by LJ Ross
“Or a hoard of silver coins,” Ryan suggested.
“Never happened yet,” she said. “When I first got into this business, I thought I’d be bringing up pieces of eight in no time, but it’s mostly been chunks of old wood and metal.”
“Never say never,” Vaughn muttered, and walked away to join Walker at the front of the boat without another word.
Ryan considered the man’s retreating back and, in the awkward silence that followed his abrupt departure, Ursula spoke up.
“You know, he’s always been that way,” she said, looking out across the sea. “Zero social skills; always looking for the next win, the next thing to make him famous. He’s the most ambitious man I’ve ever met.”
Ryan said nothing, long experience having taught him that people tended to speak much more freely without interruption.
“That’s where we always differed,” she continued, brushing her fringe out of her eyes. “He’s interested in legacy for his own sake, whereas I’m interested in it for all our sakes.”
Realising that she might have said too much, she gave a nervous laugh.
“I should know,” she said, in a brittle voice. “We were married for about five minutes, when I was young and stupid. Now, we’re very distant work acquaintances.”
She turned up her collar and gave Ryan a sad smile, while the boat’s engine sputtered and then rumbled to a stop beneath their feet.
“Funny how life goes,” she said. “I think we’re here.”
Ryan looked around at the unremarkable spot in the ocean, which looked exactly the same whichever way he turned. Knivestone was half a mile behind them, appearing much smaller than before.
It was time to see what lay hidden beneath.
CHAPTER 24
On the mainland, MacKenzie and Yates entered the pristine foyer area of Vernon Salvage Inc., a company responsible for marine salvage operations following incidents at sea. Their offices were based out of an old Victorian building in South Shields where, the placard in the entranceway told them, the family business had been founded in the early part of the twentieth century.
“Mr Vernon will be with you in a minute,” the receptionist told them. “Please help yourselves to coffee or tea.”
Never likely to refuse the offer of caffeine, the two detectives headed over to where an antique table had been set up with a coffee machine, its little pods arranged artfully in an antique porcelain bowl next to a miniature cooler that held jugs of milk and cream. Having fortified themselves, a more detailed glance around the room confirmed that there was money to be had in marine salvage, judging from a series of gilt-framed oil paintings depicting each successive generation of the Vernon dynasty, right up to the present incumbent, Hugh Vernon, whose jowly face stared down at them from the wall.
“You can see the family resemblance,” Yates remarked, and almost dropped her cup when the man himself materialised from one of the carpeted corridors to her right.
“Hello,” he said, warmly. “I understand you’re from the police?”
He was a short man—shorter than his painting would suggest—with thinning hair that was a suspicious shade of brown and complemented his year-round tan. He wore a smart, three-piece suit over a pristine white shirt and neck-tie, an outfit which might have been worn a hundred years before and served to give the impression of an unchanging, generational business.
“Yes, I’m DI MacKenzie and this is DC Yates, of Northumbria CID. We’re here in connection with the death of Amanda Jones, the harbour master at Seahouses.”
Immediately, his face fell into lines of concern.
“Of course, you are. It’s a terrible tragedy; I was shocked when I heard the news of what had happened,” he said gravely. “Please, come through to my office and I’ll give you whatever help you need. Kerry? I’m not to be disturbed.”
“Yes, Mr Vernon.”
They followed him along a plush hallway until they reached a wide oak door, which he opened for them.
“After you, ladies.”
It was strange, MacKenzie thought, how an act of chivalry could be charming in the hands of one person and creepy in the hands of another.
“Please, take a seat,” he said, as he ushered them inside.
MacKenzie came straight to the point.
“Thank you for responding so promptly to my message yesterday,” she said. “I understand you’re one of five members on the board of Harbour Commissioners?”
“That’s right, yes. I’m afraid a couple of our board members are out of the country at the moment and the others lead very busy lives.”
MacKenzie didn’t bother to argue that, when it came to a murder investigation, that was hardly a valid excuse for failing to respond to police enquiries.
“I see. Well, we’re especially grateful for your time, Mr Vernon. To begin with, could you tell us the extent of your relationship with Ms Jones?”
He tapped a manicured finger against the edge of his desk.
“The Commissioners hold their quarterly meetings here, which Mandy attended,” he said. “Of course, I remember interviewing her for the position a number of years ago and, naturally, I stopped in whenever I was in the area to say ‘hello’.”
“And, how would you describe Ms Jones?”
He puffed out his cheeks as he pondered the right thing to say.
“She was a very able harbour master,” he said, generously. “She was very easy to get along with, very bubbly.”
MacKenzie paused, allowing Yates to pick up the conversation. It was good practice.
“Ah, did you know of any reason why Ms Jones might have been unhappy or upset? Had she told you of any recent trouble she’d been having at work?”
“Well, we had our last meeting in September and she seemed very pleased with how things were ticking over,” he said. “There were the usual rumbles about needing more staff, of course, but that’s a constant gripe. Nothing I’d have said she was worrying about.”
MacKenzie changed tack.
“Can I ask who manages the harbour accounts?”
He didn’t bat an eyelid.
“The Commissioners employ an accountant and once a year we’re audited externally.”
“May I have the name of the accountant?”
A slight pause.
“Ms MacKenzie—”
“Detective Inspector.”
“I beg your pardon. Detective Inspector, I’m afraid I don’t know what our accountant could possibly have to do with Mandy’s unfortunate death.”
“That will be for us to determine,” she replied, in the same genial tone. “May we have his or her name?”
His face morphed, just for a second, into something ugly. Clearly, he was not a man used to being thwarted, and especially not by a woman.
“His name is Andrew Simmons,” he snapped. “He’s one of the managing partners of Simmons’ Chartered Accountants. They have an office on the high street.”
“Out of interest, Mr Vernon, do you also employ Simmons in your capacity as Managing Director of Vernon’s?”
“That’s a matter of public record,” he said. “Yes, I do. I was the one who recommended Andrew’s firm to the Commissioners.”
“Small world,” she said, with a bland smile.
Vernon remained silent, but his finger continued to tap against the edge of the old Chippendale-style desk that was far too large for his small, rounded body.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“It’s good of you to be so accommodating,” MacKenzie said, assuming correctly that she’d get more from the man if she employed a deferential tone, however insincere it may be. “There is one more thing. Could you tell us when you last saw Ms Jones?”
He leaned forward and linked his hands together.
“Am I a suspect in the case, detective?”
She feigned surprise.
“These are standard questions, Mr Vernon. There’s no need to feel defensive.”
He smiled,
but there was no mirth to it.
“Look, I’m sure you’ll find out sooner or later. Mandy and I had an affair, which lasted about eighteen months. It happened at a vulnerable time in my marriage and I regret it very much. My wife doesn’t know,” he said, candidly. “Mandy took advantage of this from time to time and asked for little presents. I have no doubt you’ll see a few cash deposits listed in her account, which must be why you were asking about our accountancy arrangements.”
The two women exchanged a glance.
“I assure you, the money was taken from my private account and not the business one here, or the Harbour Commissioners’ fund, which is something I don’t have access to in any event. As I say, I regretted my relationship with Mandy and was concerned that my wife would be hurt and upset, if she were ever to find out.”
He paused meaningfully.
“I hope, since I’ve been so honest with you about this, that you’ll exercise a modicum of respect for my privacy and agree not to tell my wife under any circumstances. The shock of it would be likely to make her ill, again.”
While Yates might have fallen for the lost look in his eye, MacKenzie was made of sterner stuff.
“I’m afraid we can’t give you that assurance,” she said. “As a matter of good practice, we don’t reveal what a witness may or may not have told us while in conference with another witness unless we feel the information is likely to elicit further useful intelligence. I can tell you that your private life is of no concern to us, Mr Vernon, and we appreciate your honesty.”
Much later, they realised Hugh Vernon hadn’t answered their question at all.
CHAPTER 25
Having drawn the proverbial short straw, Lowerson left a fresh tin of biscuits in Phillips’ dubious care and made the journey back into Newcastle to the Royal Victoria Infirmary. He had mixed feelings where the hospital was concerned, having lost six months of his life in a coma and thereby becoming a semi-permanent fixture on one of its wards. He’d been relieved to see the back of the place when he’d awakened, but he felt a deep sense of gratitude towards the doctors, nurses, consultants and every other healthcare professional who’d seen him through what had been—until recently—the worst time in his young life.
Now, he was returning in a professional capacity to meet with the police pathologist and, though it came with the territory, he wasn’t altogether sure his stomach was prepared for the sight of a cadaver so early in the day. It was an unusual contradiction that he could look upon the sight of violent death at a crime scene but found it much harder in a clinical environment; he supposed it was the fact that the mortuary reminded him inappropriately of a butcher’s shop which, as a vegetarian, he found repellent at the best of times.
Lowerson took the lift down to the basement level and, almost as soon as the doors swooshed open, he felt the temperature rise as a series of narrow fans pumped warm air out of the mortuary to keep it constantly cold. He made his way along the corridor to a set of metal-coated double doors operated by a security key-pad and, thankfully, he remembered the code after the third attempt.
“Morning!”
The senior police pathologist was a man named Jeffrey Pinter, who was possessed of an unfortunate, lanky frame that tended to reinforce the morbidity of his profession and today was no exception. He seemed to glide across the room, which was blessedly empty apart from one of the mortuary technicians whose hand rose and fell as they stitched up a Y-incision in the chest of the unfortunate Mandy Jones.
Lowerson’s stomach gave a violent lurch and he looked away, busying himself by entering his name in the log book and selecting a visitor’s lab coat. He took a bit longer than necessary to do up the buttons and then, when he felt he could trust himself, looked back to find Pinter waiting with a patient look on his mildly condescending face.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Of course, I was just—ah, so, what can you tell me about Amanda Jones?”
“I was sorry to see her, when she came in,” Pinter said, leading him to the far end of the room where the body had been laid out on one of the long metal tables. “Ryan said it looked as though she’d suffered a severe blow to the head, followed by a second blow to the neck or vice versa, given the visible injuries and the presence of what appeared to be the murder weapon—correct?”
“Yes, we found a heavy iron hook, the kind you’d see on a fishing trawler or something like that.”
“That would be consistent,” Pinter said. “We found traces of rust in her wounds.”
They came to stand at the side of the table and Lowerson cleared his throat.
“Ah, so there was no—no, ah, signs of anything in her toxicology to suggest another cause of death?”
At heart, Pinter was a decent man. That being the case, he angled his body in front of Lowerson in a subtle move that obliterated the worst of the view, to give the younger man some time to gather himself.
He had his pride, after all.
“No, nothing untoward. Her blood showed a very low level of alcohol consumption and nothing more sinister than that,” he said. “No, I’d say this one’s straightforward as far as cause of death is concerned. The carotid artery was severed in the neck, either before or after the wound to the parietal bone.”
“The pari—?”
“It’s just here,” Pinter explained, tapping the upper back portion of Lowerson’s skull. “I’d say both blows came from behind, too. The direction of the neck wound is revealing, when you take into account the shape of the weapon.”
He stepped aside again, and produced a retractable pointer.
“The tear is to the right section of her neck, here,” he said, pointing to the affected area. “If you look at the direction, it appears to drag down towards her shoulder, which would be very hard to do if one were standing in front of her. Much easier to inflict a blow like this from behind.”
As he forced himself to look upon the sad, stiff form of what had once been a woman, Lowerson’s stomach settled. For a moment, he’d worried that the sight of Mandy Jones might have reminded him of Jennifer, of what had happened to her.
But it had the opposite effect, entirely.
It hardened him.
“Nobody deserves to die that way,” he said, echoing the words he’d heard Ryan say, so many times before. He thought he’d understood them, but he realised he hadn’t, not deep down. He’d seen the victims as numbers, but none of them were. They were the shells of what had once been humans; mothers, fathers, friends, lovers, enemies. Their lives had mattered, to at least one other person, which was enough.
“What about time of death?” he asked softly.
If Pinter noticed a change in his demeanour, he said nothing.
“The report says she was found at around seven a.m. on Saturday morning and by the time the body was transferred to me, here, it was ten-past-nine. Her core temperature had fully acclimatised to the surrounding environment and she had lost pints of blood; whatever remained had begun to suggillate as she was clearly in the throes of advanced livor mortis,” he said. “Taking all of that into account, I’d say she’d been dead at least six hours by the time she was found, more, obviously, by the time she came here.”
Lowerson nodded.
“That puts her time of death at shortly after midnight on Friday night,” he said, thinking of the victim’s timeline. “Her daughter thinks she left the house around midnight, so it wouldn’t be too far outside the estimate you’ve given.”
Pinter tried to look humble but failed miserably. He was one of the finest pathologists in the country, and he knew it.
“Any defensive marks?” Lowerson asked, more as a box-ticking procedure than anything else as he had a feeling he knew what the answer would be.
“None,” Pinter replied, and looked down at Mandy’s body. “She didn’t see it coming, or she might have thrown up an arm, might’ve done something… well, there you have it.”
He seemed embarrassed by the unusual display of emotion an
d Lowerson changed the subject.
“What about Iain Tucker—any update on him?”
Pinter thought of the man who was presently tucked inside one of the drawers above Lowerson’s shoulder and decided not to mention he was in such close proximity.
“That was sheer waste,” he said, shaking his head. “Two in as many days, as well. Still, it’s no different to the homeless, the addicts, the lonely…everybody comes through those doors, at some stage or another. As for Iain Tucker, I can’t tell you anything you don’t already know. His injuries were such that it was impossible for me to say whether he died following accidental drowning, or he drowned following a blow.”
“It’s a case of which came first, the chicken or the egg, you mean?”
“Exactly,” Pinter said. “But the egg is definitely scrambled now.”
Lowerson pulled an expressive face and thanked the pathologist again, before heading back out and into the fresh air of a crisp November morning. He stood for a while outside, leaning against his car while he took a few deep breaths in and out. Strangers came and went, hurrying towards the main entrance, focused entirely on their own problems. That was the way of the world, he thought; it was easy to wake up each day and think only of your own small world but, when you were faced with death in all its multi-coloured glory, it tended to bring you up short.
“You need to stop listening to those mindfulness podcasts,” he told himself, and stepped back inside the car.
Death might come to us all, but it hadn’t come for him just yet.
CHAPTER 26
Josh hadn’t been able to sleep for most of the night and, when sleep finally had come, it had been disturbed and full of nightmares. When he awakened, he’d found Daisy missing from his mother’s double bed and was disorientated for a moment, trying to remember how they had come to be there.
Then, it all came rushing back.
Mandy.
He scrubbed a hand over his face and stumbled out of bed, a tall, wiry man with dark eyes and rumpled hair a couple of shades darker than his uncle’s. He caught himself in the long cheval mirror which hung on the back of the bedroom door and hurriedly looked away, not needing to see the fear in his own eyes, nor the shadows beneath them.