Chapter Twelve
TORR WAS A TOWN OF CLIFFS and hills and steep streets, with a harbour and two little sandy beaches.
It wasn’t a place for families or surfers.
The beaches could only be reached by a series of steps, and parents gave up the struggle of carrying buggies and babies.
And the coves were almost enclosed by headlands that flattened the surf.
It was a Victorian town, with a theatre and a bandstand, and villas with terraced gardens that had been turned into hotels and guest houses.
It was picturesque, and beloved by older people who were happy to look at it through guest house conservatory windows or from the coaches specializing in Devon and Cornwall tours.
More recently, it had become rather chic.
Because properties had been relatively cheap, artists and poets had moved in.
One of the larger hotels had been renovated and returned to its Victorian glory, with wood-panelled drawing rooms and crisp white linen.
It was called, unimaginatively, the Victoria.
It was here that the Armstrong family were staying in one of the grander suites, which miraculously had become available when the MP had asked for last-minute accommodation.
Paul Armstrong met Jen and Ross in the lobby.
He looked as if he hadn’t slept, but he’d shaved, and he greeted them with his usual politeness.
It seemed that the hotel, built into the side of a hill, had turned the lower floor into a swimming pool and spa.
That, he said, was where Cath was, with the boys.
They were water babies, and in a pool they were happy, though he couldn’t understand why they didn’t prefer to be outside.
‘Would you like coffee? I would. I couldn’t face breakfast.’
They sat in a quiet and shadowy lounge. There were giant house plants in pots and lacy cloths on the dark-wood coffee tables.
Jen was reminded of a funeral home. The room was empty.
It seemed that the upmarket coach tour group, who’d been in residence the night before, had moved on to Newquay and Penzance.
Paul Armstrong passed on this information with a smile and only a trace of condescension.
Just after a waitress in a black frock and white apron brought in the coffee tray, Jen saw a woman hovering at the door.
She was tall and striking with platinum-blonde hair, wearing a sleeveless cotton dress with a tight bodice and full skirt.
While the dress could have been worn by Marilyn Monroe, the hair was rolled into a Grace Kelly chignon.
All she needed were white gloves to turn her into a fifties film star.
Armstrong glanced up and recognized her.
‘Elaine! Come in and let me introduce you to two of the detectives who are investigating this dreadful affair. This is Elaine Cauldwell, Lottie’s mother.’
Despite the glamorous appearance, the woman seemed uncertain, diffident. She bit her lip.
‘I don’t want to interrupt.’
Jen thought there was something vulnerable about her and wondered if she’d been ill recently. She gave that impression. She had the looks of a mature woman but the fragility of a child.
Armstrong introduced them, remembering their names without hesitation. Jen supposed that a good memory would be another useful skill for a politician.
The woman took a seat. ‘No coffee, thanks. I’m jumpy already.’ Her voice was light and girlish too. ‘I was looking for Cath.’
Armstrong explained that the rest of the family were swimming and Elaine stood up again, too restless, it seemed, to remain seated. She was, as she’d said, jumpy.
Jen was grateful that Lottie’s mother didn’t intend to stay. It would be hard to ask Armstrong about any relationship with the Kinzalows with her sitting there, but rude and unkind to send her away.
‘Perhaps we could talk later,’ Jen said. ‘We’ll come and find you.’
‘Oh.’ Elaine seemed surprised by the request. ‘Of course.’ At the door she stopped and turned back. ‘Can I see her? Can I see my daughter? I can’t believe, you understand, that she’s dead.’
‘Of course,’ Jen said. ‘We’ll let you know when that will be possible and make the arrangements.
’ She didn’t want to tell the woman that the post-mortem was happening now, that Lottie would be on the pathologist’s table, her skin cut open to reveal the body beneath, her organs removed and sitting in stainless-steel bowls.
The woman turned and fluttered away, leaving behind a trace of expensive perfume.
Armstrong looked after her but made no comment. He turned back to the detectives, and for a few minutes the professional sheen disappeared, replaced by a kind of desperation. ‘I can understand how she feels. This seems unreal to me too. I can’t help thinking I’ll wake up from the nightmare.’
‘We have a few more questions,’ Jen said. ‘As the investigation proceeds, matters come up, and we’ll have to disturb you.’
‘Of course.’ He was himself again. ‘I do understand.’
‘Does the name Kinzalow mean anything to you? He’s an American reporter.’
There was a moment of silence. ‘The name’s familiar,’ Armstrong said, ‘but I can’t quite place it.’
‘He interviewed you. A big profile piece for The Washington Post. He said you might become the next prime minister.’
Armstrong gave a little laugh. ‘Ah, there were a few of those. Until I started making real decisions and the polish wore off.’ He paused again.
‘But I don’t think I know the name from that context.
I believe there was a girl called Kinzalow who was a friend of my daughter’s.
She might have come to the house a few times.
You should ask Cath. She keeps on top of the domestic stuff. Keeps the ship afloat, you know.’
Oh, I know. Makes sure you have clean shirts for meetings. Does the school runs and parents’ evenings. Stocks the fridge and the larder.
Jen’s husband had been a hotshot lawyer. And still was, despite his abuse of her during their marriage. She’d been working too, but he’d left all the domestic stuff to her.
‘Why do you want to know?’
Jen was still preoccupied with memories of her husband, and it was Ross who answered.
‘The couple were staying at Millscombe when your daughter was murdered. In one of the glamping pods at the farm.’
‘Oh?’ The MP seemed genuinely surprised. ‘What a strange coincidence!’
‘You weren’t expecting them to be there?’ Jen was focused again. It was odd, she thought, that the Kinzalows hadn’t mentioned any connection with the Armstrongs to Venn when he’d briefly spoken to them. Not just odd. Suspicious.
‘No! Not at all. Cath might still be in touch with the mother, but she would have mentioned, I think, if we were expected to be sociable to relative strangers. The whole point of being in Tide House is that we escape that sort of commitment.’
‘You are sociable with locals, though? I understand that you came to know Marigold and Jim Hooper from the pub.’
‘Well, we eat there whenever we come down. We like to support local businesses and it’s no hardship when the food’s that good.
And half the price of anything we could get in London.
’ He paused, realizing perhaps that this sounded snooty and ungracious.
‘Cath and Mag have become pals. I’m often still working, even when we’re supposed to be on holiday, so it’s good for her to have a friend. ’
Jen thought he was being a patronizing git.
‘What about Jim? Do you get on well with him too?’
Armstrong gave a hard, humourless laugh. ‘Let’s just say we don’t share the same views politically.’
‘Oh?’
‘He blames lefty liberals for the country’s ills. He came to Tide House for drinks one night and after a couple of cans, made it quite clear what he thought of me and the party. Mag was mortified and never brought him again.’
Jen was trying to process that, to work out if it might be important, when she remembered a comment, according to Ross, made by the oldest Armstrong boy.
‘One of your sons mentioned a time when Hannah went missing. Can you tell me something about that?’
‘Oh?’
Jen thought the question had shocked him and he was taking time to decide how much to say.
‘Was she away overnight?’
‘No, nothing like that.’ Clearly, Armstrong wanted to make light of the incident.
‘She didn’t come home after school one afternoon and Cath started panicking when she wasn’t answering her phone.
In my situation, there’s always the possibility of kidnap, I suppose, or a terror-related incident, but Cath does tend to overreact.
’ He paused. ‘Of course she was fine in the end.’
‘What time did she get in?’ Jen was curious now. ‘What had she been doing?’
Armstrong gave a little shake of his head, as if this was too trivial a matter for him to spend time on. ‘Really, I don’t remember. She was back before midnight. She said she’d lost track of time, and her phone battery had died. She was very apologetic. She knew how her mother worries.’
‘Did you alert the police?’ Jen thought there might be a record. Some more details.
‘I believe Cath had just called to report Hannah missing when she turned up.’
There was a moment of silence broken by Ross: ‘If you think of anything more …’
Jen could tell that the interview was boring the constable now. Ross had a very limited attention span and obviously thought they’d achieved everything possible from the conversation. A seventeen-year-old girl staying out late wasn’t unusual, after all.
‘… you will get in touch?’
‘Of course!’ The man sounded relieved. Perhaps they were boring him too.