“I’M DEMANDING AN independent psychiatric evaluation,” Hennessy said Tuesday morning.
“Yes, I rather thought you would.”
Hennessy had driven up to Bodmin from Camborne. Morgan wondered why she’d not simply texted her. Then again, she suspected the young lawyer had wished she’d turned down the request for representation in this case and was looking for some level of collaboration.
“Privately, Moira, I agree,” Morgan continued. “Jeremy Rhys-Jones is broken. Maybe psychotic, maybe schizophrenic, who knows? He disguises it well. For years, his father cleaned up the damage he caused. Now, he has no one.”
“Except Caprice…”
“Exactly.”
“He is suspected of several malicious acts,” Hennessy said as if reading from a list: “attempted murder with a noxious substance—the bleached well, though no one was hurt; criminal damage with respect to the bullock and the dog; possible damage to a brake line, unproven; and offenses against a person—the girl, Lee. I suppose that last also could be construed as attempted murder, though there is no evidence he was the assailant and thus nothing yet by which to connect him.”
“Unless he confesses, of course. But I commend you; you certainly know your law.”
The younger woman grinned. “I should hope so: top of my class, University of Bristol. Two years ago.”
“Yet you opted for public defense? You must have had far more lucrative choices.”
“It’s something I believe in.”
Morgan studied her. “I’m glad,” she said after a moment. “Look, if I have any influence he will be charged only with illegal entry to the UK. I have asked the CPS to hold off on the Trevega charges, at least for now. And, as you say, the evidence is spotty, his confession notwithstanding: it would be easily challenged.”
“Why are you telling me this? You have a reputation…”
Morgan laughed: “Yes, and well earned, I promise you. But I don’t go after every suspect tooth and nail, and this case may be one of those exceptions. I have spoken to the family at Trevega House. Jeremy’s ex-wife will not press charges if your client receives the care he needs and serves the time he must for his illegal entry. They just want to be safe from him.”
“Okay. I hear you.”
“Only you did not, got that?”
Hennessy nodded.
“Look, Moira, Rhys-Jones is not Mary Trevean’s murderer, and that’s all I care about right now, okay? She’s dead. Jeremy Rhys-Jones is a desperately poor excuse for a man—or even a human-being—but he’s not a killer. He has other things to answer for, certainly, but not that.”
“Inspector Davies…”
“Morgan.”
“Morgan, then. When will he be charged formally for illegal entry?”
“The CPS says today.”
“Right, then; I’d better get back to Camborne. Thank you for your candor.”
Morgan grinned: “Candor’s never been my problem, Moira, but usually it isn’t a gift. You owe me.”
MORGAN WAS DOING paperwork—or rather computer work, the bane of her existence—when her mobile vibrated in her pocket. She pulled it out and looked at the screen.
“Your phone calls deep in my trouser pocket are almost as good as my home vibrator, Calum.”
“That is not something you needed to share, my dear.”
“I know. I just like to wind you up.”
“Too late: I’m pre-wound.”
“No kidding! That’s why you have heart trouble, you idiot! Are you attending to that?”
“Did you wish to know the substance of my call?”
“Oh, I give up; what the hell is it?”
“I’ve been scrolling through the entire case file on Rhys-Jones…”
“How many times have I told you: you’re scene and evidence: I’m investigation!”
“More than I care to count, my dear, but permit me to offer an observation, no extra charge…”
“Like I could ever stop you?”
“You interviewed an Eldridge Biggins, the same chap, as it happens, who showed my SOCO people around Mary Trevean’s house and rental cottages when we found the body. Very helpful, he was. His farm is adjacent to hers, yes?”
“Tell me something I don’t already know.”
“In your interview with him about Mary’s death, as well as Terry’s chat with his wife, Alice…who seems an odd one, if you ask me…both made it clear they had been long-time friends of the Treveans and that they looked after Mary in the period after her husband died, even brought her meals. And Alice and her husband both said that Mary and Eldridge had a special bond, closer maybe than marriage I think Eldridge suggested.”
“Yes. They were apparently soul mates, but innocent ones.”
“According to whom, Morgan? And what if Eldridge and Mary weren’t? Innocent, I mean. How do we know other than his and his wife’s own statements, which could have been articulated for at least two protective reasons, are the truth?”
“Two reasons?”
“For Alice: fear. For Eldridge: guilt.”
“Are you somewhere in the building?”
“Downstairs in the evidence room, my home away from home.”
“Get up here.”
“I HATE IT when you get ahead of me, do you know that?”
“It seldom happens, Morgan. When it comes to investigation, to burrowing deep, you have no equal.”
“Not this time, Calum. I missed it.”
“Missed what?”
She tossed a brown C4 envelope across her desk. It had come in the post earlier that morning.
“Go ahead open it. Attend particularly to page two.”
“It is unopened; how do you already know what I should look for?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Like I said, you’re always ahead of me…”
He tore open the envelope and found a certified copy of the Last Will and Testament of Mary Trevean. He scanned the first page, which was mostly boilerplate, and turned to the second page.
After a few moments, he said, “Yes. Yes, I see.” He was barely whispering. “Is this motive?”
“The Biggins’s surely needed the money. They’re saddled with a significant property debt owing to Eldridge’s purchase of Trevean’s land and livestock after her husband died.”
“And you know this, because…”
“Like I said, don’t ask.”
“But if you already knew this, Morgan…?”
She raised her hands in frustration. “It just didn’t register, okay? Frankly, I’m disgusted with myself.”
“Because you were so certain about Rhys-Jones?”
“Yes. As was Mister. But we’re both so wrong.”
“Wrong is not in your resume, Morgan, and I will certainly not add this as an addendum. So now?”
“We pull both of them in again, Eldridge and Alice. I’ll call Novak and have him drive them here.”
“The cushion DNA?”
“All we know is that it wasn’t Rhys-Jones’s.”