Free Buried in Cornwall by Janie Bolitho Page A

rejection still hurt. And, he admitted, he had made the visit in an official capacity although someone of lower rank would normally have done so.
    Rose was not inclined to panic. After his initial anger he had realised that some good reason must have prompted her to make that call. Now Jennifer Manders was missing – and Rose knew the girl. He was sure there was more to it than a lovers’ tiff or whatever they called it these days.Jenny may be hiding out, sulking, or she could have taken off, alone or with another man, but from what they had learnt it was unlikely that she would have left the area.
    Madeleine Duke, Stella Jackson, her husband Daniel Wright, and the girl’s father and his wife had all been questioned; all had expressed the opinion that she would not have strayed far. If it wasn’t for the suspicions that were aroused every time Rose came into the equation he doubted if he would have paid much attention to Nick Pascoe’s telephone call despite the fact that the man had sounded genuinely worried.
    The three with whom she shared the squat had been unhelpful. They resented the police and, not knowing Jenny well, neither knew nor cared what might have become of her. All they were prepared to say was that they hadn’t seen her for a couple of days. It might be worth paying Pascoe a personal visit, he thought. ‘Take the St Ives turn-off,’ he told DS Green who was driving.
    According to Pascoe, Jennifer Manders had been after a reconciliation but he wasn’t having it and had sent her away. But had he sent her somewhere permanently? Now who’s being fanciful? he asked himself. Had he done so,Pascoe would hardly have drawn attention to the fact.
    Nick was upstairs in the room he used to store his work, sorting through frames for a forthcoming show in which he was to be one of half a dozen exhibitors. He was still deciding on the last two of the ten canvases he was expected to display when he heard the crash of the knocker.
    ‘You’d better come in,’ he said, frowning, when he learnt who his visitor was. DS Green had been asked to wait in the car.
    Jack wiped his feet on the coarse doormat and stepped straight into the living area of the low-ceilinged dwelling. Its small windows and the proximity of other similar properties rendered it dark even on a sunny day. Now, on a wet winter’s evening, it was positively gloomy despite the two table lamps. The room was chilly but not damp. Pascoe was a hardy man; the sash window was open six inches. Ahead was a wooden staircase, beside it an open door leading to the kitchen. To Jack’s right was the back of the settee with its sagging springs and against the wall by the window stood a table and four chairs. On it were the remains of a single meal. There were no shelves. Pascoe’s books and cassettes were stacked on the floor beside the player. Neitherwas there a television set, possibly because there was no room for one, or maybe it was kept in the bedroom.
    Jack had surveyed the room in seconds, and now turned his attention to the man. His mouth tightened. He could understand why Rose was attracted to him. Not only was he an artist but he possessed rugged good looks and he had a way of moving which suggested that he was totally comfortable in the world.
    Standing with his hands in the pockets of his denim jacket, Nick asked if there was any news.
    ‘No. None.’ Fighting for objectivity in the face of the man who had replaced him, Jack asked him to go over the night in question again. It would be all too easy to apportion blame here and thus effectively remove the opposition. But blame for what?
    ‘Certainly.’ Nick hooked out a chair with the toe of his suede boot and sat down. Jack chose the settee when it was indicated that he should do the same, then regretted it as he sank low into the cushions. ‘Jenny turned up at Stella’s exhibition. She was there before me. I wasn’t certain if I could attend.’
    ‘She was invited?’
    ‘Jenny? Yes,