Killed in Cornwall Read Online Free PDF Page A

too. And there was Rose. He smiled. When Rose was around nothing was dull. Rose, his friend, but also the woman he had loved for years who would never be more than a friend. Rose, who had met David in his shop. It was Barry who had introduced them never imagining that they would be married less than a year later.
    In habitual manner he thumbed his ill-fitting glasses up his nose, settled his thin, hunch-shouldered frame in an armchair which had moulded itself to his shape and picked up a Sunday newspaper.
    He stared at the headlines without taking them in. Lately he had smartened himself up, bought some new clothes, but Rose was right, his flat was shabby and uncared for. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t be bothered because he only rented it – it was his, he owned the property, upstairs and down. The deeds were with his bank. The room was in shadow. All he could see through the salt-grimed windows was the frontage of the shops and their upstairs store-rooms opposite and a patch of sky. Now that summer had arrived he might redecorate. Maybe Rose would help him chose some new furniture. Of course she would, but he wished he was in a position to share it with her.
    He flung the paper on the floor and paced the room trying to imagine how it would look with painted walls rather than patterned paper. A sunny yellow, he thought, or white. Something to reflect as much light as possible. He couldn’t do much about the state of the windows. The window-cleaner did them once a week along with the plate glass ones which formed the shop front, but it was an endless battle against the salt-laden air, especially when the wind drove the rain and the spray straight off the sea.
    We’ll make a day of it, he decided, me andRosie, when she can spare the time. Paint and curtains and furniture. Feeling optimistic he picked up the paper and started the cryptic crossword.
     
    ‘Aren’t you meeting Lucy?’ Joyce Jago asked, trying to keep the impatience from her voice. She had washed the Sunday lunchtime dishes and was drying her hands on a towel. Ivan had gone off to play golf, Joyce wanted nothing more than to spend a few hours on her own with her painting. ‘No.’
    Joyce sighed. ‘What’s the matter, Sam?’ Her daughter seemed to have everything going for her: youth, health, looks and a stable home. I was such a plain teenager, Joyce thought, but I was a damn sight happier.
    ‘Nothing’s the matter.’ Sam’s face was averted, her long, dark hair fell forward, hiding it altogether.
    ‘Have you fallen out with her?’
    ‘I wish you’d stop asking me questions. No, we haven’t fallen out, it’s just that she’s changed her mind.’
    Probably going through a late adolescence like you, my darling, Joyce thought but would never have dreamt of saying. Samantha believesshe’s an adult, that she knows all there is to know about life and love and emotions. And I expect she thinks I’m totally past it now I’m almost forty.
    Sam picked up the mug of tea she had made. ‘I’m going to my room,’ she said.
    Then please don’t play your music too loudly. Joyce smiled at herself. Many of the sentences she addressed to Sam were silently spoken these days. It was a phase, this sullen awkwardness, she understood that, but one which she hoped would not last long.
    It had started to rain. Joyce made herself some tea then sat in the window of the large lounge where she could look down over the rooftops of the houses below, between which she just make out a triangle of sea. She picked up her sketchpad and began the homework Rose Trevelyan had set them at the end of their last class.
     
    Detective Inspector Jack Pearce swore under his breath. Another two attempted break-ins on Saturday night. No entry gained to either property but should they catch the perpetrators there would be a charge of criminal damage. He ran a hand through his dark, springy hair. Petty crime, now prevalent, was so time-consuming. Whoever was responsible for the latest