Buried in Cornwall by Janie Bolitho

Author:Janie Bolitho [Bolitho, Janie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Suspense
ISBN: 9780749013158
Publisher: Allison & Busby
Published: 1999-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

Nick Pascoe was more worried than his friends knew. He had been on edge ever since Jenny had disappeared and he knew it didn’t look good for him. He had lied to the police and he had lied to Rose. And although Maddy was the last known person to have seen Jenny alive as far as the police were concerned, he knew better. But he was in any case the last person known to have spoken to her. And he had made no secret of the fact that they had argued.

Rose seemed to have cooled towards him but whether this was because she was upset over Jenny’s death or because she had heard what he had tried to keep from her, he didn’t know. Maybe she was simply hurt because Jenny had been with him that night. At least she hadn’t dropped him altogether. He knew little of Rose’s past, only that she had been married, happily married, but the name Jack Pearce had cropped up often enough for Nick to have drawn the correct conclusion. If his assessment of her was accurate, Rose was a truthful, open and sensible woman, and certainly not prone to histrionics as Jenny had been. But he still couldn’t bring himself to tell her the truth.

On Wednesday, unable to concentrate, Nick mooched about the bedroom he used as his studio for most of the long, wet day, assessing his work and finally choosing the last two paintings for the exhibition. The rain hammered on the corrugated iron roof of the bathroom extension below him. Less than thirty years ago these cottages had only had a stone sink with a cold tap in the kitchen. An outside lavatory had once stood at the end of each small back yard but since the modernisation of the row they now acted as storage sheds.

Normally Nick found the sound of rain soothing: today its constant staccato beat in time with his jumping nerves. The telephone receiver sat quietly on its cradle, although most of his friends knew he rarely answered it when he was working and left their calls until after six. Today he could have done with some company. His hands were shaking and did not feel as though they belonged to him. Angrily, he pulled on a leather jacket, closed the door of the cottage and walked down the hill to the harbour. The tide was out. A few small boats lay at an angle waiting to be righted by the incoming tide. The fine wet sand lay in hard rippled ridges in which herring-gulls left their footprints as they stalked aggressively across them. Far out to sea a beam-trawler cut through the swell, white spray sweeping over its bows. It would dip and roll a lot more once it was further out to sea. The smell of brine was mingled with that of wet tarpaulin and frying onions from one of the cafes. With his hands in his pockets Nick walked around as far as the lighthouse, breathing deeply as if he could clear the clutter in his mind.

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