Suspicion Points Page 3

  ‘The whole place looks as if it’s about to fall down,’ Vanessa had said. She liked houses with character, but wanted them already renovated and ready to move into.

  She tried to persuade our grandmother to talk me out of buying it, but my grandmother understood my need to have a project, although she didn’t think I should live alone. Doing up Dolphin Cottage kept my mind occupied and focused. Before the work was complete Vanessa had bought a cottage about a mile away from me. Two hundred years old, it had been restored with its original windows and doors intact.

  ‘It’s probably best we live in separate places,’ she said. ‘My untidiness would drive you mad.’

  I disagreed.

  ‘Come on, Robert. If we both lived in Dolphin Cottage we’d have to share a study and you’d end up wanting to throw me and all my stuff out the window.’

  I no longer contemplated suicide, but my thoughts about the future were pessimistic. I didn’t expect to find happiness, but I did want to find peace. So far this had evaded me. The agony was not as intense as it had been in London, but it was still present and always would be.

  I opened the front door wishing I’d persuaded Vanessa to stay with our grandmother until the renovations on Dolphin Cottage were complete and she could see how perfect it was. It would have been easier to cope with her untidiness than solitude.

  I had just got into bed when I thought about the photos.

  For three years I’d left them in a suitcase and had only put them out four weeks ago.

  It was my grandmother who had said, ‘Does it help . . . not having their photos on display?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Try putting them out. If it makes things worse, you can put them away again.’

  Sharon would be sure to arrive early so she had an excuse to come in and look around. I was too tired to get out of bed. I’d put them away in the morning.

  4

  SHARON

  Before I’d been promoted Robert and I had been, not friends exactly, we hadn’t known each other long enough, but it was heading in that direction. But even then he hadn’t told me much about himself. To be fair, I hadn’t told him why I’d left London either. I had no idea why he’d moved to Cornwall, although he had told me that he’d been born here. I knew he liked quiet pubs and hated ones with TV or music playing. He liked beer, but preferred wine. Merlot was his favourite. Although he looked the sort who’d own a sports car or something posh like a Alfa Romeo, his car was a navy Renault Megane.

  He’d told me about the old fisherman’s cottage on the Roseland Peninsular he’d bought and was doing up, but we’d never got around to discussing our personal lives. I’d wanted to ask him if he had a girlfriend, but in a rare bout of common sense, realized it would be unwelcome. I had almost told him about my last serious boyfriend who’d got a green card to America, but it’s hard to reveal yourself when your not asked and not told. And I guessed that he deliberately kept off private topics.

  I wish I’d had a secure middle-class childhood that he must have had, although judging from his voice and his tastes he was more upper-middle than plain middle. My mum and dad spoke ungrammatically, but incorrect grammar and bad habits were drummed out of my brothers and me at primary school. I’ll always be grateful to the headmistress for making us talk properly and for teaching us to hold our knives and forks the right way and other things that would, as she put it, ‘ease our passage through life’.

  ‘Most of you are cockneys,’ she told us in her BBC voice. ‘Keep your accent, because it’s part of you and nothing to be ashamed of. But use correct grammar, because being ungrammatical is something to be ashamed of. Saying things like ‘I done it’ instead of ‘I did it’, will make you sound uneducated and hold you back.’

  She shunned expressions that she called useless. ‘Never prefix a sentence with ‘to be honest’. Just say what you want to say. Ending sentences with ‘you know’ or ‘know what I mean?’ invites the comment, ‘No, I don’t.’ And only ever use ‘like’ when referring to something you like or to point out a similarity.

  ‘Peppering conversations with obscenities will make you sound lazy and foul-minded, and decent people will avoid you. If you want to refer to the ghastliness of something use the right adjective; ugly, hideous, filthy. Be concise. Think about what you want to say before you say it. I don’t want to hear anyone here saying, ‘er’ or ‘um’.’

  So my brothers and I tried to educate my parents, but they refused to change. Dad thought she was filling our heads with rubbish.

  ‘Me mum and dad talked like this,’ he said. ‘You can talk proper, but it’s too late for us. And what’ll happen when you bring Miss Posh or Mr Posh here to meet the parents? They think you’re one of them and you bring them to a council estate!’

  ‘No, Dad, she hates class and the way it stigmatizes – ’

  He laughed. ‘Stigmatizes? Teaching you fancy words too. Yeah, she’s right to ‘ate class, but she’s wrong to think anything can change – it can’t.’

  Mum agreed. My brothers were ashamed of them, which wasn’t what the headmistress had intended.

  Saturday Afternoon

  When I got home from Farrier Way I could have happily slept for twelve hours, but I set the alarm to make sure I got up in time to shower, wash my hair and put on make-up. Clothes were an important part of a detective’s role especially for a woman. We had to look professional, but not intimidating, and authoritative without being overpowering. Robert’s clothes had been perfect when we were called to Farrier Way, but I had looked like an untidy underling. It was hardly surprising that one of the girls had thought he was the Inspector.

  I wanted to appear more elegant for our visit to Pengelly House. As I got into my flannelette pyjamas I compared their drabness to the silk and satin worn by the girls in Farrier Way. If I was rich would I buy things like that or would I opt for the comfort of cotton in summer and flannelette in winter? I fell asleep wondering.

  As soon as the alarm went off I forced myself out of bed and into the shower, which I finished with a blast of cold water that made me shriek. Even after my shower, I still felt exhausted. I made a pot of strong coffee and ate two slices of toast, which I spread thickly with honey, hoping it would give me energy. As I blow-dried my hair I saw my eyes were bloodshot and had dark circles under them. Even the light make-up I applied did little to improve my appearance.

  My black trousers were ironed and I wore them with a grey jumper, a black silk scarf and grey suede ankle boots. I looked better than I had last night, but it would take more than make-up, a good sleep and beautiful clothes before I could compete with people like Phoebe and the girls in Farrier Way.

  I drove to Robert’s with the windows down, which helped make me feel more sharp-witted. I’d told him I’d call for him at two. I arrived twenty minutes early. His cottage was on the edge of St Austell bay. The exterior was white with dark greenish-bluish woodwork and door. His black door-knocker was in the shape of a dolphin. The other two cottages in the row were called Mermaid Cottage and Anchor Cottage. I couldn’t decide if the dolphin, anchor and mermaid door-knockers were pretentious or clever. Had the cottages had those names when they’d belonged to fisherman or had subsequent owners thought the names were quaint and original?

  Robert took ages to appear. He was dressed, but his feet were bare and his hair was damp and sticking up all over the place. He’d obviously been towelling it dry. There were no dark shadows under his eyes. He looked cross. Typical man. I was the one waiting in the cold not him. If it’d been me I would have thought that I was running late and apologized for not being ready.

  ‘You said – ’

  ‘I’m a bit early. Don’t worry. Ah, is that coffee I can smell?’

  Not bothering to hide his reluctance, he let me in. He’d certainly poshed up the cottage. The carpet was thick, the parchment coloured paint on the walls and the white gloss on the woodwork was so recent I could smell it. There were three bookcases, jammed
tight with books. The sofas were covered in a cottage style print in dark blue and green that I recognized. A friend had chosen it when she was decorating her flat near mine in Hackney. It was a surprisingly feminine choice for a single man.

  ‘Ah,’ I said. ‘Laura Ashley – Bramble.’

  He stared at me.

  ‘That’s right isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said curtly. He was reacting to my innocent comment as if I was accusing him or scorning his taste.

  There were no curtains, just white shutters, that judging by the dents in them, were original. Stuart’s painting hung over the fireplace. This scene was in a cafe or restaurant with empty tables, and the windows had panes similar to those in his other painting. Outside he had painted the back of a woman in a long red coat and a hat with a wide brim which hid her hair. She was in mid-stride. There was a car parked at the end of the lane otherwise it could have been a scene from a hundred years ago.

  I wondered what the first fisherman would think if he’d known that hundreds of years later his humble cottage, and those like it, would be desirable homes. But, weirdly, even without the television in the corner and the shelf of DVD’s, I could see what the place would have been like.

  ‘I can almost see them,’ I said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The fisherman and his family.’

  He looked at me as if I had said something idiotic.

  A galley kitchen separated the front and back rooms. There was something classical playing on his radio. When I saw the view of the sea, the pier and the headland from the dining-room window I understood why such a sophisticated man had bought this simple cottage. The ground floor was at street level at the front but, because the land sloped to the bay, the dining room window was two floors above the beach.

  ‘Wow,’ I said.

  He said nothing, making me feel like an intruder. If he’d called for me and come early I would have invited him in, made him coffee and even toast if he’d wanted. I wouldn’t have stood there brooding. He looked like some tormented bloke in a Victorian novel. But if he’d come early and I hadn’t been ready he would have been annoyed and waited in the car.

  ‘I’ll enjoy the view while you finish getting ready.’ I spotted a full cafetière and a mug on the table and reminded myself that I was his superior. ‘Can I help myself?’

  He nodded, went into the kitchen and came back with the milk, which was full cream, and a mug. He plonked them on the table and left. Seconds later I heard his footsteps in the room above.

  I scanned his CD collection. It was mostly classical, including Beethoven’s nine symphonies in one boxed set, and Brahms and lots of composers I’d never heard of, but there were The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Elvis Presley, Barbara Streisand, Piaf and musicals – Evita, Cats, Phantom of the Opera, Chess and Jesus Christ Superstar. The radio was tuned to Classic FM.

  It was when I was looking at his books that I noticed a line in the thin layer of dust on the bookcase. It was not the only one. There were three lines of different sizes and lengths. There was a black and white photo of a couple wearing Air Force uniforms, which looked as if it had been taken during the war, and a wedding photo that was pure sixties. The man looked like Robert, so I guessed they were his parents. Alert for his footsteps coming down the stairs I picked it up to reveal a line in the dust. Photos. Why had he removed three photos?

  When he came back I was sitting by the window gazing at the sea and the children playing on the beach. His hair was combed and he smelt of some zingy, fresh aftershave or cologne. He picked up a navy Guernsey from the back of a chair and pulled it on over his pale blue and white striped shirt. Without speaking he poured himself a mug of coffee and added milk.

  ‘Where’s your bathroom?’ I asked.

  ‘At the top of the stairs. Straight ahead. You can’t miss it.’

  His tone should have warned me. The bathroom suite was white like mine, but I could tell that it was a lot more expensive. Doing up this place must have cost a fortune. Where did he get his money from? I used the toilet and flushed it. On the shelf over the basin there was one toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste, a stick of Chanel deodorant and a bottle of Chanel aftershave. No wonder he smelt so divine. In a small cupboard over the shelf was a razor, shaving brush and shaving-cream.

  There was no sign of a woman’s belongings or another man’s. My ex-boyfriend and I had left things in each others flats when we stayed weekends, so I knew what to look for. I looked at my plain face in the mirror. I was always pale. Not interesting pale, but drained pale that made me look unhealthy. I sighed and stepped out of the bathroom.

  I walked quietly to the door of the back bedroom, which I assumed was his because it overlooked the sea. A black iron double bed with a dark-green quilt cover and pillowcases faced the window. The quilt was thrown back, a red towelling dressing-gown lay carelessly at the foot of the bed and a pair of sheepskin slippers that looked so comfortable you wouldn’t want to take them off, were on the floor. There were no curtains or blinds, just shutters that were open. Like the rest of the cottage the walls were parchment and the woodwork white. The wardrobe, bedside tables and two chests of drawers were dark wood and plain. There were two bedside tables and both had matching lamps that looked old. There was a book and a glass of water on one.

  The window was open at the top and I could hear the waves. A digital radio and an alarm clock stood on the deep window ledge. And something else. A photo frame that had been turned around and faced the window. What was it with Robert and photographs? What was he hiding?

  His voice made me jump. ‘Bathroom’s at the top of the stairs.’

  I didn’t turn and look at him. ‘I was just thinking what’d it be like to wake up to this view every morning.’ I cringed and hoped he didn’t think I was being suggestive. ‘Is that why you don’t have curtains . . . so you can wake up to the view?’

  There was no reply. When I turned around he’d gone. I tried to reason myself out of my embarrassment. All I had been doing was standing in the doorway. It’s not as if I’d been ferreting around in his wardrobe or checking his sheets. Too late I realized that looking at his bedroom had been intrusive. There might have been a woman or a man in his bed, although if there had been I’m sure the door would have been closed.

  We drove to the commune in silence. Did Robert use silence as a weapon or was it his natural condition? But if he was comfortable with it I wasn’t. I preferred rows and shouting. Is silence a middle-class type of punishment? Did Robert ever laugh? Did he ever roll round in bed gasping ecstatically in the arms of a woman – or a man? In one way I could almost believe he was asexual, but I sensed passion in him that he kept under control. But all that control hadn’t got him the promotion. Even though I was a woman it had gone to me. The thing was, I could imagine his eyes glinting with amusement. I could imagine that he could flirt and make risqué jokes or double entendres. Beneath his control I was sure there was warmth, sensuality and humour. I wished I could get him to show it.

  Pengelly House looked like no house I’d ever been in. For such a huge place it was simple. There were no spires or turrets. It wasn’t the sort of mansion where you’d imagine there was a mad woman hidden in the attic. Robert told me it was late Victorian. Wanting to see as much as possible I parked near the gates and we walked up to the house. I’m not sure what I expected. Certainly not the sweeping driveway, well kept lawns and shrubs or the tennis court where, in spite of the cold, four children were playing, what looked like, a serious game. One other child sat in the scoring chair.

  A giggle added to the sound of birds, the whack of the tennis ball and the voice of the scorer. A little girl with blonde curls dressed in red dungarees ran out from behind one of the trees lining the driveway. Robert stopped and stared at her. I stared at him. At first he smiled then he closed his eyes. The child, oblivious, ran on. He opened his eyes. The expression on his face could only be called one thing. Longing.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘so that�
�s what you like.’ I regretted my words immediately. God knows why I said it. My dad’s destructive streak again.

  Robert looked at me in horror that quickly changed to fury.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said quickly. ‘I didn’t mean . . . ’

  He strode toward the house. I ran after him and put my hand on his arm. He stopped and looked at my hand as if it was a rotting piece of offal seething with maggots. I lowered it. He ran towards the house and up the steps to the front door and reached for the knocker. By the time someone had come to the door I was standing behind him.

  ‘Robert, how lovely to see you.’

  ‘Hello, Ethel.’

  Robert? Ethel?

  She kissed his cheek. ‘Have you come about the fire? Phoebe and Stuart rang – their neighbours – how dreadful.’

  Why was an old lady with an upper-class accent living in a commune? She looked late seventies or early eighties, too old to have been a hippy in the sixties. She was wearing a wool kilt in burgundy and dark-green tartan with a burgundy jumper and a bottle-green silk scarf, pearls, thick dark-green tights and black brogues. Her wedding ring, diamond engagement and eternity ring were conservative.

  The tiled floor of the hallway was clean, the woodwork glowed and I could smell furniture polish. Why had I been so eager to prejudge? I’d seen Phoebe and Stuart and their house . . . all the essence of clean living.

  ‘Mummy, this is the bit for here!’ I heard a child say. Her voice came from the room on my right, which had floor to ceiling bookcases and a table in the middle where three children of varying ages and a woman who looked about thirty, were doing a jigsaw.

  Ethel took us down the hallway and I glanced into rooms as we passed them. There was a grand piano in one that would have touched every wall in my lounge. The sofas and arm-chairs, in what I supposed upper-class people called the drawing-room, were covered in brocade. In a room filled with computers and office chairs there were two girls and three boys staring at the screens. Computer games or homework?