he had intended harming her.
And what of Martin? Had he killed his mother for the money because he couldn’t wait for her to die? Did money actually mean anything to him? He drank too much but otherwise his needs were basic.
Jack shook his head in frustration. The timing didn’t fit. Hinkston had visited Dorothy on the Thursday morning. Dorothy had had enough time to contact the bank and although an exact time of death was impossible to pin-point she certainly had not died that early in the day. There was no reason for Hinkston to have waited, to have gone back later – he could have done whatever he intended whilst he was there. Unless, Jack thought, Dorothy had said she was expecting someone. Maybe Hinkston thought she would not have had a chance to pay the cheque in, which now seemed likely. With the man’s consent they were now checking Hinkston’s account to see if the relevant sum had been debited or transferred elsewhere.
He was too tired to think straight and Rose kept intruding upon his deliberations. He had not seen her cry before and, if he had his way, he would never let her do so again. But with Rose Trevelyan it was not a case of having his own way. He picked up the telephone and dialled her number. There was no reply but he had already steeled himself to that probability.
9
Rose woke at a quarter past four. The previous evening she had unplugged the telephone and enjoyed a long soak in the bath followed by a decent meal. At nine o’clock she had collapsed into bed and fallen asleep immediately, her unopened library book sliding off the bed unnoticed. Consequently she was awake early.
She opened her eyes and listened for sounds. There were none, not even the soughing of the wind in the chimney breast. Not a noise, but a dream, she thought, realising what had woken her. But it was rapidly dissolving, slipping away from her as easily as the sun burned off an early morning mist. She tried not to think about it, hoping it would come back, but whatever pleasant memories it had evoked had now disappeared.
She padded downstairs, barefoot, and made a pot of tea. To her side were some notes she scribbled down; her own thoughts which could in no way be construed as evidence or facts. She studied them until the yellow light of dawn appeared on the horizon then decided to complete the work she had begun yesterday. She was rapidly approaching her goal but the jobs still on hand would be done to the best of her ability. Her own dissatisfaction, she thought, was nothing compared with that of Gwen Pengelly. Hooking her hair behind her ears she wondered what had made her think that. The downward turn of the mouth, maybe, the nervous energy? Or was it guilt? Still in her towelling robe she mounted some photographs under the enlarger. It was only six thirty. Ahead of her was a whole new day and she was going to take a walk along the beach. Rose, like almost everyone in Newlyn, knew the movements of the tide as well as most people know the days of the week.
As daylight rose into the eastern sky she stepped down on to the pebbles below Newlyn Green. All the rocks beyond the shore were exposed, dark and jagged against the limpid sea. There was no one in sight, which surprised her for she was not alone in taking early morning strolls. She wanted to speak to Doreen Clarke who would not have thanked her for a call before 7 a.m., even if she was an early riser.
Her shoes scrunched into the the shifting mounds of stones until she reached the hard, wet sand left uncovered by the tide. She stood quietly, watching the waders as they fed along the shoreline and in the crevices of rocks. Most of them had returned now for the winter. A crow, unintimidated, scavenged alongside herring-gulls, dunlins sank their beaks into the yielding wetness and a flock of sanderlings scurried along the edge of the lapping water like miniature road-runners. A man approached and let his dog off the lead. In unison the birds took off and circled until they felt safe to land again. The air was full of their wings and their calls. The labrador stopped to sniff at something then ran on further, barking gruffly at a row of gulls further along the