‘He was unemployed,’ Enders said, pointing to the screen again. ‘Used to work at Tamar Yacht Fitters, but was dismissed after the conviction for ABH.’
‘Still, might be worth a word. You and Darius will take that one and I’ll see what I can get out of his parents. I also think we need to make an appeal for David Forester to come forward. This isn’t a missing person inquiry anymore, it’s murder. Let’s ditch the interview with Isaacs and ask the CPS if they want to charge him with the sexual offence on the body. Then we can concentrate on Forester.’
‘But taking Kelly all the way over to Malstead Down? Forester? We don’t know much about him, but he doesn’t seem the type to go to all that trouble.’ Enders sounded sceptical, as if he didn’t agree with Savage.
‘Taking her over there might have seemed like a good way of misdirecting us. But first we find Forester and then let’s see where we are. It is my guess he is our man.’
Chapter 8
St Ives, Cornwall. Wednesday 27th October. 10.40 pm
The damp shirt stuck to DS Kevin Tatershall’s skin as he shifted in his seat, trying to get comfortable. The heater had been going full-blast on the twenty minute drive from Penzance but the fan hadn’t dried him much and he was still soaking. The downpour had started first thing in the morning and he’d got wet on the walk to work. He’d just about got dry when DI Peters came across with a piece of paper and a nasty smile, which Tatershall guessed meant an assignment outside of the station. The run from the building to the pool car left him at square one all over again.
In St Ives the rain continued to fall. Cats, dogs and pretty much everything else tumbled from the sky, and lashings of water filled the roads with runoff. Tatershall didn’t want to think about leaving the warm cocoon of the car and he pitied the tourists working their way up and down the streets with their odd shuffle, looking as if they were in harness rather than on holiday. They must be crazy to bother coming to Cornwall at this time of year.
‘I wish I was a tumble dryer, I’d run my program through,’ The soft, husky voice came from DC Kate Simbeck and she smiled as she continued the song. ‘I wish I was a tumble dryer, I’d dry your clothes for you.’
Simbeck didn’t look too keen to get out of the car either, but apart from her hair with its long pony tail, which she wore on the outside of her over-sized Musto, at least she’d stayed dry. As they sat contemplating the rain the windows began to steam up and Tatershall drew a quick stick figure on the windscreen, completing the drawing with a hangman game gallows.
‘That DI Peters?’ Simbeck said.
‘Yuppee doodah. Can’t draw what I’d really like to do to him or we’d have the obscene publications law to deal with.’
Simbeck giggled and the noise and the way her cute little nose wrinkled caused butterflies in Tatershall’s stomach. He wished they had parked somewhere a little more remote and he wasn’t married with three kids. Maybe then she would say ‘yes’ if he asked her for a shag.
Driving somewhere remote wouldn’t be a problem. Within five minutes they could be out of town. Within fifteen Tatershall knew dozens of places quiet enough. The wife and kids were more of an issue though, and the chance of a pretty twenty-something girl saying ‘yes’ to an early fifties guy like him were in the arena of lottery fantasy. Of course, if he’d won the lottery he wouldn’t be on some stupid mispers goose chase involving an elderly couple DI Peters had chosen to push his way. No, he’d be on a golden beach somewhere hot, rubbing suntan oil into Kate’s glorious-
‘Kevin?’ Simbeck pointed out through a patch of window where she had smeared a circular hole in the condensation. A well-filled uniform stood some way up the street looking wet, miserable and not a little angry.
‘Bugger.’ Tatershall sounded the horn, wound down the window and waved at the PC. ‘Over here mate.’
The PC jogged down the pavement, dodging umbrellas, baby buggies and a group of disgruntled tourists. The latter glowered at him as if the local police were responsible for the weather as well as crime. The officer arrived at the car puffing and leaned in, dripping rain and a palpable hostility.
‘You’re late. I was told half past.’
‘You got the keys?’ Tatershall ignored the jibe. ‘Only I’d hate to have made a wasted journey.’
He heard Simbeck stifle a laugh which the PC didn’t catch. The PC nodded and explained he had managed to track down a spare set held by a neighbour in case of emergency. The couple owned a gallery with a flat above, and it only became apparent they’d gone missing when the water company needed access to the rear of the property.
‘I’d noticed the gallery was closed in July,’ the PC said, ‘which I thought a bit odd considering we were at the height of the season. I forgot about it until yesterday when the neighbour called about the water people. I went in with the neighbour to check the flat just in case. Nobody. Fridge empty, place clean, nothing untoward. Well, they have been gone four months now so I thought-’
‘To call in the experts?’ Tatershall heard Simbeck snigger again. ‘You did right, lad. This sort of investigation can be incredibly complicated, but never fear, the Simbeck House Investigation Team Squad are here.’
The PC stared in the window, bemused, but Simbeck had abandoned any semblance of decorum and was laughing her head off.
Tatershall and Simbeck got out of the car and the three of them walked up the road to the gallery front. Tatershall glanced in, noting the usual watercolour rubbish typical of galleries all over the West Country.
‘Shall we?’ The PC opened a door next to the gallery entrance and went into a small lobby, beyond which stairs led up to the flat. A fan of mail lay spread on the doormat and Tatershall told Simbeck to grab the letters and bring them up.
With the gallery below Tatershall had been expecting the flat to be something one step up from the grotty spaces often found above shops, but he was surprised by the luxury as he broached the top of the stairs. The interior of the place had been gutted to make a huge open plan area like something out of one of those TV makeover programmes. A floor-to-ceiling window in the rear wall of the property looked out over the town to Porthmeor Bay and even on a miserable day like today the view was stunning. The furnishings were expensive and low and the style more swish London riverside flat than an old couple’s retirement home.
‘In their seventies?’ Tatershall said, shaking his head.
‘Yes. From London. With money.’ The words came out with resentment attached and Tatershall was tempted to stir the PC up some more, but Simbeck had arrived with the stack of letters.
‘Quiet couple by all accounts,’ the PC continued. ‘Moved here ten years ago, but not many friends and no one who knows where they might have gone to.’
‘Family?’ Tatershall asked.
‘None that we know of.’
‘OK, you can leave it to us now, Constable, I’ve got the notes you emailed me. We’ll drop the keys back at the station when we’ve finished.’
The PC stared out of the window for a moment before grunting and making his way down the stairs, slamming the door as he left.
‘That was a bit harsh, Kev. He was itching to stay out of the rain.’
‘Yeah? Well, I’ve got to take my frustration out on someone haven’t I? We’ve got plenty of stuff to be getting on with back home without having to come over here.’
‘You wouldn’t be moaning if it was a nice summer’s day!’
‘No, but it isn’t a nice summer’s day. That’s the point and DI Peters knows it. I bet he is sitting back at the station with coffee, a plate full of doughnuts and a bloody big grin on his face.’
‘Well, we are here now so we might as well get on with the job.’
Simbeck began sorting the letters on a white oak sideboard while Tatershall slouched into one of the chairs and took in the impressive view.
‘Anything?’ he said after a while, more out of hope than expectation.
‘I’ve found a bank statement. Joint account.’ Simbeck was leafing through the pages. ‘Three months to the end of September. Regular stuff to start with, a supermarket, some other local shops. Then I’ve got a transaction at Tesco Lee Mill for forty quid exactly. 15th July. Petrol.’
