Malice in Cornwall Page 17

  A few minutes later there was a knock on the door and Butts came in with Sergeant Black close on his heels.

  “Mr. Powell, what the devil are you doing?” Butts admonished.

  “Don't worry, Butts. I'll answer to Dr. Harris.”

  “That's the least of my worries,” Butts protested. “I'm only concerned with your welfare—”

  “Nonsense, never felt better in my life. I'm not one for lying abed of a morning.”

  “But, sir—”

  “Now, then, I imagine Black has already filled you in.

  I'd like you to bring Jim Porter in and wring him dry. Let me know how you make out and then we can decide on the next step. Black, you can tag along to take notes.”

  Black beamed. “Right.”

  When he was alone again, Powell sat on the edge of his bed for some time recalling Black's quotation from the Scottish play. He thought about resting for a while but decided he'd be better off up and about, rather than fretting in bed about things over which he had no control. There would be plenty of time for that later, When the hurlyburly's done, I When the battle's lost and won.

  CHAPTER 20

  Powell spent the day prowling the corridors of the Wrecker's Rest and generally making a nuisance of himself. He even managed to drag Jane Goode away from her writing by playing shamelessly on her lingering feelings of guilt. He persuaded her to take him tottering down to the quay where they sat together on a bench in awkward silence amidst the sunshine and screaming gulls. Out of the blue, she said that she would be returning to London soon, to which Powell was unable to think of a reply.

  Later that afternoon when Butts and Black finally returned, after what had seemed to Powell like an eternity, they found him pacing back and forth in his room like a caged animal. “What kept you so long?” he said irritably.

  Butts and Black exchanged looks.

  Butts cleared his throat. “Well, sir, by the time we picked Porter up and took him into St. Ives—”

  “Yes?”

  “Er, do you mind if we all sit down, sir?”

  Powell waved impatiently. “Fine, fine.” He lowered himself slowly onto the edge of the bed while his colleagues pulled up chairs.

  Butts sighed. “We did our best, but the poor bugger didn't seem to know if he was coming or going.”

  “Could you be a little more specific?”

  “Well, it's obvious that he thinks his life's a failure: his business, if you can call it that, his marriage, his future prospects, you name it.”

  “We got him to admit that it was him I saw running from the cottage the morning Tebble was killed,” Black said. “He said that he knew his wife was with somebody that morning, but he swears that he didn't get a chance to find out who it was before I interrupted him.”

  Powell frowned. “Did you ask him if he had any ideas?”

  “Of course, sir,” Butts interjected smartly, not used to sharing the limelight. “He started raving at that point, and Wilcox's name came up.”

  “Wilcox?”

  “Apparently the missus told him about Wilcox coming out that time to quote on the installation of an indoor plumbing system, but Mr. Porter obviously wasn't buying it.”

  Powell frowned. “If there is some hanky-panky going on between Linda Porter and Wilcox, why would she tell her husband about the service call?”

  Butts shrugged.

  “And Rowlands?” Powell asked.

  “Porter knows what's going on all right, I'm certain of it.”

  “Did he mention Tebble as a possible object of his wife's affection?”

  “No, sir.”

  “That's interesting, don't you think, Black? Tebble's boat parked on the beach not fifty yards away.”

  “Well, sir, if Mr. Porter knew that it was Tebble who was, er, visiting his wife that morning, he might not mention it because of the obvious connection we'd make with Tebble's murder. He doesn't seem to have much of an alibi Saturday afternoon, by the way; he claims he was off somewhere by himself.”

  “Convenient,” Butts muttered.

  “On the other hand,” Black went on, “he might be telling the truth.”

  Powell smiled dryly. “Thank you for clarifying that.”

  Butts cleared his throat. “I questioned him about the conversation he had with you yesterday morning, sir. He was a bit edgy after I told him you'd had an accident at the mine. He said he'd been upset when he talked to you, but wouldn't say much more. I asked him if he saw anybody else pass by on the road, but he claims he left a short time later to work at another location. However, there doesn't seem to be anyone who can corroborate his whereabouts.”

  An ominous rumble from Sergeant Black.

  “That's about all we could get out of him,” Butts concluded, “so we took him home and planted the thought that we might want to talk to him again.”

  Powell looked at Butts. “What do your instincts tell you?”

  Butts considered the question for a moment. “I don't think we can rule him out at this point.”

  “Bill?”

  “I agree with Mr. Butts,” Black said diplomatically. “Porter just strikes me as being too much of a Nervous Nellie.”

  Powell nodded. “By the way, how did Mrs. Porter react when you showed up to pick up her husband?”

  “She wasn't there. Porter claims she went to Redruth yesterday to do some shopping and visit a friend. She's due back tomorrow, apparently.”

  “A friend,” Powell said doubtfully.

  “I don't think Mr. Porter believed her, either.”

  “The plot thickens.”

  “Sir?”

  “You chaps had better wander over to the Head and have that chat with Tony Rowlands. I'll stay here and sit on my arse. You can fill me in over dinner.”

  Several minutes later, as Powell was attempting to settle himself in bed with the latest issue of Trout and Salmon magazine, Black charged in, puffing like a Cape buffalo.

  “It's Rowlands, sir. He's disappeared!”

  The three policemen, working on their second bottles of ale, courtesy of Mrs. Polfrock, sat in the Residents' Lounge of the Wrecker's Rest discussing the implications of this latest turn of events. (Powell had his leg propped up on a large cushion, having grudgingly admitted that perhaps he had been overdoing it a bit.) According to Jenny Thompson, who was understandably upset, Rowlands had departed unannounced the previous evening and had yet to return. Under questioning she admitted stoically that it wasn't the first time something like this had happened. She let on that she knew about Linda Porter, but she refused to talk about it other than to clearly indicate her disgust with Rowlands in particular, and with men in general.

  “Bloody peculiar, I'd say.” Butts observed. “I've already put the word out on him, by the way.”

  “I don't think there's much doubt about it at this point,” Black agreed. “Someone pushes Mr. Powell down a mine shaft and then Rowlands disappears.”

  “Perhaps he's shopping in Redruth with a friend,” Powell said casually.

  Butts looked solemn. “Well, this is it.”

  After spending a restless night dreaming that someone was trying to saw his right leg off, Powell awoke to the news that Rowlands had been picked up in London and was being held in custody for questioning. At a hurriedly convened breakfast conference, it was agreed that Powell would return to London immediately to interview Rowlands, while Black stayed behind for the time being to await further developments.

  Arrangements having been made, Powell was hobbling up to his room to pack when he met Jane Goode coming down the stairs. He had been dreading this moment, but he supposed it was as good a time as any.

  She looked at him sternly. “You really should stay off that leg, you know.”

  “Jane, there's been a break in the case. I have to return to London today, and I wanted to say goodbye … I mean, well, to wish you luck with your book—”

  “Nonsense! I'll come with you and you can tell me all about it. I was planning on lea
ving tomorrow, myself, but what the hell? We can keep each other company.”

  Powell grinned like a rustic on market day. “Great! The InterCity leaves Redruth at ten-oh-nine, and we should be there at least fifteen minutes early—can you be ready in half an hour?”

  A look of panic as she glanced at her watch. “Good Lord!” She dashed back up the stairs.

  A half hour later, after a last minute conversation with Butts and a disconcertingly cordial goodbye from Mrs. Polfrock, Powell and Jane squeezed into the backseat of the car behind Sergeant Black.

  “Ow! Get your hand off my knee!” Powell yelped.

  Jane laughed unsympathetically. “Sorry.”

  During an uneventful drive to Redruth, Powell brought Jane up to date, then Black dropped them off at the station.

  “Thanks, Bill. I'll let you know.”

  “Good luck, Mr. Powell. And goodbye, Ms. Goode. I'll keep my eye out for your new book.”

  “Don't hold your breath. But you can still buy a copy of my first one,” she said hopefully.

  Black grinned. “I already have. I picked up a copy in Truro. I found it quite interesting. I'd like to discuss it with you sometime.”

  She shook her head in amazement. “If I ever get around to writing a mystery, I'll call it Death and the Literary Sergeant and dedicate it to you. And do give me a call; I'd like that.”

  “If you two are quite finished,” Powell said, “we've a train to catch.”

  They waved as Black drove off. A few minutes later they were sitting together in their coach, strangely silent.

  It wasn't until the train was pulling out of the station that Jane Goode spoke.

  “It's a funny old life, isn't it?”

  “Didn't Margaret Thatcher say that when they stuck the knife in?”

  She stared straight ahead. “I went to Penrick to write a book, ended up getting involved in a murder and falling for a man with a cane.”

  Powell stunned. “Jane, I—”

  “Don't pay any attention to me, I find this sort of thing cathartic.” She turned to look at him. “I imagine you're happily married …”

  He looked into her eyes and only barely managed a smile. “You've been taking lessons from Mrs. Polfrock.”

  “It's none of my business, I know.”

  “It's all right…” He hesitated. “I don't know, I don't normally think about marriage in those terms.”

  “That's hardly a ringing endorsement of the institution.”

  He looked away. “I guess what I'm trying to say is, I'm not the easiest person to live with. My wife has to put up with a lot. I tend to get… preoccupied with things.”

  “So I've noticed.”

  “I'm flattered, Jane, I really am. I want you to know that I find you very attractive and I wish … the thing is, I'm not in a position to—”

  “I can assure you that I'm not in the habit of chasing after married men either.” There was something in her voice.

  He looked at her. concern in his eyes. “Jane, I didn't mean—”

  She sighed. “I know.” There was a lengthy silence. “But old Maggie was right. Who can say why things turn out the way they do? Is it predetermination or simply random chance that one chooses a particular path or meets a particular person? And does it really matter in the end?”

  Powell assumed that the questions were intended to be rhetorical so he stared out the window. An endless procession of power poles and fields flashed by, and an ominous-looking cooling tower in the distance like some high-tech scarecrow. Amidst the rhythmic clattering of the wheels and the gentle swaying of the coach, the sound of his breathing, the comforting pressure of Jane's arm against his, he was soon asleep.

  A bright voice roused him. “We're here.”

  He looked up groggily into Jane's smiling face. “What time is it?”

  “Nearly three. I didn't want to wake you.”

  Powell looked out the window at the familiar surroundings of Paddington Station.

  “We'd better get off,” Jane was saying. “Here's your stick. I'll take your bag.”

  There was an awkward moment as they stood together on the crowded platform.

  “Take care of yourself, Powell.”

  “You, too.”

  She pressed something into his hand, her fingers warm and probing. A piece of paper. “My phone number—for Sergeant Black. He wanted to talk to me about my book.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Goodbye.”

  His goodbye was still on his lips as she slipped into the stream of passersby.

  He made his way slowly outside and hailed a cab.

  CHAPTER 21

  When Powell arrived at the Yard, he had to endure the inevitable cracks about the cane and his general state of decrepitude as he limped to his office. “Bloody touching,” he remarked to Inspector Richards as he slumped into his chair. His desk was uncharacteristically neat and tidy, like a fallow field of simulated wood grain plastic laminate waiting to be sown with paper. He looked around the office. Everything was as he'd left it. Drab metal bookshelves and file cabinets, and in keeping with the Metropolitan Police Green Plan, not a trace of endangered hardwoods anywhere. Another of Sir Henry Merriman's PC. initiatives (Politically Constipated, to the rank and file). Powell grimaced.

  “It looks painful, sir,” Richards said eventually.

  Powell ignored him. “How's our pigeon?”

  “Ready to go whenever you are.”

  “Any indications?”

  Richards yawned. It wasn't his case so he wasn't particularly interested. “We told him we wanted to question him about the murder of Nick Tebble. He's been cautioned but hasn't shown any interest in calling a lawyer. He seems a bit jumpy. If he's got something to hide, it's my guess he'll sing.”

  Do pigeons sing? Powell wondered. “Did he say what he was doing in London?”

  “Claims he's been working too hard and needed a break.”

  “I don't bloody doubt it. You'd better come along to keep me from throttling the bugger.”

  A sudden look of alarm flickered across Richards's face. “Yes, sir.” The young up-and-coming inspector took himself very seriously.

  “And I'd like you to take notes.”

  “Sir?” An “I don't do windows” sort of expression.

  Powell glared at him. “Yes, Richards?”

  Inspector Richards sighed. “Very good, sir.”

  Rowlands was waiting in the interview room, watched over by a fresh-faced constable. He twisted around awkwardly in his tiny chair as Powell and Inspector Richards walked in. An attempt to suppress the look of alarm on his face failed, but he said nothing.

  Not a poker player, Powell thought. He dismissed the constable and pulled up a chair opposite Rowlands, placing his cane carefully on the table. Richards sat in the corner behind Rowlands, fiddling with his notebook.

  “Surprised to see me, Tony?” Powell said evenly.

  Rowlands's large face was moist with perspiration. He refused to meet Powell's eye. “I heard you had an accident.” His voice brittle.

  “Somebody pushed me down a mine shaft, if that's what you're referring to.”

  There was panic in Rowlands's eyes. “Pushed? What do you mean? I was at the pub, ask Jenny!” He looked almost comically earnest.

  Powell smiled. “Good heavens. I've only asked one question and you've already raised so many interesting points. First off, when did you say you were at the pub?”

  “Tuesday afternoon. There were customers that must have seen me.” Rowlands was sweating profusely now.

  “Tuesday afternoon?” A pregnant pause.

  “Yeah, well I bumped into old George that evening, didn't I? He told me that you'd, er, had an accident at the mine.”

  “George?”

  “Polfrock.”

  “Oh, yes, one of your best customers, I understand.”

  Rowlands spoke very carefully. “He comes in for a drink now and then. When the old lady lets him out, that is.”r />
  “Is that where you bumped into old George, at the pub?”

  “Yeah, why don't you ask Jenny?” A trace of belligerence in his voice now.

  “Ah, yes. Jenny. Her name does seem constantly to come up in relation to your whereabouts.”

  “We work together, don't we?”

  Powell smirked. “What else do you do together, Tony?”

  “That's none of your business.” Rowlands answered indignantly.

  “It's your alibi, not mine.”

  “Alibi? What do you mean?”

  Powell stared at Rowlands without replying. He had seen and heard enough to come to some conclusions. Thick as a plank but possessed, no doubt, with a certain measure of cunning when it came to preserving his own skin. But a killer? He reached under the table and gently massaged his knee. He was trying to keep an open mind. In any case, he decided that subtlety would be wasted on Rowlands—best to let him have it with both barrels, although it could prove to be a difficult shot. “Tony,” he said suddenly, “what does Linda Porter think about Jenny working under you?”

  For a moment Powell was concerned that he'd have to leap over the table and administer mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Rowlands had turned a ghastly shade of purple and was sputtering apoplectically, his thick lips flecked with spittle.

  Powell was mildly relieved a few seconds later when Rowlands motioned frantically for the water pitcher at the far end of the table. “Richards, get Mr. Rowlands a glass of water, would you?”

  Richards sauntered over grudgingly, poured a glass from the carafe, and handed it to Rowlands.

  Rowlands guzzled it greedily. His demeanor gradually returned to a semblance of normality.

  “I know about you and Linda, Tony, so there's no point in denying it. I also know about your little smuggling operation. And finally,” he lied, “I know all about Nick Tebble. Why don't you come clean and save us both a lot of trouble?”