Thicker Than Water (Alexandra Best Investigations Book 1)

by Jean Saunders

  ‘I’m afraid it could be far more than that now, Mr Price, but if you’re referring to Miss Best, I would urge you not to contact her for the time being. Leave it to us now. She’s no longer the only one concerned with finding your daughter.’

  ‘Don’t you worry. That’s the last the bitch will hear from me; she can whistle for her fee.’ He paused for a moment, and then his voice changed. ‘But you don’t really think Caroline’s in any danger, do you? She never had much time for my nephew, but I never thought he’d hurt her.’

  ‘You know as well as I do that greed can do strange things to people, Mr Price.’

  ‘My God, you do think she’s in danger! You think she’s been kidnapped, don’t you? I thought she’d just gone away for a while — you know what these bloody contrary women are like, and she’s gone off before without bothering to tell me. Calls it interfering, when all I want to do—’ Nick heard him swallow audibly. ‘Christ, I even tried to learn — anyway, that’s none of your damn business. But she’s all I’ve got, Frobisher, and I don’t want anything to happen to her.’

  His panic seemed as great as Laver’s now. Even his concern for his daughter’s safety sounded genuine. Perhaps he did have a heart of sorts, Nick thought cynically. Price went on talking, although it was more like gabbling now.

  ‘I thought she was just playing silly beggars, being too independent for her own good as usual. I’m going to her cottage to see if she’s back, then I’m going home. From what you say it doesn’t look good, does it?’

  ‘I can’t answer that yet, sir.’

  ‘Christ man, you people are all the same,’ Norman yelled. ‘Can’t you ever give a straight answer? You just call me the minute you get any news, do you hear?’

  ‘Naturally,’ Nick said coldly, thinking the whole of the factory must be able to hear him by now. So much for keeping his affairs private. ‘Can you give me the address of the cottage and your home address, please, sir?’

  Nick had already checked out the Chelmsford address, but he needed to hear Price say it, and the other man rattled off the details.

  ‘There’s no phone at the cottage. Since you already know so much, I suppose you know my daughter’s deaf. So we’d better exchange mobile numbers Frobisher,’ he said, taking charge.

  Once everything had been accomplished, Nick ended the call, and turned to his colleagues.

  ‘You know, just for a minute I thought the bugger sounded almost human. He seemed as frantic about his daughter as the thought of losing her money. I’m sure he had nothing to do with her disappearance, though. I don’t think he’d even considered that foul play might be involved. Weird family. Still, providing he doesn’t welsh on my instruction not to contact Alex Best, we’re on.’

  It had been a spur of the moment decision for him not to interrogate Alex in her office, and he certainly wouldn’t want to scare the pants off her — Nick ignored the frisson of pleasure at the thought — but the information he had received that morning from Laver had been more than an eye-opener.

  And now he knew that Alex was right in the thick of it, and he was prepared to sit it out in the car and play a waiting game until Alex led him to the missing woman and he could take over.

  ‘Hello, what’s this?’ he said eventually, as a powerful Harley Davidson motor cycle roared along the street and came to a halt outside Alex’s office building.

  He couldn’t tell who the rider was. He was dressed from head to foot in the obligatory biker’s uniform of black leathers, an aggressive-looking crash helmet covering his head and face. But once off the bike, there was a familiarity about the swaggering walk that Nick couldn’t place for a moment. And then he clicked his fingers as he remembered.

  ‘Do you know him, sir?’ DS Warner asked.

  ‘No, but I’m pretty sure that the lovely Alexandra does,’ he said, as the image of her way-out escort at Jeremy Laver’s classical concert flashed into his mind.

  ***

  Gary breezed into Alex’s office, replete with a hefty meal of egg and chips from a greasy spoon café en route.

  ‘Ready, doll?’ he said.

  ‘I’ve had a visitor,’ she replied abruptly. ‘And why do I have the feeling that it wasn’t entirely coincidental? You didn’t see a police car anywhere about, I suppose? But you wouldn’t have done, of course. He doesn’t use a marked one, our Mr high-and-mighty all-seeing, all-knowing superior—’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Gary said, as her voice began to rise.

  ‘Nick. DI Nick Frobisher. A mate — I think.’

  ‘A copper?’ Gary’s voice implied that nobody could consider a policeman for a mate. Alex glared at him.

  ‘People aren’t born coppers, Gary. They choose to do a bloody difficult job, and Nick’s one of the best.’

  ‘Fancy him, do you?’

  ‘None of your business. Anyway, that’s not why I mentioned him.’ She dismissed her momentary irritation with Gary and the stink of tomato ketchup and vinegar emanating from him. ‘He gave me a name that starts with M. I’ve got a strong hunch that it’s Caroline’s boy-friend, and that he’s the one who’s got her on his boat.’

  She couldn’t keep the note of triumph out of her voice now. She heard Gary whistle.

  ‘So why did this copper give you his name? Is he in on the search? I thought this was just your case.’

  ‘It is. I don’t know if Nick’s got wind of anything or not. All I know is that he mentioned a guy called Marcus Daneman, and once we get to the Broads I’m going to make enquiries about him. If he owns a boat and he’s checked in, or whatever it is they do, we’re definitely on to something.’

  ‘Then let’s get cracking,’ Gary said. ‘Oh, and I couldn’t find any old maps.’

  ‘I’ve got a few brochures with sketch maps in them, though they’re not very detailed. We’ll get better ones when we get there. We’re heading for a place called Brundall to start with, by the way. A girl at the travel agents said it’s less busy around there than the Great Yarmouth area, with lots of tiny creeks and inlets.’

  ‘I don’t think I remember it,’ Gary said with a frown. ‘But then, I was only a kid when I went there with my parents. But Daneman might prefer the busy areas so he can lose his boat among the hire boats — if it is a private one — and we don’t know that for sure, do we?’

  ‘Not yet. But my guess is that he’d choose a quiet spot in one of the inlets. Once Caroline realized what was going on she’d start yelling for help, and he wouldn’t have wanted to risk her raising the alarm.’

  She shivered, wondering what reaction Daneman would have had to that. ‘Anyway, I’ve checked the map, and Brundall is also the nearest part of the Broads from Wilsingham and Bishop’s Stortford for anyone who needed to go back and forth. So that’s where we’re heading,’ she said again.

  And it was her case, and she was in charge. She was driven by the need to find Caroline as soon as possible now. Nick’s visit had filled her with new anxiety. and although she had been desperate to know the name of the mysterious M, he was no longer an anonymous and shadowy figure.

  In Alex’s mind he certainly wasn’t the Adonis of Caroline’s diary, either. He had assumed a much uglier life and form to her, and was a real threat to Caroline’s safety.

  From what she had learned of the woman so far — feisty, independent, bitterly resentful of her deafness and totally resistant to accepting help or sympathy or pity, even from her own father, Alex could imagine the devastating shock when her so-called lover proved to be a crook — even a killer.

  She could no longer rule out that thought. Once they had started out and she was driving alone, with Gary’s bike roaring along at some distance behind her, she had plenty of time to think about what Caroline’s reaction would have been when she finally discovered the truth.

  If everything Alex surmised was correct, then presumably she would have gone willingly and happily to this holiday on a boat with Marcus, never knowing until it was too late, that his i
ntention was to keep her captive there until her birthday had come and gone, and her cousin could claim the inheritance.

  Alex had no doubt now that he was up to his neck in the conspiracy. He was the one who stood to gain, no doubt promising to give this Daneman a hefty cut for his trouble.

  But what happened then? What would Daneman do with Caroline once her usefulness had passed and she could identify him to the police? Alex didn’t want to think about it, but she couldn’t stop the horror of what Daneman might do intruding into her thoughts.

  The chatty girl at the travel agents had told her that the waters of the Broads were deep in places and shallow in others. She knew from her own researches and from grisly observation that it didn’t take much water to drown a body, or to weight down someone who was already dead. A body could remain undisturbed, entangled in the watery reeds for weeks or months, or for ever... bloated and distorted beyond recognition...

  A blast on a car horn behind her reminded Alex to concentrate on the road. She realized she was gripping the steering-wheel tightly and that her palms were damp.

  But for those few traumatic moments, she had wished herself anywhere but driving towards a possible gruesome discovery and murder enquiry.

  Whatever happened to the nice little domestics that Nick Frobisher teased her she was more suited for! And what kind of private eye was she now, letting her nerves get the better of her when she was hopefully about to leap the last hurdle?

  At the thought, the tension began to unwind a little, knowing that she had to see this through. She had to find Caroline safe and well. That was all that mattered.

  ‘Where the hell are they going?’ Nick said, cursing as a lorry and then a boy-racer came between his car and the car and motor bike he was following at a discreet distance. Any other time, he’d have had him for speeding, he thought savagely, but he couldn’t afford the time and energy on it now.

  DS Warner studied the map spread out on his lap.

  ‘They’re heading for Norwich, sir. It looks as if it might be the Broads.’

  ‘Christ!’ Nick groaned.

  It would have been difficult enough to trace a small boat anchored offshore — near impossible without the help of the coastguard — but on the Broads there were innumerable places where it might be hidden.

  ‘We’ll just have to hope the woman knows where she’s going,’ DS Warner went on.

  ‘You don’t have much time for her, do you, Sergeant?’ Nick commented, his eyes still focused on the lorry that was still between him and the others.

  ‘I think women should stick to the kitchen, and leave this kind of work to those more suited to it.’

  ‘A chauvinist to the end, eh?’ Nick said, breathing a sigh of relief when the lorry turned into a side road and Alex’s car and the motor bike were in sight once more.

  DS Warner grinned. ‘I always thought that was why they called us pigs, sir.’

  Nick ignored him. There were more important things on his mind than trying to put this charmer right. Some of them were just too blinkered to see beyond their noses. He frequently teased Alex himself, but it was never done with malice, and he had enormous respect for her — which this oaf didn’t.

  ‘Locate Wilsingham on the map, Warner, and see how far it is from Chelmsford,’ he said instead.

  ‘Within easy driving distance, I’d say — about forty miles.’

  ‘Is that all? You’d think he’d have checked up on the daughter pretty often then, considering she’s deaf,’ Nick commented.

  ‘It takes two to communicate, though. It could be that she’s the stroppy one, not him.’

  Nick recalled how Price’s scratchy voice had almost hinted at something of the sort. And he’d overlooked it.

  ‘Calls it interfering, when all I want to do—’

  And what had he even tried to learn? Sign-language?

  ‘You know, Warner, sometimes you come up with something really intelligent.’

  The two DCs in the back seat sniggered. Warner gave them a few choice expletives in reply until Nick yelled at the three of them to stop acting like idiots and concentrate.

  ***

  Alex was relieved to have a clear run up the A140 to Norwich, where a signposted offshoot off the A47 took her to the picturesque village of Brundall. She and Gary had arranged to check in at a pub for one night, and then see where they went from there. It wasn’t difficult to find a pub. The difficulty was finding one that wasn’t full.

  They were finally offered what were virtually two attic rooms in a B&B well away from what the landlady called ‘the activity’. There was every conceivable local map and mini-brochure available at the reception area. Alex was glad about the single accommodation, no matter what alternative thoughts Gary might have had. This wasn’t meant to be a dirty weekend, and she needed to think sensibly without the sex thing getting in the way.

  Once she had dumped her bag, she went into Gary’s room and spread out the maps and leaflets on his bed.

  ‘We’re on the River Yare,’ she said. Looking at its winding route, the river seemed to have as many hairpin bends as a mountain road, and her heart sank. ‘There are several loops and dead ends and a nature reserve in this part alone. The boat could be anywhere.’

  ‘Let’s hope to God this is the right area, then.’ He grabbed her hand. ‘Give us a kiss before we do anything else.’

  ‘Forget it, Gary.’ Alex said crisply. ‘I’m going down to ask the landlady where the nearest boatyard is. You can either come with me, or stay here.’

  He couldn’t miss the tension in her. This was no picnic as far as Alex was concerned, and somebody’s life probably depended on it.

  ‘All right, doll, don’t get het up. Hey, did you see the way that prissy landlady looked so disapproving? You with your classy voice and me being me. Maybe she gave us the single rooms to stop any funny business. Fat chance!’

  ‘Whatever. Come on, Gary, we don’t have time for this.’

  He was starting to get on her nerves now, and she knew it wasn’t fair to feel that way. He didn’t have to come with her, and she had to keep believing it was his good nature that had prompted his offer. But once all this was over...

  ***

  The boatyard was within easy walking distance of the B&B. In fact, everything was within walking distance of everything else. It was quaint, and the river was blue and sparkling in the sunlight, as idyllic and serene as anything you could wish to see. The pristine hire boats that were either moored along the banks or cruising elegantly up and down the Yare were enough to lure anyone on to the water. Except Alex.

  In her opinion cruising meant a luxury boat with all mod cons, not one of these caravans without wheels. Not that she had ever set foot on either — yet. To each his own, she thought with a shrug, but this definitely wasn’t for her.

  She left Gary gazing nostalgically at the boats while she went into the boatyard office alone. This was her job and she didn’t need telling that her plummy voice made it easier to get information than his East End one — depending on the circumstances, she acknowledged. It wasn’t so much a snobbish observation as simply a fact of life.

  The boatyard owner was large and bearded, and wreathed in smoke from an evil-smelling pipe, and Alex forced herself not to have a good cough in the dense atmosphere. She told him she didn’t want to hire a boat, nor rent one of his houseboats. She was looking for someone who might own a boat and she needed to get in touch with him as soon as possible.

  ‘It’s an urgent family matter, Mr Stockwood,’ she said, noting the man’s name. ‘I wondered if there was some kind of register for the private boats and if you knew of a Mr Marcus Daneman. I believe he’ll be somewhere in this area, but I don’t know the name of his boat.’

  ‘The wife deals with that side of the business, my dear. She might be able to help you, and then again she might not.’

  He was slow and methodical in his speech, but if his wife could come up with the right answers, Alex knew she’d be happ
y to deal with King Kong.

  Mrs Stockwood spoke in the same comfortable Norfolk tones as her husband and didn’t seem to notice the rank atmosphere. Passive smoking had a lot to answer for, Alex thought keenly, but she wasn’t here to pass judgement. She smiled encouragingly at the woman and repeated her story.

  The office was a jumble of papers and ledgers, and there was a huge wall map with flags stuck on it to indicate which boats were out and which were due to return. An enormous wall calendar detailed much the same thing. Alex was fascinated by the industry which appeared so haphazard to the outsider, but was presumably crystal clear to the Stockwoods.

  ‘Daneman — Marcus Daneman,’ the woman said, running her finger down a list of names in the book of private owners. ‘No, he’s not here, miss.’

  Alex felt her bowels wrench with shock. She had been so sure... so certain.

  ‘But he must be there. Please look again. Mrs Stockwood.’

  ‘If you knew the name of the boat, it might be a help, but there’s nobody registered by the name of Daneman. ‘Course, he might have borrowed a friend’s boat. They do, sometimes.’

  Oh God, this was awful.

  ‘Wait a mo’,’ the woman said. ‘I wonder if ‘tis the Sandpiper you’re looking for. There’s a weird chap who owns that one, big, rough sort o’ chap, gypsyish I reckon, and the boat’s only just about riverworthy. Not that he ever takes it anywhere, just leaves it moored in the reserve. It’ll rot in the end, I dare say. But his name’s not Daneman. Let me check — here ‘tis now. He’s called Peter Denny. Comes here now and then for the fishing anda bit o’ bird-watching. So he don’t sound much like your man to me. Sorry, my dear.’

  She was sure it was the same man. Daneman — Denny. If people decided to change their name for any reason, an odd quirk often made them choose a new name with the same initial as the old. It was almost as if they couldn’t bear to lose everything of themselves. She knew all about that.

  ‘Thanks anyway. Oh — and do you have an Ordnance Survey map of this area, by any chance?’ she asked casually.