Wake the Dead

by Dorothy Simpson

She bit her lip and shook her head, the long hair swaying from side to side.

  ‘What did you do after he left?’

  ‘Put the children to bed, read them a story. Watched television.’

  ‘So you were alone for the rest of the evening?’

  Suddenly tension was back in the air. She glanced at her father, hesitated. ‘No.’

  Her mother also looked at Landers, somewhat apprehensively, Thanet thought.

  What was going on?

  ‘I was here for a while, Inspector,’ said Landers.

  Thanet was intrigued. So a father had called to see his daughter. Why this reaction? There could be only one reason. The visit must have a possible connection with the murder, in their opinion at least.

  ‘Why was that?’ Thanet asked Alice, but she was avoiding his eye, it seemed, staring fixedly at the woodstove and twisting a lock of hair round and round a forefinger.

  Mrs Landers had suddenly become engrossed in scraping at an invisible spot on her skirt with her thumbnail.

  ‘Mrs Randish?’ Thanet persisted. ‘What was the reason for your father’s visit?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Landers exploded. He jumped up and strode across the room towards them. ‘Do I have to have a reason to call on my own daughter? You don’t think I have to ring up and make an appointment, do you?’

  What was it that Landers was trying to prevent her saying? The answer to what had originally been a casual enquiry had become important. Thanet noticed with amusement that Lineham had stopped writing and was staring fixedly at Landers as if trying to read his mind, his nose pointing like a gundog on the trail.

  This, clearly, was what the argument had been about. Landers had wanted to hold something back from the police, his daughter had disagreed with him.

  ‘Mrs Randish?’ Thanet said again.

  Alice looked at her father. ‘Oh, what’s the point, Daddy? Can’t you see you’re just making matters worse? I told you they’d be bound to find out sooner or later.’

  Very neat. Landers was no match for his daughter, thought Thanet. Alice was obviously skilled at getting her own way. She hadn’t openly gone against his wishes but had yet managed to manoeuvre him into the position where it had become obvious that he had something to hide.

  Landers was understandably looking baffled and exasperated.

  Thanet glanced from one to the other. ‘Know what?’ He guessed who would be the one to reply.

  ‘Oh, very well!’ said Landers. He took up his original position in front of the hearth, unconsciously betraying his agitation by shoving his hand in his pocket and jingling some coins. ‘It’s just that it’s a private matter and rather complicated and as it had been resolved anyway it seemed pointless to mention it, especially as it has no bearing whatsoever on what happened here tonight.’

  Thanet said nothing; waited.

  Landers shifted from one foot to the other. ‘My daughter and her husband have been having some work done by a local builder.’

  ‘Reg Mason,’ said Thanet, remembering Vintage’s evasiveness on the subject. Perhaps he was now going to find out what all that was about.

  They all looked startled.

  ‘Yes. How did you …?’

  ‘Mr Vintage told me he’d called to see Mrs Randish this evening.’

  Alice shot a triumphant glance at her father. You see?

  ‘Go on, Mr Landers.’

  It was the sort of sad little tale which had become all too familiar during the recession years. Landers was patently reluctant to tell it and Thanet had to prompt and probe in order to get the details.

  Reg Mason’s firm was small and he tended to take on only one big project at a time. In the boom years of the late eighties when there had been so much work about that builders could pick and choose and virtually name their own price, he had, like many people, overstretched his resources by buying a much bigger house, with a correspondingly huge mortgage padded out by a bank loan. At that time the future seemed golden, the supply of work endless and confidence was high. Then in ’90 and ’91 everything went wrong. The bottom fell out of the property market, building work virtually ground to a halt, interest rates shot up. The mortgage became crippling and there was no money coming in. Reg had realised he must retrench. He had put his house on the market but no one could afford to buy it at the price he had to ask. He had reduced it, repeatedly, to no avail. He had had to lay off some of the small team of workmen he had employed for years.

  Then Randish’s project came along, the conversion of a group of farm buildings into holiday cottages, and Mason had jumped at the chance to tender for it. Randish’s credit was good and Mason saw it as a safe enterprise which would keep his firm ticking over until the economic situation improved. Work had started about eighteen months ago and to begin with there had been no problems, Randish paying up reasonably promptly once a month, as agreed. Mason could not afford to pay his suppliers without a regular income from his client.

  As always with such work the most expensive months were the last, when floors were tiled, central heating put in, kitchens and bathrooms installed, and it was when these larger bills started to come in that the trouble began. Randish disputed them, claiming that they were far beyond the original estimate. Mason said that this was because Randish had altered the initial specifications, choosing more expensive finishes and introducing additional features. The dispute had been put into the hands of solicitors and had been running for over six months.

  Until the matter of the disputed bills, which over three months amounted to a sum of some sixty thousand pounds, Mason had managed to limp along. But after that the situation had become increasingly desperate. His building merchants, unpaid, refused to provide further supplies, thus preventing him from taking on other work until the matter was settled. Both bank and building society pressed progressively harder as unpaid mortgage and interest payments mounted up. A month ago they had lost patience and today he had received a letter from the building society’s solicitors saying that they were seeking a court hearing with a view to repossession. The situation was exacerbated by the fact that Mason’s wife had a heart condition which was being adversely affected by the strain and anxiety.

  Mason had come tonight to make one more attempt to persuade Randish to pay at least a part of the sum owing, much of which was well within the original agreed estimate. Alice had advised him against attempting to talk to her husband that evening. Zak was tired and overworked and would not be in a receptive mood. But she felt sorry for Reg, whom she had known since she was a child, and she promised to do her best to try to persuade her husband to change his mind. Knowing, however, that this was most unlikely, when Reg left she had decided to ask her father’s advice. She had rung Landers and asked him to come over.

  Thanet could understand why Landers hadn’t wanted all this to come out. Mason was obviously a desperate man. His anger and resentment must have been building up for months, justifiably so far as Thanet could see. Even if his bills had been extortionate, most of the money had apparently legitimately been owed to him. In view of Mason’s dire financial position Randish could, in all decency, at least have paid him that sum and taken legal action only over the excess amount. The letter informing Mason that repossession was imminent must have been the last straw. That scene of destruction in the laboratory spoke eloquently of an explosion of anger. Mason now seemed a prime candidate and Landers must know it. But it was obvious from the way that Landers had spoken of Mason and presented his story that he was very much on the builder’s side. They had probably been boys together and old loyalties die hard. It was equally obvious that Landers had not been fond of his son-in-law and wasn’t sorry to see the last of him.

  ‘So,’ Thanet said to Alice, ‘you had the impression that Mr Mason was going to do as you suggested and not attempt to see your husband tonight?’

  ‘Yes.’ She frowned. ‘But if Oliver saw him he must have gone up to the winery.’

  ‘Yes, he did. But he didn’t se
e Mr Randish. Mr Vintage says he only stayed a few minutes, then left.’

  Landers looked relieved.

  ‘However,’ Thanet added, ‘Mr Vintage has also made it clear that although he was working at the winery all evening he was moving about a lot and anyone could have got into the bottling plant without being seen.’

  ‘You’re not suggesting Reg came back, are you?’ said Landers sharply.

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘No!’

  Without warning the door swung open and they all turned towards it, startled.

  On the threshold stood a miniature version of Alice Randish, bare-footed and wearing a Snoopy nightshirt. Bridget used to have one exactly like it, Thanet remembered. The little girl blinked at the unexpected sight of a roomful of people.

  Her appearance galvanised Alice Randish into action. ‘Fiona!’ She was across the room in a flash, stooping to put her arms around her daughter. ‘Darling, what’s the matter?’

  ‘I was thirsty, Mummy. I called, but you didn’t come.’ Her eyes travelled from face to face. ‘Where’s Daddy?’

  There was a brief, pregnant silence. What would Alice Randish do? Thanet wondered. Break the news of Randish’s death to her daughter now, when she herself was at her most vulnerable and least fit to cope with Fiona’s reaction? Or wait until morning?

  The decision was taken out of her hands. Landers stepped in. He crossed to his granddaughter and swung her up into his arms. ‘Grandad will get you a drink, sweetheart. And then we thought it might be fun for you all to come and stay with us for a few days. Would you like that?’ Without waiting for an answer he bore Fiona away.

  Having told her father she would prefer to stay at home, Alice was understandably looking irritated at his high-handedness. Her lips tightened and she glanced at her mother, who shook her head resignedly. What did you expect?

  So far, Thanet realised, Mrs Landers hadn’t said a single word. He wondered if her relationship with her husband was always so overshadowed by that between him and Alice.

  She spoke now. ‘Actually, your father’s right, dear. Apart from anything else it will be very disturbing for the children to be here over the next few days. There’s bound to be a lot of activity, isn’t that so, Inspector?’

  ‘Inevitably, I’m afraid.’

  ‘And it really would be better for you, too, to be away from all this. Do reconsider.’

  Alice was silent for a few moments, then she sighed. ‘I suppose you’re right.’ She pulled a face. ‘I’m just being feeble, I suppose. The thought of organising the packing …’ She ran a hand through her hair and gave a defeated shrug. ‘I just can’t seem to think straight.’

  Her mother put an arm around her shoulders. ‘That’s not surprising. Don’t worry, I’ll see to all that. We won’t need to take much tonight, anyway. We can come back tomorrow.’

  In the hall a bell tinkled.

  ‘That’ll be the doctor,’ said Mrs Landers.

  There was a sudden flurry of activity: the doctor was admitted; Thanet and Lineham retired once more to the dining room. As they were crossing the hall Landers returned with Fiona and handed her over to her grandmother, who bore her off upstairs. Thanet asked Landers to accompany them. Clearly reluctant, he complied.

  ‘You seem very certain that Mason couldn’t have come back,’ said Thanet, as if their conversation had not been interrupted.

  The phone rang in the hall.

  Thanet cursed as Landers jumped up with alacrity. ‘I’d better answer that.’

  He closed the door behind him and Thanet heard him murmuring responses. A moment or two later he returned, looking stunned. He slumped down into his seat. ‘My God,’ he said. ‘I just don’t believe it.’

  Buy No Laughing Matter Now!

  About the Author

  Dorothy Simpson was born and brought up in South Wales, and went to Bristol University, where she read modern languages before moving to Kent, the background of the Thanet novels. After spending several years bringing up three children, she trained as a marriage guidance counsellor and subsequently worked as one for thirteen years, before writing her first novel. She says, “You may think that marriage guidance counsellor to crime writer is rather a peculiar career move, but although I didn’t realise it at the time, of course, the training I received was the best possible preparation for writing detective novels. Murder mysteries are all about relationships which go disastrously wrong and the insights I gained into what makes people tick, into their interaction and motivations, have been absolutely invaluable to DI Thanet, my series character, as have the interviewing skills I acquired during my years of counselling.”

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1992 by Dorothy Simpson

  Cover design by Michel Vrana

  ISBN 978-1-5040-4560-5

  This edition published in 2017 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

  180 Maiden Lane

  New York, NY 10038

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