Suspicion Points Page 2

  I should have stopped, but I’ve got some of my dad’s destructive habits. ‘Don’t you approve of the term poof?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about queer?’

  ‘No. Have you got the cardkey?’

  ‘Would you prefer me to call them gay? Would that make you happy, Sergeant?’

  ‘No.’

  I was taken aback. ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t like the word used in that context.’

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘It’s my grandmother’s Christian name. She became so fed up with all the silly remarks when she introduced herself she changed it to her middle name.’ He rooted through his pockets. ‘Where the hell’s the cardkey?’

  ‘You had it last. So what shall we call them?’

  ‘Craig and Yves. Or Mr Chenoweth and Mr Lefevre.’

  Trust him to remember their names. His look of distaste made me want to redeem myself. ‘I didn’t mean to sound hard, but it could be a motive.’

  ‘Motive?’

  ‘Blackmail. Some people hate what they are.’

  ‘Don’t you mean – what you presume they are?’

  Under his neutral tone I heard derision. He made me feel like a bigot.

  ‘It’s the way I was brought up,’ I said. ‘My dad hated that sort of thing. When we had sex education at school the boys were told it wasn’t healthy because of AIDS. If I’m right they’ve gone to a lot of trouble to keep it secret. Didn’t they strike you as being effeminate?’

  ‘The French one perhaps, but I think that’s more to do with cultural differences.’

  Even though Robert didn’t look effeminate, I sometimes wondered if he was a homosexual. His gestures and walk were masculine, his voice was deep and his arms were hairy. It wasn’t because of anything he did or said, but because of what he didn’t do. I’d never seen him display a glimmer of interest in any of the girls at the station. And some of them were pretty and sexy. They flirted with him, but he never responded. He was aloof, lived alone and he’d never mentioned a girlfriend.

  He found the cardkey and slid in into the slot.

  ‘We’ve got plenty of suspects,’ I said as he put the car into gear. ‘Any of them could have done it. They all had motives. They’re possessive about their houses, which are nice, but nothing special. It’s not as if they’re mansions or anyone famous lived in them.’

  I’d expected him to disagree with me, but he said nothing. I got more irritated. ‘Middle class respectability hides a lot,’ I said as he pulled away from the kerb. ‘We’ve got, what I’m sure are, two homosexuals who’ve gone to great lengths to hide it, and a couple who go to all-night parties at a commune. Artist! I bet he’s one of those people who throw paint at a bit of paper and call it art, and some twit buys it because they think it’s trendy. They’re probably lying drunk or stoned in a gutter somewhere.’ I’d just finished saying that when I saw a man and woman cycling towards us. ‘Stop!’

  Robert stopped immediately.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘You ordered me to stop.’

  ‘Not in the middle of the road!’ I held onto my temper. ‘Pull over to the side of the road. I think our party goers have come back from the commune.’

  ‘Can’t be them,’ he said, sounding bored. ‘They don’t look drunk or drugged.’

  I itched to hit him. ‘Sergeant Trevelyan, I refuse to tolerate your sarcasm.’

  ‘Oh, look,’ he said, ‘There it is.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They are drunk and drugged, but they’re hiding it under the middle-class cloak of respectability. It’s almost invisible, but I can see it because I’ve got one just like it in my wardrobe.’

  I got out of the car and slammed the door, realizing as I did so, that I’d missed the opportunity of watching the couple’s reaction to seeing the state of their neighbour’s house. The bushes and tree hid most of the damage. In the light from the street lamps the crime-scene tape was visible, the front door was open and the forensic team were inside searching through the debris. The couple got off their bikes and turned to look at me. They were, I thought, in their mid twenties. Robert was right. They looked sober and did not appear to be under the influence of drugs.

  I pulled out my badge. ‘Detective Inspector Richardson.’

  They looked startled.

  ‘Do you live in this street?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said the man.

  ‘Next door to Bridget and Declan?’

  They looked baffled. ‘Yes.’

  ‘There’s been a fire in their house.’

  The girl spoke. ‘Are they all right?’

  I shook my head. ‘We’re treating it as murder.’

  Robert chose this moment to walk across the street. They turned to look at him so I missed seeing their expressions. Neither of them said anything. Was that odd? Or had the news shocked them speechless?

  ‘This is Detective Sergeant Trevelyan. Can we ask you a few questions?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said the girl. ‘Come inside.’

  ‘You’re Phoebe and Stuart?’ asked Robert.

  ‘Yes,’ said Stuart.

  They wheeled their bikes though the gap in the neatly clipped hedge. I don’t know what sort of plant it was, but the leaves were shiny. Robert would know and would probably be able to say its name in Latin. I looked at the yew tree hedge separating the two front gardens. Over a hundred years old or not it was nothing to make a fuss about. I couldn’t see over it, but Robert would have been able to. He was looking up at a nesting box attached to the front of the house, high enough to make it safe from cats.

  ‘Any lodgers?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered, as if they were babies and we might disturb them.

  A bird-bath stood on a circle of lawn among the daffodils. Obviously these people did everything the environmentalists advised. Their window boxes were planted with geraniums. They left their bikes propped against the porch. Phoebe lifted a tote bag out of the basket attached to the handlebars. I watched Stuart put the key in the lock. His hands were steady.

  They led us into the front room. She switched on lamps and one of those gas fires that look like a real fire. The walls were rose pink and the two sofas and curtains were burgundy. Books filled the alcoves on either side of the fireplace. There was a CD player, but no television. The piano was so old it had candle holders.

  ‘Do you play?’ asked Robert.

  ‘We do, but not well,’ said Stuart. ‘It was my great-grandmother’s. Would you like some tea or coffee?’

  I was gasping for coffee. ‘Coffee please,’ I said.

  Phoebe put the tote bag on the coffee table and took out two fancy tins. ‘We’ve got orange cake, chocolate cake and cheese and spinach pastry slices – they’re leftovers from the party.’ She took off the lids.

  There was half the orange cake and two slices of the chocolate, which was sandwiched together with a thick layer of cream. Both cakes were iced and beautifully decorated. The smell of chocolate made my mouth water. Phoebe and Stuart were treating us like unexpected but welcome guests. Was this in their nature or did they hope we’d be fooled into thinking they were too nice to murder anyone?

  While Phoebe went to the kitchen Stuart excused himself to go to the bathroom, and we were left alone.

  ‘Let them think Bridget’s dead too,’ I whispered.

  Robert looked exasperated. ‘Of course.’

  I picked up the tote bag and sniffed it to see if I could smell an accelerant. I couldn’t. Inside was a bottle of Miss Dior perfume, a tube of hand cream, a stick of mint flavoured lip balm, a packet of chewing gum and a man’s white handkerchief with P embroidered in the corner. The two books made me curious. One was a tattered paperback of The Thorn Birds with its ripped cover fixed with sticky tape, and there was a hardback of War Poetry. I had a quick look at the poems that were bookmarked. The first one was, ‘I Have A Rendezvous With Death.’

  A wedding phot
o in a silver frame stood on the mantelpiece. I could tell from the bare trees and angle of the sun that it was winter. There was an ancient looking church in the background. Phoebe, dressed in a gown that looked like satin with her veil billowing in the breeze, stood with Stuart and four bridesmaids who wore crimson dresses and carried bouquets of pink flowers. Sensibly the gowns had long sleeves and high necks. A few years ago I’d been a bridesmaid at my friend’s wedding. Although it was January she’d chosen strapless, sleeveless dresses made of chiffon. I spent the day shivering. In the photographs that were taken outside my lips were blue.

  Phoebe and Stuart returned. She was carrying a tray with a cafetière, mugs, sugar bowl and milk jug, and he carried a teapot and strainer. He explained, although we hadn’t asked, that tea leaves were good for the garden and tea bags were wasteful and bad for the environment. The coffee was strong and excellent and the pastries and cakes were delicious.

  Phoebe was wearing a superb outfit made of velvet. The jacket had wide stripes of dark-brown and amber, and the skirt, which came to just above her ankles, was amber. Her boots were the same dark-brown as the stripe in her jacket. Her white blouse had a high neck with ruffles down the front and at the wrists. Her golden-brown hair was swept up in a French pleat. She could have been the heroine in an Edwardian costume drama.

  Stuart wore a navy suit and a pink shirt with a burgundy silk tie. His cuff links were gold. The clothes they wore probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. I’d felt scruffy and plain in Alice’s kitchen. Now I felt even more scruffy and plain in my crumpled clothes that I’d hurriedly pulled on.

  Phoebe was exquisite. Her eyes were green and large with clear whites and long lashes. She had one of those mouths that look as if she’s smiling even when she’s not. They both wore wedding rings. She looked serene. Well, so she should. She had a handsome husband, a lovely house and went to parties that went on till dawn. She was one of those lucky people who seemed to have it all.

  Robert wandered to a painting hanging over the fireplace. He looked at Stuart. ‘One of your neighbours said you’re an artist. Are you Stuart Harris?’

  ‘Yes,’ Stuart said.

  ‘I’ve got two of your painting in my cottage.’

  The painting was, I had to admit, beautiful. If I bought art it would have been something I would have been proud to hang on my wall. The frame was simple and the scene was of a boy and a girl playing chess, seen through a window with all those panes and frames that would be hard to paint.

  After Robert had done his socializing bit, he got around to saying, ‘This might be a random arson attack, but we’ve got to rule out a few things. Did Bridget and Declan ever mention they felt threatened?’

  ‘No,’ they said together.

  I saw faint blotches on the exposed bit of Phoebe’s neck.

  ‘Do you know where they worked?’ Robert asked.

  ‘Declan’s something to do with cars . . . a mechanic I think,’ said Stuart. ‘She works at a hospital in Truro.’

  ‘A nurse?’

  Phoebe shook her head. ‘The assistant manager of the medical records department.’

  ‘Did you get on well with them?’ I asked.

  The blotches on Phoebe’s neck darkened. Even so, I expected her to make the same evasions as the other neighbours had made. Her emphatic ‘no’ disconcerted me.

  Robert had the knack of hiding his feelings the way I never could. ‘Any particular reason?’ he asked, looking as if he didn’t care.

  Phoebe and Stuart glanced at each other. Phoebe looked uncertain. Neither of them spoke. Robert was good at silence, but I wasn’t. I was about to repeat his question when Phoebe chewed her lip and swallowed.

  ‘I used to work in the medical records department too. The manager retired and we got a new one – she was a tyrant. Bridget slimed up to her and got promoted. They tried to get me sacked, but had to settle with making me redundant.’

  Robert looked at her sympathetically. I wondered if he was attracted to her.

  ‘Why did they want to sack you?’ I asked.

  ‘I refused to participate in the way they ran the department and their treatment of the staff. It used to be a fantastic place to work. We were all happy until Elaine came. I hated her, but I hated Bridget more. Tyrants need blindly obedient poodles. Bridget was perfect in that role.’

  Robert pressed her for details, which she gave. She was brief and didn’t wander off the subject. If Phoebe was telling the truth, Bridget and Elaine took pleasure in making their staff miserable and kept them from rebelling by threatening them with the loss of their jobs.

  ‘The day Elaine started, one of the girls was on sick-leave,’ said Phoebe. ‘She asked what was wrong with her, and when she was told that the girl suffered from depression, Elaine said she should be hit on the head with a mallet. Our old manager had been kind and helpful so Elaine’s attitude came as a shock. She immediately made it plain that anyone who cooperated with her would get special treatment. Bridget was the only volunteer. Everyone else resisted at first.

  ‘But Elaine was more cunning than that. The rules changed to, ‘Resist and you’ll be punished.’ Most of them stopped fighting her. In the end there were only four of us still resisting. Margaret, who still works there, and two chaps – Elaine and Bridget tormented one of them so much he had a nervous breakdown. The other one still works there, but is trying to find another job, and so is Margaret.’

  3

  ROBERT

  It was light by the time we went back to the car. I was beginning to feel tired, but the coffee had revived Sharon.

  ‘This is going to be hell to solve,’ she said. ‘We’re not short of suspects. So many people hate Bridget. The people she worked with, her neighbours – ’

  ‘We’ve got to remember that Bridget wasn’t the victim and we don’t even know where she is. And apart from Phoebe, her neighbours didn’t hate her, I’d say it was more dislike.’

  ‘They were contemptuous of her because she was working-class.’ She sounded resentful.

  ‘No one said she was working-class,’ I disputed.

  We got into the car and put on our seat belts.

  ‘They said she didn’t fit in, that means working-class to me.’

  I tutted. ‘It was nothing to do with her class. She didn’t fit in because she wanted to dig up hedges, chop down trees, concrete the front garden and rip out the original doors and windows and replace them with monstrosities,’ I argued as I started the car.

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant. Are you unobservant or just rude?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve got UPVC windows and doors. You must have seen them when you called for me just over three hours ago.’

  I didn’t know what to say so I said nothing, but I regretted my tactlessness. It had been dark and I hadn’t noticed, but to attempt to explain would have sounded feeble.

  ‘It’s almost as if there’s a rule that only glamorous people can live in this street.’

  ‘Glamorous?’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant, glamorous. You sound as if you’ve never heard the word. Didn’t you think Phoebe was?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What was she then?’

  ‘Elegant. Glamour’s more flashy – more obvious.’

  ‘Trust you to nit-pick.’

  ‘Apart from a wedding ring, she wasn’t wearing any jewellery.’

  ‘Is that significant, Sergeant?’

  Although aggravated by her emphasis on Sergeant, I said casually, ‘Only in the context of the word. I associate glamour with lots of jewellery. What about the man who raised the alarm? He might have set fire to the house and then had an attack of conscience. Why didn’t he ring the fire brigade? That’s suspicious. Why didn’t he hang around? Why did he rush off? If he was in a car, depending on what direction he came from, the people on the other side of the street might have seen him.’

  ‘But if he was driving on the other side of the street, would they have been able to see anything throug
h the trees?’

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t know. But it’s worth asking.’

  ‘He might not exist. We’ve only got the French bloke’s word that he came to the door. What’s his name?’

  ‘Yves.’

  ‘He might have started the fire, but not wanted it to damage any of the other houses especially not his own.’

  I thought her suggestion was ludicrous, but I nodded as if I was considering it. ‘It could have been one of the people Bridget works with.’

  ‘Could be. If she’s as loathed as much as Phoebe says. What about the man who had a nervous breakdown? He sets fire to the house then suddenly remembers she’s not the only one inside and gets someone else to call the fire brigade. He might have forgotten about the baby. You’d have to be evil to deliberately kill a baby.’

  ‘That makes sense. We’ll have to interview the people at the hospital where she works,’ I said.

  ‘We’ll go to the commune tomorrow to make sure Phoebe and Stuart’s alibi checks out,’ she said as I turned into her street.

  ‘Do you mean tomorrow as in Sunday or this afternoon as in Saturday?’

  ‘This afternoon. Is Pengelly House closer to your place or mine?’

  I pulled up in front of her house. ‘Mine.’

  ‘Then I’ll call for you. Dolphin Cottage? On the beach?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Before she opened the car door she said, ‘Take a look at my windows and door. Monstrosities are they?’

  I was too tired to appease her. ‘In my opinion they are, but many people like them.’

  She got out of the car and slammed the door. I waited until she was inside and then drove away.

  Even though I was worn out I felt the same bleakness I always felt when coming home to an empty house. At my front door I wished I’d done things differently. When my cousin Vanessa and I had first moved to Cornwall we’d stayed with our grandmother near Mevagissy. For a while Vanessa and I had considered buying a place together, but the first sight of Dolphin Cottage had filled her with horror. The floorboards in the dining-room were warped, the walls weren’t straight, and a lot of the glass in the windows was cracked. The kitchen and bathroom were derelict. But it was solid, the roof was watertight and there was no dry rot or woodworm.