Chapters (20)
He did not tell her that he had heard a gale warning through the radio earphones which hung round his neck like a stethoscope. Hurricane Erin had already hit parts of the Republic of Ireland and was expected over the south-west peninsula after dark.
Claire Bingham took them back to Cornwall. George was in no fit state to drive, and he felt that his nerves were already too frayed to suffer Molly’s speed and erratic braking. They left their car outside Gwen Pullen’s house, deciding it would be easy to get a train back to Bristol, and that they could collect it then.
In the car he listened to the women talking about the fire at the Sinclair yard, the lurking and sinister presence of Barnes, and the domestic habits of Roger and Jane Pym. At first he found it hard to make sense of the mass of detail. The connection between Greg Franks, Louis Rosco, and Barnes seemed so complex. Besides, he found it difficult to concentrate. While the women discussed the case, he daydreamed of black-browed albatross. It was only later, when they were crossing the Tamar Bridge that the implication of the women’s discoveries struck him.
“You do realise,” he said, “that all the work you’ve done in Bristol gives strength to the idea that Rosco killed Greg Franks. Franks had found out about Barnes’ dubious business practise in the development of Rashwood Hall. We know that because he was blackmailing Duncan James about it. If Barnes had become aware that Franks had access to damaging inside knowledge, was even using it to make a profit, he would want him out of the way. He’d used Rosco to do his dirty work once before. Why not again? It’s obvious. That must be how it happened.”
“No,” Molly said. “You haven’t been listening. There’s another explanation.”
Then she told them what must have happened. They listened, and the thing was so obvious and so simple that they wondered how they had never worked it out for themselves.
“Wargan will never accept it,” Claire Bingham said. “Not without proof. He doesn’t believe in coincidence.”
But George thought he could get Wargan his proof, though he said nothing to the policewoman. Despite her new flexibility she might not approve. As they drove through the grey towns of north Cornwall, the sky was cloudy and overcast. When they came to Porthkennan it started to rain.
Vicky Jones stood in the gloom of Temple Meads Station. She had little idea where she would go. It scarcely mattered. George Palmer-Jones’ visit and the news of his accident had frightened her. There was nothing in Bristol to keep her now.