The Beatrice Stubbs Series Boxset One

by JJ Marsh

  His stare bored into Adrian, as if he was trying to communicate a hidden message. Adrian thought.

  “But that means ... she’s ... if she was ...”

  Matthew’s smile broadened. “Our timing seems rather fortuitous. On the last Bank Holiday weekend, I think she drove to Pembrokeshire. I think she met some people on the beach in the early hours of Saturday morning. I think one of them used her car to try and retrieve our camera. And I have a very strong suspicion that her destination next weekend will be the same.”

  Hairs stood up all along Adrian’s forearms. “My God! This could actually be it! We should go. Get to that beach, hide, wait, and see what happens! Oh my God!”

  “My thoughts precisely. I’m glad you have such a sense of adventure, Adrian. We’ll have to come up with a reason for our absence on two successive weekends, but I believe we are onto a lead. Now, what do you think? Ought we to head back to London? I had plans to visit an ex-student of mine in Chelsea this evening and arrive on Sunday as arranged. But it occurs to me that we could hire ourselves a vehicle and poke about a bit in Pembrokeshire instead. What say you?”

  “Poking, no question. But you know I can’t drive.”

  “No matter. I’ll get behind the wheel, you can navigate. Where might we find a copy of the Yellow Pages, do you think?”

  “You can locate the nearest car hire company on your phone.”

  Matthew’s expression was dour. “I don’t have a mobile phone. I telephoned Ms Fisher from the call box in the pub.”

  Adrian shook his head in disbelief. The Man That Time Forgot. He snatched an opportunity.

  “Right. I’ll find us a car and after that, we’re going shopping. If we’re planning a stakeout next weekend, we’ll need the appropriate gear. Trust me, I’m good at this sort of thing.”

  As he turned his attention to his screen, he caught Matthew’s expression of alarm. A twinge of worry nagged at him, too. Nothing to do with finding something stylish in black, but more to do with their planning a trip to a remote Welsh beach to spy on drug traffickers. For the first time since the investigation began, Adrian missed Beatrice; her presence, her good sense and her natural caution. And worse, this was his first free Saturday night in ages. What the hell was he going to tell Jared?

  Chapter 22

  The dread of a bleak and cheerless weekend had built up for days. Beatrice knew she would be unable to stop working herself into a state. Worried about Hamilton’s scrutiny of her performance, fearful of more women suffering sexual harassment, afraid of having missed something vital in her casework, haunted by imaginings of what Matthew might be doing and with whom, and feeling generally lonely, negative and neglected. Even Adrian had plans for a weekend away with his boyfriend and she couldn’t face calling James. Dismal.

  Instead, she leapt out of bed at seven o’clock. She should have been exhausted. She’d stayed up till half past one, drinking red wine, batting around ideas with Virginia. It was all most out of character. But her colleague’s enthusiasm, intelligent analysis and voluntary assistance last night had buoyed Beatrice enormously. To such an extent that this morning she belted out some Carole King in the shower.

  At ten o’clock, Virginia would pick her up and they would drive to Wales, to investigate something which could be nothing. She had to be back by Sunday afternoon, as Matthew would return to spend the week in London. Compensation for missing the weekend. And she would find time for a conversation with him, a truthful conversation in which she voiced her fears. A little break and a change of scenery would do her good. Cardiff and Pembrokeshire on a sunny weekend. Beatrice’s spirits were fairly bubbling.

  Passing the exit for Chippenham, the Volvo XC60 overtook a National Express coach at 80mph, before returning to the left hand lane and slowing to the speed limit. Driving with smooth skill, Virginia made cheerful conversation, proposing theories and picking holes in them, offering opinions on music, news items and other people’s driving. Far nicer than the train, it had to be said. No one could call it an attractive vehicle, but the inside was undoubtedly comfy. From her elevated position in the passenger seat, Beatrice could observe the scenery and other road users, yet her attention kept returning to the same cyclical worry loop.

  If Matthew found out what she was up to, he would be hurt and disappointed. Adrian might be even worse, particularly as he was the one who had discovered the number plate. And she’d also lied to her counsellor. James asked her if she planned to tell Matthew, and with blithe confidence, she’d assured him she would. It was foolhardy, rushing off to Pembrokeshire on a whim. She should be at home, or in Finsbury Park Control Centre, protecting the public. She released a heavy sigh. Nothing was going to happen. She had Virginia with her and all they intended to do was take a look around. Their sex offender could do no harm either, as his shift would be working over the weekend. Until Monday, women of North London were safe. From him, at least. Another huge sigh escaped her.

  Virginia glanced across at her. “What do you say, should we stop at Leigh Delamere? Or press on a bit?”

  “I’d prefer to get over the bridge before stopping. I’m keen to get to Wales. Perhaps we could stop in Cardiff? Have some lunch and do the car hire firm today?”

  “We could do, but I think it might work better the other way round. Pembrokeshire first and the car hire firm on Sunday. Everything will be open in the holiday village today, so we can ask around the shops and cafés. But everything will be shut on Sunday. Whereas the car hire people will be busy and resent our intrusion on a Saturday. If we leave it till tomorrow, it’ll be staffed by a couple of bored teenagers, who’ll fall over themselves to give us any information we want. What do you think?”

  “Good thinking. So Pembrokeshire first. In that case, you should take a break when you’re ready. You’re the driver.”

  “Oh, I’m fine. I love driving, always have. I passed my Advanced Driver’s Test before I even joined the force. That’s how much I enjoy being behind the wheel.”

  Beatrice twisted to look directly at her. “I wondered about doing that test. Hamilton offered me ADT training, but I turned it down. Seems it’s not all about car chases, so I confess it looked rather dull.”

  “Not at all. It increases your awareness of potential hazards, teaches you more about vehicle handling and there is a small element of managing high-speed pursuit. But you learn to be more interested in bins than flashing blue lights.”

  “Bins? Is that some sort of euphemism?”

  Virginia laughed. “No, I mean rubbish bins. For example, you’re following a suspect through Chiswick. It’s a residential area, you’re trying to keep your target in sight, but you need to be aware of what else is going on. Tunnel vision is your enemy. So you notice that there are wheelie bins on the pavement. And you make the connection. If there are bins, there will be a bin lorry. You are prepared to come round the corner and find a bin lorry blocking your path, or oncoming vehicles overtaking it. You heighten your sensitivity to your environment. You do drive, Beatrice?”

  “Rarely. I live in London.”

  “What about if you move from London?”

  “If that were to happen, I’d start driving again, I suppose. Or more likely leave it to Matthew. Sorry, Virginia, I know I keep reverting to the same subject and I’m even boring myself. I’ve just got a real bean in my bonnet about lying to him.”

  Virginia switched off the radio and one of Beatrice’s low-level irritations ceased instantly. God, she was getting old, but really, was there anything more annoying than radio phone-ins? Wasps, perhaps.

  Checking the mirror, Virginia indicated and pulled out past a horse-box. “So tell him. Play it down, you’re just looking around, no cause for concern, but you’ve been honest.”

  “I think I just might. He’s due back from Rome tomorrow, so I’ll drop it casually into conversation while he’s telling me about the seminar. No big deal.”

  “Good timing.” Virginia nodded. “His head will be full of whatever it is R
oman scholars talk about at such events. Now you and I can concentrate on digging around West Wales with a clear conscience. Blending in with the tourists and looking normal.”

  The chances of that were slender, as Virginia’s black sleeveless dress and white blonde hair made for a dramatic image. Such a striking woman would always turn heads. All blending would be down to Beatrice.

  Porthgain’s tiny population was swollen with tourists, so it came as a relief to strike out on the coastal path towards the beach. Having inspected the spot where the photographs were taken, the pair made their way along the sands to the opposite end.

  The beach could not have looked more innocent. Families picnicked behind striped wind-breaks, children splashed in the surf, and further up the beach, a group of teenagers posed and smoked on the rocks. Beatrice, shoes in hand, allowed ripples of surf to wash over her toes, feeling the shifting grains beneath her feet. Virginia handed over her bag and sandals, hitched up the hem of her dress and waded out to thigh level.

  “There is a sudden drop a bit further out,” said Virginia, splashing her way back. “Ideal for bringing a boat as close as possible to the beach. All you have to do is moor it, jump off and walk up to meet your mate with the wheels.”

  “How would you moor it? There’s only sand here.”

  By way of response, Virginia pulled her dress up over her head. Underneath, she wore a black one-piece swimsuit. No gold embellishments, no halter neck fastening, no cutaway peepholes. For Virginia, it was surprisingly functional.

  “That’s what I was wondering.” She rummaged in her canvas shopper, bringing out goggles and a towel. “I’ll go and have a closer look.”

  She handed Beatrice the towel, adjusted her goggles and plunged without hesitation into the Welsh waves. Beatrice, dressed and dry in midday sunshine, gave a sympathetic shiver. She walked in the opposite direction and compared the overgrown access lane to the photograph in her hand. It must have been built for launching boats. Less used nowadays, but awfully convenient. She turned back to the sparkling surf, glad of her sunglasses.

  Hair sleek as a peroxide seal, Virginia walked back up the beach, dripping wet. Beatrice proffered the towel and an enquiring look.

  “Thanks.” She rubbed her face and wound the towel around her body. “There’s a concrete block out there. It’s lying on the bottom, with an iron ring embedded. There’s a rope, too. One end tied to the ring, the other tied to a plastic bottle, which floats on the surface, so you can find it easily. It seems our friends use this spot pretty often. Did you see anything up there?”

  “Not much. There’s a hard standing at the bottom of the lane, presumably for vehicles to unload boats. That’s where the driver must have parked. It would be useful to walk up the lane and see where it comes out. When you’ve finished, Little Mermaid.”

  “I’ve finished. And The Little Mermaid has red hair and a far larger chest. Jessica Rabbit with a tail.”

  Beatrice suppressed her amusement at Virginia’s choice of imagery. “Should we head back to the car?”

  “Let’s walk while I dry off. Then we should find somewhere to eat.”

  “Good idea. I suggest we head for The Clipper Inn. Firstly, because we can make discreet enquiries about ponytail man. And secondly, because they do excellent fish. Sea air gives me a terrific appetite, you know.”

  Virginia towelled her hair and picked up her shoes. She turned to scan the sea. “So it looks like they sail in here, transfer the stash in the dark and sail back to wherever they came from. What we need here is regular surveillance.” Her eyes ranged over the cliff top.

  Beatrice followed her gaze. “My point precisely. But can I get the local force to listen?”

  “To be fair, they may not have the resources. You’d need a pair of officers on open-ended night shifts.”

  Beatrice remained unconvinced. “Hmm. Perhaps.” They picked their way up the lane, heat shimmers suggesting tarmac at the top. Beatrice stopped. “Hang on, if that block was put there for the boat people’s convenience, how can they be sure no one would find the plastic bottle and the rope?”

  “Look.” Virginia indicated the strand stretching away from them. Most people had congregated near the central section, where the shore dropped away gradually, where there were fewer rocks and no shade. In contrast, the shadow of the cliff loomed over their end of the beach, clusters of seaweed littered the sand and the water crashed against outcrops of stone.

  “It’s not the most appealing part of the beach for holidaymakers, but it’s certainly convenient if you want to land some light cargo. That plastic bottle is far enough out not to attract attention from rock-poolers. And this is not what I’d call a popular beach. What was that noise?”

  “Possibly my stomach rumbling. Come on. I want fish and chips. I’m starving.”

  Virginia slipped her feet into her sandals. “Me too. Well, fish and salad, at least.”

  The long, hot walk from the beach was bad enough. But the increasingly frustrating wait for a table and the delay in service due to the number of tourists put Beatrice into such a foul temper, she felt the weekend would be irrecoverable. However, after they were eventually seated, her bonhomie was restored by a large plate of battered haddock, perfectly cooked chips and fresh garden peas, accompanied by a dry German white. The crowds thinned as they ate, and by the time the waitress cleared their plates, the pub had returned to a small, friendly local. Beatrice spotted the landlord sitting at the bar, chef’s tunic unbuttoned, with a newspaper and pint of ale, and seized her moment.

  “Sorry to bother you, especially after such a hectic session. I just wanted to extend my compliments. The food was excellent. Does it get this crowded every weekend?”

  A stained T-shirt and old jeans suggested youth. But although he could be no older than forty, his face was lined and tired. He ran a hand through ragged, greying curls, and gave her a weary smile. “Thanks. In summer, yes it does. Today was especially mad; there’s some event up at the fort. Did you go?”

  “No, we’ve been revisiting spots from our previous visit. We stayed in the Dan-y-Coed cottages over the last Bank Holiday. You were kind enough to recommend the restaurant over the road, which we plan to try this evening.”

  “Oh right. Dan-y-Coed cottages? You weren’t the woman who had trouble with an intruder?”

  “News travels fast. My name is Detective Inspector Beatrice Stubbs and I work for the Metropolitan Police.”

  He folded up the paper and gave her his full attention. “Gary Powell. So, whoever it was broke into a copper’s cottage. What a berk. And now you’re back to investigate?”

  “Let’s call it research. We had a couple of mishaps that Bank Holiday weekend. The thing is, I’m keen to locate a certain young man, just to eliminate him from our enquiries. I wondered if you could point me in the right direction. He’s quite distinctive, you see, and this is a small enough village for him to stand out. He’s mid-twenties with short brown hair but he has a blond ponytail.”

  The landlord scrunched up his eyes and nodded. “That rings a bell. Hang on. Lyndon? C’mere.”

  The young barman approached. How marvellous to be bestowed with such thick, dark curls. And glorious bones. An Eastern European perhaps?

  “Lyndon, this lady’s from the police. You ever seen a guy around who has brown hair but a blond ponytail? Youngish. I have a feeling he’s been in here, but ...”

  “Yeah, I know who you mean. Drinks lager. He’s not a regular, like, but he comes in every few weeks. Very thin, with a pointy nose. He’s always with another bloke, older. Miserable-looking git.” No trace of Poland in that accent, but could have been Pontypool.

  Beatrice cautiously withdrew one of the blown-up photos. It showed nothing of the bags, the beach and the car, but exposed the two men’s faces. “This one?”

  The lad nodded with definite emphasis. “Yes, exactly. That’s them. They come in once in a while, on a Saturday night, have a few pints and leave at shut tap. I thought they must
be fishermen; the clothes, the occasional visits, but I don’t know for certain.”

  “I see. That’s very helpful, thank you. And of course, neither of you would know his name, I suppose?”

  Both pairs of eyes flicked up and right as they searched their memories. Both heads shook slowly.

  “Thank you both very much. Kind of you to give me your time. Mr Powell, I’ll leave my card in case anything else occurs to you. And I’d be grateful if you could keep this to yourselves.”

  “No worries. Best of luck with your research.” Gary offered his hand.

  Beatrice shook it, smiled at Lyndon and returned to her monochrome companion.

  She tapped the photo. “According to the staff, those two come in here on occasion, always together on a Saturday evening. The barman said they might be fishermen, but that is mere supposition.”

  Virginia leant forward, chin resting on hands. “So they bring their stuff here on Saturday morning, hand it over to the contact in the SUV, come in here for a few beers, and sail back to wherever they came from on Saturday night.”

  “Sounds about right to me,” Beatrice agreed. “But what are they bringing and where from? If we could find out when they come in here, we might uncover a pattern. And if we knew their timetable, we could ...”

  “Excuse me? Could I have a word?” The barman stood at their table.

  “Hello, Lyndon. This is a colleague of mine, so you can speak freely.”

  “Right. Well, the men in the photo, I think they’re Irish. I’m not sure about the younger one, with the ponytail. But the older one told me once if ever I put a head like that on a pint in Cork, they’d throw it back at me. It’s not much, I know, but I thought ...”

  Beatrice smiled. “That’s actually very useful, Lyndon. Can I give you my card, and ask you to let me know the next time this man comes in? This is just between us, of course.”