In fairness to Hannaford, Lynley disabused DS Ferrell of whatever notion he was brewing about Hannaford’s capabilities. He’d been in the area on holiday, he explained. He’d been present when the body was found. The boy, he explained, was the son of a man who had himself been at least tangentially involved in a death a number of years ago, one that had been investigated by the Newquay police, and that was why Lynley had come to Newquay: for information relating to that situation.
Thirty years ago had obviously seen Ferrell not long out of nappies, so the DS knew nothing about anyone called Parsons, about Benesek Kerne, or about a sea cave mishap in Pengelly Cove. On the other hand, it wouldn’t be tough for him to suss out who did know what in relation to that death. If the superintendent didn’t mind a bit of a wait…?
Lynley chose to do his waiting in the canteen, the better to be a hovering presence that might spur things on. He bought himself an apple because he knew he ought to eat despite not having felt hungry since his conversation with Havers that morning. He bit into it, was gratified to find it mealy, and tossed it into the rubbish bin. He followed up with a cup of coffee and wished vaguely that he was still a smoker. There was, of course, no smoking in the canteen these days, but having something to do with his hands would have been gratifying, even if what he was doing was only rolling an unsmoked cigarette in his fingers. At least he wouldn’t feel as if he needed to tear packets of sugar into shreds, which was what he did as he waited for DS Ferrell to return. He opened one and dumped it into his coffee. The others he dumped into a neat pile on the table, where he then ran a plastic stir stick through the mess, creating designs as he tried not to think.
There was no Paul the primate keeper, but what did that mean, really? A private person who’d been caught looking at sites for miracles, she’d want to make an excuse for that. It was human nature. Embarrassment led to prevarication. This was not a crime. But that, of course, was not the only instance of prevarication on the vet’s part, and this was the problem he faced: what to do about Daidre Trahair’s lies and, even more, what to think about them.
DS Ferrell did not return for a very long twenty-six minutes. When he did come into the canteen, however, he had nothing with him but a slip of paper. Lynley had been hoping for boxes of files he might look through, so he felt deflated. But there was moderate cheer in what Ferrell had to say.
“DI running that case retired long before my time,” he told Lynley. “Must be over eighty by now. He lives in Zennor. Across from the church and next to the pub. He says he’ll meet you by the mermaid’s chair if you want to talk.”
“The mermaid’s chair?”
“That’s what he said. Said if you’re a proper detective, you should be able to find it.” Ferrell shrugged and looked a bit embarrassed. “Funny bloke, you ask me. Fair warning and all that. I think he may be a bit gaga.”
Chapter Nineteen
DAIDRE TRAHAIR NOT BEING AT HOME, THERE WAS NOTHING for it but to return to the police station in Casvelyn, which was what Bea and DS Havers did. Bea wedged her card into the cottage doorway in Polcare Cove before they left, with a note scribbled upon it, asking the vet to phone or to come to the station, but she didn’t have much faith in that producing any positive results. Dr. Trahair was, after all, without a telephone or a mobile and, considering her dealings with the truth so far-which could best be described as either fast and loose or nonexistent-she wouldn’t be entirely motivated to get in touch with them anyway. She was a liar. They now knew she was a liar. She now knew they knew she was a liar. With that combination of rather compelling details as the background of Bea’s request that she get in touch, why would Daidre Trahair want to place herself in a position where a nasty confrontation with the cops was likely?
“He’s not looking at things the way he ought,” Bea said to DS Havers abruptly as they headed upwards and out of Polcare Cove. Her thoughts had made a natural segue. Daidre Trahair and Polcare Cottage led inevitably to Thomas Lynley and Daidre Trahair and Polcare Cottage. Bea didn’t like the fact that Lynley had been there, acting the part of informal greeting party to her and DS Havers. Even less did she like the fact that Lynley had protested a bit too much when it came to Daidre Trahair’s innocence in all matters pertaining to Santo Kerne.
“He’s got a thing about keeping all the possible options in place as possible options,” Havers said. The way she sounded was something Bea thought of as cautiously casual, and the DI narrowed her eyes suspiciously. The sergeant, she saw, was looking steadily forward, as if, as she spoke, a study of the lane were imperative for some reason. “That’s all that was, that business at the cottage. He looks at situations and sees them the way the CPS would see them. Forget an arrest for the moment, he thinks. The real question is: Is this good enough to take into court? Yes or no? If it’s a no, he makes everyone keep digging. Gives you aggro-and-a-half sometimes, but it all comes right in the end.”
“That being the case, we might ask ourselves why he’s reluctant to dig into Dr. Trahair’s story, mightn’t we?”
“I think he reckons the Newquay angle is stronger. But no matter, really. He’ll pick up where he left off on her.”
Bea eyed Havers again. The DS’s body language didn’t meet her tone, one tense and the other too easy. There was far more here than met the eye, and Bea reckoned she knew what it was. “Rock and a hard place,” she said to Havers.
“What?” Havers glanced at her.
“You, Sergeant Havers. That’s where you are, isn’t it? Loyalty to him versus loyalty to the job. Question is, how will you make the choice if you have to?”
Havers smiled thinly, clearly without humour. “Oh, I know how to choose when it comes to it, Guv. I didn’t get where I am by choosing like a fool.”
“All of which is defined by the individual, isn’t it?” Bea noted. “The choosing-like-a-fool bit. I’m not an idiot, Sergeant. Don’t play me for one.”
“I hope I wouldn’t be that stupid.”
“Are you in love with that man?”
“Who?” Then Havers’ eyes widened. She had unappealingly small eyes, but when she opened them wide, Bea saw their attractive colour, which was highland sky blue. “D’you mean the super-?” Havers used her thumb to point in the direction Lynley had taken ahead of them. “We’d make quite the couple, wouldn’t we?” She barked a laugh. “Like I said, Guv, I bloody well hope I wouldn’t be that stupid.”
Bea eyed her and saw that, in this, she was telling the truth. Or at least a partial truth. And because it was partial, Bea knew she would have to watch Havers closely and monitor her work. She didn’t like the idea-damn, was there no one on this case upon whom she was going to be able to rely?-but she couldn’t see she had a choice.
Back in Casvelyn, the incident room displayed a gratifying scene of business in motion. Sergeant Collins was making notations on the china board about activities; Constable McNulty was beavering away at Santo Kerne’s computer; in the absence of a civilian typist one of the TAG team officers was working at transcribing a stack of notes into HOLMES. In the meantime, the DVLA had weighed in with a list of owners of cars like the two seen in the vicinity of Santo Kerne’s cliff fall. The Defender, as Bea had assumed, had been the easier one when it came to comparing listed owners of such vehicles with all the principals in the case. Jago Reeth owned a Defender very similar to the car seen in Alsperyl approximately one mile to the north of the cliff where Santo Kerne was doing his abseiling. As to the RAV4, the vehicle seen to the south of that same cliff likely belonged to one Lewis Angarrack.