A Reason to Kill

  Contents

  Cover

  Recent Titles by Jane A. Adams from Severn House

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Epilogue

  Recent Titles by Jane A. Adams from Severn House

  The Naomi Blake Mysteries

  KILLING A STRANGER

  LEGACY OF LIES

  BLOOD TIES

  NIGHT VISION

  SECRETS

  GREGORY’S GAME

  PAYING THE FERRYMAN

  The Rina Martin Mysteries

  A REASON TO KILL

  FRAGILE LIVES

  THE POWER OF ONE

  RESOLUTIONS

  THE DEAD OF WINTER

  CAUSE OF DEATH

  A REASON TO KILL

  A Rina Martin Mystery

  Jane A. Adams

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in 2007 in Great Britain and 2008 in the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  This eBook edition first published in 2015 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2007 by Jane A. Adams.

  The right of Jane A. Adams to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Adams, Jane, 1960-

  A reason to kill

  1. Actors – Great Britain – Fiction

  2. Detective and mystery stories

  I. Title

  823.9'14[F]

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6575-5 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-683-0 (ePUB)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  Prologue

  February was not a month that McGregor associated with weddings. He assumed that most people would prefer to be married when the weather was warm enough for the lightweight froth and frills that most brides of his acquaintance deemed essential for the ushering in of connubial bliss.

  He might have guessed that Naomi would do things differently.

  Cliff View had been licensed for weddings almost as soon as the licences had become available, and the wonderful Art Deco building, with its views of the ocean and rolling countryside, had been turned into the perfect venue for celebration. The ceremony could be carried out in the Summer Lounge, a high-ceilinged room, one wall of which was entirely made up of window which gave on to a generous terrace and formal garden. The reception would then take place in any one of four rooms set aside for dining and celebrating, each with its own bar, and guests could, of course, stay over in the hotel.

  McGregor had gone for one of the little B&Bs down the hill, as the prices for a one-night stay at Cliff View had caused him to blanch. He had to admit though, it was a lovely place. Warm rooms substituted for summer sun and bride and attendants flitted like so many bright butterflies among the equally gaudy guests. Mac, in his sober grey suit, the lightest and brightest of his limited collection, felt distinctly drab.

  ‘I’m so glad you could come.’

  Alec grasped his hand, beaming like a loon, Mac thought, not that he could blame him. Mac studied Alec’s radiant bride and felt a flush of deep envy. ‘Naomi, you look wonderful,’ he said sincerely. ‘Truly lovely.’

  ‘Thanks, Mac.’ She leaned in to kiss him and he was astonished as ever at how delicately she managed to land the kiss on his cheek. On the odd occasion he was called upon to deliver a kiss, he could be guaranteed to fumble it, and he was able to see.

  ‘We are really glad you could make it,’ she told him. ‘I didn’t know if you would.’

  ‘Couldn’t miss this now, could I?’ he said. ‘Alec’s been asking you for so long I’d about given up hope.’

  Alec laughed and Naomi reached and clasped his arm. ‘I hear you’re back at work?’

  ‘I start on Monday. Frantham-on-Sea. I hear it’s quiet this time of year.’

  Alec laughed. ‘I hear it’s quiet any time of year.’

  ‘Suits me,’ Mac said and an awkward silence fell. There was so much that could not, would not be said. Then the couple were called away and McGregor watched them go, mingling with the joyous crowd.

  He almost hadn’t come. But he had wanted to see these two wed and in the end that desire had won. Just.

  He and Alec had gone into the police force together, done their basic training at the same time and Alec was about the closest thing Mac had to a long-term friend. Naomi, though a later addition, was a woman he had always liked a lot. OK, if he were honest, a woman he wished he’d had the nerve to ask out before Alec got to her.

  But still, he almost hadn’t come. Just back off long-term sick leave and now about to transfer to a place where he was unknown, Mac had been unsure about the wedding, knowing so many of his former colleagues would be present. He had been so relieved to find himself seated at a table with friends of the bride and groom who were not associated with the force. Grateful and, at the same time, oddly put out as he realized that Alec or Naomi – or probably both – had known how awkward it would be for him. They had recognized what Mac saw as his weakness.

  A waiter offered him another drink and he selected a fruit juice from the glasses on the tray. He’d had a glass of champagne for the toasts and sipped it sparingly, worried that even a small amount of alcohol would break his carefully maintained control.

  He could not countenance that. Not now. He glanced round, noting familiar faces among the crowd. A man he had worked with for fifteen years caught his eye and raised his glass in awkward acknowledgement, then turned away.

  I’m a leper, Mac thought, deciding he would find Naomi and say goodbye.

  A leper; six
months off sick. Stress, it said on his records. His superintendent had been at pains to say that no one blamed him and that everyone understood. A case like that – no leads, no closure – it could get to anyone.

  And Mac knew the truth of that. He watched hungrily as guests laughed and joked and teased and as the two smallest bridesmaids, dressed like lilac fairies, floated by. Twins, he noted; small blonde twins with their long hair streaming out behind them as they ran.

  He did not need to close his eyes to see that small, pale face. Eyes staring upwards at the darkening sky as though she still saw the moon rising and the stars prick through the black.

  Mac swallowed hard, trying not to see her long fair hair darkened by the tide, flowing out across the sand, and the blue eyes, sightless now, just staring at the stars.

  One

  February had arrived on the wings of a vengeful wind that whipped off the ocean and flung a chill flurry of salt-tanged rain into the face of any soul wilful enough to venture out. Rina Martin, with sixty-three winters behind her, was not about to be driven inside by this one.

  She marched sturdily along the promenade, the little wicker trolley with its uneven wheels ticking along behind her and the crepe soles of her embroidered leather boots squeaking slightly on the smooth slabs of fancy stonework the council had laid in the autumn to define the new pedestrian area. Rina had no truck with bad weather. In her opinion, it should be dealt with the same way as anything that misbehaved and that didn’t respond to either a stern telling off or a quick slap on the legs: it should be stoically ignored.

  Anyway, this morning she was a woman on a mission and a little bit of weather certainly wasn’t going to slow her down. There were, unfortunately, some things that even Rina could not be stoical about and which she certainly could not ignore, and the break in at number 42 Newell Street fell firmly into that category. What was more, Rina was determined to make certain no one else ignored it either.

  Rina wheeled sharp left at the end of the promenade and dragged her little trolley up the three steps that led to the big double doors. There was a newly installed ramp at the side of the steps which would have been somewhat kinder to the wheels, but Rina was in no mood for concessions. The doors of the police station, which faced directly on to a distinctly grey and irritable sea view, were firmly shut against the chill weather. Rina had expected that. What she had not expected at eight o’clock in the morning – a weekday morning at that – was to find them still locked.

  ‘Well, really!’ Rina hammered on the wooden door, bringing a response a few minutes later as the bolt was drawn back and a very young and slightly blemished face topped with a shock of bright red hair poked out.

  ‘Oh!’ The head was rapidly withdrawn. ‘It’s you, Miss Martin.’

  Rina ignored the usual mistake; calling her Miss instead of Mrs seemed to be a common fault among the young and at this moment she had other, more important things to occupy her mind. She marched across to the desk and hammered on that too.

  ‘Frank Baker, don’t you dare try to run away from me. You get back here.’

  Behind her, the red-haired and spotty boy stifled a giggle. Rina turned just long enough to stare him into silence then removed her attention back to the desk sergeant who was reluctantly returning to his post.

  ‘It’s the third this week,’ she told him.

  ‘Um, third what?’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake. Third burglary. In our street. The third. I want to know what you’re doing about it?’

  Frank Baker looked askance. ‘Third?’ he said. ‘Look, I’m sorry, Mrs Martin, I’ve only just come on. I’ve not had time to consult …’

  ‘Third,’ Rina reaffirmed. She unfastened her coat and unwound one loop of scarf from around her neck. She was wearing two and they were a little too much in the warmth of the station foyer, but the Peters sisters had started knitting again and Rina didn’t like to hurt feelings by choosing one woollen offering over another. ‘We had one patrol car round last night and poor Mrs Freer had to call a locksmith out herself to secure her back door. All your lot wanted to do was nail a bit of wood over the broken pane. What good, I ask you, would that have done?’

  ‘I’m sure our officers would have left the place secure—’ Frank Baker began.

  ‘And how, pray, would she have been able to get out to the bins? Or let the cat into the yard? Mrs Freer walks with a frame, Frank Baker, as well you know. You can’t expect her to trek all the way round from the front every time she wants to put a bit of rubbish out.’

  ‘I’m sure, if she’d asked, they’d have called a locksmith for her, Mrs Martin.’ Frank felt he ought to defend his colleagues even though as yet he had no idea what had been going on and, come to that, did not actually know Mrs Freer from Adam.

  ‘Oh, would they indeed? They were there barely half an hour. Long enough to drink tea, then they were off, called to some night club or other. Tell me, Frank Baker, what’s more important? An old lady scared half out of her wits after some thug broke into her house or some idiots who have drunk too much and got themselves into a fight?’

  Frank knew he was on to a loser but he had to try. ‘Mrs Martin, if the officers were called to an affray, then—’

  ‘An affray, you call it? I call it drunken louts. If they want to beat seven shades out of one another, I say let them get on with it. Call an ambulance when they’re done if you really must and charge them for the privilege. I ask again, which is more important, Frank?’

  Frank Baker leaned across the counter, a dangerous move even if it was intended to be a reassuring one. ‘Look, Mrs Martin … Rina … I’ll get someone out this morning, I promise. We’re not forgetting our other duties, you know.’

  ‘I should hope not,’ Rina told him calmly. ‘I expect you to keep your word, Frank Baker, and whoever you send to see Mrs Freer, you’d better tell them to call on me as well.’

  Rina took her leave, sweeping out of the foyer and pausing in the doorway to fasten her coat and re-loop her scarf. It was, she felt, her duty to allow some of the stiflingly warm air out and a little of the chill back in, just to reinforce the depth of her displeasure.

  She jogged the wicker trolley back down the steps, aware that Frank Baker’s gaze was fixed upon her right until the point that the door slammed shut. Seeing her off the premises, Rina thought. Then, with the storm front of her outrage somewhat spent, she walked back up the promenade, into the face of the gusting wind.

  ‘That woman!’ Frank breathed.

  The red-headed probationer who had opened the door to the redoubtable Mrs Martin now stared at his sergeant.

  ‘Is she really married? Poor bugger.’

  ‘Hey, I’ll not have you speak ill,’ Frank told him. ‘That’s my job. Widowed she was, years since.’

  ‘He die to get away, did he?’ The probationer was risking displeasure, he knew, but he couldn’t help himself.

  ‘Get on with you. She’s a good woman … once you break through the barricades. A very determinedly good woman.’ He frowned and glanced through the entries in the day book that he really should have read long before Rina arrived that morning. ‘She’s right, though. It is the third break-in of the week in that road.’

  ‘Druggies, probably,’ the probationer mooted.

  ‘Maybe. Report says nothing was taken this time. The old lady screamed and they ran away. She was lucky,’ he added seriously. ‘They could have turned nasty on her.’ He paused, checking the duty roster and glancing up thoughtfully at the probationer. ‘Now, who shall we give this little job to?’

  ‘Sir, I don’t think …’ The colour had drained from his already pale face, leaving only blemishes and freckles behind.

  Frank chuckled. ‘Don’t worry, lad, I wasn’t going to throw you to the lions. I think I’ll have a chat with Inspector Eden, suggest our new boy go and do the honours. Get a feel for the local population, like.’

  ‘Oh.’ The red-headed young man smiled and the colour returned, rising like a ti
e from his rather thin neck. ‘Inspector McGregor,’ he said. ‘Nice one.’

  ‘I don’t need your approval, lad,’ Frank told him as he retreated into the back office in search of his Chief Inspector. ‘You just stand there and watch the door.’

  Two

  Peverill House was at the best end of Newell Street, in that it was the end closest to the promenade. The houses at this end of the road were mostly Edwardian, three stories plus attic rooms and basements, many of which had now been converted into flats. Others survived as B&Bs, though this early in the year guests were few and far between and hopeful ‘vacancy’ signs swung like invitational flags beneath painted names like Sea View and Ships Lodge.

  The lower end, as the locals called it – the end furthest away from the sea – had suffered most at the hands of town planners. The eighties had seen a new road built that crossed Newell St, cutting in half what had once been a long and elegant row and destroying three of the tall town houses Rina so admired. A decade later, further planning outrages had demolished more as tiny boxes – designated affordable housing – had been built in their stead. Rina had never understood the logic of demolishing perfectly good houses, which could be easily converted to provide flats for a half-dozen or more tenants and throwing up in their stead these flimsy rabbit hutches that the planners declared were family homes. A scant fifteen years on, they looked tired and unkempt and many of those at the furthest end of the street were now boarded up and unoccupied. Rina had heard rumours that they too were now scheduled for demolition and that a large supermarket chain was hoping to redevelop the site. It was at this far end of the road that the three most recent burglaries had occurred and Rina could not help but wonder what on earth the thieves had hoped to find. No one down at the lower end owned anything worth stealing, surely. The unfortunate Mrs Freer certainly did not.

  Rina climbed the steps at the front of Peverill Lodge, bumping the now full wicker trolley unceremoniously in her wake. The sign above the door announced that Peverill was a guest house, but no wooden vacancy flag ever swung in the stiff breeze in front of Rina Martin’s door. Rina’s guests came to stay and stayed. If a vacancy should happen to arise, then it was rapidly filled by someone on Rina’s informal but jealously guarded ‘waiting list’.