Viridian Tears
Page 27
“Yes, sir.”
“Not you, Detective-inspector. You’re supposed to be at home, resting. I meant Miss Jones, of course.”
“Erm…I’d be delighted.” Meinwen followed him to a side room with seats and a podium. A uniformed officer stood at either end and six rows of seats faced it. Mr. Prentiss, who wrote the crime stories for the Laverstone Times and the free Laverstone Enquirer, was sitting in the middle of the first row.
“On your own, Mr. Prentiss?” Chief Superintendant Jeffries looked disappointed. “I was expecting someone from the Daily Mail at least.”
“For a couple of petty criminals?” Prentiss opened his notebook. “So what were they forging then?”
“I haven’t said anything about forging.”
“No, but according to Miss Michelle Barrett the two were in the process of recovering forgery plates when you apprehended them.”
“That’s more or less…”
“And why did you send a civilian in to deal with the hostage situation? Isn’t that contrary to the code of police conduct?”
“Well, I…”
“And is it true that there were originally three in the gang, but one of them was shot by one of your officers?”
“No, that is not the case at all. Mr. Malcolm Glover was shot dead by his accomplice and ex-wife, Mrs. Vera Shelton. We then apprehended her boarding a ferry to France thanks to the quick-witted actions of another member of the public and the help of the British Transport Police. Ms. Jones volunteered to negotiate in the hostage situation and bravely exchanged herself for the bank manager, since she had every faith in the Laverstone police force defusing the situation. Which we did.”
“By DI White having a punch-up with the suspect.”
“That is not the case and you know it.” Jeffries’s voice softened. “Look Bill, just between you and me, what’ll it take to get a decent spin on this?”
Prentiss closed his notebook. “How about exclusive access to the cases as and when they happen. A bit of on-the-spot crime reporting?”
“I think we could arrange that.”
“And tickets to the Chief Constable’s Charity Ball?”
“All right.”
“Super.” Prentiss stabbed the air with one hand as if he was pointing at marquee lights. “How about ‘Killers Caught by Crusading Celt’ and a picture of you and her shaking hands?”
“I’m glad we could reach an agreement.” Jeffries smiled and held out his hand to Meinwen while Prentiss took a photograph with his phone.
“Is that it?” Meinwen tried to look for Prentiss as she was shepherded back into the public area of the station.
“Pretty much.” White took her arm and guided her away from a youth being strong-armed by Constable Brandsford into the booking area. “It’s all paperwork from here on in. Weeks of it, in fact, while the Art and Antiquities squad assemble the case and submit it to the Crown Prosecution Service. You’ll be called as a witness when it goes to trial, of course.” He turned left. “We’ll go out the back way, I’ve just seen Chief Inspector Wilkes lurking and since I’m not actually on duty I’d rather avoid the pleasure of his company.”
“I’ve never been at the back of the station.” Meinwen was surprised by the rain when they got into the open air. “I expected it to be more…”
“Salubrious?” White’s gaze took in the wet car park.
“Police-y.” Meinwen grimaced at the worn out tarmac and puddles filled with oily water. “I thought it’d be all police vans and attack dogs.”
“The night watchman’s got a corgi.” White pulled out his car keys. “Can I offer you a lift somewhere?”
“Are you even fit to drive? You were only discharged from hospital a couple of hours ago.”
“I’ll be fine.” White turned a full circle. “Or I will be if I can find my car.”
Meinwen put a hand on his arm. “It’s not still at the cemetery, is it? You left there by ambulance.”
“Ah. That would explain why it’s not here.” He pursed his lips and set off toward the gate. “Would you like to share a taxi instead?”
“Yes, if you like.” Meinwen took a few hurried steps to catch up with him. “Tell me one thing, though.”
“What’s that?”
“You mentioned the Art and Antiquities squad. What was on those forging plates?”
“Some old drawings, according to Peters. Dreary ones, he said, and he’s the one who did art at college.”
“Dreary?”
“So he said. Copies of famous etchings, apparently. Could be worth millions.”
Meinwen stopped, her breath catching in the back of her throat. “You mean Durer?”
Chapter 48
Meinwen waited patiently in the reception area. There was a new painting on display, a subtle blend of magenta and ultramarine that seemed to shimmer and dance across a field of cadmium yellow lozenges. The impromptu lesson in Eden’s kitchen a few weeks ago had marred her enjoyment of the work. If she squinted her eyes and focused on the foreground she could make out the maggots and the patterns of decomposition. She was all for the concept of ‘each to their own’ but she didn’t want to sit here looking at it.
“Sorry to keep you.” Eden held the door to the offices open and nodded to Emily. “I’ll be in conference for about half an hour. Emergencies only, okay?”
“Yes, Mrs. Maguire.”
Meinwen was treated to a professional smile. She was glad she wasn’t a client. “You seem busier than last time I was here.”
“That was when we were all at the mercy of those crooks, wasn’t it?”
“I meant the time before. You had an old gentleman urinating in the Cleansing Well.”
“Really? I wish you’d mentioned it. The vicar did say the water tasted brackish.” Eden opened the door to her office and held it open for Meinwen. “Mind you, it couldn’t have been that bad. He asked if he could bottle it for the church.”
“Remind me never to have a baby christened at St. Jude’s.”
“Are you likely to? I thought you were gay?”
“Not gay. Just discreet.”
“Sorry.” Eden pulled a sheaf of papers from a drawer. “I assume you’re here about the monolith?”
“Yes. I’ve sourced a piece of stone but it’ll be coming all the way from Pembrokeshire.”
“Is that a problem?”
“It is for transportation costs. I’ve started a raffle on behalf of the ‘Preserve Our Heritage’ fund but it’s not doing very well.”
“How much have you raised so far?”
“Seven pounds fifty.”
“And how much are the tickets?”
“A fiver each.” Meinwen threw her hands up. “Mrs. Pemberton’s not all there. I didn’t feel right charging her the full amount.”
“Put me down for a hundred tickets.”
“What? Are you sure?”
“Why not? Just tell the shipping company to send me the bill and I’ll cover it. Call it recompense from beyond the grave.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Edward Burbridge. You remember I cryomated him? That’s what started the whole charade, I suppose. Well, I phoned the beneficiary of the will…”
“George Burbridge, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right. Anyway, I asked him what he wanted done with his father’s remains and do you know what he said?”
“No…”
“He said, ‘Stuff the old buzzard for all I care. Scatter him to the wind.’ I took that to mean dispose of the remains in a thoughtful and caring manner and now he and his wife Shirley are in the tomb we found the chest inside. Only fitting, I–”
“Thought, yes. So?”
“Since George didn’t want his father’s remains, he also didn’t want his father’s tooth implant.”
Meinwen made a face. “Would anyone?”
“They would if it was a flawless one-point-six carat diamond worth seven thousand pounds.” She mimicked a silent shriek of glee. “And by the way we n
eed to set this megalithic circle thing as a charity, that way I can claw back some of the value as a non-taxable return.”
“Er…”
“David’s already drawn up the papers. Come on, Meinwen. Get with the program. New Eden is going to be the Mecca for pagan funerals.”
“Brilliant.” Meinwen stood. “I’ll…er…get on to the quarry then. Tell them we want it.”
“The sooner the better.” Eden Opened the door for her. “Let me show you out. Whatever happened to that chest we dug up?”
“Beatrice Burbridge had it in lieu of company shares. I was hoping she’d donate it to a museum but no such luck.”
“Pity. Eden walked her back to reception. “Can I ask you a favor?”
“Sure.” Meinwen turned to avoid looking at the piece of art. “What?”
“Can I paint your portrait?”
She couldn’t help a glance at the canvas behind her. “Not too soon, I hope.”
“No.” Eden laughed and tucked her arm in Meinwen’s. “Not that sort of portrait. An ordinary portrait. I thought in the style of Anthony Frederick Sandys.” She walked her friend to the outer door.
Meinwen racked her brain for the name. “Morgan Le Fay?” She nodded slowly. “We could do that.”
“Smashing.” Eden pulled her into a hug. “Do you need a lift into town?”
“No, I’m fine.” She waved to a restored Morris Minor in the car park. “I’ve got Winston with me. We’re going on a double date.”
Eden’s eyebrows could tell stories. “With whom?”
“Michelle and her new bloke, Federico.”
“The waiter from Corlioni’s restaurant? I thought he was married.”
“So did I. Apparently she left him when she found out he was having an affair.”
Rachel Green
Rachel Green is a disgraceful, red-headed Englishwoman well versed in the art of swordplay. She also knows several methods to dispose of a body. And a patio.
Also by Rachel Green
Laverstone Chronicles
Screaming Yellow
Sons of Angels
White Lies
Lyrical Press books are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2013 Rachel Green
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Lyrical Press and the L logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.
First Electronic Edition: October 2013
ISBN-13: 978-1-61650-487-8