Malice in Cornwall by Graham Thomas Page B

complimentary remarks about the house.
    “It was my parents' place,” Wilcox explained. “I built the addition myself. The old house still exists, basically the bedrooms, a small study, and a sitting room down the hall there. I lived in California for a few years and picked up some architectural ideas. West Coast Contemporary they call it over there.”
    “I'm not very handy myself,” Powell admitted.
    Wilcox grinned. “How about that beer?”
    “Great.”
    When Wilcox returned with two bottles of ale and two glasses, Powell said, “Most people around these parts seem to have an affinity for wine. It's refreshing to run into a beer drinker.”
    Wilcox winked. “I take whatever's going. Cheers.”
    “Cheers. Sergeant Black tells me that you're a fisherman.”
    Wilcox smiled thinly. “That, and a builder in the off-season. My father was a fisherman and his father before him.”
    “What sort of fishing do you do?”
    “A bit of everything. Crabs and lobsters, sport fishing charters in the summer for mackerel, sharks, whatever. In the old days it was pilchards mainly; they used to salt them down in the cellars and export them all over the world. It's not real fishing I do, not like my grandfather, but it's where the money is these days. And the London girls who come out here on holiday seem to appreciate the genuine Cornish article,” he added roguishly.
    It sounded like a carefree sort of life to Powell. “You have your own boat, I take it.”
    Wilcox nodded. “I keep it moored in St. Ives.”
    “I suppose you would get to be quite familiar with the local tides and currents.”
    “Enough to get by.”
    “I'll get right to the point, Colin. Something about this business has been bothering me from the start. I understand that this part of the coast is swept by strong currents; assuming that the Riddle and our body are one and the same, I don't understand how something drifting passively in the sea could get caught in Penrick Bay for so long.”
    Wilcox shook his head in amazement. “You know, you're the first person around here who's even asked the question. It's obvious, isn't it? The whole thing's a put-up job.”
    “Go on.”
    “First off, you're right about the currents. We're influenced by the Gulf Stream here and, ignoring local tidal effects, the set is generally to the northeast. I rememberonce as a kid finding a drift bottle on the beach that had been dumped in the middle of the English Channel by the Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries as part of a study of tides and currents. There was a little card inside, and if you filled it out saying where and when the bottle was found and sent it in, you got a small reward—five shillings, I think. Over half of the bottles dropped in the Channel drifted round Land's End and came ashore on the north coast, right the way up to Trevose Head. That's about twenty-five miles up the coast from here. So it's not surprising that your body would drift into Penrick Bay with the tides, but it's highly unlikely that it would stay around for more than a day or two.”
    Assuming of course that it came from somewhere else, Powell thought. “You used the words ‘put-up job.’What did you mean?”
    Wilcox studied Powell's face carefully before replying. “I mean that someone must have taken an active part in it, dragging the thing onto the beach at night when the tides were right, leaving it where it would likely be found, and then removing it before anyone could get a good look at it. It wouldn't be easy.”
    The same idea had been running round the back of Powell's brain as an admittedly far-fetched possibility, but hearing someone else articulate it caused a familiar thrill to surge through his body. It was the sensation he experienced when all of his faculties were humming along in tune. “And they'd have to keep it hidden somewhere between times,” he mused.
    Wilcox pulled a face. “Not a pleasant thought, is it?”
    “But why would anybody go to all the