Snapped in Cornwall (12 page)

They had eaten a sea-food salad. Rose cleared away the plates and poured more wine before dishing up roast lamb spiked with slivers of garlic and several bowls of vegetables. She had not prepared a roast for years; as Doreen Clarke had produced a plain and simple meal she had not risked anything too rich in case it was not to the Miltons’ taste. Hopefully she had not overdone the garlic.

Saturday night and I’m jollying along a bereaved man, his virtually bankrupt son and his beautiful but edgy girlfriend, Rose thought as she carved the meat, not very neatly.

Handing around the plates she smiled at the irony. It was herself she had believed needed cheering up. Perhaps she should take up good works as a full-time occupation, it must be good for the soul.

‘What is it you do, Paul?’ Only when she had asked the question did Rose realise Gareth may have mentioned her
visit. She had given a different name but DI Pearce knew about it: presumably Gareth had provided a description.

‘I’m in the property business. In London.’ It sounded impressive put like that.

‘And you, Anna?’ Rose handed her the mint sauce.

‘I’m with a firm of fashion buyers. We’re working on the summer collections now.’

‘It must be difficult, always being several seasons ahead.’

‘You get used to it.’

Rose wondered how the pastel outfit stood up to inspection. Anna was wearing a coat-dress. ‘So, has anything been decided about the house yet?’ No mention had been made of the photographs she had taken. Rose would have to cut her losses.

‘I’ll have to sell,’ replied Dennis. ‘I’ve been on to my office. Well, to be frank, I took the bull by the horns and asked if the rumours were true. I explained I needed to know my position. It’ll be put in writing, but I shall, as they phrased it, be taking voluntary redundancy. With that, and what I make from the sale of both properties, I’ll get a small place down here and take my chances. I wouldn’t be happy in London now.’

‘But Gabrielle said –’

Dennis interrupted whatever Anna had been about to say. ‘Whatever Gabrielle said doesn’t count. She has left everything to me.’

‘No!’ Anna thumped the table. ‘No. That’s impossible.’

Rose stared from one to another, her hand reaching out to steady her wineglass.

‘Anna.’ Dennis and Paul spoke together. Her face was scarlet.

‘It’s true,’ Dennis said quietly. ‘The police needed to know what was in the will.’ There was no need to elucidate; they all knew the reasons for that. ‘Maybe she intended changing it and was killed before she could do so, but I think not.’

The pallor had returned to Paul’s face. ‘Hasn’t she left me anything at all?’

‘I’m afraid not. You see, your mother and I felt we had
bailed you out enough times, that you’d never be a success if we continued to do so. I think she did it for your own good.’

‘It’s all right, Paul.’ Anna laid a hand on his arm. ‘Your father won’t let you down.’

‘Let him down? What do you mean?’ Dennis was puzzled.

Rose watched the interplay silently. It was hard to believe that she was in her own kitchen, harder still to accept that her guests were so freely discussing Gabrielle’s will in front of her. Curiosity was one thing but she felt embarrassed although she did not interrupt.

‘Paul needs an injection of cash if he is to succeed. Gabrielle always promised she would do the best for Paul. I’m sure you won’t go back on her word, Dennis. She told me we had nothing to worry about. It won’t be easy getting married if we haven’t any money.’

‘Other people manage.’ Rose was surprised to hear her own indignant voice. ‘David and I started from nothing.’

‘But I expect you were used to not having very much.’

It was true but Rose still felt it was no justification for Anna to try to manipulate her future father-in-law. At least by the way the couple were looking at each other they seemed to be in love.

Paul stepped in. He could not bear to see Anna distressed and he felt he owed an explanation for what seemed to be a mercenary streak. ‘Anna’s not had an easy life, I wanted to repair that damage. She found out accidentally that she was adopted but her sister wasn’t. Her parents claimed they wanted to wait until she was older to tell her. You can imagine the shock.’

Rose could, but others survived unscarred, and money would not heal that particular trauma.

‘After that she lived with an aunt and then, just when she thought she’d finally found security, the person she was going to marry let her down. You can see why money has become important.’

I can understand, Rose thought, but she’s also using the past to gain sympathy. She wondered if Anna realised the pain she must have caused her adoptive parents who had cared for her and loved her. But she would not judge too harshly even
though Anna seemed to show little grief or sorrow for the dead woman’s family. It was obvious that she loved Paul.

Their plates were not quite empty but the food had gone cold so Rose removed them from the table; she regretted issuing the invitation. Turning back from the draining board she saw the faces of all three before they had a chance to compose themselves. Dennis was staring at the young couple with a mixture of bewilderment and despair; Anna was tight-lipped, upright in her chair, while Paul reached out and took her hand. There were two spots of colour across his high cheekbones yet he did not seem angry.

‘Would anyone like coffee?’ Rose wanted them to leave and decided not to offer them the fruit salad she had made.

‘No, I think we ought to go.’ Dennis stood. ‘It was a lovely meal, Rose. Thank you. I’m sorry if we appeared rude.’

At the front door Paul shook her hand and thanked her too but was obviously anxious to get Anna on her own. Anna smiled weakly and waited for the men to walk on to the car. Then she turned to face Rose. ‘I enjoyed the meal and I appreciate your concern for the family but I don’t think you’re being very fair to Dennis.’

‘Oh?’ Rose blinked in surprise.

‘It’s too soon after Gabrielle’s death to expect him to be interested in other women.’ Before Rose could answer Anna had hurried down the path.

Rose stood motionless in the doorway. Was that how Anna saw her? As a single woman who was only interested in Dennis for his money, perhaps hoping to marry him for that reason? She shook her head in disbelief. It had been a disastrous evening and one she did not intend to repeat. Besides, Anna seemed unaware of Dennis’s own financial position. Unless he managed to find another job locally he would have to invest whatever he inherited wisely. Then another thought occurred to her: just how much did Gabrielle have to leave? There might be a considerable sum as well as the house.

‘Don’t,’ she said aloud as she scraped the food from the plates into the bin. ‘Don’t think about it.’

She could not face the washing up. Once the remains of the
joint were in the fridge and the fruit salad dish covered with film she went to the sitting-room and sat in the dark looking out over the soothing aspect of the harbour and the bay until some sort of peace returned.

‘I’m going to bed,’ Anna said as soon as they reached the house.

‘I need to talk to you.’

‘Not now, Paul. In the morning.’

Paul went to join his father in the lounge but there was nothing to be gained there either. Dennis sat staring moodily towards the drawn curtains unable to cope with the conflicting emotions he was experiencing. For the first time the real magnitude of what had happened hit him and he realised he would never see Gabrielle again. Maggie no longer counted, she would not be part of his future. She must have guessed that by now but when Paul had gone to bed he would telephone her to make it clear. It was only fair. Strange, he thought, now it was too late, he wanted to do the right thing by everyone.

‘The police don’t seem to be doing very much, do they?’ Paul wanted to get his father talking. He had tried, on the night his mother was killed, to ask him for a loan or for payment in advance of whatever money he was due to inherit later. But he did not want to dive straight in with a request for cash.

‘They wouldn’t tell us if they were. We’re all suspects. Why do you think they keep coming back? Look, Paul, I’m not in the mood for conversation, on this or any other topic. If you don’t mind, I’d like to be alone.’

Paul shrugged and left the room. Tomorrow would have to do, although he had hoped to be able to tell Anna everything was sorted out.

Dennis poured a brandy, knowing he did not need or want
it. What he did need was a night’s sleep but the bedroom he was using felt wrong. At first he had been forbidden use of his own room but now the police tape had been removed he could not face the double bed he had shared with Gabrielle. Sometimes he stood in the doorway and, although he was sure it was not possible, he thought her perfume lingered in the air. What he did know was that all pretence of being a happy family had gone.

Rose woke to a clear blue sky and a boisterous wind. She opened several windows, thinking that a through-draught would rid the house of the contamination of last night’s visitors.

Studying her face in the bathroom mirror she thought she looked tired, but otherwise the same Rose. She had never been beautiful, but she had grown into her looks and men considered her to be attractive. She had always been comfortable with her body and face and had not really given them much thought. She groaned as she remembered the dishes waiting to be washed. And there was a baby to be photographed. Sunday was the only time that was convenient for the family, which Rose found odd. However, work was work.

Dishes done, she threw on an old jacket and drove into Penzance. That was the only problem with the photography side: the equipment was too heavy to lug about on foot.

The baby was plump and dimpled. ‘She’s born to it,’ Rose told the mother as the child gazed straight at her, gurgling and beaming. It was to be a record of her first birthday.

The wind was dying down and there were quite a few people enjoying a walk along the front. Further out were several white-sailed yachts. She promised herself a long walk after lunch, a lunch which would consist of cold lamb and salad.

She had been tempted to have a quiet word with Dennis, to let him know Gabrielle had sent the invitation to Maggie Anderson, but that would be playing into Maggie’s hands. And it might not be true. Rose had guessed Maggie wanted
her to put in a good word for her. And Gabrielle was no longer around to defend herself.

Rose braked suddenly. She had almost crossed the roundabout without giving way to an oncoming car. What if Dennis knew that his wife knew about Maggie? What if Dennis also knew that his wife was about to change her will in Paul’s favour for that very reason? How much more of a motive did that give him, especially as he was concerned about losing his job?

Stop being melodramatic, she told herself. The police had to be aware of these facts. Yet they had not arrested Dennis. She reminded herself that there were about forty people present that evening, apart from anyone who might have arrived unseen.

She seemed to recall that the inquest was to be held soon. How long would it be before Gabrielle was allowed a funeral? Rose was not sure if she would attend: they were not close, but it might be rude not to. It would be the first since David’s.

She should have known that she would pass Laura, who was on her way up to see her. Trevor had been home for several days but was now back at sea.

‘You’ve been out early for a Sunday,’ Laura said as she climbed into the passenger seat.

‘I had a job.’

‘How did it go? With the Milton clan?’

‘Don’t even talk about it.’

‘That bad?’

‘That bad. How’s things with you?’

‘Improving. I tarted myself up and persuaded Trevor to take me out for a meal. We’ve had a long talk and we’ve both agreed to make some compromises. It’s not exactly bliss, but it’s one hell of a lot better than it has been.’

‘Good.’

Laura looked at her slyly. ‘Jack Pearce was asking about you.’

‘I heard.’ They had reached the house. Rose pulled on the handbrake and killed the ignition. She turned to meet Laura’s eyes. ‘And what exactly did you tell him?’

‘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.