Snapped in Cornwall (16 page)

Then the questioning began. Rose told them everything she knew and all she had done. At some point she thought she heard the telephone ringing but no one else seemed to notice so she might have been mistaken.

‘Is there someone you’d like to stay with to night?’

‘No. I have to stay here.’ Rose knew that if she left, if she did not face what had happened, she might not want to return. She could not leave this house where she and David had been so happy.

‘Someone who would stay with you, then?’

‘Laura. No.’ She shook her head. Trevor was home. They had enough on their plate already. ‘Barry. Barry Rowe. He’ll come.’

‘What’s his number, love?’

Rose stared at a man in plain clothes. How long had he been present? ‘I don’t know.’ How many times had she dialled it? Yet she could not recall any of the digits. ‘In my bag. My diary’s in my bag.’

Someone handed it to her. She fumbled and pulled it out. There was more confusion but she ignored it. Then, it seemed seconds later, Barry was standing in the kitchen. ‘Oh, Rosie, what have you been up to?’ He put an arm around her and she started to cry. Long, gulping sobs that came from deep inside.

‘Do her good,’ a disembodied voice said. ‘Delayed reaction. Can you stay the night, sir?’

‘Yes. There’s a second bedroom.’ Even in such circumstances Barry was careful for her reputation. The police might have imagined they were lovers.

Not that night, nor at any other time, did Barry say, I told you so. He did not know the details of what had happened; in time Rose might tell him. What he did know, what he guessed
from the number of police present, was that Gabrielle Milton’s murderer had been caught.

Jack carried on drinking until closing time, the effect of those drinks beginning to tell. He was mellow. Past caring. In fact he was so far past caring that he might just walk over and tell Mrs Trevelyan exactly what he thought. No point in telephoning, she probably wouldn’t answer when she heard his voice.

Not as steady on his feet as he believed himself to be, he reached Newlyn and lumbered up the hill. Something was wrong. He paused. There were no lights on in Rose’s house, but that was to be expected, it was after midnight.

‘Jesus Christ,’ he muttered. Dennis Milton’s car was no longer there. Parked in its place was the estate car Barry Rose drove.

Unable to believe the evidence of his own eyes, he began the walk home. Fortunately, he was unable to recall Rose’s number and couldn’t be bothered to look it up in the book or he would have left a less than pleasant message for her.

Instead, fully clothed, he got under the duvet and fell asleep.

‘I’m sorry, Barry.’ The spare bed had not been made up.

‘It’s OK. I was warm enough. Anywhere’s warmer than my flat. It’s not me we should be worrying about but you. How are you?’ There was a slight air of embarrassment between them. It was the first time either of them had stayed in the other’s house. Hotels in London didn’t count. This was far more personal And Barry was flattered and relieved it was him Rose had turned to.

‘Numb,’ Rose replied. ‘Bruised but otherwise numb. I suppose I look a mess.’

Barry smiled gently. ‘I’ve seen you look better.’

Rose smiled back. Typical of Barry to be truthful.

‘I’m going to make something to eat. Is there anything in the fridge?’ He opened it. There were eggs and not much else. Scrambled eggs it would be then. He found bread for toast
and made more coffee for Rose who, he noticed, was trembling.

‘Barry? What about the shop?’

‘Don’t worry. I rang Clare before you were awake. She’s opening up and she’s prepared to stay all day if necessary.’

‘No, I’ll be fine.’

But she did not look it.

‘There’s a message on your machine, you know.’

Rose did not know. She had forgotten she thought she heard it ringing the previous evening. But she could not be bothered to see who it was. Not much seemed important any more. The smell of the bread warming under the grill filled the room. Rose was hungry. She thought she had never been so hungry and forced herself to eat slowly.

‘I was right, Barry,’ she finally said. ‘I always believed it was Anna.’

And you nearly got yourself killed for it, Barry thought, but did not say. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

Rose shook her head. ‘Not yet. Later maybe.’

When they had finished eating Barry washed up and dried his hands on the tea towel. ‘Would you prefer me to leave?’ he asked.

‘Yes. I’m so tired. I can’t thank you enough for being here.’ She stood painfully and reached up to kiss him on the cheek. She did not see the expression of anguish on his face as he turned away, knowing that that was as much physical contact as he would ever receive from Rose.

‘Take it easy. You know where I am if you want me,’ was all he said before leaving.

‘I’m going back to bed. The police’re coming back later, I believe. I don’t suppose I made much sense last night.’

‘You’re great, Rosie, you know that? And you’ll be fine.’

Yes, she thought as she closed the door behind him, and locked it. I am and I will.

Two CID officers returned in the afternoon, one male, one female. Rose went over everything again, from her very first meeting with Gabrielle: this time in chronological order. She
was still not sure why Anna had attacked her; she had not told Anna she suspected her, or anyone else for that matter. She was disappointed it was not Jack who was interviewing her but perhaps it was forbidden, like a professional/client relationship. There had been no telephone call either, apart from the one she had now played which was obviously left last night. Maybe he was off duty, unaware of what had happened, or he might think she had simply changed her mind and was too proud to inquire. Rose was wrong on both counts.

Alone once more she thought she had better eat. She had had nothing since breakfast. Pulling open cupboards she could not find anything she fancied, nor could she face going down to the Co-op or getting a take-away. With a mug of tea in her hand she switched on the television for the local news. She was too exhausted to do much else and she was interested to see if there was any mention of Anna’s arrest.

There was, but it was only a mention and no one was named.

A sound jolted her awake. On the screen was a half-hour comedy programme. She had fallen asleep again. The sound was repeated. Someone was knocking at the door, but timidly. There were no lights on and she couldn’t be seen from outside where she was sitting; she was tempted to ignore it. However, the flickering of the television may have given her away. If it was Dennis she would not ask him in, she could not cope with that man’s problems tonight.

Turning down the sound on the set she went wearily to the door. Her body ached all over with a feeling akin to flu. Outlined through the frosted glass was a shape she did not recognise. Only when she opened the door did she see why. Jack Pearce stood holding an enormous bouquet wrapped in cellophane and tied with a bow.

‘Hello,’ he said tentatively.

‘Hello.’

There was a pause of a few seconds. ‘These are for you,’ Jack told her, holding out the flowers. ‘And this.’ From the pocket of his jacket he pulled out a small box of chocolates awkwardly, the corner catching in the lining.

‘Thank you.’ Rose thought he looked worse than she must. His eyes were slightly bloodshot, his skin was sallow, and there was a slight stoop to his shoulders. ‘You’d better come in.’ She led the way to the kitchen. ‘I’m sorry about last night. I was otherwise engaged.’ She took the bouquet and began undoing it, averting her face as tears filled her eyes. There was no reason to cry but her GP, whom the police had called, had explained it was likely to happen for a day or two.

‘I don’t usually bring women flowers.’

He was ill at ease and Rose was pleased their roles were reversed. Did he feel guilty for not coming to make sure she was all right?

‘How are you, Rose?’

‘Recovering. Bruised and shaken, but otherwise all right. Jack?’ Rose indicated the gifts. ‘Why all this?’

‘Guilty conscience.’

‘Ah.’

‘Because I doubted you, I thought certain things about you which I should have had the sense to know couldn’t be true. I cursed you all evening. Then I got very drunk. I wanted to make it up to you.’

‘It shows.’

‘What does?’

‘Your binge. You look dreadful.’

Jack laughed then. This was the Rose he had come to admire. ‘Say no if you want, but are you up to going out? Nothing wild, just a quiet meal somewhere. I’ll drive, I won’t be doing much drinking.’

Rose did feel like going out. The tiredness had not worn off but she had spent the previous forty-eight hours under the same roof and had slept most of the day. A change is as good as a rest, she thought. ‘Am I all right like this?’ She indicated her jeans and thick jumper, under which was a shirt. She was still cold.

‘You’ll do.’

Rose trimmed the stems of the flowers and put them in a bucket of water. ‘I must make a phone call first.’ She went through to the sitting-room.

‘Barry Rowe,’ she explained a few minutes later. ‘He was
good enough to stay with me last night. He said he’d call in later to see how I am.’

Jack did not ask for further elucidation. He was in possession of the facts now. She need not know how he had misinterpreted them. Barry was her friend and she had had the decency to let him know she would be out rather than cause him anxiety or a wasted journey.

‘I’m ready.’

Together they went out to the car. Rose felt the weakness in her legs after all those hours of lying down, but it would pass.

The restaurant Jack had chosen was expensive and, she noted, he had already reserved a table.

‘I didn’t do it with the assumption you’d accept,’ he said, seeing her expression. ‘It’s just that it’s popular and you need to book. I’d have cancelled if you said no.’

Seated, they ordered their food and some wine. Jack poured himself half a glass. Rose took a few sips and felt its effect at once.

‘I always thought it was Anna,’ she confessed. ‘But I was wrong not to consider myself in danger. I might’ve caused you even more work. Jack, why did you want me to borrow those books?’

‘We knew from Anna’s background that she was unstable and we also knew that people are inclined to tell you things they won’t tell us. I knew the books were in the bedroom and I knew Anna considered you to be a nuisance, she believed you were moving in on Dennis Milton. I’d hoped she’d be at the house and take you up there herself, to the scene of the crime, as it were. I wanted your reaction to her own. I wanted you and Anna together in the room where Gabrielle was killed. Irrational, really, but I felt you’d, I don’t know, sense something or get her to talk. If that failed I assumed Anna might well come to collect the books from you herself, to prevent Dennis doing so or you returning to his house. We, too, believed it was Anna, but how to prove it was the problem. She had free range of the house so fingerprints didn’t count, and she often chatted to Gabrielle in the bedroom. We couldn’t break her with our questioning but we thought if you could build up some sort of rapport with her, or, alternatively,
if she hated you so much, she might say things she had not intended to say. We used you, Rose, I’m sorry, but you did seem to get yourself involved from the start.’

‘Didn’t you have her followed or put under surveillance or whatever you call it?’

‘Yes. That’s how help arrived for you so quickly.’

‘What’re you talking about? I had to ring the police myself.’

‘I know.’ Jack looked down and rearranged his cutlery. ‘We had a man follow her to your house. He was parked outside. He saw Anna enter and waited. No lights were extinguished, there was nothing to show you were in any danger. Only when he heard someone scream did he radio in. People were already on their way before you rang.’

At the time, even when minutes and hours meant nothing, Rose had been surprised how quickly she was surrounded by people. ‘He must have seen me, the man in the car.’

‘He did. But he realised you were at least in a fit enough state to run. His concern was with the lady inside the house. He went in immediately.’

The starters were served. Rose dug her fork into the hot chicken liver salad and began to eat.

‘I still don’t understand it,’ she said after several mouthfuls. ‘This business with the will. Did she really kill Gabrielle for money?’

‘Yes. Or at least, that’s the obvious motive. There’s more to it than that. No doubt the psychological reports will tell us. But she was a very mixed-up young woman. Always has been. She claims she was adopted, that she only found out when she was fifteen. Not true. Her natural parents are alive and well. She despised them for being ordinary, for not having money. It didn’t help that she was considered to be beautiful, boys and men falling at her feet. It gave her inflated ideas of her worth.’

‘It doesn’t sound as if she needs a psychiatric report. You seem to have worked it out for yourself.’

‘I can’t claim that. Rose. We knew about the parents as soon as we began our investigations. They, and people her own age she used to know, told us. When she found out Paul’s true financial state it sent her over the top.’

‘But the will?’

‘I was coming to that. From what she told us it seems she totally misconstrued what Mrs Milton said. They’d had a heart-to-heart. This took place soon after she became aware Paul was virtually broke. Anna went to Gabrielle to try to wheedle some money out of her, to keep Paul going. Gabrielle said that she wanted to do her best for Paul, that it was time she helped him properly, and that she had changed her will.’

‘But she hadn’t. Dennis implied …’ Rose stopped. She, too, had misinterpreted things. Dennis had been surprised everything had been left to him. Of course, Gabrielle
had
changed her will, but in favour of Dennis, not against him as a punishment for his infidelity. And someone had told her that the Miltons were tired of bailing Paul out. Gabrielle, it seemed, had stuck to her word, had tried to make it possible for Paul to stand on his own feet. If he thought nothing was coming to him he would have to make much more of an effort. ‘Maggie Anderson?’ Rose continued. ‘Did Gabrielle know of her existence?’