Cold Justice (Willis/Carter #4)(30)

‘I’d rather have one of those bright and breezy chalet-type things than this – it looks like the Munsters’ house.’

‘We can carry on up this road and circle back round to the cliff side of Penhal,’ said Willis as Carter pulled out of the gateway.

‘Okay. Let’s go pay the Sheriff a visit.’





Chapter 14


Raymonds lived on a cul-de-sac of smart bungalows. A flag, white cross on a black background, hung from a flagpole at the corner of the bungalow. He was coming out of his garage as they parked up on the street. He stopped to watch them approach and then turned and locked up behind him. He had the upright gait of an ex-military man; no pot-belly for him. He eyed them suspiciously, stood square on to them.

Carter pushed open the black wrought-iron gate and headed up the tarmacked drive towards the watching Raymonds.

Raymonds finished scrutinizing Willis and then settled on Carter.

‘Can we have a word?’ Carter asked as they showed their warrant cards. ‘This is Detective Willis. I’m Detective Carter. Can we come in?’

Raymonds nodded; he waited for them to reach the front door then he walked in before them. They stepped into a pristine hallway; a plastic floor runner covered a beige shagpile carpet. There were small, tourist-style paintings of Penhal along the walls. Straight in front of them there was a cuckoo clock on the wall.

‘Eileen?’ Raymonds called out towards the kitchen. ‘There’s people here, we’re going in the parlour.’

His wife came out of a kitchen at the end of the hall, wiping her hands on a tea towel. She nodded. Her eyes stayed on Willis.

‘Coffee? Tea?’ asked Raymonds.

Willis shook her head, Carter nodded. ‘Love a cup of tea, please, no sugar.’ Eileen turned back into the kitchen.

‘In here.’ Raymonds held a glass-fronted door open. The place had collections of holiday souvenirs. On the wall was the painting of a raven-haired Spanish beauty. She had a flower in her hair, which fell down over her naked shoulder; a promise on her full red lips. There was a glass cabinet with knick-knacks from abroad. Willis ran her eyes over the shelves and saw a miniature Cutty Sark in a glass bottle on the third shelf down. When she looked back, Raymonds was staring at her.

‘Sit down.’ He pointed towards the two-seater salmon-pink sofa. ‘Where are you from, Plymouth?’ He sat in the armchair opposite them. A small glass coffee table with a driftwood base was between them.

‘We’re from London.’ Carter didn’t doubt that he knew they’d come from there.

He nodded, his face stony, waxy. ‘The Met, huh?’

‘We’re part of the Major Investigation Team.’

‘Really? What are you doing all the way down here?’

‘Jeremy Forbes-Wright?’

‘Yes?’

‘You went to his funeral?’

‘I did.’ Raymonds sat stiffly, his hands resting on the arms of the chair, as if he were on a throne.

‘You and several others from this area?’

‘Yes, that’s correct.’ He shook his head and smiled. ‘What of it?’

Eileen knocked and entered carrying a tray; her hands were shaking. Raymonds got up and took the tray from her. He set it down and she left. He nodded to Carter to help himself. His tea was in the best china.

‘You’re a long way from home,’ he said to Carter, though his eyes settled on Willis. She didn’t answer.

‘Not really, it took us about five hours. Not a bad run.’ Carter decided he really wasn’t going to like Raymonds. He noticed Raymonds had beady black eyes, like a small animal waiting to rip your throat out.

‘Did you drive up for the funeral or did you go on the train?’

‘Oh, I thought about training it, but I decided to drive. We have to drive to a station from here anyway and it’s such a tedious journey till you get to Exeter.’

‘In your own car?’

‘Yes, as it happens, I went in the Honda.’ Raymonds’ smirk was still there. ‘I don’t like to push my other car too hard – it’s a classic. A Ford Cortina.’

‘Nice. How many of you went up?’

‘Six in all. There were a few cars.’

‘When you left the church where did you go?’ asked Carter. Raymonds looked like he had been expecting the question, waiting for it.

‘I went into Greenwich. I wanted to see the Cutty Sark.’ He smiled at Carter and then at Willis. ‘I bet you know that, don’t you? You have so many cameras up in London, don’t you? Always spying on people.’

‘Alone?’ asked Willis.

‘What do you mean, girly?’

‘Were you alone in the car?’

‘Now, let me see . . . I believe I gave a lift to a few others who wanted to look at the area.’

‘Did Mrs Raymonds go with you?’ Willis asked.

‘God, no. She’s never been out of Cornwall. Anyways – she’s poorly; you can see by her shakes.’

‘Who did you have in your car on the drive back to Cornwall?’

‘I was on my own. Everyone else wanted to leave later and, as there was plenty of transport back – I just left.’

‘Seems like an awful lot of effort to go to to pay your respects to a man who wasn’t even a local MP or resident full-time here,’ suggested Carter.