for the shop line. Quite who he expected to ring the shop after closing time was beyond Jack, but he supposed Barry had his own reasons for this.

After a makeshift meal he washed up then read for a while. At ten thirty feeling exhausted even though he had done nothing, he went to bed and tossed restlessly until sleep finally overtook him. But not for long.

He woke at three and went to the kitchen to make tea. The cushioned floor covering was cold beneath his bare feet. The flat had become chilly since the heating had switched itself off.

A dream had woken him; one of those endless, meaningless dreams in which numerous people appear who bear no resemblance to anyone in real life. Jack could not understand why such a harmless dream had woken him for it had no nightmare quality, only that it had left him feeling exhausted.

Shivering, he took the tea back to bed. It was still warm from the heat of his body beneath the duvet. He wished that Rose was beside him. It seemed an age since he had spent some proper time with her. She would have woken when he did, she always sensed his first movements almost before he made them. Was she sleeping now, he wondered. Her nights were occasionally disturbed, and Beth would be very much on her mind. Odd that she hadn’t mentioned her, or shown signs of becoming more involved with the family. More likely, she had done so and was keeping the fact from him.

He began to think back over the day. The sense of frustration returned. The schools thing was all set up but he had not been able to contact Michael
Poole who had rung the station that morning whilst Jack was engaged on a long telephone conversation concerning another case. Twice the man had tried to get through but he had not left a number. Jack, assuming he was at his Looe address, had tried to get hold of him there. Only when he had left the station and called in to see his mother did he learn that Poole, contrary to what he had been advised, was in the area. Consequently, he had not previously thought of ringing Sally’s number. He did so after leaving his mother’s house. By then he was too late.

‘Yes, he was here earlier but he’s gone now,’ Alice Jones had told him. ‘He drove down last night. He couldn’t not come, he said, and I don’t blame him.’

Jack understood that. No matter that their presence would make no difference, people always wanted to be on the spot. ‘Do you know where I can reach him?’ he had asked.

‘No. We only know that he’s found some accommodation in Marazion.’

‘Does he have a mobile phone?’

‘If he does, we don’t have the number and he asked to use this phone earlier. Oh,’ Alice stopped speaking. It sounded as though she had placed her hand over the mouthpiece and was talking to someone else. ‘Sorry. That was Sally. I made her lie down for a while but she heard the phone.’

Jack knew the effect it would have had on her. Initially, each time it rang she would have been expecting good news. By now her expectations would have swung the other way. ‘Have you any idea why he wanted to speak to me, Mrs Jones?’

‘All I know was that he was upset about the search being called off, but if there was anything else, he didn’t say.’ She paused. ‘I’m glad he’s here, he’s a good man, Inspector Pearce, and he’s never missed making payments for little Beth.’

So he was making payments for the child. He must look into that aspect further. ‘The search hasn’t been called off altogether. We’ve still got plenty of officers out looking for Beth.’ But not as many as there were, and not as many as I would like, he had thought. ‘If Mr Poole should contact you again would you ask him to give me a ring at Camborne or on this number.’ He recited his mobile number, the one supplied with the job. The private numbers of police officers were always unlisted for safety reasons.

Alice had promised to pass on the message but no call had come. It wouldn’t now, not at three thirty in the morning.

Jack turned off the light and managed to fall asleep again some time later.

Carol knew the real reason for her distress and she hated herself for it; that and her cowardice. It was all based on guilt of course. What a weight of it she had had to bear and it would never end now. How pointless her actions had become, and how very, very selfish. But she had always been selfish. What was amazing was that the whole plan had been accepted, although not by everyone because there were people who had been left in the dark.

Even though she was used to being alone a lot of the time, the bungalow had an empty, lifeless feel to it that evening. As it grew dark she put on all the lights and pulled the curtains. How strange it had been to see Michael again after such a long time. Now and then they spoke over the telephone but never for long. Carol was too afraid that the truth might come out.

She paced the immaculate lounge, listening to the wind rattling the bare branches of the trees and the faint creak of the shed door which told her that the wind was westerly; a kind wind, usually a mild one which often brought rain. If only someone would be kind to me, she thought, ashamed of the self-pity when she had brought it all on herself.