A Dark Sin: Hidden Norfolk - Book 8

by Dalgliesh, J M

  "Maybe you deserved it, Harry."

  His gaze lingered on the photograph and he felt his eyes water. Hurriedly gathering the remaining pictures together into a small pile, he leaned forward and opened the door to the wood burner. The increase in oxygen to the fire saw it surge, the burning log crackling. He carefully placed the photographs inside and closed the door. The pictures caught alight, shrinking from the outside in. The image facing him was one of three boys, smiling at the camera.

  "Maybe you're not the only one."

  Tears came unbidden, rapidly turning to sobs as his lower lip trembled.

  "I'm so sorry," he whispered as the last of the image was consumed by the heat, the wide eyes of an innocent face still smiling as the image shrank and then it was gone.

  Greg Beaty wept. His physical pain momentarily forgotten as years of repressed feelings overwhelmed him.

  "I'm so, so sorry."

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Tamara Greave added the fresh coriander to the diced tomato, garlic and jalapeno peppers tossing them together, hearing the rice cooker click at the same time as her mother tutted. She ignored it, spooning out some of the mixture onto a plate and setting the remainder aside to go in the fridge for tomorrow. Not wishing to keep her counsel, Francesca Greave tutted again, only this time louder. Tamara, her back to her mother, cast her eyes heavenward and glanced over her shoulder.

  "Have I missed something?"

  "No, not that I'm aware of, Tammy." Her mother smiled in that artificial way she did when she had something to say but needed encouragement to say it. Tamara didn't offer it. Undeterred, her mum said it anyway. "It seems like a bit of a faff, if you ask me?"

  Tamara smiled, lifting the bowl from the rice cooker by its edge with a tea towel, moving back to the island, and ladling out a portion of rice next to the salsa.

  "I didn't think I had," she said under her breath.

  "What was that dear?"

  "Nothing, Mum. Just thinking out loud."

  She finished laying out her meal by adding the lentil dahl on top of the rice and picking up a packet of corn tortillas, she crossed to the dining table and sat down opposite her mother, already halfway through her own meal. The two of them sharing the same space to prepare different meals at the same time, in order to eat together, made for a challenging experience. Tamara offered to cook for her house guest, repeatedly, only to be knocked back.

  "It takes a while doesn't it?" Francesca said, cutting into her pork chop.

  "What's that?"

  "Preparing vegetarian food."

  "Vegan."

  "Same thing," Francesca said, hesitating as she raised her fork to her mouth.

  Tamara sighed internally. This was only the third or fourth time the subject had arisen in as many days. "How's your flesh?"

  "Oh, really, Tammy. But must you be so churlish? And it is lovely, thank you."

  Francesca frowned at her, but Tamara knew she wasn't genuinely offended. This was how they conversed with one another much of the time, always had done. They were too similar in character. At least that was what her father had always said. Tamara didn't see it, but such was the way with these things, he was probably right. The thought of her father coming to mind sparked her into bringing him up. She'd wanted to do so for two days now but openness was not something the Greave women did particularly well.

  "So, I spoke to Dad," Tamara said casually between mouthfuls, picking up her glass of water and sipping from it. Her mother continued eating as if nothing had been said. She might not have heard, but Tamara doubted it. "He's finding things difficult." Still, there was no reaction. "Mum—"

  "Yes, I heard you," Francesca replied. "The first and the second time. I'm not deaf."

  Stubborn and obstinate though.

  "I think he'd appreciate it if you called him."

  "Would he?"

  "Yes, I think so. Even if it's just to let him know you're okay."

  "Didn't you tell him?"

  Tamara took a breath. Her mother was a guarded individual, contrary to the image she always sought to project to those around her. That was a trait Tamara could relate to. Usually, it was hard to get a steer on what she was really thinking, but on occasion, much like now, the barriers she erected gave her away.

  "He misses you, Mum." Francesca inclined her head at hearing the comment, but she only had eyes for the plate in front of her, pushing the food around it in a culinary dance between knife and fork. "And I think you miss him too."

  "Have you ever thought, dear, that it's your veganism that's stopping you from getting a man?"

  That was also a typical Greave response when pushed into a subject you were desperate to avoid – go on the offensive and cut as close to the quick as possible.

  "I'm hardly unable to get a man, Mum."

  "Well," Francesca said, raising her head and looking around as if searching for something in the kitchen, "I don't see them knocking at your door, darling. And let's face it, you're not getting any younger, are you?"

  Tamara sighed. "Nice attempt at deflection, Mum, but it's not going to work," she said pointedly, smiling.

  Francesca returned the smile, raising her eyebrows. "I'm sorry if you think it's trivial, Tammy, but I would like to see some grandchildren before I'm too old to enjoy them."

  "Mother, you have four grandchildren already, three girls and a boy. A fact you know only too well."

  "Yes, but not from you, dear," Francesca said, smiling weakly.

  "Children aren't for everyone, Mum." She raised her eyebrows, casting a stern look at her mother. "You might just have to make do with what you have."

  "What about that nice detective inspector who works for you?"

  "Tom?" Tamara heard the change in tone as she said his name. This wasn't somewhere she wanted to go with her mother. "We're colleagues."

  "Yes, but you're his boss." Francesca winked. "Can't you – what would you say – pull rank or something?"

  "Mother!"

  Francesca chuckled and Tamara found herself smiling as well, shaking her head as she returned to her dinner.

  "Unless, of course, you are more inclined towards your detective sergeant."

  "Now you're just stirring, Mum."

  "Well, it's not natural is it? A woman of your age should at least be down the aisle by now and thinking about children."

  "Are you going to call Dad?"

  The doorbell rang. Francesca eased herself out of her chair. "I'll go, dear. You finish your rice. Brown rice doesn't have a lot of flavour to it, does it, dear? A nice jasmine rice will go a little better if you ask me."

  Tamara rolled her eyes as her mother hurried from the kitchen. It was galling. Tamara spent the first part of the week avoiding a conversation and now her mother had explained the reason for the impromptu visit, she was the one trying to avoid the discussion. She heard an exchange of greetings, her mother fussing around the newcomer in that overtly artificial, over-the-top manner that she was prone to. They returned to the kitchen, Francesca taking the lead.

  "Look who it is, Tammy darling," she said, smiling broadly. "Speak of the devil and he shall appear!"

  "All positive, I hope," Tom said, loosening his coat in the warmth of the house. He spied Tamara's dinner, frowning. "Ah, sorry. Bad timing."

  "No, no, it's fine, Tom," Francesca said. "Take a seat here, next to me."

  "Or maybe – seeing as it's work related – it would be better if you left us to it, Mum?"

  Tom looked awkward. Tamara met her mother's eye and Francesca smiled warmly.

  "Of course, dear. It's probably for the best if the two of you have some time alone together."

  The tone of the comment didn't pass Tamara by and the accompanying expression left her in no doubt as to what her mum meant. By the look on Tom's face, he hadn't needed to be present earlier to grasp the not-so-hidden meaning behind it either.

  "Thank you, Mum."

  Francesca smiled, picking up her plate to carry it into the kitch
en, gently placing a comforting hand on Tom's shoulder as she passed. Having put the plate next to the dishwasher, she left them to it. Tamara felt her face redden.

  "Sorry about that. Mum's just stirring… the embarrassment of having a spinster daughter is a matter very close to her heart."

  "Really?" Tom looked over his shoulder to the place where Francesca had been, looking back and raising his eyebrows.

  "What brings you out here at this time?"

  "Harry Empson."

  "Murder dressed as suicide?" Tamara said, loading her fork but pausing before raising it to her mouth. Tom nodded. "Run him past me again."

  "Anna Fysh states Harry and her husband are pretty close. She had him down as the one he would likely turn to if he needed help in some way."

  "And did he?"

  Tom's brow creased. "We're trying to ascertain if there's been any recent contact. Cassie is trying to locate mobile phone records for Empson but – because he lives and works out of the country – we've no idea who his network provider is."

  "No mobile at the scene?"

  Tom shook his head. "The airline confirmed Empson's travel plans and that he checked in online through his mobile app, so he had a phone."

  "Robbery?"

  "Wallet was still in his pocket, travel bags placed neatly on his bed and unopened. His place was immaculate. Forensics reckon he was most likely attacked outside due to traces of vegetation found in his clothing, probably as soon as he arrived home. I imagine he was either incapacitated or subdued and taken inside, no evidence of a struggle indoors, so I think he was unconscious before being hanged."

  "Waiting for him?"

  "Unlikely," Tom said, sitting back and stifling a yawn. "Sorry, late one today. Those beach front homes are all empty at this time of the year. No one is going to be lying in wait for a man to turn up. They could be waiting there until spring. Empson would have to be the unluckiest man alive or—"

  "They knew he was coming," Tamara said.

  Tom nodded. "My thoughts exactly. So, who would know he was coming home?"

  "His closest hometown friend might," Tamara said, inclining her head. "Where are we with locating David Fysh?"

  Tom sighed. "We're struggling there. His mobile phone is off and hasn't pinged on the network since he texted his wife to say he was going away on business for a few days. There have been no hits on his bank account and no transactions recorded on any of his credit cards. Eric checked with the Border Force and we have no recorded data to suggest he's left the country but…"

  "But?" Tamara asked, swallowing the last mouthful of her dinner.

  "He does own a yacht. It's moored at Wells."

  "Still there?"

  "We'll check in the morning."

  Tamara put her knife and fork together on her plate, loosening a bit of food stuck between her teeth with the end of her tongue. "What are you thinking?"

  Tom frowned. "At first, I thought Fysh had gone to ground. We're sniffing around his business and judging from the footage Gavin Felgate recorded, it would appear as if Fysh has been up to no good in his business: at one end of the scale cutting corners on quality or at the other end selling food not fit for human consumption. If it's true, he has a lot to lose—"

  "There's a motive to kill for, right there," Tamara said. Tom agreed. "But now you're thinking differently?"

  "Yes, it just doesn't fit everything else though, does it? Where does Empson fit in? Or the Haverson suicide for that matter. Gavin Felgate rigged the noose on Roydon Common… why?"

  Tamara exhaled. "You were talking about a photograph earlier on the phone."

  "Right," Tom said, producing the folded evidence bag with the picture inside they'd discovered at Empson's house and later shown to Greg Beaty. He handed it to her. She unfolded the bag and focussed on the image.

  "And what did Greg Beaty have to say about this?"

  Tom shook his head. "Not a lot, to be honest. He picked out Fysh and Empson but not the other lad, the one with the glasses."

  "So, what we really want to know is what did Gavin Felgate uncover?"

  Tom bit his lower lip, apparently thinking hard as she spoke.

  "If we knew that, it might help us understand where David Fysh has gone."

  "Unless he's just trying to stay off the radar for a bit," Tamara said, "leave no digital footprint while he…" she shook her head, puzzled "…what… cleans up?"

  "I had another thought regarding Fysh."

  "Go on."

  "Maybe it's not by choice that he hasn't shown up. Particularly in light of what happened to Harry Empson."

  Tamara scratched at her forehead, closing her eyes and concentrating. The complexities of their prospective theories were making her head hurt. They weren't there yet and needed more, but she could sense they were close. "I know what you mean but we have too many variables at play here. We need to go back to the beginning. The answers are there, I'm sure of it. In the meantime, we keep looking for David Fysh. If he has come a cropper, then we've no reason to believe his body would be concealed. Felgate and Empson weren't disposed of."

  "Felgate could've been a spur of the moment killing, though – for a reason as yet unknown – whereas Empson's looked calculated. They tried to disguise what happened to him. Very amateurish when you scratch the surface but still it was a considered occurrence."

  Tamara had to admit that was true. "Okay, but we still need to locate Fysh and determine one way or the other whether he's a victim or a suspect. Square one – tie those three boys to Ciaran Haverson, even if it's just by association, and then we can put the squeeze on Greg Beaty, seeing as he is the only one of the three still available to us at present. Do you think he could be the one?"

  "To kill Felgate and Empson?" Tom asked, immediately shaking his head. "Not physically capable. Not by himself anyway."

  "Has he had contact with Fysh?"

  Tom shook his head. "Says not… but he's holding back. We could bring him in, press him harder."

  "Not yet," Tamara said. "Go back and speak to people around David Fysh. Find out whether there's anything we missed about him that might indicate something else is going on in his life at the moment or where he's gone to. People talk to one another; friends, employees, neighbours… whoever. They might not have been willing to speak up before but now… with everything that’s going on, they might be more open, even if it's loose talk. You never know, there might be something we can use."

  "He's been spending the bulk of his time at the new restaurant in Hunstanton, so I'll head over there tomorrow."

  "The same goes for Empson," she said. "We need to know why he came back unannounced, his associations, back story… everything? It's a strange time to come home."

  "Cassie's already on it," Tom said, yawning.

  "Gavin Felgate was taking an interest in Fysh's business and also interviewed Greg Beaty. Is it a coincidence that they are both friendly with Harry Empson, who turns up out of the blue and winds up dead for his troubles?"

  Tom drummed his fingers on the table, rolling his tongue across the inside of his left cheek. "I wonder if Felgate had looked into Empson as well? Worth checking with his editor… and revisiting the files on his laptop while we're at it."

  "What did you make of this woman Gavin Felgate was seeing, Leigh…?"

  "Leigh Masters," Tom said. "Genuinely upset at Felgate's passing. She confirmed she was with him on the night he died but she left before he did."

  "And didn't know where he was going?"

  Tom shook his head. "Says not, and I believe her. She also claimed her husband is unaware of the affair – he is aware, by the way – and gave him an alibi for the time of death as well."

  "And you met him?"

  "Yes. He's angry… upset, and I think he's known for a while that she was playing away."

  "Angry enough to kill?"

  "Maybe," Tom said. "But he doesn't fit into David Fysh's vanishing act or Empson's faked suicide, so I don't know where to go with that. U
nless they're not connected."

  "But they are. It's all too coincidental otherwise. First things first," Tamara said. "Go home and get some sleep. We'll pick it up again in the morning."

  "Right," Tom said, pushing his chair back and standing up to put on his coat. The legs of his chair scraped on the tiled floor, echoing loudly. Francesca appeared as if it had been a call to summon her.

  "You're not leaving already are you, Tom?"

  He smiled. "I'm afraid so. I've missed Saffy's bedtime but it wouldn't serve me well to miss Alice's as well."

  "Oh yes, of course. Alice and Saffy. Quite sweet, both of them. You'd better run along," she said, looking at Tamara. "Not much to keep you here, anyway, is there?"

  Tamara shot daggers at her mother but Tom didn't appear to notice. He said goodnight and headed for the hall.

  "See you in the morning, Tom," Tamara said and he waved his hand over his shoulder without looking around.

  Francesca took the seat he'd just vacated, resting her elbows on the table and crossing her arms. "Honestly, if you'd told me all the men in Norfolk were this handsome, I'd have come across—"

  "Mum!" Tamara said, putting her head in her hands. "For the final time, why on earth did you choose to come here?"

  "Why shouldn't I come to stay with my daughter?"

  "Mum, why me? I have two sisters… and let's not beat around the bush, you prefer spending time with both of them far more than you do me." Francesca made to argue but Tamara raised a hand to halt the protest before the words escaped her mouth. "I'm not looking to beat you up about it, Mum. It's just the way it is. I know that you care for me – love me even – when you're not really irritated by my life choices, but why did you bring this to me?"

  Francesca's lips parted and Tamara read something in her expression, was it sadness, vulnerability… or something else entirely? She couldn't recall ever seeing it in her mother before. Francesca hesitated, appearing nervous.