Cause of Death Read online

  ‘After my time, dear, but I know the name. So that’s why you were late?’

  ‘Yes, we stayed talking in the bar after everything closed. Hopefully the filming will happen at the Palisades.’

  ‘Filming? At the hotel? That should be good for business. What’s it all about then?’

  ‘Well.’ Tim frowned as though trying to get everything in order in his brain. ‘It’s a series about buildings that have been brought back to life. Theatres, hotels, that sort of thing. You know how there’s been this new wave of heritage-style programmes on TV?’

  Rina nodded.

  ‘So not actually about your magic, then?’ Bethany sounded disappointed.

  ‘Oh, but it will still be wonderful exposure,’ her sister chided. ‘Tim, you’ll shine anyway.’

  ‘Of course he will,’ Bethany agreed. ‘Tim, you mustn’t be disappointed that it’s not all about you. Your break will come, you know.’

  ‘Right,’ Tim said, momentarily nonplussed.

  ‘So this is a series,’ Rina prompted.

  Tim nodded. ‘Six parts, each one looking at a different part of the country, but the good thing is, the Palisades would be featured on the Christmas edition.’

  Rina looked more closely at her protégé. From the look of barely suppressed excitement on Tim’s face, there was more to this. ‘And?’ she said.

  ‘And . . . it would be going out live. Rina, imagine that. Live television.’

  Rina could imagine, having done it herself.

  ‘That’s quite a risk,’ she said. ‘Exciting, yes, but—’

  ‘But Tim does his act live every night,’ Eliza objected. ‘So what can possibly go wrong just because it’s going to be on the television? Rina, you are a cold fish sometimes. We think it’s wonderful, don’t we, Bethany?’

  Tom cast an apologetic look in Rina’s direction, followed by a tiny shrug, a habit he seemed to have picked up from his fiancée, Joy.

  ‘Oh, I don’t doubt Tim will be wonderful,’ Rina agreed, ‘I’m just wondering how the Palisades will cope with an entire production team. It’s really good news, dear. Joy will be delighted.’

  Tim nodded enthusiastically and set about helping Rina carry dishes of bacon and sausage to the table, just as the final members of the household made their entrance. The Montmorency twins had performed as a double act for so long that they seemed to have forgotten how to be separate individuals. ‘The twins’ as they always called themselves – as did everyone else who did not wish to cause mortal offence – could not have looked less identical, though anyone who knew them for any length of time seemed to be drawn into the same conceit and, in Rina’s experience, to register only the similarities. In reality, Matthew was tall and rather elegant with his mane of steel grey curls, whereas his eponymous brother was short and slightly round, thinning on top and unlike Matthew in practically every way.

  ‘Any news on your project?’ Tim asked.

  ‘You mean Rina’s relaunch?’ Eliza asked.

  ‘Just think,’ Bethany added, ‘Lydia Marchant Investigates coming back after all this time.’

  ‘Not that she ever went away,’ Matthew put in. ‘I mean, the programme has been franchised in, oh, how many countries, Rina? It’s on cable and satellite all the time.’

  That was true, Rina thought, a fact which contributed to the financial well-being of Peverill Lodge. ‘Nothing is fully decided yet,’ she reminded them, though there had already been a series of script and scheduling meetings. Discussions centred on the possibility of picking up from where they had left off, and revamping the storylines that had already been submitted for the eleventh series which had never been made. There were some, Rina included, who thought it would be better to go for a complete relaunch. It was, after all, eight years since Lydia Marchant had graced television screens. Rina was alternately hopeful and despairing about it all.

  ‘Not that she ever stopped investigating,’ Tim muttered, as though reading her thoughts.

  She smiled back at him. ‘I’m due to give my agent a call later in the week,’ she said. ‘Hopefully I’ll know a little more then.’ She settled to breakfast, Matthew pouring tea and Stephen serving the eggs, the morning ritual establishing itself as it always did. Rina felt a slight moment of disquiet.

  ‘They’ll all be fine, even if you have to go away for the filming,’ Tim murmured, doing that thought reading thing again. ‘And I’ll be close by, Mac and Miriam too, and they’re not helpless, you know. Just a bit eccentric.’

  Rina nodded gratefully, knowing he was right. She was really hoping that Lydia Marchant, her most successful role, would make a comeback. For one thing it would help with the family finances, and for another she really did want to work again. It would be fun; it was what she did and, as a lady now in her sixties, Rina knew she should seize the chance as it was unlikely to be offered again.

  She accepted her tea from Matthew and allowed Stephen to load up her breakfast plate. So lucky, she thought, to have good friends and to have been able to offer them all a place of refuge. The world could be cruel to those unable to fend for themselves. She counted herself so fortunate too that Tim, young enough to be her son but also her closest friend these past few years, had decided he would stick around in Frantham even after he moved out of Peverill Lodge. His fiancée had made the decision to come to live with him rather than ask Tim to move north to Manchester, and Rina was looking forward to seeing more of Joy. Her mother, Bridie, was in the process of finding the young couple a house and helping out with the financing of that – Bridie being a woman with a fortune many times that of Tim’s income, even if he did now have regular work.

  ‘Is Mac still coming to dinner today?’ Stephen asked.

  ‘Yes, Miriam too, though she says she might be a few minutes late. She’s shopping with her sister in Exeter.’

  ‘Ah, that will do her good. It’s not been easy, has it?’

  No, Rina agreed. It had not been easy. The terrible time late last year when Miriam had been almost lost to them had taken some getting over. Miriam had found herself unable to return to work and was now preparing to go back to university to take her Masters. She was much better, much more confident now, but there was still a fragility under stress that Rina knew would take a long time to harden.

  ‘It will be good to see our favourite policeman,’ Bethany said. ‘It’s been at least a week since he came over.’

  ‘Well, this is a busy time of year,’ Eliza agreed. ‘All of those tourists and their troubles.’

  Rina hid a smile. Compared to last year, Mac must have found work a breeze. No murders, no dramas, just the usual baggage of lost children, the odd stolen purse and a couple who had to be rescued from a remote bit of beach when the tide came in. Not that Mac had actually done the rescuing; he’d just called the coastguard and organized things, but it had been a rare bit of drama in a so far very peaceful summer. Rina figured that the more settled routine had been influential in Mac’s decision to stay on in Frantham as the local DI. Earlier in the year he had been very close to quitting. The excuse he’d used for changing his mind was that with Miriam going back to study they needed a steady income, but Rina knew that was only part of the truth, as a friend with a private security firm had offered Mac a well-paid position. Rina had the feeling Mac’s reticence was purely down to the fact that he couldn’t handle any further changes just now. He’d had enough to last him for a while. He needed routine, familiarity and a little peace, and so far this summer he had managed all of the above.

  While the Martin household was having breakfast, their favourite policeman was leaning on the promenade railing, drinking coffee from the little Italian coffee shop close to the tiny police station and thinking how good life felt.

  Strictly speaking, DI Sebastian MacGregor was a little overqualified to be running this substation of policing at Frantham on Sea. He knew full well that this posting was almost the equivalent of gardening leave; that he and his predecessor DI Eden had been sent here b
ecause in theory they could neither do harm nor become embroiled in anything that might cause them stress or pain. It was perceived by the powers that be as almost early retirement, but without the paperwork.

  Mac had been sent here because he was broken. Events had conspired to tear him apart: the death of a child he could not prevent, the aftermath of a disastrous investigation, then sick leave, mental breakdown and very slow recovery. DI Eden, he now knew, had a similar history, though they had never really spoken about it. Eden had served out his final years here and, so far as Mac could tell, had spent them pretty much as he now spent his official retirement: sea fishing and drinking coffee. Mac’s hope of peace and quiet had, at first, been completely scuppered. For a few months it had seemed as though Frantham, backwater that it was, had become crime capital of the world, but it had soon tired of all the drama and settled back into sleepiness.

  This summer had been glorious. Sunny, but with a fresh breeze off the sea and a healthy population of visitors, Frantham basked in self-satisfaction and Mac basked with it. He watched the families that had come early to the beach settle on the sand with their buckets and spades. He had noticed that it was those with the youngest infants who turned up earliest; those with older children usually arrived in the afternoon, though there were less of those now, much of the country having already returned to school as September began. The day was warm, and tots in multi-coloured shorts and T-shirts scampered about on the sand or braved the shallows to wet their feet and screech at the cold. Not that it was ever particularly warm, Mac thought. The water here was not so deadly freezing as off the North Sea coast where he had grown up and lived for most of his adult life, but it was still pretty chilly, and it was usually after noon before tourists – all but the hardiest of them anyway – braved full immersion.

  Sipping his coffee, savouring the scent of vanilla syrup, he turned from the railing and wandered back along the promenade towards the police station. The small, square, squat little building, its wooden doors now open wide above the short flight of stone steps and newer, ugly concrete ramp, looked content in the morning light. The red bricks glowed and Mac fancied he could almost hear it stretch and sigh. He laughed at himself, decided he was getting overly sentimental in his old age, but he did feel happy today. Miriam had gone off into Exeter to meet her sister and she had driven herself. This was the first time this year that she had felt able and confident enough to walk up the hill from their home in the boathouse, get into her car and travel the road, alone, that had been the scene of her kidnap. She had called him twice, once just before she had set off and the second time when she had arrived at her sister’s place. She had sounded shaky but elated, and Mac had suddenly felt that the entire universe was celebrating with them.

  ‘Morning, Andy,’ he said.

  ‘Morning, boss.’ The redhead nodded and the freckled face smiled. Andy had not long finished his probationary year.

  ‘Anything happening?’

  ‘One lost dog, one lost purse and a call from DI Kendall,’ Andy told him. ‘I said you’d get back to him as soon as you got in. It sounded important.’

  ‘But you didn’t take a message.’

  ‘But he didn’t leave a message.’ Andy grinned at his boss. ‘I did ask. He said it was about an old friend.’

  ‘Friend?’

  ‘Well, friend with imaginary inverted commas,’ Andy clarified. ‘Anyway, the number’s on your desk so you don’t have to root for it.’

  ‘Thanks. Where’s Frank?’ Sergeant Baker usually manned the desk at this time of the morning while Andy sat in the broom cupboard of a back office and dealt with any paperwork.

  ‘He said it was a lovely morning so he’d go and look for the dog,’ Andy said. ‘You know, the lost one, and that he might think about getting us some of that coffee on the way back.’

  Mac laughed and wandered through to his own desk, picking up the phone number Andy had left there and noting, vaguely, that it wasn’t either Kendall’s mobile or his office number. Frantham was in danger of becoming boringly peaceful, he thought, adding with crossed fingers that he could handle all kinds of boring just now.

  It took him a few minutes to get through to his friend and colleague. DI Kendall was, it seemed, at a conference, and the number he had left was the main reception of the hotel.

  ‘We have to keep our bloody phones switched off.’ He sounded aggrieved.

  ‘Have I dragged you out of anything important?’

  ‘No, I’ve left very willingly, and as for important, well I couldn’t possibly comment on that one. The only presentation I’m actually here for doesn’t happen until tomorrow, but some officious bastard is insisting I attend both days.’

  Mac laughed. He had a pretty good idea which conference Kendall had attended, having noticed the memo a few weeks previously. From what he remembered, day one focused on community relations and sensitivity to minority groups. Important, yes, but as Kendall’s main expertise was organized crime, and community relations hardly evidenced in his remit, it did seem an odd decision to have tied up a senior officer for both days when day two, relating to the move of organized criminality from an urban to a rural environment, was more truly relevant to Kendall’s practice.

  ‘I’m delivering the paper in question,’ Kendall said almost apologetically. ‘You know I’m doing the MA?’

  ‘I remember you saying.’ It seemed everyone was studying these days, Mac thought.

  ‘Yes, well my research is into media representations of crime and how that shapes public response. Actually,’ he said almost reluctantly, ‘I’m really enjoying it, but, well, you know . . .’

  ‘I know,’ Mac agreed, not sure if he actually did. ‘What did you want me to call you about, or was it just an elaborate escape plan?’

  Kendall laughed. ‘Wish I’d thought of it,’ he said. ‘No, it’s about an old acquaintance of ours. Stan Holden. You know he was released?’

  ‘Yes, Rina told me.’

  ‘Right, well it seems time served on remand counted against his sentence. In the end his shooting of Coran was ruled self-defence anyway and the time served counted against the other charges.’

  Kendall didn’t sound too happy about that, Mac thought.

  ‘So—’

  ‘So we have reason to think he may head your way. He’s been living in a hostel since his release, but he left three days ago and he’s been in the wind ever since. Just thought you ought to have the heads up, you know.’

  Mac could hear someone in the background calling Kendall’s name. His friend groaned. ‘I’m going to have to go,’ he said. ‘So much for the escape plan. Oh, you know Rina Martin’s been visiting him in jail, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes, she told me that too.’

  ‘Right, well let her know. Just in case he turns up on her doorstep.’

  ‘I will,’ Mac promised. Kendall rang off and Mac was left to reflect that it was very, very likely that Stan would turn up on Rina’s doorstep. In fact the only surprise was that he had not already done so. Mac also knew that Kendall would never be able to get his head around the idea that she would welcome him; it would be far too alien a concept for Dave Kendall. In fact, Mac reflected, it was probably the combined influence of eighteen months of Frantham and almost that of Rina that made it seem normal, expected even, for a convicted criminal with Stan’s violent past to seek sanctuary in Peverill Lodge.

  He wandered back through to the front office, thinking about the routine paperwork waiting on his desk and about Stan Holden. If it hadn’t been for Stan then Joy, Tim’s young fiancée, would not be with them. She would be dead, just like her brother and father. As would two very innocent little girls.1 Against those facts, Stan’s previous conduct paled, not exactly into insignificance, but, well it kind of balanced things up, Mac thought. He shook himself mentally; that sounded far too much like Rina logic, not the sort of ideas an officer of the law should have floating around in his head.

  Sergeant Baker bustled in through the bi
g double doors, his round face reddened by the summer sun and the remnants of sunburn now flaking from his balding scalp. He smiled broadly. ‘Lovely morning,’ he said. ‘Lovely. I thought I’d take a drive up to the De Barr hotel and a bit of a walk along the cliff path, show some presence, you know?’

  Mac nodded. ‘Sounds like a good idea,’ he approved. Frank Baker was popular with the summer visitors, always ready for a chat, his broad-shouldered, uniformed presence seeming to epitomize what most visitors expected in a rural policeman. ‘On your way back, swing round by the aerodrome, will you, make sure they’ve got everything settled for the open day.’ The rather lovely art deco tower and tiny airport were now almost fully restored and had been operational for several months. The impact on local jobs had already been a positive one and the official opening was only a couple of weeks away.

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘I’m out at the Palisades this morning,’ Andy reminded him, referencing the larger hotel out towards the Exeter road where Tim performed. ‘Security check?’

  ‘Oh yes, so you are. No problem, I can hold the fort here. If there’s a sudden crimewave I’ll give one of you a call.’

  He watched them depart, chatting amicably as they left through the main doors and then round to the awkward little parking space at the back of the police station. Mac stood on the doorstep, sipping the remnants of his coffee and gazing out on to the promenade, suddenly glad to be alone. Despite the peace and stability of his surroundings, he found he had a lot to think about. Everything in his life seemed about to change again. Miriam was going back to university to finish her long-put-off postgraduate studies – Mac was helping her to finance them and was still shocked at the cost. She was talking about her PhD and speculating that it would probably take her a further four years. She’d already had a chat with a potential supervisor and tentatively proposed an area of study in the osteo-archaeology that had been her area of expertise before she had become a CSI. Mac hoped this was the right path for her and that she wasn’t just taking flight into academia in response to the events of the previous winter. He wanted to support her, wanted for them both to get it right, and they’d talked the figures through: if they stayed living in the boathouse and Mac continued with his job and Miriam did a bit of part-time work – the nature of which was as yet unspecified – then they would be fine.