The Crooked Shore

by Martin Edwards

  Maggie groaned. ‘What a rotten start in life.’

  ‘Yep, not a happy family. When Jimmy and Leila got drunk, they’d belt each other till they were black and blue. Jimmy walked out on them when Ramona was seven years old.’

  ‘No great loss, by the sound of it.’ Maggie came from a close-knit farming community. Family mattered a good deal to her.

  ‘He moved to Coniston and had very little contact with his ex or his daughter. Ramona left school at the very first opportunity. She worked in different places around Bowness and Windermere. Shops, bars, hotels. She changed jobs as often as some people change their knickers. Her trouble was she kept getting bored. Always after something different.’

  ‘Don’t we all?’ Les asked.

  ‘Ramona and her mum lived in a rented house in the town. Not long before she went missing, her mother’s liver lost the unequal struggle. Ramona’s only other family in the area was Jimmy’s mum. Old Mrs Smith rented a tumbledown cottage near the coast at Bardsea. Ramona was fond of her and went over to see her most weekends. Got the local authority to send in carers, that sort of stuff.’

  ‘Did Ramona marry?’ Les asked.

  ‘No, but she was never short of a boyfriend,’ Bunny said. ‘On the contrary. Sometimes she had more than one on the go at the same time.’

  ‘Why suspect murder? People go missing all the time.’

  ‘True,’ Hannah said. ‘We shouldn’t make assumptions. Let’s go back to square one. Ask ourselves if she might still be alive, as well as who might have killed her.’

  ‘When was she last seen?’ Les asked.

  ‘One evening at the end of March. She finished her shift at Guido’s, where she worked, and said her goodbyes. Nobody admitted seeing her after that. There were plenty of reported sightings all over the country, but they were as unreliable as usual. Not a single one was ever substantiated.’

  Maggie wrinkled her brow. ‘That can’t have been the only reason everyone assumed she was dead.’

  ‘Far from it. She’d never gone missing before, and she left all her possessions at home. The few pounds in her bank account were never touched. Later on, Ben Kind and his team discovered items of evidence which indicated that she was almost certainly dead. The stumbling block was that her remains couldn’t be found. Because Gerald Lace never confessed, he took the secret of what happened to her with him into Morecambe Bay.’

  She paused to check her watch. ‘Assuming he knew, of course.’

  Hannah said, ‘Thanks, Bunny. Now we’d all better get our skates on. I’m meeting Darren Lace’s former partner in five minutes, then I’m off to Carlisle. There’s a press conference later this afternoon. Our lords and masters want to announce that we’re reopening the investigation, though we’ve not spoken to Ramona’s father yet.’

  Les winced. ‘Unfortunate.’

  ‘You’re telling me. One of the oddities of this case is that the pressure for us to take a fresh look has come as a result of Darren Lace’s suicide, not from the family of the deceased.’

  ‘Is Jimmy Smith still alive?’

  Everyone turned to Bunny, who spread her arms. ‘No idea, sorry.’

  Hannah turned to Les. ‘There’s your first job, Les. To find Ramona’s dad.’

  Rather than depart the manor after leaving Tory’s flat, Kingsley retreated to his office on the opposite side of the ground floor. A steel filing cabinet was crammed with brochures and other Greengables bumph, but the antique desk and chair belonged to him, not the company. They gave the room a homely touch. Eventually this office would be united with an adjoining empty suite of rooms so as to form the last flat to be sold in the manor. Given the sluggish pace of sales, Kingsley was confident of remaining in situ for the foreseeable future.

  The oak teacher’s desk was strategically located in front of a window, commanding a view of the car park. He scrolled aimlessly through his inbox and waited. After half an hour Tory emerged from the building. She glanced at his Corsa and gave a sorrowful shake of the head. He hoped she’d pop over to the office for a word with him, but she jumped into her BMW and sped down the drive.

  For a moment he contemplated following her, but he dared not risk provoking her into an attempt to end their relationship. It could only be an attempt, of course, because he couldn’t tolerate the prospect of losing her. But he must be canny. Women were never straightforward to deal with. You had to play the long game.

  His efforts to compile the usual monthly report to management were laboured. He loathed grappling with figures. In his early days with Greengables, thanks to Tory’s purchase of the show flat, he’d impressed his manager, a brassy redhead whom thankfully he seldom needed to meet in person. Her name was Annabel, and each time she introduced herself as Annabel of Greengables, she screeched with laughter at her own wit, much to the bewilderment of anyone unfamiliar with the oeuvre of L.M. Montgomery.

  ‘You’re our star performer!’ she’d trilled. ‘What would we do without you, lovely?’

  In recent months, her admiration had waned. His Key Performance Indicators fell far short of the ridiculous targets she imposed, and her latest email had remarked acidly about the unacceptability of resting on laurels. Since the property market was slow everywhere, Kingsley took refuge in blaming the uncertain state of the economy. Brexit had a lot to answer for, he explained, which might be true, even though he’d voted for it.

  Giving up on the report, he dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out a key. He always kept the left-hand drawer of his desk locked. Even in Strandbeck, you couldn’t be too careful. He opened the drawer, and took out a gun.

  This was a Smith & Wesson Model 3, a .44 calibre Russian double-action revolver. Dating back a century and a half, it had been designed to the specification of the Imperial Russian Army. This little beauty was an old friend. The grips and muzzle showed signs of wear, but traces of the original blue finish remained. When you held it in your hand, you felt you were touching history. Annie Oakley, General Custer, and Teddy Roosevelt – each of them had owned a Number 3. John Wesley Hardin had shot a sheriff in Comanche, Texas, with his, a crime that Bob Dylan turned into a song. After buying this one from a fellow dealer ten years ago, Kingsley had hung on to it for his personal pleasure.

  It was perfectly above board. The calibre was obsolete, so he didn’t need a licence. A few killjoys had talked about changing the law so as to crack down on ownership of vintage firearms. A gun of this very model had been used in some gangland revenge killing a while ago, but in Kingsley’s opinion, the type of weapon was irrelevant. Criminals determined to commit murder would continue to do so, regardless of statutory controls. Tighten the law, and the people who suffered wouldn’t be drug dealers and armed robbers, but ordinary law-abiding folk who cherished history and objets d’art. Kingsley intended to keep his head down. Why relinquish a cherished item of personal property for which he’d paid handsomely?

  Lister, the dealer who had sold it to him, had died of pneumonia a couple of winters ago. Nobody else knew anything about the Smith & Wesson. Almost nobody, at any rate. In a fit of bravado, Kingsley had once boasted to Tory about owning the gun. She’d seemed amused; perhaps she didn’t believe him. Lister, notorious in the trade for sailing close to the wind, had thrown in some ammunition as part of the trade. Kingsley had never fired a weapon in his life before, but he’d risked a few practice shots one evening, out on the Crooked Shore. Just for fun, just to see what it was like. Nothing more serious than that.

  Firing the Smith & Wesson made him feel powerful. It was quite thrilling. For years he’d kept the gun at home, but after joining Greengables, he transferred it to his private kingdom at the manor. Locked in the desk drawer, it was as safe as houses.

  A couple of months back, he’d done something rather silly. When he was sure the manor was deserted, he’d taken out the gun and shot at the trunk of a sycamore. Of course, he’d missed, although not by much. The .44 was famed for its reliability. But he’d made a mistake. Even as he lux
uriated in the excitement, the window cleaner’s van bowled up the drive. Without so much as a by-your-leave, the inconsiderate oaf had turned up twenty-four hours before he was due. Kingsley would have given him a piece of his mind if he hadn’t got a headache from the exertion of hoofing it back to his office and returning the gun to its hiding place.

  He itched to show Tory the gun, to prove that there was more to him than met the eye. But he’d resisted temptation simply because he couldn’t be sure how she’d react. What if she insisted that he get rid of it? Antiques and keepsakes held no appeal for her. Yes, some things were better kept under wraps.

  Taking a handkerchief out of his pocket, he gave the gun a quick polish. Before he put it back in the drawer, he stroked the barrel as lovingly as if he were caressing Tory’s thigh.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘Why only now?’ Jade Hughes demanded. ‘Why does a man need to die before you people will get up off your backsides and take action?’

  ‘The Commissioner has been very clear.’ Hannah was in full diplomatic mode. ‘Now my team is launching a fresh enquiry, we’ll do everything in our power to find out what happened to Ramona Smith.’

  ‘You don’t just have one death on your conscience.’ Jade Hughes was in no mood to listen. Given a chance to be heard by a captive audience, she was determined to make the most of it. ‘Darren’s mother would be alive to this day if it wasn’t for the police. Misery is what made her sick. Shirley gave her life to the cause. She never believed for one minute that her husband killed that girl.’

  ‘The family has suffered a good deal,’ Hannah said.

  ‘You can say that again!’

  ‘Tell me about them. I’d value your insight.’

  Jade was accompanied by a friend called Kylie, and Hannah by a nervous young clerical officer from Media Relations, who made a painstaking note of every word uttered. Her boss had given Hannah a long and unnecessary briefing about the vital need to risk-manage this conversation. Anything she said, any careless slip of the tongue, might be leaked, misrepresented, or relied on in future litigation as an admission of … well, the legal eagles would no doubt find some sharp hook on which to impale her.

  The temptation was to become a politician, and say nothing at great length, boring Jade Hughes into submission. But Hannah’s aim was to treat the conversation as an opportunity. She might just learn something.

  ‘I met Darren three years back.’ Jade spoke in a broad Carlisle accent, the sort that outsiders often mistook for Geordie. ‘He was a mess.’

  ‘A mess?’

  ‘Don’t you know?’

  Jade thrust her jaw forward like a boxer tempting an opponent to strike the first blow. Her eyebrows, nostrils, and earlobes were festooned with stainless steel; her muscular arms were covered in tattoos of mermaids with breasts almost as large as her own. She was wearing a canary-yellow T-shirt emblazoned with Justice4Gerry.

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘He was convicted of drug possession, but he was a user, not a dealer. Couple of times he overdosed on pills.’

  ‘Cries for help?’

  Jade nodded. ‘I’m a car mechanic. We met when Darren brought his old rust bucket in for an MOT. Sorting the car was the easy bit. Getting him clean was a bloody sight harder. I kept telling him he must shape up for his mum’s sake. Ever since Gerry drowned himself, Shirley only had one thing to live for. To clear his name, nothing else mattered.’

  ‘It must have been very hard.’

  ‘You’re telling me. A saint, that woman. Not like Gerry, she was the first to admit that he wasn’t whiter than white. Especially when it came to women. They liked him, and he liked them a damn sight too much. Shirley went to her grave believing the police hounded Gerry until he couldn’t take any more. Your lot held a grudge because they couldn’t nail him for crimes he never committed.’

  ‘He was lucky to have such a loyal wife.’

  ‘You never said a truer word. A lot of women would have thrown him out, but Shirley was besotted. She never forgave the police for persecuting him. Especially that detective who tried to bully him into confessing.’

  Hannah said nothing.

  ‘They called him Kind,’ Jade said with a sneer. ‘What a joke. The man was heartless. He ripped the whole family apart; they were never the same again.’

  Hannah didn’t want to discuss Ben Kind. ‘Shirley’s campaign to clear her husband’s name became her life. Was that true of Darren as well?’

  ‘The fact his dad was a suspected murderer was a huge black cloud hanging over him every day of his life. Ever since he was a kid. He could never escape. Not like his sister.’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Sandi? She was no use. Ran off to the bright lights, first chance she got.’

  Hannah shifted to the edge of her seat. ‘Didn’t she believe in Gerald Lace’s innocence?’

  Jade’s face turned crimson. ‘Not so fast, Chief Inspector. You’re jumping to conclusions, same as that Ben Kind. I never met Sandi, but Darren told me she was a Daddy’s girl. She took Gerry’s death hard, but she reckoned her mum’s campaign was a waste of time. She blamed Darren and her mother for talking to the police about the night Ramona Smith vanished. If they’d stuck to the original story, nobody could’ve pinned the murder on Gerry.’

  Interesting. Did Gerry Lace’s daughter secretly believe that her beloved father was guilty? If so, what were her reasons? Maybe that explained the family bust-up. Hannah made a mental note that Sandi should be traced and interviewed.

  ‘What about Sandi’s relationship with Darren?’

  ‘Chalk and cheese,’ Jade snapped. ‘She was sweet as pie if she wanted something from Gerry, but a nasty piece of work, selfish and vain. Darren was depressed that Sandi thought he was a weakling. She broke off contact with both him and their mother years ago. Didn’t show up at either funeral, the bitch. Her own flesh and blood!’

  ‘Tell me about Darren. What was he like?’

  Her expression softened. ‘You’ve seen his photo, it was all over the papers. Handsome bloke, wasn’t he? Fit, too, when he wasn’t doping himself to the eyeballs. Competed in half-marathons. Gerry liked outdoor pursuits too; it ran in the family.’

  Hannah nodded. Even in the grainy photographs accompanying coverage of the Strandbeck suicide, Darren’s dark good looks were unmistakeable. He took after his father. The difference was that Gerald Lace’s confident grin smacked of self-regard and entitlement, while the son’s cautious smile and receding chin betrayed softness and anxiety.

  ‘Yes,’ Hannah said. ‘I didn’t just mean his appearance. I’d like to know more about his personality.’

  ‘When he was in the right mood,’ Jade said, ‘he was the best company. Funny, intelligent. Because of his issues, he never held a job down for long. Kept giving himself a hard time. He was terribly insecure.’

  ‘Why do you think that was?’

  ‘He grew up with everyone believing his dad killed a young woman. Imagine how that felt!’

  ‘Difficult,’ Hannah admitted.

  ‘You’re not kidding. Kind never apologised for arresting Gerry, even though the jury threw out his case. It wouldn’t have been so bad if he’d made a proper effort to find out who did kill Ramona Smith. But he couldn’t be arsed. Because he thought he’d got his man, he saw no point in looking for anyone else. Let alone the girl’s body. The truth is, your lot didn’t only betray the Lace family, they let down the Smiths as well. Ramona’s dad was never able to grieve properly. A real tragedy.’

  ‘It’s more than that.’ Kylie decided it was time to make her presence felt. ‘It’s a fucking disgrace.’

  Ignoring her, Hannah said, ‘Would you mind telling me why your relationship with Darren broke down?’

  Jade sniffed. ‘Couldn’t hack it any more, could I? Fixing a car is one thing. People are different. There’s no instruction manual. You can’t just give them a quick respray. Darren’s constant whining wore me down. Shirley was sick, and he’d
lost all interest in life. There was no fun any more, for him or me. I guessed he was back on the drugs, not that he ever admitted it. I gave him a choice. Shape up or ship out. He didn’t alter his ways, so I chucked him out. He went back to his mum, and I moved back to Carlisle.’

  ‘And when Mrs Lace died?’

  ‘I sent him a sympathy card with a nice message, but I never heard back. Not a sodding word. Until I got his suicide note.’

  She sniffed again. Hannah guessed that beneath the surface belligerence lurked a decent, unhappy woman cut to the quick by the loss of a man she’d cared for. Hardly surprising that she felt a need to lash out. Just a pity that Ben Kind and her force offered such a handy target for her wrath.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Are you really?’ Jade demanded. ‘Or is this just a great big scam, a phoney PR exercise? Trying to shut me up, fob me off? Hoping I’ll forgive and forget? No chance of that, Detective Chief Inspector.’

  ‘No chance,’ confirmed Kylie.

  Hannah wanted to offer reassurance, but held herself in check. Kit Gleadall wouldn’t be happy if a cack-handed attempt at compassion became a hostage to fortune.

  ‘If there’s any information you can give me about Ramona Smith, perhaps something Darren or his mother mentioned to you?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  Jade Hughes shook her head. ‘All I can say is that Darren blamed himself for what happened to his father.’

  ‘He was only a boy when Ramona went missing.’

  ‘Yes, but he was the one who grassed him up, poor sod. The kid who gave his father away, who destroyed his own family without even meaning to.’