Caught Out in Cornwall by Janie Bolitho Page A

enough, though, for the man to have driven to Penzance or Camborne station and caught the 15.12 train from the former or the same train when it arrived at the latter at 16.14. This was a Paddington train. Jack had had the foresight to make sure all fourteen stations after Penzance were aware of the situation. No sightings had been reported. He had known that this was unlikely, that if you had a car you did not catch a train, but he could not afford to take any risks. There was no other feasible way out of Cornwall; flights from Land’s End and Newquay airports had to be bookedin advance and getting away by boat suggested drastic planning. The scene Rose had described seemed more of a spur of the moment thing.
    Jack sat in his ground floor flat in Morrab Road. It was spacious, with high ceilings, one of a pair into which the solidly built property had been converted and was situated between other flats and the offices of solicitors, dentists and alternative health practitioners.
    It was past midnight but he was no longer tired; his mind was too active for sleep. All the people on the beach had been interviewed again, as had all of Beth’s relatives, and, of course, Rose. He wished she were there with him. He could have lain down beside her even if sleep still eluded him.
    What next? he thought. What the bloody hell can we do next?
     
    Katy was undressed ready for bed. She had hardly touched her tea again. Her six-year-old face, which should have been smiling, was white and pinched. Susan had tried everything she could think of to get her daughter to talk.
    ‘There’s nothing wrong, Mummy,’ was all she would say.
    But Susan knew her daughter well. No longerwas she that happy, outgoing child she had been. Something was terribly wrong. She had her suspicions, but how could she voice them? Who on earth could she turn to if what she thought turned out to be correct? And if she did voice them and she turned out to be wrong it would cause nothing but trouble for everyone. But she had to know. The doctor had found nothing physically wrong with Katy, which was some sort of relief; it was her mental state which bothered Susan. ‘Would you like to watch some television?’
    ‘No, Mummy. I’m tired. I want to go to bed.’
    It was only six o’clock but Katy did look washed out. That was how Doreen Clarke had put it. ‘You want to take her to the doctor, maid. And if you ask me, there’d be no harm in him taking a look at you as well,’ she had said. Susan had taken Doreen’s advice but it hadn’t solved the problem. ‘Come on then. I’ll read you a story.’
    Together they went up the stairs. Susan had almost finished reading when she heard the front door open. Simon was home. He commuted to Truro where he ran a financial advisory service. She heard him drop his briefcase by the table on the woodblock floor of the hall. He would hang up his coat in the downstairs cloakroom then seek her out. She had always been grateful for histidiness. She kissed Katy, pulled the duvet around her shoulders, and then went downstairs to greet her husband.
    ‘Hello, there,’ he said as she entered the kitchen. There was no welcoming aroma of cooking, no sign, in fact, that there was going to be any food. He took a deep breath. Neither his wife nor his child had much to say to him these days. ‘We need to talk, love.’ He pulled out a stool from beneath the breakfast counter. ‘Sit down, I’ll pour us a drink.’
    Susan hoped that the alcohol would help quell, rather than increase, the nausea she constantly felt. It had to come out; she had to tell Simon about her suspicions. What it would do to him she couldn’t begin to guess.
    ‘Is Katy in bed?’ She nodded as Simon handed her her drink. ‘So early?’ He joined her at the breakfast counter.
    Susan’s stomach churned. ‘She said she was tired.’
    ‘Susan, what have I done? Why are you shutting me out like this?’ He assumed Katy’s attitude towards him was a reflection of