Free Killed in Cornwall by Janie Bolitho Page B

slight breeze blew in their face and scattered minute grains of sand at their feet. The air was so clear they could see for miles. The turquoise water was edged with a frill of white spume as it ran slowly in and out over the beach. For several minutes they strolled without speaking, enjoying the warmth of the sun on their faces.
    ‘Okay, out with it,’ Rose finally said. There was no one around, only two small figures ahead in the far distance and a couple of families they had left behind. The only sounds were those of the gently lapping water and the scrunch of their footsteps in the wet sand by the tideline, the fine grains of which massaged the soles of Rose’s bare feet.
    ‘It’s Daphne,’ he began.
    For the second time Rose wondered if he was having an affair with her.
    ‘I took her for a drink after work last night. A sort of celebration that she’s done so well in such a short time. Anyway, she chose that moment to come out with her confession.’
    ‘Confession?’ Rose was intrigued but deduced nothing from Barry’s profile.
    ‘Yes. It’s her husband, you see. Before they moved down here he was a teacher but there was some scandal about him and a fifteen-year-old girl. Daphne said all charges were dropped but he knew he couldn’t stay on at his job, there would always be too much speculation, and that he’d never get another one teaching.
    ‘Well, she insisted I knew in case it came out anyway. She was afraid I’d ask her to leave, which of course never crossed my mind.’
    Schoolgirl. Scandal. Surely Daphne’s husband wasn’t the man who had attacked and raped Lucy Chandler? It would be a long line of coincidence: Laura knew Lucy’s mother, Lucy was the friend of Joyce Jago’s daughter and Barry was possibly the employer of a rapist’s wife. But the community was so small and so closely knit that although it seemed improbable it certainly wasn’t impossible. However, rape was not the same thing as an affair with an underage girl. At least Daphne had had thecourage to be honest with Barry. ‘What’ll you do?’
    ‘Nothing, of course. Anyway, the upshot was that she’s invited us to her house for a drink. I suggested Thursday evening.’
    ‘Both of us?’
    ‘Yes. In your case, reflected glory in knowing an artist is the motive I think, and in mine I imagine she wants me to see that her husband isn’t a monster. Will you come?’
    ‘Yes.’ Nothing would keep Rose away now.
     
    Dave arrived punctually on Tuesday morning but Rose was surprised to see Eva swing herself down from the passenger seat of the van. She had been intending to apply the pale wash to the wild flower sketches and wondered if Eva expected to be entertained.
    ‘I hope you don’t mind, Mrs Trevelyan,’ she said with a smile. ‘Only it’s such a lovely day and Dave’s going to drop me at the job centre later. I won’t get in your way’
    ‘Would you like a coffee before you start?’ Rose turned to Dave who showed no sign of embarrassment.
    ‘I’d love one, thank you. I’ll just get my stuff out of the van.’ He opened the back doors andtook out the chainsaw. He carried it around to the back of the house then joined Rose and Eva in the kitchen. Since his last visit, the daily sunshine and a couple of heavy showers during the nights had already made the grass grow. New shoots stood tall and green amongst the shorter blades and the edges of the bare patches showed signs of new growth.
    Rose placed their coffees on the table and sat down. ‘Did you enjoy the fête?’ she asked.
    ‘Very much.’ It was Eva who answered. ‘So much hard work must go into things like that but I expect Doreen loves it.’
    ‘You know her well?’
    Eva shook her head. ‘No, I’ve only met her a couple of times, but Dave does.’
    Dave grinned and picked up his mug. There was a narrow bandage around his palm. ‘A formidable lady, but kind hearted. There’s always someone like that wherever you live.’
    ‘Where do you come