“SO, WHAT YOU’RE telling me is that Eldridge Biggins is bumping right along the edge of insolvency. Do I have that right?”
“I wouldn’t put it quite that baldly, Inspector,” Roderick Nelson at the St. Ives Lloyds Bank branch said, smiling at the handsome woman across his desk.
“That is because, Mr. Nelson, you are paid to be judicious. I’m not, and it doesn’t suit me anyway. Biggins is in debt up to his ears and drawing his account down to nearly zero every month, am I right?”
“If you put it that way…”
“I do.”
“Then, yes. His dairy farm is doing better than most. I see the income statements. It’s mostly his property debt to the Agricultural Mortgage Corporation in Hampshire that’s a strain. Usually makes the monthly payment, but sometimes he’s late and gets charged a fee. Reckon that’s only fair; AMC have an excellent reputation in the farm loan business. Mostly it’s the volatility in milk prices: up one month, down another. I’ve reviewed their separate accounts and he and his wife seem to live very frugally. Don’t quite know how they get by, frankly. Household spending is modest to say the least: some charges on their Lloyds charge cards occasionally: at the Co-Op in St. Just, utility rates, and fuel from the petrol station up at the Tesco superstore just east of St. Ives. A bit of a drive it is, but it’s the only petrol station left here, sad to say. What garages we once had just do repairs now; can’t compete with Tesco’s petrol prices. As for the rest of the Biggins’s accounts, they spend so little I reckon maybe the farm meets their basic needs for food and such. Who knows? There is also an outstanding credit card charge with a physician’s surgery in Penzance. For Alice Biggins. She has her own account and is paying a monthly penalty for that overdue debt. I don’t know, of course, what that’s about or why it’s not been paid. She has the resources.”
“Do you have the physician’s name or billing address?”
“Yes, they have sent a collection notice.”
“I’d like it.”
Morgan’s mobile buzzed. She frowned at the phone and yanked it to her ear.
“I’m busy. What is it?”
“It’s Terry Bates here.”
“Oh good, then my caller ID is still functioning…”
“Morgan, stop it. We may have located Jeremy Rhys-Jones.”
“Where?”
“It was PC Novak’s idea. He was sure Rhys-Jones wouldn’t hole up in some doss house…”
“Spare me the theory, Terry: Where?”
“The Garrack Hotel on the southern edge of St. Ives, closest accommodation to Trevega House, just a little over a mile away from it. He appears to be using an alias, an Italian version of his real name, we believe: Geremio Riso. Where are you?”
“Lloyds St. Ives and just finishing. Has Novak taken any action?”
“Of course not. We await your orders.”
Morgan thought she heard a tinge of sarcasm but let it go. “I need to inform Mister. Well done, Terry,” she added as an afterthought.
“Not me. Novak worked it out. It’s time someone pushed his promotion to CID.”
Morgan did not reply. Terry had a thing for Adam Novak; that was becoming clear. But did that make her wrong? Morgan had been watching him and didn’t think so.
“Where are you now?”
“On our way back from lunch. We’ll be at the Dove Street station in a few minutes. CSO Sennen from St. Just and PC Novak’s three local CSOs are already there.
“THERE ARE SEVEN of us down here,” Morgan reported to Penwarren from her car outside the bank. “Admittedly, four are only CSOs, but we could take him.”
“For what, Morgan?” the DCI said. “I appreciate your eagerness, and also the work of Terry’s team down there, but the plain fact is that even if this is Jeremy Rhys-Jones, and we don’t know that, we have nothing on him. A partial print, as yet unidentified, on that leg hold trap that caught the dog. Otherwise nothing. Not from the dead cow, not from the fire, not from the well-poisoning, not from the Land Rover, and certainly not from the attack on the girl. Nothing. We don’t even know what Rhys-Jones looks like.
“I’ll need to inform Sir Michael. His son—if that is who this is—is wanted by the Italian Polizia on a criminal charge. That may take precedence. I’ll have him email us a photo, if he has one. Maybe an ID photo from the bank Jeremy worked for. I’ll try to make that fast. Meanwhile, we have nothing but suspicions about his activities here in Cornwall, nothing by which we can even bring him in for an interview.”
“What about using a false passport?”
“We don’t know that this particular guest has, do we? Are you hearing me, Morgan?”
Davies paced around the small police office, her thick low heels like rifle shots on a polished wood floor dating back to who knew when. The rest of the team stood back and watched.
“Of course I’m hearing you, dammit! I just don’t like it!”
“May I just remind you, in case you’ve forgotten, Detective Inspector, that I am your commanding officer?”
Morgan slumped into a chair, defeated. “All right, Sir. No offense meant. Here’s my Plan B: PC Novak calls the manager at the Garrack with whom he’s already spoken. He lets him know this alleged Italian may be a person of interest. He lets on nothing else. He asks the manager to keep an eye out and let us know immediately if he sees something odd or out of character—like the chap suddenly checking out. How am I doing so far?”
“I don’t like how little control we’d have over the manager. Too risky. But let’s have someone check in as a guest and keep an eye out. Terry, I should think. She can pick up whatever nighttime toiletries she needs at the Boots pharmacy there in St. Ives. It’s just around the corner on the High Street, as I recall. And have her find a cheap carryall. She’ll take a cab to the hotel, not her car. Make sure she has a reservation in the restaurant for dinner.”
“Why not me?”
Penwarren laughed. “My dear Morgan, you have ‘police’ written all over your face. You’re a brilliant and intuitive detective but, as I’ve said before, you have no future as an undercover cop. Terry, however, still has a chance.”
“Not to mention that she’s so decorative…”
“I did not mention that, and I won’t go there. As soon as I reach Sir Michael, I’ll let you know and get a photo sent to Terry’s phone and yours. Patience, my dear Morgan.”
“I missed that gene.”
Morgan explained Penwarren’s orders. The only one pleased was Terry Bates.
“I get to stay in a posh hotel! Brilliant!” She looked at the plain, navy-blue pantsuit she was wearing, a white silk camisole beneath. “Well, I guess I’d better pop down to the OSKA shop on Fore Street to buy something appropriate for dinner.”
Morgan made a face. Novak just shook his head. The other four headed home.
“Adam, I’m damned if I’m going to drive all the way back up to Bodmin now,” Morgan said. “I’ve done it back and forth almost twice daily on this case. Find me a reasonable B&B, will you?”
“I’ve a spare room.”
Bates shot him a look. Davies caught it.
“That’s very kind, Adam, but I like my privacy…”
TERRY BATES ENTERED the long, narrow dining room at the Garrack as the summer sun was lowering in the west. It was just past seven-thirty. The window-clad room was flooded with evening light and most of the white linen-covered tables already were occupied. She had luxuriated in a hot bath enriched with the hotel’s Relais du Silence-brand body oil. Now she was wearing a sleeveless calf length dress in soft, pale gray jersey, high at the neckline but cut to an asymmetrical pattern, one side longer than the other and the difference accentuated by a drawstring within the fabric just below the knee she had pulled in to emphasize the quirky design. And her legs. The clingy dove-gray dress was the perfect foil for her shoulder-length ginger blond hair, which was freshly washed and shining. She wished she’d had heels, but her Roman-style tan leather sandals had to suffice.
She waited at the entry, hands stuffed in the garment’s side pockets, knowing she was being observed. Her room lived up to its “family run” reputation, which was to say that it was homey and comfortable but hardly five-star, except for the toiletries. The dining room, however, was something else. The furnishings were modern and chic: small square tables and sleek dining chairs upholstered in dark chocolate brown leather.
The hostess approached with a stack of menus in the crook of her arm.
“Ms. Bates, I presume?”
“You presume correctly.”
“Welcome. We have a table by the corner windows reserved for you. Wonderful view.”
Middle-aged and assured, Terry wondered if the hostess was part of the family.
Terry smiled at the other guests as she followed her, scanning for a man dining alone. She saw none.
Her table was set for one, with crystal glassware and silver cutlery in a clean-lined, contemporary style. The hostess pulled out the chair facing the view. Terry pointed instead to the one facing the room.
“This one, please. I like to people-watch when I travel alone,” she said, her voice muted. She also didn’t like her back to the crowd. It was a cop thing.
“Of course, Ms. Bates.” The hostess left a menu and said, “Your waitress, Melinda, will be along shortly. I’ll let her know you’ve been seated.”
In moments, the waitress was at her side. She was just a slip of a girl, barely twenty, Terry guessed, but possessed of bright sapphire eyes accented with just a touch of eyeliner.
“May I get you something to drink, Ms. Bates?”
Terry loved that everyone knew her name.
“White wine, I should think. What do you have by the glass?”
Ever so briefly, Melinda made a face. She bent down. Terry caught the scent of lavender soap, very faint. “I shouldn’t choose the house white if I were you. Italian and quite acidic. But we do have a very good split bottle of Sancerre. Roughly two and a half glasses. Good value, it is, too.”
“Right then. I’ll try that.”
“Back in a moment to take your order, Ms. Bates.”
Terry looked around the room. The other diners could have been her grandparents.
Melinda returned with a frosted silver bucket, beads of condensation sweating slowly down its sides as the metal warmed in the waning sunlight. The small bottle nestled in a bed of ice. Melinda uncorked it, poured a measure, and waited.
Terry sipped and nodded. “You’re right, this is lovely.”
Melinda filled her glass halfway and resettled the bottle in the ice.
“Are you ready to order?”
“Yes, thank you. Spoiled for choice I am with these offerings, but I’ll have the crab and watercress salad as a starter, and the seared sea bass for mains.”
“Good choices. Both local they are. Crab’s from Newlyn, the bass is right off the boat here in St. Ives. The bass fillet has a softly spicy citrus sauce and comes with snow peas and two small flash-fried rice and coconut balls with their own dipping sauce. Southeast Asian influenced. I think you’ll be pleased. Our chef’s new, just down from someplace important in London. Dishy, he is, and single, too,” she whispered, adding a wink.
“No single men here in the dining room tonight, though,” Terry said quietly, eyebrows lifted. “I was hoping for some eye candy…”
Melinda nodded and looked around. “Mostly, like tonight, we get older couples. Tourists staying with us. Reckon it’s the luxury tariff keeps others away.”
A dozen tables were occupied. In a couple of cases a pair of the small tables had been moved together to accommodate two couples dining together. Silver hair prevailed.
Melinda squatted next to Terry’s chair and confided: “We do have a chap staying with us who dines alone, though. Handsome devil, though he’s probably old enough to be my father. Sort of a poor woman’s George Clooney, you know? Same close-trimmed beard, touch of gray. Italian, he is. Barely speaks English though he understands well enough. He comes in when most everyone else has finished. A loner, I guess. Works out in our little fitness center beforehand, I’m told.”
“And showers first, I hope,” Terry grinned. “Sounds interesting.”
“Oh, he’s a bit old for someone like you, if I may say so. Of course, there’s some women…” she stood and giggled, her hand cupped over her mouth, blue eye’s dancing.
Terry smiled and shook her head. “I’m not one of them, Melinda.”
Melinda shook her head. “I didn’t mean…”
“I know. Now, how about that salad?”
The young woman blushed: “Back in just a tick.”
Terry wondered if she’d ever been that young or girlish. After her mother had died, she’d been the caretaker of the house, looking after her father and younger brother. Too busy, really, to have an adolescence, especially after her grief-stricken father took to drink and her brother took to drugs and finally ran off. She’d soldiered straight through those years, ever watchful. The habits stuck and served her well as a policewoman. Still watchful. Vigilant. And just as lonely.
Her smart phone, deep in the left pocket of her dress, vibrated. She pulled it out. It was from Penwarren, forwarding a photo sent by Sir Michael of his son. It looked out of date from the clothes the man was wearing. It would be hard to make a match.