COVER THE LIES: A TREGUNNA CORNISH CRIME NOVEL Page 4

  ‘Tregunna. Have a seat, please.’ Briefly looking up from the newspaper in front of him, he waves a hand towards two chairs on the other side of his desk. They are notoriously uncomfortable, purchased, they say, for exactly that reason.

  In his fifties, Guthrie’s face is unnaturally smooth and mostly devoid of wrinkles. According to PC Jennette Penrose, who, admittedly, holds a grudge against him, his looks are a result of numerous Botox injections, and possibly some small surgical procedures. His dyed brown hair is just half an inch longer than is in fashion, some of the curly ends escaping to brush against his collar and his cheekbones. His complexion has the unnatural sheen of a fake tan out of a bottle from a beauty salon. From an old photo, I know his teeth used to be stained and slightly crooked, now they have been transformed into two even, dazzlingly white rows.

  ‘How’s the investigation going?’ He leans back and his eyes stare over a pair of half-rimmed reading glasses.

  ‘It’s early days, sir.’

  ‘But you were at the crime scene, were you not? So what can you tell me?’

  I stare at him, seriously considering asking him why he didn’t bother to drive to the fishing lake, or attend the briefing which had been postponed till after my conversation with Kenneth Poole.

  ‘This morning, at about quarter to nine, two men discovered the body of a woman in a fishing lake between St Merryn and Padstow. Blond, white, naked. A knife wound in her neck. No clothing, no possessions except for a handbag, no car. Initially, we didn’t have an ID either, but someone came forward about a missing wife. Of course, the identity needs to be confirmed officially later, but we are reasonably certain that the victim is Alicia Poole. Wife of Kenneth Poole who is the owner of an estate agency with several offices around the county.’

  ‘Ken Poole? I believe I have met him at the golf club.’ He shakes his head. ‘Well, Maloney is back now and he’ll take over from you.’

  He rises from behind his desk and makes a show of pulling down the blinds. He doesn’t seem to notice that the sun has already disappeared behind darkening grey clouds. Raindrops of the latest shower are still stuck on the glass and it looks like there’s more to come.

  ‘Yes sir.’

  He turns on his heels, frowns, and changes the subject abruptly. ‘You claim that you can read someone’s mind from their body language.’

  It isn’t a question that needs a response. Whatever the reason for this bold statement, it doesn’t sound good. When he asked for me after the briefing, I half expected him to let me know that, on second thought, he’d decided to keep me in charge of the new investigation.

  ‘I don’t claim anything,’ I say, adding ‘sir’ for good measure.

  ‘Oh well, it’s what they say about you.’ Clearly, it isn’t an opinion he shares.

  He sits down again, drumming his fingers on the armrests of his chair. His eyes are fixed on my face as if, he too, is trying to read my mind. For the sake of our working relationship, I hope he fails.

  ‘Now, where were we?’ He frowns and I am seriously starting to wonder why I have been summoned into his office. Clearly, we don’t have the kind of relationship that allows for a cosy chit-chat.

  ‘How are you, Tregunna?’

  The question, opening a completely different line of conversation, needs some time to sink in before I can formulate an answer in my head, let alone form the words on my lips. ‘Very well, thank you, sir.’

  He leans back, drumming on the edge of his desk with two fingers, and stares at a newspaper in front of him as if he’s hoping that it will give him some inspiration to go on.

  ‘I have a dilemma, to be honest, Tregunna. I am short staffed, our sick-leave rate is too high, and I need an officer with the right expertise and the right skills.’ He pauses to scrutinise the expression on my face. ‘And I have a problem with you.’

  I swallow. So this conversation isn’t going to be as straightforward as I thought. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I’ll be completely honest with you now, Tregunna. I have read your latest medical report and, based on that, I was happy to welcome you back on the team. Full-time.’

  I hear the words, but I also hear that they will shortly be followed by a ‘but’ and I get that sinking feeling that things are not going to proceed the way I was hoping. I clear my throat to say something, but think better of it when I see the dismissive glance he casts in my direction. Perhaps it is wise to let him speak first.

  ‘Physically, you seem alright to get back to work.’

  That is a surprise to me. During my last visit to the police surgery, I was told that the operation and the aftermath of it had been disastrous for my overall fitness. Exercise, a healthy lifestyle and nutritious food, were what he’d recommended, adding, with more optimism than I could fathom, that it would take time but I would get back to being a hundred percent fit again soon.

  ‘That is the problem,’ Guthrie nods. I imagine that I see a hint of sympathy in his eyes.

  ‘Your case has been discussed with the team from the HR department. Within the team, there seems to be a disagreement about whether you are truly fit for work or not. And, of course, this matters not only to you but to your colleagues and members of the public.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ I lie. I do understand. He is carefully trying to tell me that the powers above, perhaps with his agreement, are planning to sack me. I could get up and leave the matter unspoken, keep it to myself and hand in my letter of resignation, but in a perverse way I want to hear him spell it out to me.

  He moves the newspaper to one side and opens a folder from the top of a small pile, retrieving his reading glasses from the left-hand drawer of his desk.

  ‘You’ve been through a lot, Tregunna. First, you found out that you had cancer, then you had a major operation and now you’re dealing with that … colostomy. It can’t be easy for you.’

  ‘No sir, it wasn’t, but it’s now nearly a year ago since I was diagnosed and the oncologist is optimistic.’

  ‘That was precisely what I’ve told the HR team, but I’m afraid they have a different opinion. Understandably, from their point of view. And I must say, I’m not disputing any of that.’

  He pauses, staring at me expectantly, but I can’t find the right words. When he asked me to come to his office, I’d thought it would just be a formality to let me know that I could get back to work full-time rather than working more or less on the side lines, running errands for my colleagues. Not that I wasn’t grateful for these crumbs that kept me occupied and focused in the period after my operation during which I was drowning in misery and self pity, but I wanted more. And since my latest visit to Treliske Hospital, when my scans were clean and I seemed to have got rid of the tumour, I was hopeful to return to proper police work officially.

  ‘The problem is, Tregunna, that there are too many officers signed off for stress, depression, anxiety, or post-traumatic stress disorder, you name it. And sadly, that number has increased since the previous year. Now, you can argue that a lot of stress comes from the constant workload, which also relates to the reduction in the number of officers by government cuts. A vicious circle, more or less. We all know the problem but, unfortunately, we have to work within our financial budgets. Obviously, this is a national problem, not just in our region, and several commissions have been researching the precise causes and potential solutions.’

  He pauses for breath. His eyes are searching for something on the desk.

  ‘One of the issues that has become clear is that we must react quickly to help our officers and staff through tough times. We know from a range of surveys and research that the levels of uncertainty and change within the service are increasingly stressful. The current government is doing all it can to make it easier for the police to do their job. We have cut red tape and unnecessary targets to free up police time, we have given officers discretion to use their professional judgement and we are working across the government to stop the police having to pick
up the pieces when other public services are not available. The message is that we should never be complacent. That is why money has been allocated to help support emergency services personnel and volunteers, and to focus on mental health, physical recuperation and bereavement support. We have to make sure that we are there for the public and, for that reason, we can’t be in a position that we fail because we haven’t looked after our own.’

  He stops for breath again and I take the opportunity to interject.

  ‘How does all this relate to me?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Now, I must say first, that I disagree with the opinion of the HR team, but I’m afraid this is not my decision. I can’t afford to go against their recommendations.’

  ‘In case they turn out to be right.’

  He smiles vaguely, without humour. ‘I’m pleased you get the picture, Tregunna.’

  ‘Hm. I presume then that I won’t be officially returning to work full-time yet?’

  ‘Not yet. Believe you me, Tregunna, I have fought your case. I really have. The outcome is that you remain on my team. You will be working part time officially, but it is entirely up to you how many hours that will be. The downside, from your perspective, is that you will not have direct responsibility.’

  ‘So no change,’ I say, trying to keep the bitterness out of my voice.

  He picks up the newspaper again as if he’s hoping an answer is somewhere to be found between the lines Kim Naylor wrote about the Lady in the lake.

  ‘There is a small change, though, Tregunna. There is a condition. You will have sessions with a psychiatrist who will then decide if and when you can be declared 100% healthy.’

  ‘Why? What are they thinking? That I will pick up a gun and start a shooting spree?’

  ‘That hasn’t been mentioned as such, but yes, Ia presume they want to make sure that your mental health issues, if any, will not cause problems that might put other people in danger.’

  ‘This is madness.’

  He nods, ‘I totally agree with you, Tregunna, but I’m afraid there is nothing I can do about it. Decisions have been made and, to be honest, I think you are lucky that you are still wanted by the police force.’

  ‘I’m very grateful, sir.’

  ‘Indeed. Well ...’ He searches in the file and finds a business card. It is dark grey on one side and bright yellow on the other. The name of a psychiatrist and his address details are printed in black on the yellow side, with a few statements from famous philosophers in yellow on the dark grey side. I have no intention to take it and I leave it on the edge of his desk.

  Guthrie closes the file. ‘Call him, make an appointment and let me know when you have. Keep me posted about your progress so I can give positive feedback to HR. And don’t pull a face like that, Tregunna. I’m not a fan of things like this either, but we all have to work within our limits.’

  It sounds like the conversation is over and I put my hands on the armrests to get up. But he isn’t finished. He shakes his head, placing his elbows on the edge of the desk, and lacing his fingers. He rests his chin on them as though he is deep in thought.

  ‘Coming back to the beginning of our conversation, Tregunna, as I said, people say that you can read body language. Now, I’m not saying I agree with that, nor with the idea that it might be a useful skill to have within the force. But it made me think about what we can do with you and how you can be an asset for the force. For obvious reasons, I can’t send you out on the streets. HR seems to believe that there is a possibility that you may become a liability and I’m sure you’ll agree that we have to do our utmost to avoid casualties. HR had some suggestions, but I know that we’re both convinced that those options are not workable.’

  He pauses, looking me straight in the eyes. Perhaps he is trying to be kind, understanding, but I don’t want that. Not while he is making decisions about my current life and my future without consulting me first. I can’t believe that he is seriously thinking that I could put the lives of other people, let alone colleagues, in danger. However, at this moment, I would ever come that far, I would happily pull him across his desk and strangle him with my bare hands. But I would never harm or hurt someone without a reason.

  He looks thoughtfully. ‘Have you ever had thoughts about attacking someone?’

  Maybe he is a better policeman after all. ‘Yes sir.’

  His eyebrows rise. He hasn’t expected an answer like that. ‘Honestly?’

  ‘Yes sir. At this very moment.’

  For a few moments, our eyes meet. Then he shakes his head and turns his attention back to his papers.

  ‘I have told HR that I have another task for you and that, despite your illness, you have done an excellent job preparing the court case against that woman, Trewoon.’

  He stops. He is waiting for some kind of reaction from me.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘The prosecution is hopeful that the case is solid enough to have the judge send that despicable woman to jail indefinitely. She’s mad, if you ask me, and it would be a disaster if she was released in a few years’ time. We all owe that to you. Your role in that hasn’t been unnoticed.’

  He stops. He is waiting for my response.

  ‘Thank you sir.’ Having heard those words from his mouth, made me feel embarrassed rather than pleased. But he still had that edge in his voice that suggests he might have been taking the Mickey after all.

  ‘Now.’ He picks up a pen and draws a curly line on the top margin of the newspaper. ‘Our next problem is that we have yet another murder on our hands. The case with the body parts found around the coast didn’t make us popular with the tourist industry in Cornwall and we can’t afford to be in the spotlight again with this new murder. Clearly, it doesn’t help that the victim is the wife of one of our most prominent businessmen.’

  He taps on his desk with the end of his pen. ‘We need a specialist in our team. An intelligence officer who can deal with this case and I believe you will be perfect for the job. Your role will be to gather information and evidence. Of course, we have HOLMES 2 but, however sophisticated the system is, it is still a computerised one. We use it of course, but I think we can do with an analyst alongside it. Eyes and ears. Common sense. Logic. The ability to see the trees through the wood. And instincts, of course.’

  ‘I thought we already have …’

  ‘Yes. Of course. Bill Yates is doing an excellent job, but he has been transferred to another area. His own choice, apparently. His wife’s father is terminally ill and she wants to be close to him. Look after him. They are moving as we speak.’

  I feel embarrassed that, despite seeing the man almost daily, I had no idea what went on in Bill Yates’s life.

  ‘You will be our new Bill Yates, Tregunna. You have the experience to see what is important and what is not, you have the knowledge of what prosecutors want. You will be a spider in the web, the one who keeps an eye on all the threads, who makes sure that everything stays linked together where necessary, who can find the flies caught in it as soon as possible.’ He smiles briefly, pleased about his range of metaphors. ‘You won’t work on the front lines. Leading an investigation isn't your mission any longer, but the information you collect will be of great value to each of us. Don’t forget that we are a team and we have to work together. You will be organising and arranging extra briefings when necessary, you will provide everyone with the right information, after you have sifted sense from the nonsense.’

  The end of his lecture comes as abruptly as it started. He nods, smiles, and, with a sense of relief, dismissively waves towards the door behind me when the phone rings on his desk. Obediently, I rise, deliberately leaving the business card of the psychiatrist on his desk, but although Guthrie is listening to someone on the phone, he is aware of my intentions. He points and I pick the card up, knowing very well that I can’t ignore it.

  6

  The passage of time often results in suspects and witnesses forgetting the most crucial details of an incid
ent. As a consequence, statements must be obtained at the earliest opportunity, especially from key witnesses. The accuracy of fresh memory ensures the evidential integrity and content of the statement. However, we always have to take in consideration the individual circumstances of the witness, their vulnerability, their emotional state and the impact that particular incident has on them. Although, in theory, consideration also needs to be given to whether the evidence should be recorded on video, it is rarely the case. Which presents me with a problem.

  As Guthrie had mentioned, but what he didn’t really understand is that I find that what I observe during an interview is as crucial as what is being said. Some of my colleagues say I can read body language. I am not so sure about that, but as I stare at the sheets of paper that are almost meaningless to me, I am getting frustrated with the feeling that I am missing the point. I am uncomfortably aware that the words don’t mean enough to me to be able to determine what is important and what is not. I have no clear impression of the witnesses. As far as I can tell, they are all telling the truth or they are lying through their teeth. Either way, I have to admit that I am not good at this.

  I know that this is not what Guthrie had in mind when he assigned me to the role, but I can’t do much else than gather and sift through information for anything that has perhaps been missed by the investigating officers. It’s not that I am looking for errors or misunderstandings that could easily jeopardise the investigation. I simply need to clarify the things I don’t understand, any answers that are not clear, or questions that have not been asked. It’s the only way I can make sense of all the paperwork. It’s the only way I can find any discrepancies or uncover any lies.

  Picking up a sheet from the pile, I stare at the name at the top. It is written in capital letters, bolder and larger than the rest of the statement.

  Denise Shaw is 35 years old, divorced, and has one child, a 14-year-old son. She works as a management secretary of an international company that has its regional office at an industrial estate near Truro. She was the last known person who saw Alicia Poole alive.