Snapped in Cornwall by Janie Bolitho Read Free Book Online

disguise the thudding of her heart which she was sure could be heard. Her sigh of relief was barely audible when she learnt it was Jim the man wanted to see. ‘He wasn’t even there,’ she told him.
    ‘We know that, Mrs Penrose, but we have to speak to everyone who’s been to the Milton place.’
    ‘My Jim saw to their heating system, if that’s what you mean. I can tell you where he is if you need to speak to him right away.’
    The young constable already pitied Jim Penrose and bet his pinched-looking wife demanded to know where he was every minute of the day. ‘I’ve got other people to see. What time are you expecting him back?’
    ‘Twelve thirty. For his dinner.’
    ‘Thank you.’ Before he had taken the two steps down from the front door it was closed.
    Eileen went straight to the cupboard over the sink and took down a bottle of sweet sherry which was only ever used in trifles and gravy and poured an inch or so into a glass. Had anyone else done this, taken a drink in their own home in the middle of the morning, she would have claimed they were two steps away from being alcoholic.
    She prayed no one had seen her on that day and wished now she had kept her mouth shut instead of letting Maureen know she thought Jim was up to something with Mrs Milton. Feeling calmer, she hung out the washing, looking forward to watching Jim’s face when it was his turn to be questioned. ‘That’ll give him something to chew on,’ she muttered. ‘Teach him to mess about with other women. Serves him right if he’s arrested.’ But what she had seen worried her.
     
    Rose woke from a fitful sleep with a headache. Catching sight of her face in the dressing-table mirror on her way to the bathroom, she found it ironic that she had expected to look and feel this way after the party, but for different reasons. The headache, she guessed, was caused by lack of sleep and an empty stomach. Yesterday she had eaten little, not wanting to spoil her appetite for later, and what she had eaten had not stayed inside her for long.
    Once she had showered and cleaned her teeth she felt marginally better. Downstairs she pulled back the curtains. A sea fret hung over the bay like a veil. Only the tip of St Michael’s Mount was visible; Lizard Point was totally obscured. The unbelievable shades of blue of the sea were not in evidence. Today it was a milky green. Two trawlers were making their way of out of the harbour and in the middle distance a salvage tug, rolling fractionally on a swell, hovered like a vulture, its owners and crew hoping for the worst.
    Rose never knew what to expect when she drew the sitting-room curtains. The light and shade were ever-changing, the bay might or might not be busy. Now and then numerous sails would fill the far end of the bay where the yacht club was situated. Here was where she had finally understood the meaning of the word chiaroscuro. Light and shade. Here wasso different from the memories of her childhood holidays, spent with her parents out of season in resorts such as Brighton and Great Yarmouth where the sea was the colour of dental amalgam and layers of clothes were required to keep out the biting wind and bursts of rain.
    Rose lit the grill of the gas cooker – the toaster had packed up several months ago – and allowed it to heat up. She felt she needed pampering so made coffee in the filter machine rather than instant. She opened the kitchen door, which was at the side of the house and led to the small garden. To the right was a rocky cliff face, ahead was the lawn bordered by hardy shrubs and tubs of plants. To the left was the open vista of the bay, seen from the sitting-room and her bedroom, but not from the kitchen. A herring-gull appeared to be performing some secret ritual as it side-stepped first one way then the other along the narrow ridge of the sloping roof of the shed, ignoring the mewing cries of the immature birds beside it. The gull and its mate had nested for the second year in