Tregunna: Murder in the heart of Cornwall Read online

  TREGUNNA

  Carla Vermaat

  TREGUNNA

  Carla Vermaat

  Carmichael Crime

  Published in Great Britain in 2015 by

  Carmichael Publishers, Cornwall

  Copyright © Carla Vermaat 2015

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events, other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book

  Is available from the British Library

  ISBN 978-0-9933339-0-3

  Typeset in Meridien by Varwig Design

  Cover Image © Carla Vermaat – Design by Varwig Design

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by TJ International, Cornwall

  Carmichael

  Crime

  Carmichael Publishers

  www.carmichael-publishers.co.uk

  For Dave – who would have been proud

  PROLOGUE

  A narrow lane leads down to Hawker’s Cove, a small coastal settlement on the estuary mouth of the river. Halfway, the farmhouse stands alone on the hillside, its old weathered walls dark and hostile in the gathering dusk of a gloomy afternoon. A buzzard stills above the gorse; yellow flowers bright against the darkening sky. Rooted in a pile of granite rocks is a single hawthorn tree, its branches bare, bent and shaped by westerly winds.

  The temperature has fallen to just above freezing and a sharp wind blows cold from the northeast, sending in dark clouds that have gathered above the ocean. In the distance, the lighthouse of Trevose Head flashes its warning lights at regular intervals.

  There is a chill in the air, a cold and disturbing quietness. Inside the farmhouse, the kitchen has turned into an obscene pantomime, dialogues silenced forever.

  When it happens, the man is sitting at the table, his fat torso squeezed into a grubby, once-white vest, lips curled in a cruel twist whilst moaning to the woman, as usual, about nothing in particular. She stands at the sink, ignoring him, her thoughts miles away, hands quietly dunking plates in soapy water, head hanging low between her shoulders, defeated by the latest outburst of a voice she once loved. Every so often she looks out of the window as though seeking comfort from the view towards the fishing village of Padstow.

  The first blow of the axe hits him by surprise. Blood splashes over the table as the sharp blade digs deep into his left arm. Eyes wide open in disbelief, he tries to cry out but no sound comes. The second hit is aimed at his face, but it sinks into the thick flesh of his thigh, narrowly missing his hip bone. With a sudden jolt of panic, he tries to stand up, but his attempt to lift his big pudding of a body comes too late. As he gives two small coughs, he falls awkwardly aside, stretching out his right arm to avoid a third blow. It all happens so fast and so silently. Almost immediately the nerve ends stop communicating with his brain. He doesn’t feel the pain, he doesn’t even feel the cold numbness creep into his soul. As his dying eyes stare into oblivion, he fails to understand what might have caused the anger of the attack.

  Floorboards creak and muffled music drifts from upstairs. A sound, a movement behind her, pulls the woman out of her secret thoughts. She wipes her hands on her apron and a faint smile lifts the tiredness from her face. As she turns, her expression puzzled for the briefest of moments, she freezes with horror. And with the realisation of what is about to happen, she feels the pang of immense regret. In the instant before the axe swings for the third time and hits her in the waist, she lets out a scream like the collective howl of a pack of wolves. Landing sideways on a chair, another blow cuts through her belly, opening her intestines like the unexpected eruption of a sleeping volcano. Unlike the man’s, her death is slow and painful.

  The stillness is disturbed by footsteps, a voice humming with hope and expectation, growing louder as the girl descends the narrow staircase. As she becomes aware of the unusual quietness, a hesitation enters her movements, and her small voice dies with the knowledge that something is amiss.

  A variety of smells meet her just before she enters the kitchen: stewed beef and onions, the sweet aroma of home cooking. Or perhaps it is something else, something she can’t fathom.

  She lets out a horrified shriek as her eyes rest on the man’s bloodied body lying lifeless on the floor. His arm is still reaching out as though in hope that he can turn the tide. His eyes, hollow in their emptiness, are staring at her, his soul already gone.

  The girl carefully steps aside, away from the curved puddle of drying blood. As the silence of death screams through her head, she kneels down beside the woman’s body, whispering her plea for the last time, ‘Mummy?’

  PART ONE

  MAY,

  AND EARLIER, APRIL

  1

  MAY

  They say you’ll always remember your first dead body. For me it’s true. Every so often, even now, the slow motion images of his death on that dark and rainy night pop up in my head.

  In his mid-twenties, tall and lean, his strawberry blond hair highlighted by the headlights of passing cars, he was lying on the bonnet of a taxi, his head thrown backwards and his arms and legs spread out as though he was about to embrace the world. Blue jeans, a dazzling white shirt unbuttoned at the top splattered with blood, black shoes polished to a perfect shine, a thick silver chain around his neck, he looked as if he was on his way to a blind date. He would never meet her.

  His eyelids fluttered and an odd smile crossed his face. Words were formed in the pockets of his brain, but were left unspoken as reality dawned on him that he might never be able to get up and walk away.

  One second before, he was full of life and looking to the future, crossing the street with optimism and cheer in his limbs, a happy smile on his face. He would have made it, if it were not for the dull blue van whose driver was chatting and laughing on a mobile phone. Brakes screeched. The side mirror crashed into his head, and ripped off his ear. In an effort to regain his balance, his body teetered and he put out his arms to balance himself. Another car. More squeals of brakes, tyres desperately trying to find some grip on the wet tarmac. There was no escape for him. His body was scooped up and he landed on the bonnet of the taxi, head first, almost crashing through the windscreen. The taxi driver had been sitting facing backwards, negotiating a fee with his passenger. He was lucky enough not to see it coming. His passenger had seen it all though.

  In her early fifties, with swollen ankles and grey roots shining through dyed blonde hair, she was now sitting on the edge of the pavement with her head between her knees, traces of vomit on her skirt. Although she must have emptied her stomach in the gutter, she was still suffering from contractions that periodically made her gasp for air. The horror was etched on her face as she kept on staring at the young man.

  His right ear was ripped off, so was half the side of his face. His lower jaw was badly smashed up. What was left of his teeth glistered in a mixture of blood and saliva that emerged from one corner of his mouth. His blood mixed with the soft rain and ran down the bonnet beneath him, forming pink streams, dripping in a puddle on the tarmac. His heart was still
trying to keep him alive. But it was a losing battle. It was only a matter of time before he was to become the first dead body in my career.

  For an instant, he stared straight into my face, as though he was about to tell me his last thoughts, his fears for the unknown, the unexpected twist in his life. One of his legs shuddered, the expression in his eyes already fading.

  There was nothing we could do. I was pulled into an unexpected companionship with the taxi driver as we stood and watched and waited, silenced and stunned. Someone tapped the taxi driver’s poor passenger on her shoulder, murmuring words of comfort. Passing traffic had begun to slow, white faces stared from behind weather-beaten windows. A murder of crows quickly gathered on the pavement; excitement in their expressions as they feasted their eyes on the widening pool of blood.

  A distant siren grew louder. The dripping of blood eased as the ambulance appeared. Blue lights flashed and bounced off the walls of surrounding buildings. Two men in green uniforms hurried towards us, focusing on the body, carrying equipment that they wouldn’t need.

  There is still the sound of liquid dripping. Is it blood? A sudden wave of panic takes my breath away. I can’t remember where I am. Or who I am. I can’t feel my legs. My hands fumble with the unfamiliar cotton across my chest. My mouth has gone dry and my tongue and throat feel like sandpaper.

  I’m floating on a turbulent sea of mixed memories and a dawning presence. The ambulance siren has finally been silenced. Another shard of memory - I can see the trained crew in green attending to the young man, I can hear his blood dripping in a puddle and, for a brief moment, I feel relief because maybe somehow they will be able to bring him back to life.

  ‘Mr Tregunna? Can you hear me?’ Footsteps stop beside me. My body is aching badly now. Someone is putting a band around my arm. Stirring in protest, I open my eyes. A black woman with large earrings dangling beside her fleshy cheeks comes into focus. Gently she squeezes my fingers. I can smell red peppers, onions and a touch of garlic on her breath. She tightens the band. I try to scream, but it’s like I’m stuck in one of those nightmares when you want to shout for help but no sound comes out.

  ‘Hello Mr Tregunna! Good to see you’re awake.’ Her lips part in a smile revealing two wide rows of gleaming white teeth. I remember now. I am in a hospital room. A colourless tube connects my left arm to a stand with bleeping and flashing monitors. Vaguely I remember the green room with bright white lights, trying hard not to shake in the freezing cold. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to ignore panic rising at the same speed as the adrenaline in my blood. I grip the edge of a pale blue blanket and reach underneath, sliding my fingers down to my belly, hesitating as they reach the bandage.

  It is there. They slid a razor sharp knife into my flesh, cutting out a growth that shouldn’t have been there in the first place. They stitched the wound, then moved upwards, another cut, this one for… something I still can’t fathom. They’ve shown me pictures of what to expect, what this terrifying dubious sort of lifeline would be like…

  I don’t want to think about it, or about its implications.

  ‘How are you feeling, Mr Tregunna?’

  My voice scratches like a nail on a school board. It rasps that I am good. A lie. I can’t feel my legs, my hips, my bottom or anything else that’s supposed to be down there. I must be paralysed from my waist. A wheelchair springs to mind, followed by the alarming thought that I might have lost the ability to walk or drive, or make love.

  ‘Would you like some water?’

  I want to say that I would die for a cold pint, but the words seem inappropriate. I keep quiet, and try to nod. She understands. She picks up a plastic bottle that is sitting on the bedside cupboard and puts a straw between my lips. The water is tepid. She pulls away the straw before I can take a second sip.

  ‘Later. You’d better have some rest now.’

  The words are accompanied by a big smile and before I can say anything, or object, she disappears through pale blue curtains that have rusty brown spots splattered on them. Many months ago one of the patients must have left bloodstains from some terrible injury, marking their territory.

  Trying not to think of my legs, I feel myself drift into unconsciousness, forming a new dream. Or perhaps it is a memory floating through my brain. This time it’s not the young man dying on the taxi, but a woman who is already dead. Jane Croft.

  The last thing I am aware of is the sound of quick footsteps. Soles squeaking on the polished lino. An irritated mutter, and a voice say, ‘Oh, can anyone fix that tap?’

  Then the dripping stops.

  2

  APRIL

  It is amazing how fast news travels among reporters keen to acquire the ultimate story. With their sixth sense for breaking news they always seem to know where the action is. In this day and age of mobile access around the world, they often arrive at crime scenes before the police do.

  It is my first murder case. I drive to the scene, a sense of inadequacy and suppressed excitement in my mind. As I park my car in front of the police tape, I nod at an officer wearing a fluorescent jacket over his uniform. Hands folded in front of him in an arrogant pose, he is concentrating on his job, trying to keep the press and prying members of the public away.

  ‘Morning sir.’ His voice is as vacant as his expression.

  ‘Good morning, Giffey,’ I reply.

  Glancing past me, a tiny smile breaks through.

  ‘Here we go,’ he mumbles between his teeth, his voice laden with a mixture of relief and cynicism. The reporters have spotted me. They come running towards me like a flock of hungry seagulls preparing for a fight over the same slice of food.

  ‘Sir? Inspector? A word please?’

  It is early days. Any attempt to get a statement at this stage is pointless. Since the message came through, all I know is that a woman’s body has been found and that her death is to be treated as suspicious. They may well know even more than me.

  ‘Detective Inspector?’

  Tall and skinny with spiky brown hair, Frank Devon from The Echo has spotted me. Grabbing a small recorder from the pocket of his jacket, his long legs propel him in my direction faster than those of his colleagues and rivals.

  ‘Not now, Devon,’ I say, turning away.

  ‘Come on, Tregunna. What can you tell us about the Car Park Murder?’ His colleague, Kimberley Naylor from The Cornish Gazette, emerges from his long shadow. Smiling sweetly with a cute pair of dimples in her cheeks, she thrusts a mobile phone in my face. Tall and sexy, full breasts and curved hips, all proportions seem slightly overdone, but she looks like she is probably popular with men. She’s dressed in jeans and a yellow T-shirt, arms bare in the warm April sunshine. I know she is a reporter with a vivid imagination and I suspect the term ‘Car Park Murder’ is hers and I’ve no doubt that it will be used in headlines on other newspapers.

  ‘The Car Park Murder?’ I ask, frowning.

  Without acknowledging my question, she opens her mouth but, as her next question forms in her head, she is pushed aside by an older and more experienced reporter.

  ‘Give us something, Mr Tregunna.’

  Gerald Hill is the proverbial nail in any policeman’s coffin. We’ve met a couple of times and the best I can say is that we share a mutual dislike towards one another. He must once have been an old-fashioned Fleet Street reporter fighting for scoops with like-minded colleagues. Having been deported, it seems, to the far South West, all that is left of his ambitions is a mixture of frustration and anger.

  ‘There will be a press conference later today,’ I say, trying to fob him off.

  ‘Oh, come on, Tregunna, our deadlines!’ Kim Naylor’s clear voice speaks for all of them.

  For the briefest of moments, our eyes meet. ‘I’m sorry, Kim. I know as little as you lot.’

  I duck under the police tape which is attached to a street lamp at one end and to a concrete pillar at the other. Behind this, shopping trolleys are parked. The no-go area covers abou
t eighty per cent of the supermarket car park. It’s likely that most of the car park will remain closed off today. Bad news for the manager who has no doubt been stocking up for the busy Easter weekend.

  ‘Tregunna?’ Frank Devon won’t let me go. There’s something in his voice that makes me slow my steps. As far as I can like a reporter professionally, I don’t mind him. Unsurprisingly, he knows it well enough to take advantage of it.

  I shake my head. ‘I’m sorry, Devon. Not now.’

  From the corner of my eyes, I see another car arrive, parking next to mine. Devon mutters something obscene, letting me know that I am clearly a disappointment to him. He too has recognised DCI Jason Guthrie arriving. For a second, he seems unsure whether to take off towards my superior, now standing alongside his colleagues, or try one more go at me. Deciding to take his chance with me, he stands still, gazing at me expectantly, a crooked smile across his face. His voice low and with a hint of secret excitement, he says slowly, ‘They say the body’s a woman. Stabbed.’

  Against my better judgement, I nod, acknowledging his persistence to drag information out of me. I feel inadequate and unprofessional. But the damage is done: I have just confirmed his scoop.

  He grins, pointing two fingers to his temple. ‘Thank you, sir. I expect you have no identity yet? Anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘All right. Cheers.’ He turns to join his colleagues who are trying to get information out of Guthrie. The DCI loves being in the spotlight. I secretly believe he finds it the most attractive part of his job. In that respect, he has nothing to fear from me. I am not one to get great pleasure out of having my face appear in the papers or on TV.