‘Sounds like a narrow escape. People have drowned in the Rothay before now.’
‘Louise says she’s lucky to have lived to tell the tale. She owes the woman a lot. And she likes her, says they’ve got a lot in common.’
‘Thank goodness she’s OK.’ Hannah shook her head. ‘Talking of new pals, my latest boyfriend moves in tomorrow, but it’s nice of you to drop by.’
He laughed. ‘I take nothing for granted.’
‘You think I believe that? You’re a man, aren’t you?’ She stroked his dark hair. ‘So how was the last leg of your trip?’
‘Fantastic.’ He yawned again. ‘I actually walked on the famous grassy knoll.’
The last stop on his itinerary had been a conference in Dallas, where he’d presented a paper on the Kennedy assassination. A publisher in the States wanted him to write a whole new book about the case. As if there weren’t enough.
‘Exciting?’
He pulled a face. ‘It’s no Helvellyn. Just a tiny wedge of land squeezed between a wooden fence and a highway underpass. But there’s something about seeing a place for yourself. Watching old movie reels doesn’t compare. Not that I’m going to write about JFK. I told my publisher, I don’t want to waste years of my life arguing with conspiracy theorists.’
‘What, then?’
‘I’ve pitched a synopsis for a history of unsolved deaths. From Zoroaster to Gareth Williams.’
‘Gareth Williams?’
‘The spy who was found padlocked in a bag.’
She gestured to the huge suitcase he’d left by the door. It looked big enough to accommodate a small person.
‘You’re not preparing the ground for some kind of confession, I hope?’
He laughed. ‘Luckily, my agent and editor like the idea, so I don’t need to resort to murder. Since meeting you, I’ve become fascinated by unsolved mysteries. While I was in the States I kept thinking back to the Dungeon House …’
‘It’s a year ago now.’
‘I can’t quite put it out of my mind,’ he said. ‘Can you?’
She shook her head. Sometimes she doubted if she’d ever forget the chilling resolution of her last homicide enquiry. Since then, she’d kept busy with other forms of unfinished criminal business.
‘You’ll never guess,’ she said. ‘The new PCC has asked me to look at an even older murder case. A waitress disappeared without a trace from Bowness, and all the evidence pointed to murder.’
‘Anyone in the frame?’
‘Yes, but the prime suspect was found not guilty.’ She hesitated. ‘As a matter of fact, he was arrested by your dad.’
‘I suppose that in those days, there weren’t many major cases where he wasn’t called in.’
‘He wasn’t happy with the outcome of this one. Does the name Ramona Smith mean anything to you?’ Daniel’s face was blank. ‘The man accused of killing her was called Gerald Lace. Despite his acquittal, he never shook off the shroud of suspicion. He walked out into Morecambe Bay and drowned himself.’
‘Almost as good as admitting that he did it.’
‘Not necessarily. His family campaigned on his behalf. The widow made a huge song and dance about it, reckoned he was a victim. Now his son’s former partner is leading the crusade.’
‘Don’t tell me.’ Daniel’s tone sharpened. ‘Complaints about police harassment? Big Bad Ben Kind?’
‘A formal complaint was made at the time, but rejected.’
‘So of course their response was to complain about a whitewash?’
‘More than likely. I haven’t studied the details. It was a long time ago. What’s brought the case back into the public eye is the recent anniversary of Gerald Lace’s death. Twenty years after he committed suicide, his son jogged out from Strandbeck and did exactly the same thing.’
Daniel stared. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Unfortunately, yes.’ She paused. ‘Didn’t you once write something called History Repeats Itself?’
‘Subtitled But Never in Quite the Same Way. Hardly an original title, my only defence is that it was my very first book.’
‘Fits the bill here. This latest death has prompted the media to dig up the old story and given the journalists who don’t love us a chance to put the boot in. That’s why the PCC is desperate to be seen to be taking action. Every cloud, though. He’s giving me two more detectives. It’s still not quite …’
‘So the press say that Dad got it wrong?’
His tone was biting. She cursed herself for mentioning the case before the two of them had taken time to get properly reacquainted. Preferably in bed.
‘Journos will say anything to sell papers. Or paywall subscriptions. Our job is to investigate the case with an open mind; you know the drill.’
‘I know that after a man’s death, it’s easy to point the finger,’ Daniel snapped.
Just as you jumped to the conclusion that Gerry Lace’s suicide meant he was guilty of murder, Hannah was tempted to say. She bit her tongue. Daniel wasn’t usually so defensive about his father. Lack of sleep explained the tetchiness.
‘Look, you must be shattered after the flight. Let me make some coffee.’
Daniel shrugged, and she went into the kitchen. When she returned five minutes later with two steaming mugs, he was dead to the world.
Breathless and exhausted, Kingsley detached himself from Tory and rolled on to his side.
‘See?’ She untucked her arm. ‘There was no need to worry.’
The last time they’d tried to make love had been a catastrophe. He’d tried to keep pace with her drinking and afterwards he’d told himself that explained his failure. Or maybe age was catching up with him. It seemed so cruel. He’d barely begun to enjoy life after escaping from the maternal shadow. Frustrated and half-pissed, she’d uttered harsh words that he preferred to forget. But now at last they’d consummated their relationship.
‘Was that good?’ Right now he felt bold enough to tempt fate.
‘Mmmm. Did that make you happy?’
He caressed her warm, plump breast. ‘Very.’
‘You deserve it after such a ghastly experience. How horrible it must have been, watching that man die. Right in front of your eyes.’
He said nothing. Her choice of words struck him as unfortunate. Why did she have to make it sound as though she’d been administering therapy or undertaking a charitable mission? At once he rebuked himself. No need to go looking for something to be upset about. This was a moment to savour. He’d never forget it.
‘Tell me this.’ Kingsley was conscious of her body tensing. ‘When you realised what was happening to him, how did you feel?’
The question shocked him, and he didn’t dare to answer. He closed his eyes, but when he opened them again, the bedside light was still on, and Tory was propped up on her elbow, studying him as if he were a laboratory exhibit.
He ought to feel honoured. An attractive woman like this, someone who could pick and choose, was willing to share her bed with him. It was a privilege. Yet he felt a prickle of anxiety.
‘What is it?’ he murmured.
‘It’s such a weird story,’ she said softly, ‘what happened on the beach.’
He craned his neck, trying to check the time on the alarm clock, but she was in the way and he was too tired to move.
‘It’s late,’ he said feebly. ‘Let’s not …’
‘I can’t help being curious,’ she said. ‘You lived in the same place as the murdered woman. She must have been much the same age as you.’
Her scrutiny was unrelenting.
‘I suppose so,’ he admitted.
‘Yet she never crossed your path?’
‘Never. I told you.’
‘And then there was that man Lace. They accused him of the murder. He came from Bowness, as well. Did you really never come across either of them?’
‘I don’t remember,’ he groaned. ‘Let’s go to sleep.’
She gave a sigh and turned over. He dropped a bleary
kiss on her freckled back, between her shoulder blades, but there was no response.
He ground his teeth. Why must she keep poking away at a sore place? His past life meant nothing to her, and he hated, he absolutely hated, being reminded of his less creditable behaviour.
How he wished she hadn’t pushed him into a corner and made him lie to her about Ramona Smith.
CHAPTER SIX
In Kingsley’s dream, Logan Prentice was playing the piano. They were on a golden beach – somewhere hot and tropical, definitely not Strandbeck – and Logan was wearing sky-blue speedos. His tanned torso gleamed with oil. Kingsley brought him a piña cocktail from the bar and put it on top of the piano.
Logan began to sing ‘This Guy’s in Love with You.’
Kingsley wanted to join in, but the moment he opened his mouth, he caught sight of a familiar figure lumbering towards him. Mamma, waving a knitting needle like a sabre. She was furious, and he knew he was in trouble.
He woke up with a jolt and realised he was still in bed with Tory. She was curled up and snoring. A thought struck him like a thunderbolt and he seized her shoulder and shook her until her eyes opened.
‘This man you saw outside last night.’
‘What?’ she mumbled. ‘Go … go back to sleep.’
‘No, Tory, please, this is important.’ He was gabbling, but he didn’t care. ‘About this intruder who was prowling the grounds. Can you tell me what he looked like?’
‘What man?’
‘You rang me up to report him. I know you weren’t sure you’d even seen an intruder, but maybe you had. Maybe I can even tell you his name.’
She rubbed the sleep from her eyes. ‘I don’t have the foggiest what you’re talking about.’
He wasn’t giving up. When an idea took hold of him, he was like a terrier with a bone. ‘Please think. Was he in his twenties? Slim, handsome, mop of fair hair?’
She peered at him. He couldn’t interpret the look in her eyes. Bewilderment, yes, but something else. Surely not anxiety over being caught out? How could that make sense?
‘It’s the middle of the night. I was fast asleep. So should you be.’
‘Darling, please. Indulge me. It’s …’
She poked him in the ribs. Her fingers were long and hard it was all he could do not to yelp with shock and dismay.
‘Listen to me, Kingsley. I’m not your darling and no, I won’t fucking indulge you. For Chrissake, do you know what time it is?’
‘Don’t worry about the time. This man is trouble. No, it’s worse than that; he’s dangerous. He’s committed murder once, to my knowledge. If he’s hanging around here, you’re at risk.’
‘Murder?’ She swallowed. ‘You’re crazy. Can’t you get it into your head? I made up the intruder to give me a reason to call you.’
‘Are you sure?’ he pressed.
‘Of course I’m bloody sure.’ Her face reddened. ‘What is the matter with you? I try to show you a little human kindness after you’ve had a bad time, and this is how you repay me?’
‘Well …’
She was in full flow, and she swatted his interruption aside. ‘Waking me up in the small hours to rant about mythical trespassers with homicidal tendencies?’
‘I’m sorry.’ He began to gabble. ‘It’s only just hit me. This same man was at the Crooked Shore, a few minutes before the other fellow ran into the sea. I’ll let you into a secret, that’s why I was so distracted that afternoon. Your intruder is someone I’ve met before. His name is Logan Prentice, and he’s not to be trusted, he’s …’
‘Get this into your thick head.’ He flinched and averted his gaze from her angry, contorted features. Never before had he heard her speak with such savagery, using words like weapons. ‘There was no intruder, OK? I dreamt him up. It was just an excuse, a chance for us to be together again for one last time. More fool me, I wish I’d never bothered. I should have kept my big mouth shut and let you carry on playing with yourself in your miserable little bungalow in Bowness. Now get your scrawny arse out of my bed and piss off to the spare room.’
How could he sleep a wink after that tirade? Impossible. Alone in the second bedroom, curled up in the foetal position, he sobbed till it hurt, whilst taking care not to make too much noise, in case Tory lost it completely and threw him out into the night.
Not for the first time in his life where Logan Prentice was concerned, he’d messed up. Tory’s rage frightened him. She didn’t even have the excuse of being sloshed. Yes, she’d put away most of a bottle of wine, but for her that was par for the course. And yes, perhaps it was tactless to wake her up and start firing questions at her in the small hours, but his overeagerness was no excuse for such cruelty.
Together again for one last time.
Words spoken in the heat of the moment, he told himself. She didn’t mean it. Couldn’t mean it. He simply wouldn’t accept it.
Tory was everything to him. He’d never known a woman like her. Gorgeous, funny, sexy. For all her faults, he adored her. Not that he’d told her in so many words; he’d held back due to natural reserve coupled with an apprehension that she wouldn’t take his devotion seriously. A woman like Tory could pick and choose. It was a privilege to be her lover and to share her bed.
And now she’d kicked him out of it.
Kingsley hauled himself out of the spare bed at half seven. After showering and getting dressed he made himself tea and toast. There was no sign of Tory, not that he expected to see her. She wasn’t an early riser at the best of times. When he pressed the switch to open the blinds, it was bright outside, but he wasn’t in the right frame of mind for a pleasant alfresco breakfast out on the terrace.
Smearing each slice of toast with a huge dollop of orange marmalade, he wondered how he might redeem himself. Grovelling looked like the best option. He wasn’t a man to stand on his dignity, and although Tory had been beastly to him, there were extenuating circumstances. In the clear light of morning, he saw that he’d been too hasty. He’d got carried away because of his loathing for Logan Prentice. Prentice frightened him. The thought that he might be sniffing around Strandbeck Manor for some reason …
Tory was so adamant that she’d not seen an intruder that he suspected her of protesting too much. But why? Her response when he’d described Prentice suggested she was nursing a secret. Kingsley knew how it felt to have something to hide. You tended to overreact.
One last time.
No, it couldn’t be. He must talk her round. Not easy with a woman who was so stubborn. But he’d never give up. He’d find a way.
As he put his crockery away neatly in the dishwasher, he heard a muffled roar from the power shower in Tory’s en suite bathroom. Seized by panic, he contemplated writing a short note and making himself scarce. Anything rather than face her wrath again. But no. He must take any punishment she meted out. Faint heart never won fair lady.
When she emerged, she was wrapped in a white dressing gown. ‘Get any sleep?’
‘Not much.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Look, I wanted to say how terribly sorry …’
‘Enough!’ She raised her hand. ‘I’m the one who should apologise. I didn’t mean to be so harsh. I was having a nightmare, and when you woke me up like that, you sort of became part of it.’
So intense was his relief that he felt his knees buckle. He clutched the breakfast bar to avoid falling over like a circus clown.
‘Please, there’s absolutely no need to apologise! I simply wanted to …’
‘No.’ The smile had vanished. ‘Let’s forget about mysterious intruders. I don’t want to hear another word on the subject. Agreed?’
He opened his mouth to explain, but one look at her silenced him.
‘You’ve eaten breakfast, I see. Good. I expect you need to be off. Catch up with some work. All those other Greengables properties you have under your wing.’
‘Well …’
‘Thanks for coming round yesterday. Good to catch up.’
‘Yes.’
There was so much he wanted to say, but he couldn’t find the words. She stepped towards him and brushed his cheek with her lips.
‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got things to do, so I’d better get dressed. Drive safely.’
It was a dismissal, if not as brusque as on the afternoon of the tragedy on the Crooked Shore. She turned away from him and walked briskly out of the kitchen area.
‘Take care,’ he said, as she disappeared from sight. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
Daniel was still snoring when Hannah left for work at seven, and she left him a scribbled note. She’d hauled him into bed in the spare room, thanking heaven that he’d not put on too much weight after all that wining and dining on his tour round the States.
The morning passed in a blur of activity. Kit Gleadall had waved a magic wand, casting a spell over the apparatchiks in HR as well as the force’s senior officers. Bunny Cohen would join the Cold Case Review Team on a full-time basis as of Monday, along with a couple of support workers. All of a sudden, everyone in authority now agreed that bringing in another DC was an urgent priority.
‘Amazing,’ Maggie Eyre said as Hannah gathered the team for an update in their usual briefing room. ‘I was convinced that the high-ups had forgotten we exist. I never knew you can actually cut through the red tape like that.’
‘The PCC put a rocket up their backsides,’ Les Bryant said. ‘Gleadall won’t take no for an answer.’
‘It will be fantastic to work alongside you again,’ Maggie told Bunny Cohen. The older woman had looked in to say hello to her new colleagues. She’d helped Maggie learn the ropes when she was a rookie constable.
‘Glad to be here.’ Bunny was having a quick cup of tea. ‘I’d better get back to my desk in a minute. There are a zillion loose ends to tie up, but I’m dying to make a start. Maybe we can finally see justice done for poor Ramona Smith.’
‘Maggie will give us a full briefing once she’s studied the files,’ Hannah said. ‘But it’s good to have someone on the team who was around at the time.’
Bunny nodded. ‘Yes, I’ve never forgotten Ramona.’
‘How old was she?’ Les asked.
‘Twenty-nine. Born and bred in Bowness. Her parents were both alcoholics. Jimmy, the father, was a long-distance lorry driver. He was a hard-line socialist, and he’d been a trade union activist, but he ran into trouble after he was convicted of couple of assaults. Booze-related. He made good money when he was working, but he drank it all away, so money was short. Leila, the mum, supplemented her benefits with occasional amateur prostitution.’
The Crooked Shore Page 6