The Beatrice Stubbs Series Boxset One

by JJ Marsh

  Adrian relaxed back on the sofa, pressing his fingertips together as if he were a prosecution lawyer about to sum up.

  “The camera may be nothing special, but what of its contents? Did you take a few carefree snaps of something rather less than innocent? Sadly, we’ll never know, as any incriminating images are probably swimming with the fishies.” His eyes flashed, he crossed his legs and clasped his hands together in satisfaction. Beatrice gazed at him in amusement. Such a wonderful-looking man, all sharp planes and dark features, rather like Montgomery Clift. Yet his mannerisms reminded her of no one more than Ronnie Corbett.

  She assumed a serious face. “You think like a detective, Adrian. I’ve been wondering the same thing. But all is not lost. We can test your theory. I downloaded the pictures onto my laptop before we went to bed that night.”

  His mouth opened, his eyes widened and he broke into a triumphant grin.

  “Beatrice! I always forget your training. You are a star! Let’s check them now, I have a programme downstairs for refining images and we can find exactly what it was they were trying to hide.”

  “I’ve already looked. I can’t see anything. But who knows, perhaps your whizzy technology might shed some light. There might be something, I suppose. Look, let’s do it tomorrow. I’ll bring them down on a memory stick. However, tonight you have Gay Men’s Chorus and you’re going to be late. And I have to familiarise myself with a flasher.”

  He glanced at his watch, torn. “OK. Any other day, I’d give it a miss for something so thrilling. But Oklahomo! opens on Saturday and tonight is a key rehearsal for the soloists. I have to go. But tomorrow evening, we’re gonna uncover the shady plot behind all this. I’m riding piggyback as your rookie, but don’t worry, boss, I know when to button it.”

  Adrian’s accent was woeful. Beatrice hoped his Midwest cowpoke was better than his Detroit dick.

  “Thanks, Cagney.”

  His face dropped. “I was aiming more for Jimmy Stewart than Jimmy Cagney.”

  She picked up his coat and kissed him on the cheek. “And I was aiming more for Cagney as opposed to Lacey.”

  Adrian gave her a radiant smile. “That changes everything!”

  “Have a great rehearsal and thank you for the wine. By the way, you smell gorgeous. Don’t worry about the shower.”

  He shook his head with a devilish grin. “I always shower. Because, Beatrice, you never know what might happen. Night, night.”

  “Goodnight, Adrian.” Gratified by his interest but relieved that he had been successfully deflected, she closed the door. After refilling her glass, she resigned herself to spending the evening with a dirty old man. She’d probably need a shower herself. Maybe just a quick call first.

  Chapter 5

  “Inspector Howells, how can I help you?”

  “Good evening, Inspector. DI Beatrice Stubbs here, from the Met. We spoke at the weekend, if you remember.”

  “Oh yes. I remember. The bag-snatching and the break-in. Has something new come to light, Detective Inspector?”

  “No, nothing new at this end. I was just calling to see if you have managed to make any headway with this case. Hear your latest report, as it were.”

  No response.

  “Inspector Howells? Are you still there?”

  “If you mean am I still at work, then no, I’m not. It’s almost eight o’clock in the evening. I’m at home and about to have my tea. As I told you on Sunday, I will call you if we find anything to connect the events in question. Until then, there is no case, and there will be no reports. DI Stubbs, you were involved in two separate incidents this weekend. I have no doubt you feel a personal involvement, but I don’t make a habit of calling witnesses to keep them updated with my enquiries. Regardless of their position.”

  Warmth flared in Beatrice’s cheeks.

  “I apologise for disturbing you. However, I would describe myself as a victim of two connected crimes, rather than a witness to two separate incidents. I don’t think you will find anything more about the two events by treating them as unconnected petty crimes. You said yourself, the thief, or thieves, wanted the contents of that camera. Therefore, as I mentioned, regular surveillance of the beach might well throw up something more concrete. I’d strongly recommend a proactive approach in this situation, Inspector.”

  “Thank you for the advice. The likes of us bumpkins are eternally grateful. Now, if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to eat. Goodnight, DI Stubbs. And next time, I’ll call you.”

  Beatrice stomped into the kitchen, opened the fridge and closed it again. She walked back to the living-room, picked up the phone and put it down again. Pacing around the flat, she wrestled with her indignation.

  It was grossly unfair to assume she was interfering. As the victim of two robberies in twenty-four hours, she had a right to know where the investigation was heading. Howells was out of line speaking to her like that. All she wanted was information.

  She pressed her forehead to the window and fumed. The bustle of Boot Street went unnoticed as she rewound the conversation. Of course, she understood that persistence on the part of those affected by crime could be an annoyance. And she might have been wiser to call him at the station than at home. But to dismiss her as a supercilious busybody was quite intolerable. It wasn’t as if she was trying to teach the man his job.

  I’d recommend a proactive approach in this situation.

  She picked up the phone again, dithered and finally pressed speed dial one.

  “Good evening. This is Professor Bailey.”

  “Matthew, do you think of me as patronising? An interfering old biddy? Am I unreasonably demanding in my curiosity?”

  “Well, this is merely my subjective opinion, you realise. But I’d say generally no to the first, absolutely not to the second and quite possibly to the third. However, the answers will very much depend on who you’re asking. What’s up, Old Thing? Have you upset someone?”

  “No. Yes. I don’t know. But that police inspector in Wales was very short with me this evening and said that next time, he’d call me.”

  “There you are then. Don’t call him again and let those people do their job.”

  “That’s all very well for you to say. What if they aren’t doing it properly? They should have people watching that beach every morning. It’s obvious something untoward is happening. Why won’t he take it seriously?”

  She could hear Matthew stretch and yawn. “If a police detective from, let’s say New York, was in London for the weekend, reported a crime and then called you daily for an update, how would you feel?”

  “That’s not very supportive of you.”

  “But you see my point? Leave them alone to get on with it. You have enough on your plate with knife crime.”

  Beatrice’s mood sank still lower. “No, knives are no longer on my plate. Instead, I’m working with British Transport Police on apprehending a flasher. And my partner on this one will be none other than the man-eating Virginia Lowe. I tell you, I’m dreading every minute of this, especially when I could be in South Wales or Lewisham, assisting with serious and worthwhile investigations.”

  “A flasher? I thought they’d rather fallen out of fashion. Isn’t it all stalking and cyber-porn these days? And I feel sure the Welsh police have their investigation under control. From what I saw, they’re keen, young and enthusiastic. You get on with your job and leave them to theirs.”

  “Doesn’t seem like I have a choice, does it? That inspector has some sort of regional inferiority complex, in my opinion. Anyway, as far as I’ve gathered, the flasher is also a stalker and may well have a penchant for cyber-porn. I really ought to knuckle down to this case file. See? I called you to soothe my conscience but now feel doubly guilty.”

  “Marvellous! So pleased to have been of assistance. Now, I should begin chopping my stir-fry and put the rice on. And you should focus on the task in hand. Goodnight, Old Thing. I’ll call you tomorrow to hear about your first day.”

&nbs
p; Beatrice said goodnight, made a herbal tea and returned to the folder, still vaguely indignant.

  Keen, young and enthusiastic was all very well, but no substitute for experience.

  Chapter 6

  “No horror movies tonight, you said. Well, that was the most horrific thing I’ve ever seen. I feel a small part of my life was wasted ...”

  Laure caught Ayako’s eye and grinned; there was no stopping Urtza declaiming her opinions, positive or negative. Ayako hugged her knees and laughed. Small, tinkly noises came from both her mouth and her clothes. Urtza paced the two metres of the lounge, throwing an exasperated arm at the television as she ranted. Laure’s flat always seemed smaller with Urtza in it.

  It was four minutes past ten.

  “ ... a terrible waste of all that talent! That is the real shame. Cheap, and a copycat. That makes it worse! If you do such a rip-off, you choose a brilliant movie. Love, Actually is not a brilliant movie, it is average. And a lot of the writing is very bad. Love, Actually was saved by the actors. Here, the acting ...”

  “Come on, Urtza,” Laure interrupted. “Eric Dane was amazing. And Jessica Biel surprised me.”

  Urtza stopped her pacing, glared at the two on the sofa and placed her hands on her hips.

  “Laure. Oh Laure. Are we going to have the same argument again? Beauty does not equal talent. There was much beauty in Valentine’s Day, but as for talent? Ayako, don’t tell me you agree with her?”

  Tiny Ayako, with her asymmetric bob, abundant hair-grips and predilection for pink, nestled further into the cushions. Her knee-high socks were striped pink and purple, and white tights kept her thighs decent below the frilled micro-skirt. She leant her head onto one side and widened her eyes.

  “I liked it. Fun and pretty to watch. Not every movie has to be art, Urtza. And what did you expect? It’s called Valentine’s Day, not Valentine’s Day Massacre.” She was already giggling at Urtza’s outraged expression.

  The pairing of these two inevitably drew attention and Laure still wondered what drove their friendship. Urtza, size 18, voluble, passionate, committed to classic black and silver jewellery. Ayako, size 6, shy, precise, almost hidden under multi-coloured Harajuku layers and childish accessories. They now shared a flat in Highbury, spending all their free time shopping in Camden Market or watching movies and disagreeing.

  “Even now, after I know you for over a year, you still shock me, Ayako. ‘Fun and pretty to watch?’ This is the opinion of a teenager.”

  Ayako’s piping laugh rang around the cluttered room. “I am a teenager! And so are you, but secretly, you want to be middle-aged.”

  Urtza attempted to take outrage to an operatic level, but the effect was too comic. Even she succumbed to laughter and deflated onto the sofa between them. Laure laughed and laughed and forced herself to keep laughing longer than felt natural. Laughing was good.

  It was twenty past ten.

  In a way, the closeness between the three would not have happened anywhere else. In London, she was free to choose, making friends on the basis of shared interests, and personality. So what if they were a quirky Japanese girl with startling dress sense, and a large, loud Spaniard with a natural theatricality. Both enjoyed cinema, food and markets, therefore they were the perfect people to be her friends. In Lille, Laure had a close circle of well-dressed, well-read and understated associates, assembled on the basis of education and family connections. Nearly all were blonde. Introducing them to Ayako and Urtza was unthinkable. Laure started laughing again.

  Urtza emptied her glass and Laure reached for the wine bottle. Mouth full, Urtza placed her hand over her glass and shook her head.

  Ayako heaved up her bag. So adorned with baubles and trinkets, it was practically a percussion instrument. “Yeah, we should be going, Laure. Thanks so much for the dinner. You are a fantastic cooker. And I enjoyed the movie, even if she didn’t.”

  Panic began to rise.

  “Listen, Ayako, Urtza, thank you so much for coming over. It is impossible for me to say how much ... it’s wonderful for me, you know, just ... just not thinking.”

  Urtza opened her arms in a dramatic embrace. The scent of cigarettes, Narciso Rodriguez and sweat made Laure tearful, as her cheek pressed against Urtza’s décolletage.

  Ayako’s childlike hand stroked her shoulder. “Laure, we will come again tomorrow. We will come every night until you are ready to go out. We are your friends.” Her sweet voice was accompanied by the miniature bells on her white leather jacket.

  Laure swallowed and stopped the flood. “Thank you. You two are very kind to me. OK, you should go. You need to catch the bus. See you both tomorrow. Safe journey!”

  It was half past ten exactly.

  She watched them down the stairs, listened to the tinkling and heard the front door close. Then she locked and bolted the door. For the fifteenth time that day, she wondered how she could find herself a flatmate, a friendship just like theirs, without exposing herself to any more psychos.

  Picking up the rest of her drink, she moved to the window and watched Ayako walk away from the block of flats. Tears filled Laure’s eyes. Again. If only they could stay. The doll-like figure stopped to pick something from the path. Where was Urtza? Ayako turned, showing something to the darkness. A hand came out of the black and took the object. Urtza’s colouring and camouflage would make her a perfect cat burglar. Laure smiled at the thought. Ayako was laughing and Laure wished she could hear it. Six floors up and double-glazed, there was no chance of that.

  Ayako stepped into the street, her colours turning acidic under the sodium light. Laure could just make out Urtza, still in the shadow of the hedge, lifting the lid of a wheelie-bin. What had they found? She would check on the way to school tomorrow.

  Across the street, a shape moved. Laure recognised it, dismissed it as an overreaction and acknowledged she was right, all in under a second. In a reflex, she clenched her hands. The TK-Maxx glass shattered, pain and liquid registering somewhere, as her eyes strained to see the street.

  Crossing the road with a clear purpose, he approached Ayako. Blood and wine stained the pane as Laure struggled to open the double-locked window catch. Not enough time. She began beating on the glass, screaming three syllables, blurring her view of the scene with tears and blood.

  Laure watched as he said something to Ayako. Where was Urtza, where the hell was Urtza? That was when he opened his coat. Ayako recoiled from his jerking body, horribly close to her. Almost touching. Oh God, if he got off, it would hit her.

  Six floors up and double-glazed, but she could hear Ayako’s scream; it mingled with her own. Their harmony developed a bass tone – a roar. His jerking body sprang backwards as a black mass barrelled its way out of the gate, arms flailing. Urtza missed him and whirled to grab his coat, but he’d already begun to run. She charged after him, shouting curses in Spanish, and Laure realised he might get away.

  Again.

  Dialling 999 left-handed on her mobile, she unlocked the door with her bloodied right, and tore down the stairs to Ayako. Him. Outside her house. Waiting. He knew where she lived.

  No horror movies tonight, she’d said.

  Chapter 7

  Wednesday morning, and the weather refused to chime with Beatrice’s mood. Her rush hour journey on the Northern Line, including a change at Bank, compounded her sour sense of resentment at the injustices of this world. Yet as she ascended from St James’s Park station, strangers smiled, glorious sunshine lit the streets and it took a real effort to hang on to her black cloud.

  She was early, so sat in the window of Prêt-a-Manger and drank an excess of coffee. Her eyes absorbed the human traffic – short sleeves and summer dresses, sandals and exposed skin, sunglasses and already-sweaty shirts – but her mind was picking away at a problem like a child at a scab.

  Assuming the rat-faced man with the terrible hair was either the same person as the mugger, or a close associate, he was determined to get those Pembroke beach photographs. Surely, h
e’d achieved his wish. His first attempt at retrieving them, with snatch and grab, had failed, so he came back at night. Having successfully taken possession of the camera, he was free to destroy anything incriminating. He couldn’t possibly know she’d already downloaded the contents, so that was the end of the story. Yet a low-level discomfort came from the awareness that the thief had pictures of her and Matthew on the beach, of Matthew’s family, of Matthew’s work. Nothing revealing in those shots, so it shouldn’t make any difference. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that it did.

  Five to nine. She should shift herself. Draining the coffee, she hurried towards the TfL building on Broadway, hoping it was Hamilton who’d insisted on nine a.m. sharp. She really didn’t want to be late. Partly due to politeness, but mainly because she wanted to retain the moral high ground. It’s hard to look down on someone when you have to start with an apology.

  She waited for seventeen minutes in reception before a large fair man approached with a crew-cut and a grin. Beatrice guessed he played contact sports.

  “DI Stubbs, nice to meet you. I’m Sergeant Ty Grant.”

  They shook hands and he gestured up the corridor. Tie? What kind of a name was that? And his hands were sweaty.

  He glanced back. “Have to apologise for Virginia. Several incidents overnight added to the morning briefing. Result? Total overrun. She’s down as soon as. Get you a coffee?”

  Beatrice picked up her bag, her irritation at boiling point. Was he incapable of speaking in full sentences?

  “Thank you, but I won’t just now. I reached my caffeine limit half an hour ago. Do you have any idea how long DI Lowe might be?”

  His security badge unlocked a door to an open-plan room, filled with messy desks and people staring at computers. No one looked up. Grant indicated Virginia Lowe’s office at the end and lifted his substantial shoulders.