The Beatrice Stubbs Series Boxset One

by JJ Marsh

  “She’s gone home. I’m pretty sure you want to do the same, but could I just have two minutes?”

  “If it’s relevant to nailing our pervert, you can have two hours. Let’s go.”

  Ty spread the photographs across the table. Eight by fours, both colour and black and white, of Paul Avery. Leaving the newsagent’s, smoking outside the launderette, unlocking his front door, emerging in the early evening wearing a baseball cap, boarding a bus, pulling open the door of The Coach and Horses.

  “Everything we’ve recorded today fits the profile. He’s single, lives alone, drinks alone and at the paper shop he bought fags and a porn mag. It’s him.”

  A powerful conviction filled her and Beatrice pointed to the cap.

  “Remember the logo that thirteen-year-old drew for us? This is a pretty close match. Any ideas?”

  Ty shook his head. “Not yet. I’m working on it. I’ll find it, if it takes me all night.”

  His determination surprised her. “Good. Your commitment is ... appreciated.”

  Ty pulled down the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, well, some things get to you. As you know. Get some rest, DI Stubbs. And don’t worry. If he so much as farts, we’ll hear it.”

  She watched him head back to his desk as if he were preparing for a scrum. Time to leave. A blinking light drew her attention to her phone. Six new messages. On a Sunday? Maybe one of them was relevant. She really should listen to them before she left. She sat still, pondering Grant’s comment.

  As you know. Was her breakdown that well publicised, or was she being paranoid? She shook her head and gave herself an angry reminder. Concentrate on getting this man off the streets. For Paul Avery, there must be no next time.

  Messages, home, bed. She rested her head on the back of the chair and pressed Play.

  Chapter 28

  The First Class compartment of the 11.15 from Cardiff Central on Sunday morning was almost empty. Perfect for reading the papers. On his way back from the toilet, Adrian stopped at the door of the carriage to admire his styling expertise. Matthew had actually chosen to wear the black outfit they’d purchased, without any cajoling on Adrian’s part. And he looked superb. Black canvas trousers and a black silk shirt. Very gentleman burglar. If only he could be persuaded to cut his hair.

  Adrian was smiling as he retook his seat. Matthew cleared away some of the Sunday supplements to make space.

  “Your mobile telephone just rang. I’m not sure how to use these things so didn’t meddle.”

  Voicemail message received. Beatrice. He listened once, checked he would not disturb any other passengers, then played it again on speakerphone.

  “Hello Adrian. Beatrice here. It’s midday on Sunday, and it looks like I’ll be at work some time. It’s all kicked off again. But Matthew is due back from Rome this afternoon, so I wonder if you’d mind lending him your key so he can get into my flat. Please call me when you get this. Bye-bye.”

  Matthew shook his head in disbelief. “And what do you suppose that means? ‘It’s all kicked off at work’. She must still be in Wales. Why else would she ask you to let me in? She must have found something.”

  Adrian nodded, with a knowing smile. “More than likely. So you’ll have to pump her for information, in that Matthew way you have. As if you’d rather be reading a book about Hellenic myths, but you’re showing polite interest.”

  Matthew’s eyebrows rose and he blinked repeatedly. “Is it that obvious?”

  “Sometimes. And next weekend, armed with any info you get, we go back to Pembrokeshire, catch these smugglers in flagrante and hand everything over to the police.”

  Matthew dunked his teabag in and out of his cup, gazing out at the rushing scenery.

  “Might there be a point where we include Beatrice, do you think?”

  Adrian scratched his chin. He needed a shave. “There have already been several. Matthew, the only reason I contacted you was because Beatrice showed no interest. I only wanted to help, to find out what was behind this series of accidents. She didn’t want to know. Too busy, she said. Now, it appears she’s more than interested, she’s used my groundwork, but excluded both of us and gone off on her own.”

  “That much is true. Well, two can play at that game.”

  Adrian smiled at the stubborn set of Matthew’s jaw. “You’ll need to be careful, she won’t give much away.”

  “She may be more forthcoming if I take the ‘Come, come, dear, you’re over-reacting’ approach. It infuriates her and she displays proof and evidence and theories and everything.”

  Adrian laughed. Trust Matthew to know which buttons to press. “I knew you’d have your technique all worked out. As you should. You two have you been together forever. You know, she’s never told me how you two met.”

  “Yes, that is one advantage of a long-term partnership. It also acts as a disadvantage on occasion, because she knows me equally well. Now, my turn to use the facilities. When I return, I may need your assistance with the crossword. Excuse me a moment.”

  Full of grace and tact, typically Matthew. But unmistakeably a ‘No Comment’. Adrian was developing a nose for this sort of thing. And his nose told him there was a story there.

  The only positive to dashing back from Wales early on a Sunday morning, having told everyone he would be unavailable, was a full afternoon to get on with his chores. Distortion by The Magnetic Fields on the CD, his failsafe mood-lifter, windows open and rubber gloves on, Adrian began by dusting, sweeping and cleaning the bathroom. He chose not to hoover, as Matthew would be resting upstairs. He unpacked his weekend bag, put the laundry on, ironed everything in the wicker basket, then he showered and shaved. He changed into jeans and a cheesecloth shirt, then strolled down to Old Street to buy flowers and the ingredients for Welsh rarebit, to maintain the Celtic theme. He’d buy enough for three, in case Beatrice was hungry when she got home.

  At seven, Matthew knocked on the front door.

  “Hello. Still no sign of her? Come in, come in.” Adrian wafted his hand inwards.

  “She’s just called to say she’s on her way home. So I popped out and bought some bits and bobs from the delicatessen. Thought you’d like to join us for a snack. Two bottles of Franciacorta chilling in the fridge, an array of Mediterranean treats and an opportunity to combine forces. What do you say?”

  With a gratified thrill, Adrian noticed Matthew hadn’t changed his clothes. He must have recognised how they suited him and wanted to show off. From frump to fox in just two days. Adrian had worked his magic. But he knew better than to offer a compliment.

  “Wonderful. For my part, I can contribute cheese and spring onions. Have we got our story straight?”

  “I feel confident. And you?”

  “Let’s go and face the woman. United we stand.”

  When the downstairs door finally slammed, Adrian jumped, spilling his drink as Matthew scrambled to his feet. Adrian called on all his performance training, leant back on the sofa and flicked through a Sunday supplement.

  Beatrice looked awful. Tired, grey and pissed off. Perhaps the impromptu gathering was not such a great idea.

  “Hello, Old Thing! Adrian and I got some snacks for you. We thought you might be hungry. Was your day appalling?”

  Beatrice placed her bag on the chair. “Hello Matthew, and hello Adrian. Give me a minute, would you?” She disappeared into the bathroom.

  Adrian re-read the same page of an article on Corsica four times and still had no idea what it was about. Matthew picked up a bottle and was twisting the cork when they heard the sound of the shower start. He stopped and cast a worried glance at Adrian.

  “She’s just got back from a long drive. She’s bound to be tired,” Adrian reassured him in a whisper. “But if she’s still crabby afterwards, I may leave you to it.”

  Finally Beatrice emerged, hair combed back and wearing a deep blue bathrobe with matching towelling slippers. She offered them both a smile.

  “Sorry I’m late. Hellish day. Ooh, this sp
read looks lovely. I tell you, this is just what I needed. What are we drinking? Franciacorta? Fresh from Rome, I suppose. How was the seminar? And what about you, Adrian, did you and Jared have a lovely weekend?” She picked up a stuffed pimento and bit off the end.

  Adrian’s sensors twitched. Beatrice was furious. Brightly, cheerfully hiding it, but ready to blow like a mushroom cloud. It might be better to leave. But she hadn’t finished.

  “Let me tell you about mine. While pursuing a lead regarding the stolen camera, I received a call summoning me back to Head Office. Our sexual predator, assumed to be safely at work, attacked an autistic child. Everything has escalated and I am in danger of losing my position on this case. But the best was yet to come. Just before I left the office, I discovered my neighbour and my partner have formed an alliance against me, lied to me, and attempted delicate investigative work in great hob-nailed boots. And Matthew seems to have adopted a whole new look. Are you two about to announce your imminent engagement?”

  Her voice was harsh and raw as she grabbed one of the glasses Matthew had poured.

  “So, to what shall we toast?”

  Matthew looked at Adrian and indicated the door with his eyes. Adrian leapt up in relief.

  “Beatrice, I’m sorry you had such a horrible day. But we’re on your side, both of us. I’ll let Matthew explain.”

  He sidled out the door and returned downstairs. They couldn’t have a row. Not those two. He could no more imagine them arguing than he could imagine drinking a 1987 Petrus Pomerol from a box.

  And to add to his discomfort, he’d left his dinner upstairs. Ransacking the kitchen, he found a bottle of Belgian beer, a packet of kettle chips and two Portuguese Salpicão sausages. He placed the assortment on a tray and sat in front of the silent television, listening for sounds from upstairs. No screaming, no slamming of doors, no throwing of crockery. Not really their style. He picked up the remote control and looked miserably at the tray on his lap. Crisps, meat and beer. All he needed now was football and he could be a screaming great straight.

  Chapter 29

  Five-forty a.m. and she could tell Matthew was awake. His breathing remained deep and regular, but she knew he wasn’t sleeping. Same as he must know she was faking. Both listening, both worrying. She performed a mental scan of herself.

  Physical state: better. Sleep had helped.

  Mood: bad. Dead weights of guilt and mistrust exerting downward pull.

  Attitude toward the day ahead: uncertain, troubled.

  “Matthew, look, I ... I’m sorry.”

  Unlike her, he spoke without hesitation, keeping his eyes closed. “So am I. It was foolish and irresponsible to lie to you. For Adrian and me, this was a bit of a game. For you, I think it’s something closer to home.”

  “Of course it’s closer to home. Investigation is my job, and your amateur attempts at helping could put the outcome at risk. Sorry. I’m not going to start on that again.”

  “That’s a blessing. You made your point last night and I subsequently apologised. But that wasn’t what I meant. I think this is personal. You are trying to protect me, somehow. You think because I suffered a loss, that of my camera, it is in some way your responsibility to make it good. You mistrust Adrian and me because we are not police officers. That is perfectly understandable. Yet you do not have to do this alone.” He opened his eyes and turned to her.

  In that second, looking into his dark, intelligent eyes, a surge of love surprised her. She couldn’t lie.

  “If only it were that noble. No, I’m not your avenging angel; I’m trying to prove myself right. I didn’t tell you because I wanted to spare you the worry, in the first place. I wanted to round up enough evidence so that Hamilton would open a joint case with the Dyfed-Powys force. As I said last night, I had no plan to investigate this solo. Things just barrelled along. Hamilton refused, Adrian got involved and then I told Virginia. But by that time, yes, it had become personal. I had something to prove.”

  “That I can believe. You had something to prove to Hamilton. He’s the one who suspects you of not being up to the job. Beatrice, Hamilton will never understand your disorder. When it comes to mental health, he’s old school; stuff and nonsense, pull yourself together. You’ll probably end your days still trying to prove yourself to that upper-class arse. On the other hand, I do understand. As much as anyone can who isn’t actually bipolar. We both know your job doesn’t help your condition; in fact it may even make things worse. But I supported your decision to go back to work. I told you the same thing as I drove you home from that clinic. I know you need a certain ... validation from colleagues.”

  Impressed and disturbed by how clearly Matthew could see her, Beatrice tried to smile as tears began an assault.

  He hadn’t finished. “I’m not Hamilton. I’ve never doubted your competence, your skill or your intelligence. I know how abysmal things must have seemed if you thought ending your life was the only solution. And it tore me into wretched pieces to think I couldn’t help you. So we made a choice, as I recall. We chose to manage these black dogs. Together. You have James, you have your stabilisers, you have me, and you have your job. All working together, we can keep this under control. The point is, Old Thing, if you knock one of your supports away, you’re going to have less balance.”

  Nodding and crying and snuffling, she could barely even see him. She sat up and groped for tissues. He was absolutely right. Why was her life one mindless loop of warnings about fire and sticking her fingers in the flames? She needed help. She had help. So why did she persist in trying to do without?

  “I’m sorry. I never seem to get better at this. James will despair of me.”

  “As James will surely tell you, getting better is not the issue. The only lesson you need to learn is this: allowing yourself to lean on your support structure doesn’t make you weak. The effect is precisely the opposite.”

  She slid back under the duvet, clutching her tissue, and shuffled into Matthew’s embrace. He kissed her temple and rested his head on hers.

  “I thought you were having an affair,” she murmured.

  A deep chuckle rumbled through his chest. “With Adrian? Discovering my true sexuality at sixty?”

  “No. With some Roman trollop.”

  “Well, the same thought crossed my mind when I found you’d lied to us.”

  Beatrice snorted with laughter, then twisted to examine his face.

  “You’re serious! An affair? Who on earth with?”

  “I don’t know. Virginia? That macho sergeant you mentioned?”

  “Those are my choices? A straight woman or a gorilla?” She relaxed and shook her head. “I know when I’m well off.”

  Warmth, security and a sense of having had a lucky escape filled her whole body. Yet one part remained hollow and empty.

  “Matthew, I know it’s terribly early, but I’m hungry.”

  “Me too. A handful of olives is barely enough to keep body and soul together. Do you have all the ingredients for Eggs Florentine?”

  “I do, if you’ll accept frozen spinach.”

  “In that case, I’ll make breakfast, on the condition that you promise me something.”

  “No more half-truths?”

  “That, and you allow us to help. I think with your guidance, Adrian and I could prove useful in terms of legwork.”

  Beatrice thought for a moment. “If you give me a guarantee that you will not improvise, take chances, run risks or do anything without express permission, it’s a possibility. I’ll be hog-tied to London until we’ve got that disgusting excuse for a man off the streets, so any Welsh trips are out of the question for me. But you must faithfully promise. And mean it.”

  He rose and pulled on his dressing-gown. “Understood. I’ll pop into Oddbins later and pass on the good news. Shall I invite Adrian to dine with us, so we can discuss how best to proceed? Or perhaps should I say, take instructions?

  “Good idea, I owe him several dinners. Do apologise for my theatrics l
ast night. I wasn’t myself. Right, I’ll have a quick shower. Oh, Matthew?”

  “I know. You want yours fried, not poached.”

  “Naturally. But what I wanted to say was, I think you’re wonderful.”

  “You’re not so bad yourself.”

  As Beatrice stepped under the cascade of warm water, she felt lighter, almost skittish, and very, very lucky.

  Chapter 30

  Karen Harrison’s nerves showed after the Friday morning presentation. As Beatrice brought up the lights, Karen sat on her hands. Beatrice softened, recalling her own use of the exact same technique to disguise visible trembles. None of the three women spoke for a moment.

  Virginia must have also noticed the young officer’s tension and began addressing the girl by her first name.

  “Karen, you’re doing a storming job. It’s been a long, tense week for all of us. Not your fault he hasn’t bitten yet. But all the signs point to this weekend, which is why we wanted to talk to you again. If there is any aspect of this operation that makes you uncomfortable, or anything that’s not wholly clear, I’d like to hear about it. Your safety comes before everything. If you feel in any way vulnerable, it would be useful to let us know. Now.”

  “No, ma’am, I’m confident.” To Beatrice, Harrison sounded anything but. Her pale skin, wide eyes and determined jaw triggered thoughts of teenage Russian gymnasts.

  “Good for you,” Beatrice chimed in. “All we really want is your perspective. Remember, DI Lowe and I are on the outside. We’re guessing, analysing and making predictions from our standpoint. But you? You’re in the victims’ shoes. Help us, Karen. Are we missing anything? Do you feel there’s a vulnerable side?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Officers ahead, behind, watching on camera, response units and several vehicles on the route. What could he possibly do?”

  Virginia scrunched up her eyes and sucked air through her teeth in exasperation. “Karen, you have to be realistic about the risks. You can’t just wander into this like bloody Bambi. He could pull a gun and take you hostage. Or a knife and stab you, slit your throat. It will take any one of our back-up team at least ninety seconds to get to you, and ...”