Free Killed in Cornwall by Janie Bolitho

spoken and Jack had suddenly remembered that Rose knew Samantha’s mother, Joyce Jago. Joyce was one of her pupils and Rose had mentioned her name several times as being one of the few with natural talent. And if Rose knows Joyce Jago there’s nothing to stop her finding out the rest. Please, please let her stay out of it, he prayed.
    They had a list of sex offenders but the profile didn’t fit any of them. ‘Lucy Chandler was in thepub with her boyfriend and they had a row,’ Jack informed his team. ‘She walked off and left him intending to make her way to the bus-stop on the main road, which explains her whereabouts at the time. Our problem is that she won’t give us the boyfriend’s name.’ There was a possibility that he was the rapist and she was protecting him, because it was her mother who had called the police, or there might be another reason.
    ‘Perhaps he’s married. They had a row, she leaves the pub, he follows her in his car and rapes her,’ one of the team suggested.
    ‘It’s possible.’
    Time was passing. A week, in fact, had passed and they weren’t getting anywhere, and they might not proceed at all unless Lucy Chandler was more forthcoming. The WPC hadn’t got anywhere with her but they would have one more try. He was more than aware that she was the victim so they had to tread carefully. And if her account of events was true and she hadn’t seen her attacker, she couldn’t be of much help. But without her assistance they didn’t stand a chance of catching anyone.
    And then at nine-thirty on Sunday morning the telephone rang. ‘Sir, there’s been another one, about half an hour ago. Not so serious this time,the girl managed to get away but the MO fits.’
    There would be no getting away by lunchtime after all, and no seeing Rose that day either. Despite his problems, Jack was missing her badly.
     
    For once the weather was perfect for an outdoor gathering. So many fêtes were rained on. Sunshine flooded the countryside as they drove towards Hayle. Light reflected off the estuary as the water flowed out to sea exposing the mudbanks where waders fed in winter. There were none now, only large flocks of gulls huddled in the middle where the mud was raised and the water ebbed slowly around it and a couple of oystercatchers at the edge, their black and white plumage easily identifiable even though their long, orange beaks were sunk deep in the mud. In the winter their numbers would be doubled by others from Iceland and the Faeroes. ‘A parcel,’ Rose said, nodding towards the estuary.
    ‘Pardon?’
    ‘I bet you didn’t know the collective noun for oystercatchers is a parcel.’
    Barry stared at her as if she was mad. ‘No, I didn’t, actually’
    They could hear the band as they approached the manor house in whose grounds the fete wasbeing held. Many local dignitaries obliged in this way, opening their grounds to the public to allow charity events to take place. Bunting and banners adorned the trees which lined the drive. Rose followed the home-made signs directing her to a piece of grassland where she could park. Barry’s car was in for repairs and would not be ready until Tuesday.
    The lawns were crowded. The school band, like so many in Cornwall, sounded far more professional than anyone unused to the area might have expected. Most children were taught to play an instrument and schools had their own bands, just as every town and village had its own adult band or choir.
    Stalls had been set up around the perimeter of the lawn. They held home-made goods, local arts and crafts, tombolas and bric-a-brac. Barry led Rose to the first stall. ‘A pound’s worth, please,’ he said as he handed over his money and got Rose to pick five straws from a bucket. Inserted in each was a rolled-up ticket. She pocked them out with the stick she had been given but none ended in a nought or a five.
    ‘Better luck next time,’ the plump, jovial man said as he threw their losing tickets in a