Cause of Death Page 8

  ‘If I do go I’ll feel bad too,’ Ursula pointed out.

  ‘Yeah, but not as bad. You won’t be guilting yourself for the next month.’

  ‘True,’ she admitted reluctantly.

  ‘So we know you’re going to have to go, so what can we do to make it, I don’t know, not as crap as it could be? I mean, I’m coming with you—’

  He broke off, not sure if that was a good thing to say or if it would sound like he was just doing it for brownie points.

  ‘Yeah, I know, and I’m grateful, I really am. And you’re right, I have to go and I have to sound all bright and pleased to see him, and I’ll do all that stuff but . . .’

  She chewed on her lower lip and looked determinedly out of the window. George could see the tears she was trying so hard to blink away. He knew instinctively what she was trying to say, the taboo she wanted so desperately to break but was afraid to do, and he decided the best thing was to try and do it for her.

  ‘Sometimes I think it’s easier, you know, now that she’s dead. I mean it wasn’t that I didn’t love her and that I don’t miss her, cos I did and I do. But my whole life I didn’t know if she’d be OK when I came home from school. If I’d come home and she’d be . . . and then she killed herself and it was like she’d spent my whole life planning for it. I just felt so mad with her. Just so . . .’ He shrugged. ‘You know?’

  Ursula nodded and they let the silence fall once more. George stared at the rain and knew that was kind of what Ursula had needed to hear, and how much he wished, for both of them, that it just wasn’t true.

  The windscreen wipers couldn’t cope even on their fastest speed. Stan peered out through the waves of water, hoping nothing was coming the other way as he’d now lost all sense of where the white line should be. He and Rina had borrowed Miriam’s little car and were going up to the Palisades to watch Tim perform. The idea had been that Rina should drive, but then the storm had broken and it had seemed more sensible for her first drive to be delayed until it was actually possible to see the road.

  ‘How did you and Tim actually meet?’ Stan asked.

  Rina laughed. ‘Oh, it was one of those strange, chance things. He knocked on my door one night looking for a place to stay and so I gave him a room. Peverill Lodge is officially a B&B after all.’

  ‘A B&B that never has any vacancies,’ Stan pointed out.

  ‘True, but sometimes you just have to trust your instincts, don’t you think? It was late, he looked so forlorn standing there. He’d been performing at a place just along the coast – I forget exactly where – and I don’t think it had gone too well. He said he couldn’t face the drive home and did I have a vacancy for the night.’

  ‘And that was it?’

  Rina nodded. ‘More or less. He joined us for breakfast and the Peters sisters fussed over him, Matthew was flattered by some comment he’d made about the home-baked bread, and when he asked if he could stay another night while he looked for more work, I said yes.’

  ‘And after that?’ Stan caught sight of the white line once more and twitched the car back into the proper lane.

  ‘He stayed. That was a little over five years ago and I have to say he’s been my best friend ever since. Some things are just meant to be.’

  Stan shook his head. ‘But you knew nothing about him. You surely can’t just take in strays without . . . without . . .’

  ‘Without doing a background check? Oh, Stan, life is not that black and white. I supposed in Tim we all recognized ourselves: staying in B&Bs, working wherever we could, on the road half our lives. Sometimes life throws people into your path and you have to make fast decisions.’

  ‘Like you did with me when I knocked on your door that night?’ Stan asked her.

  Rina smiled wryly. ‘Well, I admit I might have hesitated had you been alone,’ she told him, ‘but something like that.’

  They fell silent for a few minutes while Stan concentrated on peering through the now even heavier rain. ‘Do you think he’ll actually have an audience tonight?’ he asked. ‘I mean, no one will want to go out in this.’

  ‘Oh, you’d be surprised,’ Rina said. ‘And I believe the hotel is fully booked anyway. The Palisades is getting quite a reputation for good food, and for good entertainment. The owners have done a lovely job restoring it.’

  ‘Good,’ Stan said. ‘It’s sad to see old things go to rack and ruin.’

  The lights of the Palisades hotel could just be glimpsed up ahead now and Stan slowed, making sure he didn’t miss the entrance to the drive. He eased the car between two pillars, illuminated by large globes, noting the old cast-iron gates fastened back on either side and the elegant sweep of drive that wound up towards the art deco building. ‘Was this always a hotel?’

  ‘I believe so. The original owner had a suite built in the west wing. The current owners live in one of the estate cottages. When it first opened all the serving staff and gardeners lived on site too. It must have been quite a place.’

  Stan nodded. You could see this place from the sea, he thought, recalling his time in Haines’s employ out on the luxury yacht he called home for part of the year. Was Haines out there now, watching?

  He’d see bugger all in this squall, Stan thought, oddly satisfied with the little rhyme. He parked as close to the entrance as he could and fished the umbrella out from behind the seat. ‘Shall we?’

  ‘Delighted,’ Rina said. ‘And if this rain lets up enough, I think I’ll take the wheel on the way back.’

  A few miles inland the rain had eased and Karen stood in the shelter of a shop doorway watching the pub across the road. She’d followed a group of Haines’s men earlier, even popped in for a drink and a sandwich, the pub offering a good selection of baguettes that reminded her of the café-tabac she had frequented along the Breton coastline.

  Karen had found herself a comfortable corner, eaten her food and had a second drink, asked the landlord directions to Kirby St Mary and made small talk with his wife.

  ‘Travelling over from Bristol. Got a bit lost, thought the pub looked nice so . . .’

  Yes, they would remember her, but Karen didn’t care. Chances were they would make no connection between the slightly ditzy young woman and what Karen planned to do – and if they did, well, Karen liked the game.

  An hour ago she had left the pub, Haines’s men still inside and drinking steadily. She had walked out past them, pausing in the doorway to fasten the belt on her deep red raincoat and then glanced back, knowing already that he had seen her but wanting to make certain that he knew she had recognized him. She held his gaze for a full ten seconds before turning and walking out of the door with a final wave to the landlord.

  Now she waited.

  From her vantage point, she could see the pub entrance and the open side gate that led into the delivery yard and through which she could just glimpse the rear door. Which exit would he choose? Karen guessed at the yard: the exit was just down a little hallway from the men’s toilets so he could slip away and none of the others would notice his absence. She was in no doubt that he would come – or that he knew she would be waiting.

  The final outcome, though, that was a very different thing. He would be expecting one thing and Karen was about to deliver quite another.

  She didn’t move when she saw him. Instead she waited and watched as he emerged through the rear door of the pub, glancing back as though to be sure that no one had observed his exit. He came out into the pub yard and lit a cigarette.

  It wasn’t dark yet, though it was late enough and wet enough for dusk to have coalesced here, in the back streets; she could still see him clearly enough, though, and now even the rain had abated to a light drizzle. She saw the tip of the cigarette brighten, watched him exhale, smoke drifting only for a moment in the wet air, and then he stepped out through the gate and looked around, catching sight of her in the doorway and smiling as he crossed the road.

  Only when he was within feet of her did Karen move, slipping out of the d
oorway and facing him as he stepped up on to the pavement.

  ‘Well, will you look at you,’ Dave Jenkins said. ‘All grown up.’ He smiled and Karen was surprised to note that he was genuinely glad to see her.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked. ‘Last I heard—’

  He didn’t even see the knife. He had stepped closer, his smile warm. She saw his expression change as the knife slipped in between his ribs and she pushed it home. It was all over before he’d even hit the floor.

  Karen retrieved the knife, slipped it into a carrier bag she’d kept in her raincoat pocket and then put that into her shoulder bag. She had blood on her coat but there was no one around to notice and the colour was disguise enough for casual glances. She turned into a side street and found her car, popped the boot and placed bag and raincoat into a black plastic sack she had left there, together with a second raincoat which, after checking her hands for blood and cleaning up with wet wipes, she slipped on. Then she drove away satisfied, and once she’d disposed of the knife and clothes, ready for hot chocolate and bed.

  ELEVEN

  ‘The way I see it,’ Andy mused, ‘is that whoever dumped the body had to have local knowledge. I mean, everyone round here knows about the dig, but getting the back way into the site, now you’ve got to know what you’re about.’

  ‘Talking to yourself?’ Mac asked, sticking his head around the door to the little office.

  Andy shrugged. ‘At least I get a sensible discussion. What are you doing in this morning anyway? You forgotten it’s a Saturday?’

  ‘No, but then murderers never have been that respectful of weekends.’

  ‘Murderers? You mean you’ve got a lead on the bones?’ Andy was caught between interest and faint disappointment. This was supposed to be his case . . . sort of.

  Mac shook his head. ‘No, this one is a fully intact dead body. It’s actually in Kendall’s jurisdiction, but he wants me to take a look.’

  ‘Oh?’ Andy was on his feet. Hopeful. ‘Mind if I tag along?’

  ‘Frank says you’ve got enough on your plate,’ Mac said.

  ‘You mean the bones.’ Andy was crestfallen.

  ‘That, and I think he’s got his heart set on some decent coffee.’ Then Mac relented and stepped into Andy’s cubby hole. ‘You getting anywhere?’ he asked.

  ‘Not really, no. I mean we’ve narrowed things down a bit, but, as I was saying to myself, whoever dumped the bones has to have some local knowledge. It just seems such a strange thing to do. I mean, where’s the rest?’

  ‘Where indeed,’ Mac agreed. ‘Well, I’m afraid it’s all yours unless you can turn up something more substantial. Cold cases are difficult even when you know who’s involved. Just gather as much information as you can and then, chances are, you’re going to have to draw a line under it for the moment. Unless you get lucky, of course.’

  ‘Lucky?’ Andy didn’t think that was going to happen.

  ‘If you’re right and the killer, or at any rate whoever sought to conceal the death, had local knowledge, then the best thing you can do is find other sources of said local knowledge. Who’d have their ear to the ground? Who would you go to if you wanted the latest gossip?’

  It was a good question, Andy thought, and one he probably knew the answer to.

  ‘Right,’ Mac said. ‘I’d best be off.’

  Andy nodded. Mac was right – local gossip. And though he might not be able to do anything about that today, he had a pretty good idea of what his start point might be.

  Teston was a small place, with a short high street, a single shop and a pub that serviced mostly locals and was also popular with the boating community, being only a couple of miles inshore. There was only a tiny car park and that mitigated against major holiday trade, but it did catch the odd passing tourist, as the landlord was now telling Mac and DI Kendall.

  ‘We had a few in last night. A couple meeting their friends here. Said they’d called in last season and liked the food. A young woman got herself lost, came in for directions and stopped for a bite. An old man and his niece and nephew, I think he said they were. They asked if we’d got rooms and we don’t so I sent them on to The Oak, it’s about three miles along the road. They had a drink and used the facilities and then left just after eight.’

  ‘And the dead man?’

  ‘I told you, yes, he was here with another four. Came in about half past seven and left a bit after nine. It was getting busy here by then so I can’t be exact.’

  ‘And the rest of the crowd in here were local?’

  ‘A skittle match,’ the landlord told them. ‘Through in the back there.’ He pointed to the area at the side of the bar, a larger, squarer room than the snug in which they were presently talking. ‘The wife did the catering for it. Every two weeks we have it for the local league, so the place was heaving by nine.’

  ‘And the dead man, you’d seen him before?’ Mac confirmed.

  ‘I told you, he and the rest, they’d been in a half-dozen times this last month or so. Never any trouble, they drank their drinks and played darts and occasionally got a bit noisy, but they quietened down if you told them.’

  ‘And there were no arguments last night. No tension that you could see?’

  The head shake was emphatic. Nothing. The evening had been peaceful and busy and he’d not seen exactly when they left.

  Mac followed Kendall past the toilets and small store room and then out into the back yard. ‘He must have come out this way and then crossed the road.’

  ‘So, most likely he went to the gents, or said that’s where he was going, and then came outside. That implies he didn’t want the others to know, which maybe implies that he was meeting someone he didn’t want them to know about.’

  Kendall nodded. ‘Didn’t want them to know about – why?’

  ‘Because his friends wouldn’t approve? Because he was trying to hide something?’

  ‘Then why come here to have a meeting with four others in tow? Why not just arrange a quiet conflab somewhere else? Somewhere private.’

  ‘Maybe it wasn’t planned. He saw someone he knew?’

  Mac wandered out into the street and glanced both ways. The shop across the road was a general store, shut up after five thirty in the evening. The owners didn’t live on the premises and the upper floor was apparently a holiday let, currently unoccupied, though a couple was due to arrive that afternoon. Mac had been constantly surprised since moving down here at just how many rather unlikely places were let out to holidaymakers. Though looking round he could sort of see the appeal. It was a pretty village with a pub across the road and only a couple of miles to drive to the sea, and Kendall had told him there was a garden behind the shop that residents could use.

  He watched as the CSI took their final pictures and got ready to move the body. Kendall beckoned him over.

  ‘Single stab wound,’ he said. ‘Whoever killed him got in close and knew what they were doing, I’d say.’

  Mac crouched down beside the body. There was something familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. He knew he’d seen this man before. But where?

  ‘No ID on him?’

  Kendall shook his head. ‘No wallet, no phone, no keys. It looks like whoever killed him cleaned out his pockets too.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Mac said.

  ‘Maybe?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Mac said. ‘Just a feeling I’ve seen him somewhere. I just wonder if his friends found him and maybe they were the ones that took the wallet.’

  ‘Any reason for thinking that?’ Kendall asked.

  Mac shrugged, suddenly embarrassed that he might be seen as fanciful.

  Kendall led the way back into the pub. ‘Not a lot more you can do,’ he said. ‘I just wanted you in the loop.’

  Mac thanked him, his mind still nagging at the sense of familiarity, but the association just wouldn’t come. ‘I’d like to see the statements,’ he said.

  ‘Sure. And I’ll be getting a police artist over here,�
�� Kendall said. ‘I’ll send the pictures over.’

  Mac nodded. ‘Do that,’ he said. ‘I’m bloody sure I know him, I just can’t place where from.’

  Karen was paying what she knew would be the last visit to her solicitor. She read each document carefully before she signed, asked detailed questions she knew surprised him, and finally affixed her signature to the last page.

  ‘And you are sure about the executor of this?’ he asked. ‘It’s normal for us to meet with the executor of any trust, just to make sure they understand their role, you know.’

  Karen fixed him with a look. ‘It will all be fine,’ she said. ‘You just do your job. I trust Mrs Martin to do hers.’

  ‘Right,’ he said, and she could feel him quail inwardly.

  ‘You’re going away then?’ he asked brightly as Karen rose to take her leave.

  Karen smiled. ‘You’ll be relieved to know that I will be, yes,’ she said. ‘I’ve left your fee with your secretary as usual and the retainer will be transferred as arranged, just in case George or Mrs Martin should need to consult with you about anything. I expect Mrs Martin will call. She likes to be thorough.’

  He nodded enthusiastically.

  Karen paused in the doorway. ‘I just want to ask again,’ she said. ‘You can see no problem with any of this? No reason that George might not get the money? No legal impediment, as you put it?’

  The solicitor did his best to look affronted, but somehow she had this way of undermining his best attempts. ‘You can rest assured. I’m good at my job,’ he said eventually.

  ‘I hope so,’ Karen told him. ‘Because I am really good at mine.’

  The Brecon Wing was a secure unit, but it had a transitional area for those patients the hospital hoped would soon be well enough to be returned to the general hospital population. This, George discovered, was called Amesbury House and had a visitor’s room where people could see family they’d probably had little contact with for quite some time.

  Cheryl had elected to wait out in the lobby, but Ursula had begged George to go in with her and the administrator had agreed. A nurse would be on standby, sitting discreetly in the corner.