‘I’m sorry, Rose. It’s just so unhappy in that house at the moment. I’ll be glad when Ivan gets back. Anyway, thanks for listening, I appreciate it.’
They parted at the park gates. Joyce said she
would be at the class the following evening. ‘I wouldn’t miss it for anything, it helps to keep me sane,’ she added with a wan smile.
Rose made her way home thinking that she more than deserved her glass of wine.
There was a tuna steak she could grill and some salad. That was as much effort as she was prepared to make that evening. With a glass of Rioja and a cigarette to hand she rang Barry, apologised for not returning his call sooner and arranged to meet him the following night. As the tuna was cooking slowly in the oven she got out a pen and paper and made a diagram. Each encircled name could be linked to another: herself, Jack, Barry, Daphne and Rod Hill, Dave Fox and Eva Fenton, Joyce and Sam Jago, Gwen and Lucy Chandler and Laura. They were all connected in some small way. She knew nothing of the other two girls, only that Doreen Clarke knew Helen Trehearne because she lived nearby and Nichola Rolland because she had once done some spring-cleaning for her mother when she still lived locally. When they moved to Liskeard, Nichola had remained in the area, living in a
one-bed-roomed
flat until she finished her schooling. Doreen’s name was added to the list.
Later, just before she fell asleep, a strange
idea came into Rose’s head. She put it down to tiredness.
Just after two a.m. a noise woke her. It was probably a gull on the roof, but even so she went downstairs to check that the doors were locked and the windows closed. With so many odd things going on she could not afford to take chances.
Inspector Jack Pearce sat at his desk cursing modern science. Progress in forensic detection may have escalated considerably but in this instance it had proved useless. Lucy Chandler’s bruising had been photographed and her clothes taken away for analysis but the results proved nothing. Stray hairs and fibres could have come from anywhere. If Helen Trehearne had scratched instead of bitten her attacker there might have been skin under her fingernails and if Nichola Rolland had not been murdered amongst the Towans more evidence might have been collectable from the ground. As it was the sand held no footprints, no signs of a struggle, no nothing. An overnight breeze had
shifted the particles. They had a small collection of cigarette ends and litter which might have been there since last summer. That was the extent of their findings.
Frustrated, he went over the conversation he had had with one of his officers. Dave Fox and Eva Fenton had been eating when two uniformed men knocked at the door of the caravan the previous night. It had been easy enough to find; they had simply asked in the village. ‘She was far more worried than him, sir,’ PC Roberts had told him. ‘Anyway he agreed to answer our questions and she took herself off for a walk.’
Jack had worked out that Rose’s source of information concerning Dave Fox must have been Eva herself. And if the man’s partner was worried that certainly gave cause for concern.
But Fox’s alibi had been checked. It was more than likely he was in the clear. More than likely, but not certain. There were a few more questions to ask and a few more people to interview. By the end of the day he should have some more answers. And then he would find out what Rose was up to.
Having worked until late Jack went straight home but decided it was too late to disturb Rose with a telephone call. He felt restless, through
tiredness, and vaguely puzzled. Over two weeks had passed since Lucy Chandler had been raped. In all that time there had been no more burglaries or attempted burglaries other than a couple they had detected which, no matter how hard they had tried, could not be related to the previous unsolved ones. They’ve moved on, he decided. It was as we thought, some gang from outside the area. They would now become someone else’s problem.
He made some toast and a pot of tea then fell asleep in an armchair before he had drunk it.
‘You have to talk to me,’ Eva said on Wednesday morning as she stood in the doorway of the caravan. When the police arrived she had left, unable to bear the thought of Dave being questioned even though she wanted to know the truth herself. For almost two hours she had wandered along country lanes hardly noticing the flowers now filling the hedgerows or the peaceful beauty of her surroundings. When she returned, Dave was alone. He had cleared the table and washed up. They went to bed having hardly exchanged a word but in the night Eva felt Dave’s arm around her.
‘What is it you want to know?’
‘Why the police were here.’
‘I think you know that already, Eva.’
She gasped. He had guessed her part in it.
‘Why did you do it?’
‘I didn’t do anything, Dave. Honestly. You wouldn’t tell me where you were, I was worried sick you were in trouble of some sort. I confided in someone, that’s all.’
‘Then why did they come here? How did they know I was here?’
‘Does it matter if you haven’t done anything? Dave, please. Just tell me where you were those times. I love you, I need to be able to trust you.’
So he told her. Eva listened, initially with disbelief and then, when the truth sunk in she knew she had been close to losing the most important thing in her life. Her distrust of the man she loved could easily have driven him away from her.
Rose looked out of her bedroom window and shook her head in mock disbelief. The weather was becoming even more unpredictable. Unless it cleared up quickly she would have no option other than to stay at home and work.
Once a few bits of housework were out of the way and she had eaten some breakfast it was
obvious that the rain was not going to stop. Rose went up to the attic and began to work.
During a short break she stood in the recess of the sitting-room window, drinking coffee, just able to make out the outline of a large vessel which was coming into view. What will my class have produced? she wondered, smiling at the ideas which came into her mind. Natural Life had been the title she had given them, not even sure herself what she meant. It wasn’t such a bad thing, maybe she had been too pedantic in setting the type of work they were expected to complete in their own time. Perhaps it was better to allow them to express themselves freely. Whatever they produced would give her some insight into their personalities.
The early afternoon was spent sorting out her income tax returns. She had mastered
self-assessment
but the forms needed to be in by September. It was such a nuisance when all she wanted to do was to paint. At four thirty she opened the larder door and glowered at the basket of clothes waiting to be ironed. It would be easier to do it now than leave it until the creases had dried further. She got out the iron and board and switched on the radio. The telephone had remained silent all day.
At eight o’clock, halfway through her class, Rose said, ‘All right, let me see what you’ve done this evening then I’ll have a look at what you’ve achieved at home.’ The students had been asked to plan a landscape, not to draw or paint one, simply to mark where objects might be placed in order to produce a balanced picture. There were several reasonable attempts.
Natural Life covered a lot of ground. The elderly pensioner who kept to himself and came and went in a taxi had produced a graphic, albeit inaccurate, representation of a fox slaughtering a chicken. Both creatures were in the centre of the page and they were ringed by blood and feathers. Flowers were predominant, Joyce’s clematis being by far the best. There was a fair attempt at a seascape and one humorous attempt at a cartoon where three plump children sat in front of a television screen eating burgers, bottles of cola at their sides. Rose smiled. Yes, that was natural life for many children nowadays. She commented on each, offering encouragement rather than criticism, surprised that there wasn’t one attempt at a nude amongst the lot.
At five past nine as she saw the last of them out Joyce waited by her side. ‘I just wanted to thank you again for yesterday.’
‘Forget it. I’ll see you next week.’
As she locked up she saw Barry walking up the hill towards her. I’m going to forget everything and have a quiet, enjoyable drink with a friend, she decided. And that friend although obviously worried about something, looked pleased to see her.
‘Hi, Barry. Where’re we going?’
‘Now it’s finally stopped raining I thought we could walk back to Newlyn and have a drink there.’
The weather had improved although there were purple tinges on the horizon promising an early dusk and possibly more rain during the night. ‘I’m glad to hear it. I didn’t really feel like straying too far from home.’
‘I’ve got the hint, my dear. You want a reasonably early night.’
Barry took her arm as they went down the hill. Rose tried not to mind but she always felt awkward being tactile in public. She grinned. Except at times with Jack when, looking at his strong, handsome profile, she had an urge to kiss him. Not that she would ever let him know that. The grin faded as she thought of Tony Boyd. ‘You’ve got paint on your fingers.’
‘Yes. I’ve started decorating. Only the undercoat
but the place looks better already. Once it’s finished and you’ve helped me choose the furniture I shall throw a party.’
‘A party?’
‘Well, you and me and Laura and Trevor. Maybe even Doreen and Cyril.’
Rose smiled. That was as much of a party as Barry was ever likely to throw.
They reached the Promenade. Some small boats were close to the shore; lone fishermen in dinghies and others enjoying the solitary exercise of rowing. Further out were a few blue sailed yachts. The weather and tides had been right for fishing so there wasn’t a trawler in sight and only a few masts to be seen beyond the wall of Newlyn Harbour. One or two of the strings of white bulbs lining the sea-front came on. For some reason they never worked in unison and some would go off again at random. They had been like that for several years.
‘If I’d known it was going to be this busy I’d have kept the shop open,’ Barry muttered as they passed people who had ventured out for an evening walk now that the rain had stopped.
‘What ever for? You make enough money. And the whole idea of employing Daphne was to ensure you got some time to yourself.’ Barry
flinched, reminding Rose that he had said he needed to talk to her. ‘Is Daphne a sore point?’
‘No, of course not. We get on really well. She’s worried, that’s all.’
‘Who isn’t at the moment? So do tell.’
Barry related most of the conversation which had taken place between them in the shop during a quiet period. Daphne, knowing what had happened to the three girls, had been terrified that Rod would come under suspicion. ‘They’ll be investigating anyone with something like that in their past,’ she had confided. ‘I just don’t know what it’ll do to him, Barry. And if I was asked I couldn’t say where he was on those occasions. I don’t suppose he’d remember himself either.’
‘But surely the police would’ve paid him a visit already?’ Rose said as they neared the art gallery.
‘That’s what I told Daphne but she says it’s only a matter of time and then their problems will all start again. I suggested he had a word with Jack, admitted the reasons for moving down here rather than wait for the police to go to him.’
‘That was a bit rash.’
‘Was it?’ Barry thumbed his glasses into place. He had thought it a good idea. ‘Anyway, she said she’ll discuss it with him and let me know what they decide.’
What on earth will Jack think about Barry and I taking matters into our own hands? she wondered as they rounded the corner and crossed the bridge. Rose thought it best to let the matter drop and wait to learn more from Jack.
The Swordfish was quiet, as the Newlyn pubs often were when most of the fleet was at sea. Even so it took several minutes for Rose and Barry to reach the bar because they stopped to exchange a few words with people they knew who were already drinking.
Forty minutes later Barry walked her home. Food and bed were now her priorities.
On Thursday Rose took advantage of the reappearance of the sun and went down to the beach. One more session and the Newlyn piece would be finished. She worked from above the tideline, as she had done before. A herring-gull landed and, head on one side, watched her until it realised there was no food to be had. It flew off, screeching, its wings creating a draft as it clumsily gained height.
It remained warm and sunny until the early afternoon when white clouds drifted slowly from the north and altered the light. Rose packed up and went home. Jack had left a message asking
her to call him back. Before she could do so Doreen rang. ‘How’s your mum doing?’
‘She’s fine. Improving all the time. It won’t be long before she’s home.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it. Anyway, can you come over on Saturday night? It’s Cyril’s birthday and I thought I’d surprise him.’
‘Yes, I’d love to.’ First Barry, now Doreen. What was happening to her friends? Her social life was becoming hectic. And she’d have to think of a suitable present. ‘What time?’
‘Half-sixish. We don’t keep late hours.’
‘I’ll bring a bottle.’
‘You can bring a guest, too. Jack, or Barry. There’ll only be a few of us, nothing special, like.’
‘I went to see John and Sheila Rolland yesterday afternoon. Being a Wednesday it was the first chance I’d got. I didn’t know if they’d want any company but I couldn’t not go.’
The murdered girl’s parents. Doreen had mentioned that she knew them.
‘It’s so sad. They only moved up to Liskeard about eight months ago. I think I told you that Nicky was expected to go to college later this year and they’d all agreed she’d finish her schooling here. Sheila says she wonders what it was all for now and that it would’ve been better for Nichola
not to have had an education if it could have prevented her death. Anyway, I’m glad I went, I’d hate for them to think no one cares. I won’t keep you, maid, I know you’m always busy. I’ll see you on Saturday.’
Rose hung up and dialled Jack’s Camborne number. He answered immediately.
‘Ah, at last. You never seem to be in lately.’
‘Don’t moan. I’ve been taking advantage of the weather every opportunity I can get. It’s so damn changeable.’
‘I expect you’re busy tonight.’
‘No. I was hoping for a quiet evening.’
‘Oh.’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘No special reason. Just some companionable conversation.’
By the tone of his voice Rose thought that highly unlikely. ‘Look, if you can get here early we can have a chat, if that’s what you want. I’m still catching up on sleep.’ It was true. Since her mother’s illness her nights had been disturbed.
‘Fine. I’ll get away early and be there as soon as I can.’
With all that had happened since, Bristol seemed in the far distance now. Rose longed to go somewhere different, to find a change of scene
and forget everything except painting, but she knew that luxury would have to wait until she was certain her mother’s health was completely restored.
The clouds had drifted out to sea and the sun was shining again. Rose picked up the book she was reading and went to sit in the garden. Engrossed in the plot, she did not notice Jack’s car until it had turned into the drive.
‘I left as soon as I could,’ he said as he got out and shut the car door. ‘God, I’m shattered.’
Rose could have guessed that. He looked tired and hot and his shirt was rumpled, which was unusual as he took care of the way he dressed. ‘Then you’d better join me in a drink.’ She went inside and fetched another glass.