Forgotten Voices
Table of Contents
Cover
Recent Titles by Jane A. Adams From Severn House
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
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
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Epilogue
Recent Titles by Jane A. Adams from Severn House
The Naomi Blake Mysteries
MOURNING THE LITTLE DEAD
TOUCHING THE DARK
HEATWAVE
KILLING A STRANGER
LEGACY OF LIES
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
FORGOTTEN VOICES
FORGOTTEN VOICES
A Rina Martin Novel
Jane A. Adams
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This first world edition published 2015
in Great Britain and the USA by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.
Trade paperback edition first published
in Great Britain and the USA 2015 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.
eBook edition first published in 2015 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2015 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- author.
Forgotten Voices. – (A Rina Martin mystery)
1. Martin, Rina (Fictitious character)–Fiction.
2 . Murder–Investigation–Fiction. 3. Detective and mystery stories.
I. Title II. Series
823.9’2-dc23
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8518-0 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-619-0 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-671-7 (e-book)
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.
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PROLOGUE
September
‘You made it then. Sorry I didn’t collect you from the airport, but you know I’m not much of a driver. Not distance anyway.’
She listened as he told her it didn’t matter.
‘When can I expect you? A hotel? Don’t be silly. You’ll stay here.’ She sighed. ‘All right, maybe you have a point. Call me when you’re settled and we’ll—’
Daphne closed her eyes and tried to control her temper. He could be such a stubborn boy. Daphne still couldn’t think of her younger son as a full-fledged man. He wasn’t anything like his brother. In less generous moments, Daphne found herself wishing it was Ray that the cancer had taken and not her other son, Jeb.
‘Look, Ray, we need to get some things straight, right now. Right, right, OK, let me know when you’re in the hotel and we’ll talk.’
She put the phone down and stood in the hall staring at it accusingly. She’d had such plans too. Ray would come to stay, they’d go together to see that daughter-in-law of hers and Daphne would get the result she wanted. Once and for all, Ellen would be out of the way.
But she supposed he was right not to come to stay with her. They needed to keep their distance, Ray had said. No one knew he was back and it should be kept like that until afterwards.
Satisfied that it would all go her way in the end and that Ray was entitled to sound tired and a little dispirited after so long a journey, Daphne went back into the kitchen where she’d begun to prepare a meal for herself and her returning son. She couldn’t eat all this lot herself. Daphne began to pack meat and vegetables back into the fridge. She supposed the beef would freeze. It could wait for the celebration. Later.
The woman had to go. That was all that mattered now.
ONE
September
He could not have said how many times he had sat on the ridge and looked down on the farm. It was a view he had known all his life and a house he had been into many times. From where he sat he could see a little of the track and the corner of the fence that he knew defined the vegetable garden and the orchard. Beyond that a mix of arable and rare breed stock filled the forty or so acres that remained of what had once been a considerable holding.
Manageable, she had told him. It was manageable now and he’d been forced to agree that selling off the remainder had been a sensible option.
He could see directly into the farmhouse from his vantage point. Not deeply, but a bit of the kitchen through the big window, a little of the range and the corner of the table. She had stood at the sink for a while now, her gaze mostly down and he guessed she was washing pots or perhaps peeling vegetables. Her blonde hair was tied back. He was too far away to see the grey strands that he knew were annoying her so much. She kept threatening to dye it and he had always told her that he liked it. And asking why she thought it mattered.
‘Oh, there’s a man speaking,’ she would say, as she shook her head fondly.
From time to time she glanced up from her task, looking out of the window at the sunlight and flowers in the yard. She’d have the radio on; she usually did when working in the kitchen, especially when the hou
se was empty. She liked the sense of being in company and she loved her music.
Occasionally when she glanced up he got the feeling that she was staring straight out at him, but he knew that she wasn’t. Not really. That she was unlikely to have seen him. The grass was long and the leaves of the beech tree against which he sat swept down, obscuring him from view.
He loved this spot. He loved the woman he watched now.
But that was hardly the point, was it. That was not important now.
As the afternoon crept on he knew that she’d be finished with her tasks soon, would move away from the window, would get ready for the children coming home from school. He wondered if he should meet them off the bus, so that they didn’t go up to the house alone.
Perhaps he would.
But he could delay things no longer. He left the ridge and followed the winding rabbit path down, climbed the low fence that separated the yard from the field and crossed towards the house.
Looking up, she saw him then. She smiled, her eyes lighting with genuine pleasure and welcome, filling him with so much happiness that he could hardly bear it.
Then, slowly, reluctantly, he raised the shotgun. He could see her clearly, even glimpse the strands of grey in her soft blonde hair.
He fired both barrels.
Glass shattered. The woman fell.
TWO
It was, Mac thought, always slightly odd to see Sergeant Baker out in the field, as it were. His usual habitat was the front office, dealing with the locals of Frantham and fielding queries and problems from the tourists that still flocked to the little seaside town at this time of the year. Sergeant Baker, exuding a teddy bear quality of comfort and care topped off with a good dollop of common sense was ideally suited to the task. He epitomized the notion of ‘community policeman’, being hardly able to get from one end of the promenade to the other in less than an hour because everyone had to have a word.
It took a shift of perception, therefore, to see him at a crime scene. Further, to see him taking charge of a crime scene. It was easy to forget that Sergeant Baker was an experienced and very able investigator.
Mac paused just inside the farm gate – he’d parked a little way up the narrow lane, so that he didn’t block the exit for the mortuary ambulance and the two cars already on scene. The afternoon was warm and the trees on the ridge had only just begun to turn. The day still had an almost summer feel to it, enhanced by the low hum of bees as they buzzed among the tubs of flowers close by the entrance gate. A more peaceful epitome of English countryside would have been hard to imagine, Mac thought, an illusion broken as he rounded the end of the farmhouse and the shattered window came into view.
Frank Baker saw him and waved. ‘I’ll be right out,’ he said, and disappeared.
Mac stood quietly in the yard, his back to the house, looking up at the trees on the ridge and enjoying the illusion of peace for just a moment or two longer. It was wrong that violent death should happen anywhere but it especially assaulted his sense of decency that it should happen in a spot as lovely as this.
Frank Baker joined him and Mac turned his attention back towards the house.
‘The shooter probably stood about there.’ Frank indicated a small area that had been cordoned off and a pathway that had been protected leading back towards the fence. ‘The grass is flattened on the field edge over there. No footprints that we could see. It’s been dry for days.’
‘They came down off the ridge and climbed over the fence?’
‘Such as it is. A toddler could get over it. But that’s the thinking so far. Then shot her through the window.’
‘Who found the body?’
Frank Baker, already pale and grave shook his head as though disbelieving. He looked grey, Mac thought.
‘Her kids found her,’ he said. ‘Just home from school. The bus drops them at the end of the lane then goes on into the village.’
‘Jesus,’ Mac said. ‘How old?’
‘Eleven and thirteen. There’s no mobile signal at the farmhouse, so they ran to the neighbours half a mile down the road and raised the alarm.’
‘No landline here?’
‘I think they just wanted to get away from the place as fast as they could. The landline is in the kitchen. They’d have had to stay where there mother was lying.’
‘I see,’ Mac said, nodding. ‘Where are they now?’
‘The Richardses, the neighbours, they kept them there. Toby Richards called me. I came up, found this.’
‘He called you?’
‘I’ve known Toby since we were both at school.’ Frank Baker shrugged. ‘It occurred to him that the kids might have got it wrong, that they might have seen something that scared seven shades out of them, but not understood what—’
‘He thought they might have made it up?’
Frank shook his head emphatically. ‘No, you take one look at the poor little buggers and you can see they’re telling the truth. But he thought it was better to get a pair of familiar eyes on the problem, assess what was what before they called the full cavalry.’
‘So you came up here and found her.’
‘And then I called the cavalry, yes.’
‘This friend of yours, he didn’t come up here to check things out? I mean, I’m glad if he didn’t, he’d have to be eliminated from the crime scene—’
Frank was shaking his head. ‘Toby’s been in a wheelchair these past three or four years. Tractor rolled with him, broke his back. He was in hospital for months. There’s just him and Hilly at the cottage. He was a tenant on the Breed Estate, just across that way. Been a farmer all his life. The cottage they’re in now belongs to the Breeds too, they adapted it for Toby and Hil.’
Mac raised an eyebrow. ‘Guilty conscience?’
Frank snorted laughter. ‘Accidents happen, Mac, and this was just one of those things. Anyway, Carrie Butler, who runs the Breed Estate now her dad’s gone, she’s one of the good ones. So was her dad. Her brother wasn’t worth spit, but there you go.’
Mac decided he’d ask more later. He was still on a steep learning curve when it came to the local population. ‘And did you know the dead woman?’
‘Ellen Tailor. She was a blow-in, married a local farmer, Jebediah Tailor, about fifteen years ago. Tailor’s family had farmed this place for generations. When he died it was hard for her to carry on. She sold a parcel of it off about five years ago. She couldn’t farm it on her own, couldn’t afford to hire help, so she kept just enough for a market garden, chickens and a few hobby sheep.’
‘Hobby sheep?’
‘Some rare breed things. Toby would be able to tell you about them. She and the kids show them at the local agricultural events. It keeps them involved with the local community but she doesn’t have the problems of the big herds of cattle her husband used to run.’
‘And you say she was a blow-in. An outsider. How did the locals like her?’
‘Well, apart from whoever blasted her face off with a shotgun, I’d say she got along fine,’ Frank said bitterly.
Mac nodded and took that as his cue to go and view the body.
Rina Martin closed the front door and dropped her bags on to the tiled floor.
‘And, relax,’ she said softly and took a deep breath of home.
The Peters sisters must have been baking; the scent of cake still hung in the air and there were fresh flowers in the vase on the hall table. Pink roses and old-fashioned sweet peas picked from Rina’s bit of a garden. There’ll be a second vase somewhere, Rina thought, similarly pretty and delightfully traditional; Eliza and Bethany, the two ever-youthful lady performers who resided with Rina literally never did things by halves and Rina would be expected to guess who had arranged which vase and to praise them equally.
But for now, the house was quiet and empty. Rina had timed her return precisely so. The Montmorencys – a former double act of very dissimilar ‘twins’ – spent Thursday afternoons at the new Marina in Frantham Old Town. They met for a so-calle
d ‘lunch club’ which Rina knew from experience usually extended until tea time.
The Peters sisters, Bethany and Eliza, had recently discovered a tea dance which also took up their Thursday afternoons. Rina calculated that she had perhaps a couple of hours of quiet before the noise and chaos arrived and by that time, she thought, she would be ready for it.
Leaving her bags where they lay she went through to the large kitchen that occupied most of the space at the rear of the house. Before Rina took over, Peverill Lodge had been a genuine B&B – hence the good-sized kitchen – rather than just the home it had become since. Officially the Montmorencys and the Peters sisters were just paying guests, and to an extent they did pay their way, but Rina was under no illusions as to them ever leaving.
Not that she minded.
This was home and they were now her family.
The fifth guest, out at work on his second job, Rina guessed, was likely to be departing soon and Rina would miss him. Tim Brandon, much the youngest member of the household, would be moving in with his girlfriend, Joy. Joy’s mother had helped them find and afford a little cottage nearby. A tiny little place – fortunately with an outbuilding big enough to turn into an office-cum-store for Tim’s belongings – but with a very large garden. Rina had no doubt that Tim and Joy would be happy there and was incredibly grateful that they were still close by. She had grown so used to Tim’s enthusiasm and support since he’d moved in a few years before and she would miss him terribly. But Rina also loved Joy, Tim’s fiancée, and was just glad that he had found someone who understood him so well.