‘Thanks very much, Mr …’
‘Melton. Kingsley Melton. I live in Bowness, and I’m an estate agent with Greengables.’
‘Sorry, but I’m quite happy with my present home, and I’m not looking to move.’
The man said quickly, ‘No, no, please. That was clumsy of me. I was simply trying to establish my bona fides as a professional man. I don’t want to talk about property.’
‘No?’
‘It’s like this, you see …’ The man hesitated, as if he’d rehearsed this conversation only to forget his lines the moment it was time to speak. ‘Well, it’s because you’re interested in history and murder.’
He paused, as if hoping to prompt a question. Daniel didn’t know what to say.
‘This concerns a murder committed two years ago last spring.’ Kingsley Melton sounded breathless, as if just he’d just run a hundred yards. ‘A woman was smothered, but the culprit took care to cover his tracks. Nobody even realised that a crime had been committed.’
‘Uh-huh.’
Daniel wondered whether to hang up. Give crank callers a morsel of encouragement and they never let you go. At least this fellow wasn’t a robot or scammer.
‘In case you’re wondering,’ the man said, ‘the victim was in her eighties and resident in a care home. The doctor and the staff convinced themselves that she died in her sleep, but a pillow was held down over her face. It was murder for money, the killer wanted to inherit under her will.’
Unable to restrain himself, Daniel said, ‘How do you know she was murdered with a pillow?’
The answer only came after an even longer pause. ‘There was a witness.’
In for a penny …
‘Why didn’t the witness come forward?’ Daniel asked.
‘She died.’
By showing interest, Daniel had painted himself into a corner. Common courtesy dictated that there was no alternative now but to engage.
‘How do you mean, she died?’
‘She was also a resident in the care home.’ Kingsley Melton took another breath. ‘A stroke killed her. I’m not saying she was another murder victim. As a matter of fact, she was my mother.’
Daniel couldn’t think of anything to say but, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Thank you.’ Kingsley Melton cleared his throat. ‘You may wonder why I’m calling you. It’s not simply because of what happened two years ago. There’s something else.’
‘If you have any information about a serious crime,’ Daniel said, ‘you must speak to the police, not me. That’s my firm advice.’
‘It’s not so simple, I’m afraid.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, for one thing, I’m afraid the murderer is going to strike again.’
Daniel squeezed the receiver in his palm. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘I know his … what’s the term? Modus operandi, that’s it. He’s picked his victim. A younger woman this time. She’s very well-off, but she has a history of serious ill health. A few years ago she survived a sudden cardiac arrest.’
Despite himself, Daniel was intrigued. ‘Very worrying, Mr Melton, but you really should talk to the police.’
‘I understand, but I’m anxious to speak to you first. You have experience in these matters.’
‘I’m a historian, not a criminologist.’
‘You’re on good terms with DCI Scarlett of the Cold Case Team,’ Kingsley said quickly. ‘You dedicated your last book to her.’
Daniel’s skin prickled. ‘Let me give you the contact details for her office.’
‘No.’ Kingsley Melton was unexpectedly assertive. ‘I understand what you’re saying, but I have my reasons for not wanting to go to the police. To be honest, I’m desperate to talk to you about this. An off-the-record chat; you can help me get my thinking straight. Totally informal, your choice of venue. When and wherever you want to meet.’
‘It’s good of you to give me the opportunity,’ Daniel said, ‘and don’t think I’m ungrateful, but I’m afraid the answer’s no.’
‘Mr Kind, I’m counting on you.’
The other man’s panic was unmistakeable, even at a distance. Daniel could picture the phone trembling in his hand.
‘Sorry.’ Daniel never found it easy to say no. ‘I’m grateful for your confidence, but you’ve approached the wrong person. You can trust the police.’
‘But they won’t trust me!’ he yelped.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I … I have special reasons for being cautious about talking to the police. Private, personal reasons.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’
‘I can’t discuss it. Not on the telephone.’
Daniel waited.
Finally Kingsley blurted out, ‘This isn’t about my guilty secrets! It’s about preventing a murder in the here and now. It’s a matter of life and death.’
‘It’s good of you to spare me a few minutes, Detective Chief Inspector.’
Hannah nodded. Ravi Thakor was never less than courteous and this afternoon he was on his very best behaviour. Using her title, rather than her first name, not seeking special favours. Or at least, trying not to look as if he was seeking special favours.
‘And thanks for taking the trouble to nip in here, when I was quite willing to come to Busher Walk.’
They were sitting in leather armchairs in his luxurious office on the top floor of Effie Grey’s, above the function room where she’d seen him the other evening. A pretty Asian girl had served them with chamomile tea and biscuits. Hannah guessed this was the most profitable club and restaurant business in town. Most senior officers would have preferred to interview him at Divisional HQ rather than see him on his home ground, where he’d feel more at ease. Hannah’s approach was different. Thakor was a smart guy who wanted to get a particular message across. The more he relaxed, the better the chances of understanding what was really in his mind. Besides, his tea and biscuits were nicer.
‘No problem.’
He treated her to a paternal smile. Thakor made a point of supporting several police charities. In his younger days, his cash businesses had given him scope to indulge in money laundering, but a combination of natural shrewdness and crafty legal advice had kept him out of trouble. As he’d moved up in the world, he’d sold off the more questionable outposts of his business empire and concentrated his resources on Effie Grey’s. He’d also indulged his passion for nineteenth-century art. A painting from his collection hung on the wall opposite his desk, a small portrait of a bright-eyed woman in a dark blue velvet cape.
Thakor followed Hannah’s gaze. ‘Euphemia Grey herself. She was married to Ruskin, you know, but the relationship was never consummated. He found the naked female form frightening, poor chap. With her second husband, Millais, she made up for lost time. They had eight children.’
‘I’m surprised she doesn’t look worn out,’ Hannah said.
He treated her to an avuncular beam. For a long time now he’d been a pillar of the community, with everything to gain from sticking to the straight and narrow. People liked him, and even his insatiable womanising was apt to be downplayed. Just Ravi being Ravi. Hannah had met him years ago, not long after she’d first met Marc Amos. Thakor had made clear his interest in her, and she’d made it even clearer that there was nothing doing. He’d taken defeat with a good grace and since then he’d never pushed his luck with her.
‘You must be rushed off your feet, so I’ll cut to the chase. As I’m sure you’ll discover, at the time she went missing, Ramona Smith worked for me. My then-wife and I were both interviewed at the time of the original investigation.’ He gave a modest cough. ‘For a short time Ramona and I were very close.’
‘I see.’
She kept quiet as he told her the story, explaining what had happened with such clarity that she was sure his account was well-rehearsed. He’d first slept with Ramona within a fortnight of her starting work at Guido’s. She’d recently broken up with Gerry Lace
and packed in her job at the Laces’ gift shop.
‘If I’m honest,’ Thakor said in his most disarming manner, ‘Ramona wasn’t my usual type.’
‘Tell me about her.’
He stroked his chin. ‘She was modest about her appearance, and it’s true that she wasn’t conventionally good-looking, but she had bags of personality. Tons of energy, full of life. Good worker, bright, but easily bored. Neither of us were under the illusion that our relationship had any future. She was just looking for a good time, and frankly so was I. Look, Chief Inspector, I’m not trying to whitewash my behaviour. I was working long hours and she was … ready and willing to offer solace with no strings attached. At the time, I found that very appealing.’
I bet, Hannah thought. She nibbled a marzipan biscuit.
‘My first marriage was going through a rough patch,’ he said. ‘Poppy was a former model. Elegant, neurotic, high-maintenance. Ramona was her polar opposite. She loved it when I gave her presents, from a new bike to a spa break, but she was never demanding, never put me under pressure of any kind.’
‘Did you give her money?’
For the first time, Thakor looked uncomfortable. ‘Now and then there were cash gifts, yes. Because I knew she was hard up, and her mother had just died, so she was stuck with paying the rent on her house. I could afford to be generous, and she was very grateful.’
‘Never a cross word?’
‘Never.’
‘And your wife?’
Ravi looked pensive. ‘Poppy was very highly strung. Gabby, who managed Guido’s for me, let slip to her that I’d been with Ramona when I was supposed to have been in a business meeting. All hell broke loose. I swore to Poppy that I’d end the affair, but that wasn’t enough. She insisted that I let Ramona go in every way. She told me to sack her.’
‘And did you?’
‘You’ll understand, I was in a difficult position,’ he said.
Hannah said nothing.
‘I talked to Ramona. Explained my dilemma.’
‘And how did she take it?’
‘Remarkably well, considering. Said she’d known it couldn’t last, and she’d actually found another job. Working as a receptionist at the Bowness Grand. We came to an amicable agreement.’
‘Which was?’
‘She’d work until the end of the week and then tell everyone she’d decided to move on. I paid her in lieu of notice.’
‘How much?’
The question knocked him off his stride. ‘Do you know, I can’t remember.’
‘Please try.’
‘It was a long time ago, Chief Inspector. Ramona had a standard barmaid’s contract.’
Hannah returned his gaze. ‘But she wasn’t a standard barmaid.’
She was confident that, whatever the passage of time, Ravi Thakor wouldn’t forget that kind of financial detail. He finished his tea, taking a few moments to consider whether there was any point in prevaricating.
‘You’re absolutely right.’ He’d chosen to revert to his easy-going, straightforward manner. ‘It’s come back to me. I paid her six months’ wages.’
Hannah raised her eyebrows. ‘So she was entitled to six months’ notice?’
‘No, no, her notice period under her contract was only one week. The rest was … an ex gratia cash payment.’
‘Generous.’
‘Hush money is what you’re thinking, Chief Inspector.’ His sheepish expression was, Hannah thought, entirely calculated. ‘Not at all. Ramona was good company and we’d had fun together. I simply wanted to give her a helping hand, so she could pay off her debts, make a fresh start.’
‘Debts?’
‘Yes, she was very short of money.’
‘How did she run up those debts?’
‘I’ve no idea. I didn’t want to take too close an interest, if you understand. Drugs, gambling? I can’t say.’
‘Did she do drugs? Was she a gambler?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘The times we had together were precious, and all too short. We never talked about such things.’
‘Were you surprised when she went missing?’
‘Astonished. She had a new job lined up, everything to live for. The Lake District was the only place she knew. She’d have been a fish out of water anywhere else. The police talked to me, of course, as her employer, and they soon found out about our relationship. Thankfully, I was able to satisfy them about my whereabouts on the night in question.’
He told her about taking Poppy to Ullswater for an anniversary reconciliation.
‘Your wife disliked Ramona?’
‘Loathed her,’ Thakor said. ‘Understandably, you may think. And you may as well know, Poppy did have a criminal record. When she was nineteen and high as a kite, she’d attacked another model at a party. I’d describe her as volatile rather than truly violent. She even scratched me badly during a row, just before we split up for good. But she wasn’t a murderer. She’d never have killed Ramona. There’s no question in my mind that Lace was guilty.’
‘Did you know him personally?’
‘No, but Ramona told me she was sick of him. He couldn’t take rejection and kept pestering her even after she made it clear that their affair was over. To all intents and purposes, he was a stalker. I believe that he talked her into accompanying him to the Crooked Shore and murdered her. I only wish he’d had the decency to reveal what he did with her body.’
‘You were surprised when a jury acquitted him?’
‘It shook my faith in English justice,’ Thakor said solemnly.
‘What about his suicide?’
‘The sign of a guilty conscience.’
Thakor folded his arms. As Hannah finished her tea, he bestowed on her a beatific smile to demonstrate that his own conscience was entirely clear.
Logan Prentice drove down the hill towards Morecambe Bay, halting within sight of the Crooked Shore. The beach was deserted. Not a suicidal jogger to be seen. What on earth had driven that crazy idiot to end it all by walking into the quicksand and waiting to be drowned?
He lingered for a few moments before setting off for the last leg of his journey to Strandbeck Manor. Growing up, home had been a terraced house in a South Yorkshire back street. As a student he’d lived in cheap rental accommodation and since crossing the Pennines to come to the Lakes, where property was so pricey, he’d moved from one poky bedsit to another. He deserved so much better. One day soon he’d make up for lost time.
As usual, the village – if you could call a scattering of houses and a tiny church a village – was quiet. At the end of Strandbeck Lane, he stopped at the gates of the manor and jumped out of the van to punch in the security code.
He waited. Nothing happened.
He tried again. Same result.
Dismay stabbed him. Surely Tory wasn’t shutting him out? Last weekend he’d hugged himself with delight when she gave him the code. He’d broken down her defences. Surely she’d not undergone a sudden change of heart? It wasn’t impossible; she was so mercurial.
He swore loudly. A flock of birds flew off, as if in protest at his language. He vented his bitterness by kicking a stone gate pillar but only succeeded in hurting his foot. This was so fucking typical. All his life, he’d been dogged by ill luck. Every single time he thought his fortunes were about to change, Fate dealt him a low blow. One of these days …
Pulling himself together, he called Tory on his mobile.
‘Darling, it’s me.’
‘How lovely to hear your voice again, sweetheart.’
‘And yours, darling.’ Relief flooded through him. ‘Guess what? I’m outside the manor. The code doesn’t seem to work.’
‘What? Oh yes, Kingsley changed it.’
Logan cursed under his breath. ‘Don’t tell me that creepy bastard is hanging around the place again?’
‘No, he’s not in his office. Hang on, I’ll give you the new numbers.’
Yes! He clenched his fists in jubilation
as the gates began to move noiselessly apart. Open sesame! Of course he’d not misjudged her – or his own ability to keep an older woman smitten. Tory was still hooked, like a fish on a line.
He drove through the gates. Each time he approached the manor, he imagined himself as a country squire, returning to his family seat. By rights he should have been born into the landed gentry, rather than to a single mother in Sheffield. A single mother who had produced three children with the assistance of three different men. He was the youngest. Perhaps she’d lied about his parentage. Perhaps his real father was a member of Yorkshire’s aristocracy, rather than a bookie from Rotherham who had done a flit as soon as she announced her latest pregnancy. Not that she described him as a bookie. ‘Turf accountant’ was the term she used. Logan wondered if she’d been as much of a dreamer as he was, before real life knocked the stuffing out of her.
He parked next to Tory’s sleek BMW. The contrast with his van – he never washed it, on the basis that in the Lakes the next cleansing downpour wasn’t far away – couldn’t have been starker. But he wouldn’t be poor forever. One day soon, he’d enjoy the lifestyle he deserved.
Clutching a bottle of Gordon’s and box of Belgian chocolates, he waited for Tory to answer her door. She might be loaded, but she loved receiving presents. Women always did, in his experience.
‘Sweetheart, what a wonderful surprise!’
‘I wasn’t sure you’d be in.’ As usual, he was economising on the truth. Tory didn’t get out much. ‘I brought these for you, just on the off-chance.’
‘Oh, sweetheart, how kind!’
She clasped him to her and they kissed. Her posh perfume didn’t quite mask the whiff of gin on her breath.
As he closed his eyes, his mind wandered. A question struck him.
Why had that pathetic jobsworth Kingsley Melton changed the security code?
Daniel was assailed by pangs of regret the moment he put down the phone. Against his better judgement, he’d agreed to meet Melton. How stupid to allow himself to be talked into something he was sure to regret. His insatiable curiosity, the yearning to discover hidden truths that had shaped his career, was to blame.
Like father, like son. A historian was a sort of detective. A detective of the past, admittedly, a detective who had never pounded the mean streets of Manchester or even Maryport. Murder, and above all the reasons why one person may feel driven to kill another human being, held an irresistible fascination for him. Since getting to know Hannah, he’d lurked in the background during several of her investigations into cold cases.
The Crooked Shore Page 10