For the first time, Tamsyn didn’t feel nervous standing in front of other police officers and explaining her idea to the CID team. She’d spent all her summers helping her grandfather – she knew the sea’s rhythms and pulses, wind and the water, almost as well as any fisherman.
But she still felt relieved when DS Stevens clapped and gave her a wink, and Jen Bolitho gave her a thumbs up. They all nodded, energised by this new piece of information.
“Tom, get on to the harbour’s manager at Newlyn,” said Rego. “I want a list of the boats that have regular parking spots there and are too small to go out in bad weather; if they were large enough to go out, there wouldn’t have been a supply problem.”
“Clint Brady is the Harbour Master. He’s from up your way,” said Stevens.
“Manchester?”
“Newcastle.”
“Practically next door,” Rego deadpanned. “Tell Mr Brady that you’ll be dropping by for a chat – and get the harbour’s CCTV for the 72 hours around the vic’s known dates.”
“The office is on North Quay,” Tamsyn offered, “but Jonas Jedna is the night watchman. I mean, they call him ‘security staff’ but really he’s just there to collect the mooring fees. He patrols two or three times a night, so he’d be a good person to talk to about who is moored regular and who’s down the pontoon … I mean … if you think…”
She hoped that she wasn’t coming over like some pushy know-it-all.
“Thanks, Tamsyn,” Rego said. “You’ve been a great help.”
Tamsyn hesitated for a moment but everyone was now heads down and working, so she left the busy CID briefing room that was buzzing with activity, and went to the kitchen. It was the usual mess of half-drunk coffees and crumbs everywhere. Sighing, she filled the washing up bowl with soapy water, cleaned and scrubbed until the room wasn’t such a health hazard.
She couldn’t help the need to create order where chaos reigned – and if she admitted it to herself – was probably one of the reasons she’d joined the police in the first place.
She made herself a cup of instant coffee in the much cleaner kitchen, then started working through her textbooks for her Police Constable Degree Apprenticeship course and updating her student officer portfolio.
She was unpleasantly surprised when Chloe came in to get a coffee refill. Tamsyn glanced up, but when she saw who it was, she didn’t even bother to say hello, simply carrying on studying, although still aware of the dark cloud of heavy silence that Chloe seemed to drag with her.
Chloe gazed around at the spotless surfaces, her eyes drawn to the rack of drying mugs, plates and cereal bowls.
“Who are you trying to impress, Tampax? Brown nosing Rodrigo, are you? I bet he’d like that.”
Tamsyn looked up from her books, met Chloe’s eyes, but just shook her head and decided to ignore her.
“I bumped into Ollie Garrett last night,” Chloe went on, lowering her voice as if they were two old friends sharing a secret. “He bought me a drink and we got talking about school and other stuff. He had some very interesting things to say about you.” She paused for effect. “He says you’re a skanky blonde cunt who fitted him up and now he’s going to lose his job because of you.” Her voice became louder. “Why do you have to be such a bitch?”
Tamsyn leaned back in her chair.
“Is your asshole jealous of the shit that comes out of your mouth?”
Her tone was conversational as Chloe gaped at her.
“Ollie made his own choices, same as you, same as me,” she continued, her voice hardening. “He’s friends with some not very nice people. So if you’re cleverer than you look, you’ll stay away from him. And while you’re at it, stay the fuck away from me, too.”
It took Chloe several seconds to think of a comeback.
“Bitch!” she said, storming from the room – without her coffee.
Tamsyn deducted points for lack of originality and took a sip of her own tepid drink. Another encounter with Chloe hadn’t been on her to-do list this afternoon. But it bothered her that Chloe had been talking to Ollie Garrett. She wondered if she should tell someone, but then decided she didn’t need any more of the drama which Chloe seemed to thrive on.
As her shift was about to start, she stowed her textbooks in her locker and changed into her uniform. She was getting used to it now, and felt real pride every time she pulled up her long hair into a neat bun and checked the equipment on her utility vest.
Today, she was double-crewing with Jamie again, who grinned and winked so much, she wondered if he had something in his eye.
Their first job would be to check out all the car parks in St Ives, then foot patrol around the residential areas near the Caerlyon guest house, searching for Ruçi’s car.
“This is the fob, so it should save you some time,” said Sergeant Carter, handing the key to Jamie. “Look for a car with a build-up of leaves on it or under it, also rubbish blown against the wheels, a windscreen that’s not clean – anything that says ‘abandoned car’ to you.”
“Sarge, this is going to take forever!” Jamie complained, then saw the look on Sergeant Carter’s face, and backtracked a few paces. “Is it the best use of resources?
“No information is useless, Smith. You don’t know when it will come in handy.” Carter clearly wasn’t interested in hearing anymore complaints. “Beep it around and see what flashes up. You’re looking for an older model Ford Focus, registered between 2003 and 2005. Have a chat with the locals – see if anyone has noticed a car hanging around that shouldn’t be there.”
Jamie pulled a face as they headed out.
“Don’t know why we’ve pulled such a wanky assignment,” he said, shooting her an aggrieved look. “I thought you were their star pupil.”
Tamsyn shrugged. “Sounds alright to me, walking around St Ives on a nice afternoon.”
“You’ll learn, Padawan. You’ll learn.” He sighed and gave her a half-smile. “You’ll end up getting asked for directions by all the tourists because nobody can ever find the Tate. And the business owners will complain to you about the stupid things visitors do. You get hot, the stab vest is uncomfortable, and you’ve got no chance of having a quick coffee without being interrupted half-a-dozen times. And even if you have so much as a bottle of water, someone will ask if you haven’t got anything better to do than stand around having a drink.”
Tamsyn raised her eyebrows but didn’t say anything.
Jamie didn’t offer to let her drive, and she soon tuned out his running commentary on Plymouth’s chances against Port Vale this coming weekend, and his bemoaning the fact that AFC Bournemouth was the nearest premier league club which was 200 miles away in Dorset.
Tamsyn’s family had always followed rugby, so she didn’t know much about football and cared less.
Besides, she liked knowing that Cornwall was a long way from anywhere, at the very end of the country; she liked the fact that it was one of the few counties in England without a motorway. Up until 2013, it hadn’t had a university either, although she had to admit that having the Tremough campus was an improvement because it made tertiary education cheaper for locals.
She loved that Cornwall had its own language, with a history that was more Celtic than Anglo-Saxon. She loved the surf and the beaches and the space. She couldn’t imagine living in a city. Visiting Bristol or London was okay; Christmas shopping in Plymouth with her grandmother was bearable – but actually living in a city? No way. Something else that separated her from many of her former classmates.
She pulled her mind back to the job, cutting across Jamie’s verbal stream of consciousness.
“Shall we do Barnoon and Porthgwidden first?”
“Why those?” he asked, sounding grumpy.
“They’re the largest – I just thought it would be a good place to start.”
Jamie didn’t argue, which seemed like tacit agreement. So, it surprised her that they ended up at Westcotts Quay first – with all of its seven parking spaces to investigate.
Tamsyn could see straightaway that none of the cars were Fords, but decided to check for CCTV on foot, leaving Jamie to do a nine-point turn, trying to ease their patrol car out of the narrow space without losing a wing mirror.
Tamsyn found a lone CCTV camera, but a hanging wire made her think that it probably wasn’t working. She took a quick video with her phone in case there was anything she wanted to look at later.
Jamie was sweating by the time he’d managed to turn the car without scraping the paint.
“I should have let you drive,” he said with feeling, and Tamsyn laughed.
Next, Jamie drove them to Wheal Dream with its 22 spaces. This car park had CCTV, and Tamsyn took a photo of where it was positioned so that DS Stevens as Telecoms Officer could try and track down ownership later. That should be straightforward, seeing as it was a Council car park.
There were two Ford Focuses, but both were newer, and neither the fob nor the key worked on either.
Porthgwidden and the larger Island car park were next to each other and had one of the best views in St Ives overlooking the picture-perfect white sandy beaches. The tiny chapel of St Nicholas stood on a grassy promontory high above, with the lookout station for the National Coastwatch Institution a short distance below.
It was peaceful and serene and beautiful – and transformed from what had been the town rubbish dump until it was given a makeover in the sixties. Her grandfather said that the smell with an onshore wind had finally persuaded the council to pay for the redevelopment.
But finding the missing Ford was a bust in both car parks.
“Barnoon next?” Jamie suggested, sounding as discouraged as Tamsyn felt.
“Sure, why not? We can…”
Something caught her attention, a flutter of paper at the edge of her vision. She almost dismissed it as a pile of litter until she went closer.
Crouching down, she pulled on a pair of disposable gloves and took an evidence bag out of her pocket.
“Jamie, look at these. What do you think?”
Someone had thrown away two parking tickets – probably just pulled them out from under the windscreen wipers and dropped them on the ground.
“Can you do a PNC check for this number plate?”
Tamsyn read out the number and Jamie tapped it into his phone.
“Read it again, Tam. I think I took it down wrong.”
But a second attempt gave the same result.
“Okay, that’s weird. It says the car that got this parking ticket belongs to a 97 year-old woman living in Alderley Edge in Cheshire.” He pushed his cap further back on his head. “Unlikely, but I guess we can check.”
Tamsyn tapped in a query, scrolling through the data. The result surprised her.
“According to this, Margaret Beth Evans died two months ago and the car is subject to probate before being sold.”
They looked at each other.
“Cloned plates?”
“Definitely looks like it.”
“What are the dates on the tickets?”
Tamsyn checked the paperwork.
“Last Saturday and Sunday.”
“The day after the vic was killed.” He nodded slowly. “I’ll call it in. And we need to find out who has the CCTV for this car park.” He held out his hand and she high-fived him. “Nice work, pardner.”