Secrets and Lies: A Polvellan Cornish Mystery Page 3

  ‘If we had longer, I’d ask you to tell me more. Unfortunately –’ she gave an apologetic shrug. ‘Andy Cardew is the current tenant of Treffry Farm. He also works Halvanna land. The two farms are next to each other. He took over Treffry from his father, George. When – eventually – Boss’s plans to convert the derelict farm buildings into a new holiday accommodation complex with its own car parking were passed at the end of March, work began clearing the site.’

  The waitress returned with a tray. Two blue china plates held the wraps with a salad garnish, a matching basin, chunky chips. There was a small bowl of mango chutney and two sets of cutlery wrapped in blue paper napkins.

  ‘Can I get you anything else?’

  Unwrapping her cutlery, Jess opened the napkin and laid it on her lap. The sight and smell of the food made her stomach gurgle. ‘Not for me, thanks. It looks wonderful.’

  ‘Thank you, Millie,’ Nic smiled at the girl, waited until she left, then went on. ‘One of the planning conditions was for at least fifty per cent of the original slates to be salvaged for use on the new or renovated buildings. Obviously this meant careful removal and storage which took time. Then the rain started and didn’t stop for nearly a month. The track became a quagmire impassable for heavy vehicles.’

  Jess ate a chip. It was hot, crisp on the outside and floury inside. She pulled her phone from her pocket. ‘May I record this? I didn’t bring a notebook.’

  ‘Yes, by all means.’

  Nic bit into her wrap as Jess pressed the record button and laid the phone gently on the table between them.

  ‘As soon as work could begin again,’ Nic said, leaning forward so only Jess would hear her, ‘skip lorries were shuttling to and from the dump carrying rubble from buildings that were too far gone to save. Wayne Powell’s digger started clearing a large and very old dung heap from the lower corner of the farmyard. It was covered in grass and a thick tangle of brambles.’

  ‘So obviously hadn’t been disturbed in a long time.’

  ‘Exactly. Has Bev already told you this?’

  Jess swallowed a mouthful. ‘Just the essentials. You were there before she arrived so I’d like to hear your account. Do you know when the dung pile was last used?’

  ‘I asked Andy. He said he’s never used it and he couldn’t ever remember it being used during his father’s tenancy. Manure from their dairy herd was saved on Treffry farm in a purpose-built concrete enclosure. Then in the seventies Andy’s father built a new milking parlour linked to a slurry tank. Apparently liquid slurry is far more convenient for fertilising the fields than the old muck-spreader.’ Nic pulled a face. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘What for?’ Jess finished the last of her wrap.

  ‘Manure as a topic of mealtime conversation?’

  Laughing, Jess waved the apology aside and wiped her mouth with her napkin. ‘I’ve heard far worse. When you have sons, especially one who knew he wanted to be a doctor from the age of eight, you develop a cast-iron stomach or you starve.’

  Nic shuddered. ‘Anyway, apparently it’s at least fifty years since that dung heap was used. It could be even longer.’

  ‘You said Wayne noticed the bones when he tipped the digger’s bucket-load into the lorry?’

  Nic nodded. ‘He told me he had already cleared half the pile. He was scooping up from near the bottom. When he tipped the load into the lorry he saw bones and what looked like shreds of fibre. It was sheer luck that the lorry was nearly full or he might not have noticed. Anyway, he jumped out of his cab and told the lorry driver. Then he informed the site foreman who told everyone to stop work and sent Wayne to the office. I phoned the police. Then Boss and I walked back with Wayne to the site. Bev arrived with the coroner’s officer soon afterwards. Two uniformed officers came in a police car and taped off the dung heap and the yard.’

  ‘I suppose it’s procedure, but I can’t help wondering why they bothered,’ Jess said.

  ‘You took the thought from my head. Those bones had been buried for years. Considering the number of vehicles and people that had driven and walked through the yard –’

  ‘And the rain.’

  ‘And the rain,’ Nic agreed. ‘There was little likelihood they would find anything to connect whoever did the burying to the remains themselves.’

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘Bev used the police radio to notify Dr Jelbert, the force medical examiner.’

  ‘No mobile reception?’

  ‘I wish. I’ve made enquiries with several service providers about installing repeater masts. Though it’s frustrating for us it’s even worse for them.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because they have to apply for planning permission, and the moment an application appears in the paper or on-line there’s uproar. People blame the masts for everything from cancer to tinnitus. Yet they still complain bitterly about the lack of mobile coverage.’ She gave a weary shrug.

  ‘When Dr Jelbert arrived?’ Jess prompted.

  ‘He put on a disposable suit and boots then looked at the bones in the lorry. He confirmed they were human then examined the dung pile and realised there were more. Telling the police to make sure no one went near the pile, he asked me to take him back to the office so he could ring a colleague who’s a forensic anthropologist.’

  ‘Dr Burton? Bev mentioned him.’

  ‘By the time we got back to the site, a Crime Scene Investigator and assistant had arrived, suited up, and were photographing the bones in the lorry. Then they erected a tent over the open face of the heap to protect it in case of more rain. Fortunately it stayed dry. In the meantime the coroner’s officer had interviewed the workmen who were then allowed to go home. Dr Jelbert and the CSI stayed all afternoon and most of the night extracting the rest of the bones.

  ‘Dr Burton arrived by helicopter the next morning. He was dropped off in a field at the top of the hill. Boss drove up to collect him.’ She sighed. ‘He told me he had asked Dr Burton to allow the builders back to work as soon as possible.’

  ‘How did Dr Burton react?’

  ‘Apparently he had smiled and said he’d do his best. He was obviously used to men like Boss. The CSI and his assistant spent the next day sifting the muck for any clothing or jewellery that might have been preserved and could possibly help with identification. But all they found were a few more fine shreds of fibre. Last Wednesday two detectives spoke to everyone at the Over 60’s lunch.’

  ‘So Viv told me. Bev said they’ve got nowhere with house-to-house.’

  Nic nodded. ‘Everyone seemed shocked by the discovery. But no one has any idea who it might be. This will certainly be a challenge for you, Jess.’

  Chapter Four

  They parted on the tarmac and Nic returned to work. About to head home, Jess caught sight of Will Olds. She had known him all her life and they had been in the same class at the village school.

  During the season that ran from October to March he dredged for oysters. In the summer months, he made repairs to his hundred-year-old wooden boat, did carpentry jobs for other fishermen, and entered every regatta he could reach.

  His father had been a fisherman. Jess recalled the shock and sadness in the village when Mick Olds drowned after his nets snagged on rocks and the boat capsized. His two crewmen had been on deck and were thrown clear. Mick was trapped in the wheelhouse.

  Wearing a faded plaid shirt, old jeans secured beneath his belly by a broad leather belt, battered wellies, and an ancient peaked cap, Will was scraping barnacles and weed from the bottom of the hull.

  ‘Hi, Will.’

  ‘’Ullo, Jess. Going on all right? Is it right what I heard about you doing bookkeeping?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Taking on new customers are you?’

  ‘You looking for someone to do yours?’

  ‘I am. But I tell ’e now, you’ll have some job. I got all my receipts. I put ’em in an old envelope. But I never been no good at paperwork. Julie used to look after all that, dear of
her. Since she passed on –’ His chin trembled and he looked away.

  ‘Sometimes just getting out of bed in a morning takes all your strength,’ Jess said softly.

  Clearing his throat, he glanced at her. ‘You know, don’t ’e, girl? You been there. Get any easier do it?’

  His voice was thick and hoarse but she recognised the underlying plea. ‘There aren’t any rules or time limits, Will. But yes, I’m finding it easier now.’

  Learning of Alex’s duplicity had kicked her legs from under her, leaving her stunned and desperately hurt. But it had also shortened her grieving. She had mourned her shattered beliefs and his broken promises as much as his untimely death. She couldn’t tell Will that.

  Will and Julie had been sweethearts since primary school. There had never been anyone else for either of them. His stoicism had misled his family into thinking he was coping well with bereavement. Twice last winter Tom had arrived on her doorstep visibly upset after an hour sitting with Will while he wept, then making tea and coaxing him to eat something.

  Tom. Pushing thoughts of him away, Jess made herself smile. ‘I’m used to sorting out messes, Will. Drop your paperwork round to my place and I’ll get to it as soon as I can.’

  ‘Proper job, Jess. Be ’andsome that would. I didn’t know where to start so I been putting it off.’ He wiped his hands on a rag, lifted his toolbox over the gunwale and dropped it onto the deck. ‘C’mon, we’ll go over the club and I’ll buy you a drink. Cheered me up you have.’

  Jess hesitated, but only for a moment. Friends had been there for her when she’d needed them – and still were. She fell into step beside him.

  ‘Is it right what I heard about you entering a race at Fowey with a knot tied in one of your sails?’

  He nodded, a grin brightening his weathered face. ‘Foresail split on the beat up. Howling a gale it was. When I bent on the spare he was too big. Only thing to do was tie a knot in ’un. I won the race too. ’Course, they had to disqualify me. I didn't mind. I went for the race, not the prize.’

  The sailing club bar was cool and shady after the bright sunshine. A couple chatted, heads close, at a corner table. Two men stood at the bar. ‘Can I have a coffee?’ Jess said when Will asked what she’d like.

  ‘Sure you don’t want nothing stronger?’

  ‘Not if I hope to get any work done this afternoon. Milk, no sugar, please.’ Jess sat at a round oak table and watched as Will ordered their drinks from the steward then headed to the gents’.

  ‘It really is too bad.’

  She glanced at the man who had spoken. He and the man with him wore navy cotton sweaters over polo shirts, chinos, and navy deck shoes. Each held a whisky tumbler. Jess instantly identified them as the type of visitor locals called snotty yachties.

  ‘Doesn’t this club have rules concerning appropriate dress?’ the man demanded. The door hadn’t quite closed behind Will.

  The steward caught Jess’s eye and she saw his eyelid flicker.

  ‘Would you gentlemen like to meet the sailing club’s commodore while you’re here? He’s forgotten more about sailing than most will ever learn. A one-off he is.’

  ‘He sounds an interesting chap,’ the first one said.

  ‘Much obliged to you,’ the other added as Will emerged.

  ‘Will, these two gentlemen wanted to meet our commodore.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Will smiled affably, wiping his hand against the seat of his jeans before offering it. ‘Afternoon, gents. I aren’t much for titles and such. Been to Polvellan before have you?’

  Jess covered her mouth, shaking with laughter as realisation and horror crossed the two men’s faces. Both flushed as they shook Will’s gnarled hand.

  ‘No,’ the complainer managed, his smile more of a grimace.

  ‘Didn’t think so. I got a good memory for faces. Thanks to Boss – that’s Mr Kingdon who own the marina – we got some of the best facilities in the south-west.’ Will’s grin broadened. ‘We’ve always ’ad the best sailing waters. Any’ow, gotta get on. Maybe we’ll see you again.’ Giving them a nod he picked up his pint and Jess’s coffee and carried them to the table.

  The two men tossed back the remains of their drinks and left.

  ‘What idiots,’ Jess muttered.

  ‘They can’t help it, bird,’ Will shrugged. ‘Not Cornish are ’em. ’Tis all mouth and trousers with they.’

  While he downed a third of his beer, Jess looked out at the large ocean-going yachts moored in rows on orange buoys. Smaller yachts and motor-launches were tied nose-in to the arms of the eastern pontoon. Within the shelter of the stone quay, small motorboats and day boats bobbed in rows, either side of a triple row of wooden pontoons reached by a gangway from the quay.

  ‘Half of those big yachts never leave their moorings all summer,’ she observed. ‘Why do people have them if they never use them?’

  Will eyed her. ‘C’mon, maid. Men, isn’t it? Look what I can afford. Yes, half they boats never move. But the rest got owners who are out every chance they get. They’re off to France or the Channel Islands, taking part in regattas, or simply sailing along to watch. But truth is, it don’t matter if the boats is used or not.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘At the end of each season every one of them got to be craned out and laid up. Over the winter the hulls are scraped, new anti-fouling put on, then several coats of paint. The engines are overhauled, rigging checked and replaced where ’tis needed. Then next year they’ll be craned out of lay-up and taken out to their moorings again. It give jobs to local men and make money for the marina. Only difference between this yard and Tom Peters’ is size. The work’s the same.’

  Jess didn’t want to think about Tom. ‘Will, before Boss bought the marina and expanded it, the land was part of Halvanna Farm. Do you remember what it was like?’

  ‘This about they bones is it?’

  Jess nodded. ‘DI Clemmow thinks because I’m local people might be more willing to talk to me.’

  Will sucked air through his teeth. ‘You got a better chance than they detectives who was down here asking. You could tell they didn’t care. Just doing what they was told.’

  ‘Has the place changed much?’

  ‘It surely have. I remember Father telling me there used to be a sailmaker’s loft and barking shed behind where the café is now.’

  ‘Barking shed?’

  Will nodded. ‘Stone-built he was, with wood stairs up the inside wall and a trapdoor set in the floorboards above. On the ground floor was this big metal tank like a copper. They’d fill ’n with water and light a fire underneath. When the water was hot this here cutch powder was dissolved in it.’

  ‘Cutch powder?’

  ‘Come from India it did. Made from acacia tree bark. Father told me it was a Cornishman who discovered it. Sir Humphrey Davy. A great reader Father was. The nets was dropped down through the trap and left to soak. The tannin in the water preserved ’em so they’d last longer. During the summer the nets would be spread out on a sloping field to dry. But when the weather wasn’t good, they’d be hung over ropes in a great half-open barn up the valley.’

  ‘I remember Gran talking about dances held in the sail loft on Regatta night.’

  ‘Granfer told me the loft and shed was a secret base for shipping agents to France. During the Second World War this was.’

  ‘Really? I never knew that.’

  Will shot her a dry look. ‘Secret, wasn’t it? Or s’posed to be. ’Course, half the village knew. Granfer said four or five French fishing boats would come in alongside the quay to pick up men fighting for the Free French.’ He paused. ‘Think they bones might be one of they, do you?’

  Jess shrugged. ‘They could be. But I don’t want to jump to conclusions just yet.’

  ‘Quite right too. Anyhow, soon as the men was given their papers, the boats would be gone over to Brittany. Then a few weeks later they’d be back again. Sometimes they picked up French sailors whose boats had been s
unk. Word is that while the Frenchies was here, everyone with a garden was happy.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Took all the snails, didn’t they? For eating. You couldn’t have found one for love nor money.’ He screwed up his face. ‘Don’t fancy ’em meself.’

  ‘I’ve heard there are people who feel the same about oysters.’

  Will laughed. ‘That’s ’cos they don’t know no better.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you’d remember who farmed Halvanna before or during the war?’

  ‘No, bird. Long before my time, that was.’

  ‘Thanks, Will.’ Jess finished her coffee and set down her cup. ‘You’ve been a great help. I’d better get on home and write all this up. ‘Don’t forget your paperwork next time you’re in the village. I’m on the left behind the pump.’

  He gave a nod. ‘Here, did you see in the paper about Mr Treloar passing away? Used to take us for English?’

  Memories of primary school flooded back. ‘I remember him. Quietly spoken –’

  ‘Until he lost ’is temper then he could roar for Cornwall. Used to go red in the face and shake, he did.’

  ‘Usually at Howard Tonkin. Howard was always at his worst on a Wednesday.’

  Will nodded. ‘Trying to get sent out of class. He knew no one wanted him on their team but he didn’t want the shame of being last one picked. When you was leader you used to choose us thickos first. I never forgot that.’

  ‘Will, you were not thick.’

  ‘C’mon, maid. You know as well as I do I was never one for books and such. But I’m good with these.’ He held up scarred hands tanned mahogany by wind, sun, and salt water.

  Jess smiled. ‘Remember Mr Treloar’s hairy tweed suits?’

  ‘I do. One was rust-brown and th’other greenish.’ Will shook his head. ‘Poor old chap. He took it some bad when his wife went.’

  ‘I didn’t know he’d married, let alone that she’d died.’