Free Killed in Cornwall by Janie Bolitho Page A

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    ‘We’d better say hello to Doreen,’ Rose said.They found her behind a trestle table upon which the raffle prizes were displayed. They watched as she bullied people into parting with their money. Doreen saw them and smiled wanly. She looked tired and sad. The fête would only distract her from the death of her friend for the afternoon. ‘We’ll take a pound’s worth of tickets each,’ Rose told her.
    ‘Good for you, maid. I hope you win. ’Tis hard to get twenty pence out of some of they. Nice to see you, Barry. Are you well?’
    ‘Yes, fine, thanks.’
    ‘Mrs Pascoe’s in a fine state. One of her boys fell over this morning and she was so busy cleaning him up that she forgot about her cakes and two of her sponges were zamzoodled. She’s scraped the brown bits off and iced ’en but she’s afraid for her reputation now. No one can make a sponge like she do. I don’t suppose you’d …’
    ‘Yes, of course.’ Rose smiled at Barry conspiratorially. Message understood, she thought. She’d buy the two cakes sitting unobtrusively at the back of the stall, one iced in virulent pink, the other more tastefully in lemon and white. Laura would be the recipient. She ate anything and everything, especially where sugar was concerned. Admiring the buns and cakeswhich had not been overcooked, she became aware of someone standing behind her. ‘Dave,’ she said in surprise when she turned around.
    ‘Hello, Mrs Trevelyan. We’re here under Doreen’s orders.’
    ‘Aren’t we all? This is my friend, Barry Rowe. Barry, this is Dave Fox.’ She almost added my gardener but realised it would have sounded patronising or condescending.
    Dave shook Barry’s hand. ‘And this is Eva.’ Beside him stood a stunning woman in her twenties. Her dark brown hair was long but cut in raggedy layers. The waves framed her striking face. Her dark eyes were large and the expression in them hinted at both sadness and laughter. She was endowed with a sexual allure that even another woman couldn’t possibly miss. Her tiers of clothing seemed to have been thrown on with complete disregard for fashion but somehow it worked.
    ‘Dave told me that you’re an artist,’ she said. Her voice was low and deeper than Rose had expected.
    ‘Yes, I am.’ She smiled. ‘Well, we’d better have a proper look around or Doreen’ll never forgive us. Nice to have met you.’
    They stayed for another twenty minutes thenwent to say goodbye to Doreen. ‘Can I tempt you with another ticket before you go?’
    Rose reached for her purse. Doreen had promised to keep any prize they may win. ‘Is something the matter?’ she asked Barry as they made their way back to the car. ‘You’ve been very quiet today.’
    ‘I’m not sure.’
    ‘Want to talk about it?’
    Barry shrugged then pushed his glasses up his nose. ‘It’s probably nothing.’
    ‘Shall we have a walk then?’ They could drive to the Towans. There were three miles of white, powdery sand stretching all along the shoreline topped by hillocks of sand held together by marram grass. Amongst these dunes were chalets in which some people lived all year around and others used only for their holidays. Even in the height of summer the beach, because of its vast expanse, never seemed crowded. And there were no amenities nearby; no amusement arcades, no ice-cream sellers or cafes, nothing except the breathtaking beauty of unspoiled scenery. But before you reached it there was the run-down harbour area of Hayle to pass through.
    ‘The Towans it is then.’ Barry looked down at his brown laced shoes.
    ‘You can take them off,’ Rose suggested.
    He looked vaguely shocked, as if she’d told him to sunbathe nude. In all the years she had known him he had never exposed more than his forearms.
    She parked at the top of the hill and having no such inhibitions herself, removed her sandals and carried them by the straps. Barry followed her down the narrow, sandy track until they reached sea level. A