THE CROOKED SHORE
Martin Edwards
For Nigel Moss, a connoisseur of detective fiction
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
DEDICATION
AFTERWARDS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
AFTERWARDS, CONTINUED
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BY MARTIN EDWARDS
COPYRIGHT
AFTERWARDS
‘So you want to know why I killed Ramona Smith?’
‘Yes,’ Hannah Scarlett said.
‘You disappoint me, Detective Chief Inspector. I thought you were a mind-reader.’
Hannah refused to rise to the bait. ‘I’d rather hear the full story from your lips.’
‘To satisfy your curiosity?’
‘Ramona wasn’t a bad woman. Selfish, yes, but many people are.’
‘She loved to have men eating out of her hand.’
‘But she wasn’t cruel.’
‘Wasn’t she?’ A shake of the head. ‘Perhaps beneath the surface we’re all capable of cruelty. Even if we don’t intend it.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘You sound sceptical.’ A long sigh. ‘All right, you win. Let me explain why Ramona Smith had to die.’
CHAPTER ONE
Why has a murderer come to Strandbeck?
Kingsley Melton sat on his favourite bench, gazing out over an expanse of sea and sky, shingle and sand. This stretch of coastline was jagged with tiny creeks and estuaries. People called it the Crooked Shore. Local legends warned that strangers who outstayed their welcome suffered seven years of bad luck.
Superstitious claptrap, Kingsley insisted if anyone mentioned this as he escorted them around the luxury dwellings at Strandbeck Manor. A story born of narrow-minded parochialism and misunderstood history. His heart wasn’t in the denials. He loved things of the past, even the old wives’ tales. Even if they did deter prospective purchasers, at least they kept the tourists away.
For Kingsley, the shoreline was a safe haven, a sanctuary from the rest of the world. The peace and quiet soothed him. He loved it best at times like these, when his brain felt scrambled. Some days he sat here for hours on end, as if hypnotised by the restless tides.
The water looked lovely, but to him it was frightening. He’d never learnt to swim, and in his nightmares, he often drowned. Always he kept a safe distance from the waves. Even so, they fascinated him. The bay never stopped changing. Sandbanks appeared and disappeared; by turns the water was dappled or calm. A touch of salt seasoned the air. Listen and you might catch a curlew’s mournful cry.
A skinny jogger passed the bench, loping away from the shore towards the bay. His hair was short and dark, and he wore a plain black singlet and white shorts. Without breaking stride, he glanced back over his shoulder, as if startled by the sight of Kingsley. A stoop-shouldered man in his fifties, smart in suit trousers and tie, contemplating the flicker of sunlight on the water.
Kingsley paid the jogger no heed. He was lost in dark imaginings.
What is Logan Prentice doing here?
Seeing Prentice again had shocked him to the core. Five minutes earlier, Kingsley had turned out of Strandbeck Lane to rejoin the coastal route leading to the Crooked Shore. A grubby blue Fiat van with a dented wing was parked by the roadside, hazard lights winking. The driver was down on his hands and knees, mending a puncture. Someone had scrawled Wash Me! in the dirt on the back of the van. As Kingsley drove past, the driver glanced up. He looked like a little boy lost.
It was a miracle that Kingsley didn’t swerve off the road. When he parked in his usual spot a quarter of a mile away on the grassy verge above the shore, his hands were still trembling.
Logan Prentice was in Strandbeck. That slender figure, the floppy fair hair, the cherubic lips, the wide-eyed mask of innocence, all were unmistakeable. Kingsley had spent two years trying to scrub every last memory of Prentice from his mind. Now the past had returned to haunt him.
It didn’t make sense. Kingsley associated Prentice with Sunset View, a care home perched on a hillside above Windermere, fifteen miles away. What on earth would bring him to the Crooked Shore?
Kingsley hadn’t set eyes on Prentice since a drab afternoon at Sunset View, with rain streaking the double-glazed windows of the conservatory. Prentice was playing old show songs on the piano, his hair tousled, a seductive smile plastered across his face.
‘I could have danced all night,’ he sang.
Never mind dancing all night, most residents of Sunset View couldn’t keep their eyes open for ten minutes at a time. Except for frail, little Ivy Podmore, fiddling coquettishly with her pearl necklace and smirking with adoration at the pianist serenading her. And except for Kingsley’s mother. Mamma sat bolt upright in her armchair, scowling in disapproval.
Later that day, Ivy Podmore was found dead in her bed. Mamma loathed Logan Prentice and was convinced that he’d killed Ivy. Smothered her with a pillow, it was easily done. Ivy’s fatal mistake had been to announce to all and sundry that she was making dear Logan her heir. The last instruction Mamma ever gave to Kingsley was that he must not let the killer get away with his crime. Within twenty-four hours, she suffered her fourth stroke and this one proved fatal.
Ivy’s murder was shocking, and Logan Prentice’s wickedness undeniable, but Kingsley had enough on his plate without doing the police’s job for them. His mother’s death had prostrated him with grief. What could he do about Prentice if everyone else thought the sun shone out of the boy’s neat little backside? It wasn’t his place to interfere. Anyway, he daren’t push Prentice any further, for fear of provoking a cruel revenge. The people in charge ought to shoulder responsibility. Instead, they were adamant that old Ivy had passed away in her sleep. Natural causes. The care assistants were unsurprised, and the manager declared that she’d had a good innings. As for the doctor … well, whoever they were, people in charge so often let you down.
Clouds swarmed across the sky; the afternoon was chillier than expected. Kingsley scolded himself for leaving his jacket in the car. Why in heaven’s name did he place his faith in the forecasters? They should be paid by results, like him. He gave a little shiver, not that he blamed the Met Office for that. It was all Logan Prentice’s fault.
‘I’ve got you under my skin,’ Prentice used to croon.
He’d got under Kingsley’s skin, all right. The man called himself an IT consultant, but he was just a computer nerd operating from a tiny rented bedsit above a Vietnamese takeaway in Ulverston. Prentice used to visit Sunset View twice a week to tinkle the ivories. He’d wormed his way into the home manager’s good books after repairing her laptop. She and her carers believed he turned up to entertain the residents out of the goodness of his heart. Their gullibility made Mamma snort wit
h cynical laughter. At one time she’d adored the young pianist, but she’d become jealous of Ivy, who was old and ugly and hopelessly senile, yet the apple of Logan Prentice’s eye. The young man always made a fuss of his pet, claiming to feel sorry for her because she had no family. He talked about spreading the love and bridging the gap between the generations. The staff thought him a saint, but Mamma knew better.
‘On the make, is that lad,’ she whispered loudly, prompting a carer in a bilious plum-coloured uniform to make furious shushing gestures. ‘Never mind those big puppy eyes. He’s only bothered about what he can get out of her. She’s so besotted, she’s changed her will. Her solicitor ought to be frogmarched out of the Law Society. Absolute disgrace.’
‘Poor old soul.’ Kingsley dreaded his mother getting herself worked up.
‘She’s as daft as a brush.’ One of Mamma’s favourite insults. ‘Acting like a teenage girl. She’s eighty-two if she’s a day.’
And because Mamma’s memory was fading fast, they repeated the same conversation twice more before he said goodbye.
Kingsley stared out at the bay. So often things were not as they seemed. This was true of his own life and it was equally true of the lonely coastline. From a distance, the beach appeared seductive. In reality, it was all mudflats and quicksand. The bay was a haven for birds. Redshanks, ringed plovers, curlews, you name them. They loved the mud because it teemed with life. Cockles, shrimps, lugworms, easy prey for those greedy long beaks. Natural victims. Like Ivy Podmore. Like Vesper, in a sort of way.
Kingsley ran a palm over his forehead. Throughout his life, headaches had plagued him. Over the years, the doctors had routinely dismissed his anxieties, and even Mamma’s sympathy rubbed thin. She accused him of exaggerating how poorly he felt in order to gain attention, but that was unfair. His life wasn’t straightforward; he’d contended with more than his fair share of bad luck and stress.
As for today, it was turning into a disaster.
He’d so looked forward to taking Tory Reece-Taylor out for lunch. At her best, she was delightful company, and the previous time they’d met, she’d been on top form. They’d kissed each other goodbye, and she’d touched his wrist and said how much she valued his kindness. But from the moment he arrived at her home in Strandbeck Manor, everything went wrong. Her greeting was perfunctory, and even before they arrived at the restaurant in Ulverston, her breath was sour with alcohol.
During the meal, Tory’s mood became truculent. She picked at the pricey sea bass, complaining that the doctors wouldn’t allow her red meat, and rewarded his cheerful chatter with monosyllabic grunts. He’d invested in a bottle of Chablis, and she knocked back most of it, which was par for the course, doctors or no doctors.
His confidence that she’d mellow once they returned to the Manor proved to be misplaced. Hoping to earn a few brownie points, he tipped her off about a forthcoming increase in the service charge for her flat, only to provoke a furious tirade. It was an own goal, an unforced error. He should have kept his mouth shut. Any chance of an invitation to stay for a spot of supper evaporated. Every other minute she checked her watch, making no secret of her impatience for him to be gone. Finally he surrendered to the inevitable and said he’d better make tracks.
‘See you soon,’ he said as he was leaving her flat.
‘Mmmm.’ Tory didn’t bother to get out of her armchair, let alone give him a farewell kiss.
And then, as if this rebuff wasn’t bad enough, five minutes later that bad penny Logan Prentice turned up.
Kingsley felt as if he were in a trance, his mind a muddle of dismay and anxiety. When he gazed out into the distance in search of inspiration, he spotted a dark figure heading straight for the sea. The jogger who had passed him a few minutes earlier. Must be. Nobody else was in sight.
Kingsley gasped.
Is he mad?
The bay was treacherous. Since time immemorial, the deceptive calm of the vast stretch of water had lured the unwary to their doom. Everyone who lived in these parts knew stories about people who were cut off by the bore and drowned. Beneath the seemingly placid surface ran hidden channels and shifting sands. The underwater landscape changed from one day to the next, wilder and less predictable than any kraken. Some folk died a few yards from dry land, caught by the currents surging up gullies between ridges of mud. The tide was ruthless. It never showed mercy or remorse, sweeping in faster than anyone could run. Even the swiftest jogger.
Kingsley got to his feet and shouted.
‘Hey!’
The figure kept advancing into the bay.
‘What are you doing? You need to turn round!’
Kingsley’s heart pounded. His waving was frantic. A terrible memory invaded his brain.
Vesper, Vesper.
Arms outstretched as if in crucifixion, he bellowed, ‘Danger! You’re in terrible danger!’
As he watched, the man stopped moving.
The currents were ferocious and the quicksands deadly. If your feet got stuck, you started to sink. As the mud sucked you down into its clinging depths, the liquid hardened. It was like being set in concrete. You pushed your arms and legs out to spread the weight and give yourself a little more time, but once your knees slid beneath the surface, it was time to abandon hope. When the waves crashed over you, there was no chance of escape. The more you struggled and fought, the harder the mud squeezed against your body. Trapped and helpless, you were forced to watch and wait for the incoming tide. Salt water rushed into your eyes, your nose, your mouth, filling your lungs until you could no longer breathe.
‘For pity’s sake, come back!’
Now he couldn’t see the man. Only water.
‘Help!’ Kingsley screamed. ‘Help!’
In his distress he turned to right and left, desperate for a miracle.
But he was all alone on the Crooked Shore.
CHAPTER TWO
‘This man who walked into Morecambe Bay last week,’ the police and crime commissioner said. ‘Darren Lace. Does the surname ring any bells?’
Detective Chief Inspector Hannah Scarlett considered. Kit Gleadall had breezed into her office as she tried to catch up with her admin. She was losing the battle with bureaucracy. This was her first morning back from a conference in London, where she’d presented a paper about the challenges of leading a cold case review. She was still surprised to find herself described as an expert in solving unsolved crimes. Impostor syndrome, her old failing. Would she ever free herself from its clammy, unsettling clutches?
Despite having been away for only a week, she’d found herself wading through hundreds of emails. Many had spreadsheets attached. The PCC’s arrival counted as a welcome distraction. Their one and only previous meeting had intrigued her, and the way he’d parked his bulky frame on the other side of her desk meant this was more than a courtesy visit.
Gleadall was younger than the typical PCC, late forties, at a guess. Belying his rugby player’s build, his movements were nimble, and he had the long, well-manicured fingers of a musician rather than a businessman. Although he’d made his money in London, he’d never lost his Carlisle accent. Fizzing with energy, he’d made no secret of his determination to break with the hands-off management methods of his late predecessor, a superannuated politician twenty years his senior. Since his election, Gleadall had hit the ground running. Running too fast for some members of Cumbria Constabulary, for sure.
Police officers hated any form of change, let alone change imposed by a rank outsider with a taste for sharp suits and a background in public relations. Like her colleagues, Hannah had feared the worst, but her initial impressions of Gleadall when he came to talk to senior officers were unexpectedly favourable. His questions about cold case work were incisive. Wonder of wonders, he even seemed to pay attention to her answers. Perhaps his heart was in the right place after all. Or did that simply demonstrate his expertise at marketing?
Her head was swimming with budget figures and the small print of internal recr
uitment protocols. Who was Darren Lace, why should his name mean anything to her? Preoccupied with drafting her conference paper, she’d barely glanced at reports of the Strandbeck suicide.
‘Sorry, sir, my mind’s a blank.’
Kit Gleadall showed his white teeth. He looked like a bear with a tailor in Savile Row. ‘Let me give you a clue. How about Gerald Lace, known as Gerry Lace, does that sound familiar?’
Yes, in some distant recess of her memory, it did. Was he a criminal? For some reason, she associated Gerry Lace with trouble. Not for her personally; she had near-perfect recall of her own cases, especially her occasional calamities, and she was sure he didn’t feature among them.
‘I can’t quite …’ she began.
‘OK, I can see Lace’s name means something to you,’ he said. ‘He was a prime suspect in connection with the murder of Ramona Smith. The disappearance of Ramona Smith, strictly speaking. Any the wiser?’
Hannah nodded. At last she had a clue as to where this was heading. ‘Ramona was the Bowness woman who went missing … what? Twenty years ago?’
‘Twenty-one,’ Gleadall said. ‘Ramona worked in a bar in Bowness. One evening she vanished and was never seen again. Nobody has heard of her from that day to this. All the evidence suggests she’s dead, but the investigation got nowhere until it was taken over by a very experienced detective. I’m told you used to work with him. Detective Inspector Ben Kind?’
Hannah hoped she wasn’t blushing. How much did the PCC know? It was no secret that she’d been close to Ben Kind during his lifetime. More recently, she’d got even closer to his son Daniel. At one point she and Daniel had lived together. Not so long ago, she’d thought that one fine day, they might become a couple on a permanent basis. Now she was less sure.
Brushing thoughts of Daniel away, she said, ‘You’ve done your homework.’
‘Yes.’ Gleadall didn’t preen. If he was vain, and Hannah suspected he was, at least he had the wisdom not to parade his ego. ‘So far, I’ve only skimmed the records, but it was an extraordinary case. I’m told Ben Kind was a shrewd cop.’
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