Killed in Cornwall Read Online Free PDF

spate ofburglaries and attempted burglaries was by no means professional but they were not entirely stupid either or surely they would have caught them by now.
    He glanced at his watch. The face was plain, the numbers Arabic and the strap leather. It was comfortable on his muscular, olive-skinned arm and did not catch on the hairs like his old one with the expanding bracelet. It had once been his father’s. It was just after four on a Sunday afternoon. Too late to do anything useful with the day, apart from which it was raining. He was tempted to telephone Rose but he knew she had a busy week ahead of her and probably needed some time to relax.
    He pulled on his jacket and went out to the car. Driving back to Penzance from Camborne where he was based he decided he’d have a walk, something he rarely did voluntarily or unless Rose was with him. A walk, a couple of pints in the Alexandra, known to everyone as the Alex, where there might be some cricket on the television, then home. It would do him good to relax, too, to forget about work and all that went with it. It was a rare occasion when he could afford that luxury, unlike Barry Rowe who seemed totally at ease at all times.
    He parked outside his ground floor flat in Morrab Road. It was a longish road leading up from the seafront to the town centre. Large houses lined it, many now converted to guest houses or the offices of professional people; a few, like Jack’s, contained flats.
    When the rain fell more heavily he almost changed his mind about going out, but he had been sat behind his desk for much of the week and fresh air was needed. Not a man who enjoyed drinking alone, he decided to give Barry a ring and see if he would join him.
    ‘Love to, Jack,’ Barry said when he answered the phone. ‘I was only reading the paper.’
    ‘Ah, well, good. See you in the Alex in about an hour?’ Well, well, what a surprise. Jack had been expecting a refusal or a feeble excuse as to why Barry couldn’t join him. He can be so damn lugubrious at times, he thought as he pulled on a raincoat, but that afternoon Barry had sounded quite positive.
    He walked towards the sea, head down against the rain and wondered if he was crazy. But the wind in his face was exhilarating and the worries of work disappeared. Soaked but feeling better for the exercise, Jack met Barry as arranged and a couple of pints turned into four.
     
    Even though it was over, Lucy Chandler kept her eyes closed. She was afraid to open them, afraid of what might follow. After ten minutes, juddering with cold and shock, she tried to get to her feet but couldn’t. On all fours she moved towards a tree and used the trunk to lever herself up.
    It was late, very late, and she had told her mother she would be home by ten in time for her father’s weekly telephone call. Her mother would be annoyed, she didn’t like speaking to Dad if she could avoid it.
    A sound escaped her, a sound she did not recognise as coming from her own throat. It was a mixture of terror and disgust. She tasted bile a split second before she bent double and vomited. She wiped her mouth on her sleeve and knew she had to get home.
    Sore and aching and filled with revulsion, she staggered towards the main road. Home, she thought, I must get home. It was only that one thought that ensured she did. Had she let her mind dwell upon what had happened she would have collapsed on the spot.
    It was a wet Sunday night with few pedestrians and even fewer cars. No one stopped for her, no one asked if she was all right. Seeing her,dishevelled and swaying, a stranger would have mistaken her for a teenage drunk. It was almost midnight when she reached home. Lights were on in all the rooms. She had no idea how she had got there, only that somehow she must have walked. ‘Mum.’ It might have been a whisper or a shout.
    At the third attempt she got her key in the door. ‘Mum.’
    Gwen Chandler stood in the hallway. Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘My God. Oh, my