At the hotel, he found himself a table with a small settee on each side. The bay window afforded a splendid view of the boats chugging across the lake. Apart from a deaf couple who kept raising their voices in a fruitless attempt to make themselves heard, the lounge was quiet. Not a bad place for a business meeting, he thought; no danger of industrial espionage on behalf of rival property agents. He ordered coffee for two and arranged his paperwork on the table surface, determined not to give Annabel the opportunity to cavil about his lack of preparation. At their last one-to-one she’d moaned that he didn’t have the facts at his fingertips. This time he’d mastered his brief like a QC embarking on a High Court trial.
‘Kingsley, there you are!’
Annabel’s loud Geordie screech was unmistakable. A tall, broad-shouldered woman with a cloud of red hair and lipstick and nails to match was sashaying towards him. She wore a black business suit and carried a matching leather folder. The folder’s slimness was a good sign; there couldn’t be much to talk about.
‘Good to see you again!’
He jumped to his feet. She was the touchy-feely type, something he privately deplored. Whenever they met she presented her powdered cheeks for kissing, and he knew better than to demur. Perhaps she’d decided to become more professional, because this morning she contented herself with a handshake. Her grip was surprisingly strong.
‘Perfect timing,’ he said suavely. ‘The coffee is on its way.’
‘Oh Kingsley, aren’t you well-organised!’
He felt a pinprick of irritation at her habit of addressing people by name at every opportunity, as if to remind herself who they were, but he supposed everyone was entitled to a verbal tic. A white-jacketed waiter fussed around as they small-talked. Remembering that her children were supposed to be doing brilliantly at Sedbergh School, he dutifully enquired after their progress. It seemed to him that she boasted of their achievements on autopilot, while casting a sly glance at the spreadsheets on the table. A faint smile crossed her lips. She must be delighted that he’d heeded her strictures.
‘Now,’ she said, putting down her cup, ‘we’d better get down to brass tacks.’
‘Absolutely.’ He was like a puppy, panting for praise. ‘Your time is money. I took care to put everything in order, so that I don’t waste ten minutes trying to remember what all the figures represent.’
‘I’m so glad you’ve taken that on board, Kingsley,’ she said. ‘Efficiency is key in this day and age. Appreciating the facts of business life will stand you in good stead.’
‘I’m sure.’ He leant against the back of the settee. ‘Now, where would you like to start?’
‘I think we can keep this short, Kingsley.’
‘Good, good.’ He stretched luxuriantly.
‘I’m afraid this won’t be welcome news, Kingsley, but we’ve decided that it’s time for us to move on.’
‘Move on?’
‘Part company,’ she said. ‘Terminate your contract.’
He gaped. ‘I’m sorry?’
Annabel clicked her tongue. It never took much to rub off the veneer of her bonhomie. ‘For goodness sake. What part of terminate your contract don’t you understand? It’s over, done, we’ve come to the end of the road.’
‘You’re sacking me?’
‘Well, Kingsley, sacking is an antiquated word that we prefer not to use in virtual commerce. Don’t forget, you’re an independent self-managed contractor, not a member of our employee cohort. But, yes, you’ve got the nub of it. This is a results-oriented business, and I’m afraid your performance has fallen below our required standards for far too long.’
‘It’s … it’s just a rough patch,’ he stammered. ‘The market conditions …’
‘Are a damn sight better than you’re prepared to admit. This is the Lake District. A world heritage site, not some urban ghetto.’
He opened his mouth, itching to point out that technically Strandbeck fell outside the national park, but she wagged a finger to silence him.
‘No more excuses. Your patch is the worst performing in the county. I’ve given you plenty of latitude, too much really, because that’s my way. I’m as soft as butter, I never shoot from the hip. But the figures speak for themselves. And, as if they weren’t bad enough, there’s been this God-awful publicity about the suicide at Strandbeck.’
‘The jogger?’ His temples were pounding.
‘Yes, that poor devil.’ She closed her eyes for a moment, as if uttering a silent prayer for the dear departed. ‘What on earth were you playing at? I wouldn’t mind, but you should have been at your desk, drumming up business. No wonder we’re failing to sell properties if you spend your days gawping at a patch of quicksand.’
‘I don’t have fixed hours,’ he protested. ‘We agreed on flexible working.’
‘The clue is in the word working. Not daydreaming on a beach while some poor sod drowns himself right in front of your eyes. Honestly, Kingsley, I feel very disappointed, and to tell you the truth, personally let down.’
Kingsley felt light-headed; the hotel lounge was spinning around him.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, although aghast would have been nearer the mark, ‘I’ve put in a lot of spadework, picked up several tangible leads, I’m sure one or two will come through. It’s only a question of time. Things always seem darkest before the dawn.’
The red hair shook. ‘Too late for that, Kingsley. The decision is made. You’re entitled to a month’s notice under clause nine of our standard terms. Your replacement moves into the Strandbeck office a week from today, and we’ll need your laptop and files back at headquarters by Friday at the latest. You’ll be paid the balance in lieu, including accrued holiday pay. Payroll is up to speed, all the ducks are in a row.’
‘Never mind the bloody ducks!’ He was almost shouting. The grey heads of the deaf couple swivelled in their direction; even they could hear his anguish. ‘I love that place, the manor.’
‘Then it’s a pity you haven’t persuaded more people to invest in a luxury flat there,’ she retorted.
His head was throbbing. There was no arguing with this … this termagant. He felt seized by an urge to put his hands around her neck and squeeze the last drop of jargon out of her, but it was impossible in a public space. He must play for time, for a little human sympathy.
‘Sorry, Annabel, I … I didn’t mean to raise my voice. This has just come as – well, a dreadful blow. I’m heartbroken, truly. Please, you have to give me another chance. I’ll do anything, I’m begging you …’
‘Kingsley, Kingsley.’ Eyes glinting with satisfaction at the speed and abjectness of his surrender, she adjusted her tone to more-in-sorrow-than-in-anger. ‘Didn’t I make myself clear? It’s the end of the chapter. Time for you to pursue other projects. To spend more time with your family.’
‘I don’t have a family,’ he said in a low voice.
‘Whatever. It’s no bad thing to be footloose and fancy-free. No ties, no responsibilities, no bloody school fees to pay.’
‘I’m not …’
‘Chin up!’ She clapped him on the shoulder. ‘If you take my advice, you’ll consider resuming your career in the antiques trade. The gig economy isn’t for everyone. Selling upmarket properties is very different from flogging vintage snuff boxes.’
She opened her black folder and slid out two letters and a ballpoint pen bearing the Greengables insignia. ‘I need to give you this and ask you to sign a copy for our records.’
Hands shaking, Kingsley did as he was told.
She snatched the signed copy from him and stuffed it back into the folder.
‘Thank you, Kingsley. And don’t look so woebegone. Remember the Greengables philosophy. Every challenge is an opportunity. You hit the nail on the head a moment ago. It’s always darkest before the dawn.’
‘Ma’am, something for you.’
Maggie Eyre’s eyes shone as she marched into Hannah’s office. She flourished a file of papers.
‘Solved the case already?
’
Maggie smiled. ‘Well, one step at a time. This is quite a turn-up.’
Hannah took the file from her and extracted a typed statement on yellowing paper. The witness’s name leapt off the page.
Kingsley Melton.
‘The man who sat and watched as Darren Lace jogged to his death into Morecambe Bay.’
Maggie nodded. ‘When Ramona Smith went missing, her house was searched. As I mentioned at the briefing, her mum’s room was a tip. Ramona hadn’t thrown anything out, probably the bereavement was still too raw. Lucky for us, because her mother’s diaries made interesting reading.’
Hannah pursed her lips. ‘Her mother, the occasional prostitute?’
‘On and off for over twenty years, yes. Very helpfully, she’d kept details of her clients’ names during all that time, along with how much they paid her.’
‘For blackmailing purposes?’ Hannah winced. ‘It’s a wonder she wasn’t murdered, never mind Ramona.’
‘There was no suggestion that she ever made difficulties for any of her clients. She just liked to keep records. Juicy details about her bedmates are in short supply, but we can make educated guesses from the varying amounts paid about how … exotic each client’s tastes were.’
‘So the clients who could be traced were questioned?’
‘Exactly.’
‘And Kingsley Melton?’
‘He was one of her last clients and visited her half a dozen times over the space of eighteen months. His last visit was about a year before she died.’
‘Not a regular, then?’
‘As I say, the woman wasn’t a professional. She didn’t hang around on street corners, and she only worked when cash was particularly short. I suppose she got her business through word of mouth. Local recommendations.’
‘Like all good tradespeople, huh? And Kingsley spent heavily with her?’
Maggie’s nod was accompanied by a disapproving frown.
‘So what did he say when he was interviewed?’
‘Next to nothing.’ Maggie gave the witness statement a sour look. ‘He sounds self-pitying, borderline indignant. As if we were breaching his human rights by asking him what he got up to. He flatly denied ever meeting Ramona and maintained he was completely unaware of her existence. If he’s to be believed, his only involvement was a few transactions with her mother.’
Hannah made a quick calculation. ‘He must have been roughly the same age as Ramona. Bowness isn’t exactly Beijing. How likely is it that he never bumped into her?’
‘Vanishingly unlikely, I’d say.’
‘Me too.’
‘It’s weird that Ramona’s anorak and rucksack were found near the Crooked Shore, and Melton was there when Darren Lace killed himself.’
‘Very.’
‘Surely not a complete coincidence?’
‘Coincidences happen,’ Hannah said. ‘But maybe there’s more to it than that.’
‘So,’ Hannah said, having gathered her team for a briefing, ‘according to Kingsley Melton’s statement, he was alibied for the evening when Ramona Smith went missing. By his mother.’
‘For what that’s worth,’ Les said. ‘Only son, apple of her eye? You can bet she’d lie through her teeth to keep him out of trouble.’
‘How much do we know about him?’ Bunny asked.
Maggie said, ‘He attracted attention through his odd behaviour the day Darren Lace died. Not lifting a finger to call for help until it was too late. The officers dealing with the case wondered if he knew Lace and there was bad blood between them.’
‘Is that likely?’
‘He lives in Bowness, where the Laces had their shop, but the family moved to Penrith when their business collapsed. There’s no reason to believe that Melton knew or recognised Gerry’s son.’
‘What took him to the Crooked Shore that particular day?’
‘He works for an online estate agency, Greengables, and he has an office at their flagship development, which just happens to be Strandbeck Manor.’
‘In other words, a stone’s throw from the Crooked Shore,’ Hannah said. ‘So although it’s curious that Melton was hanging around the area where Gerald Lace took Ramona, he did have a plausible reason to be in the vicinity.’
‘He said he often spends time there, looking out at Morecambe Bay,’ Maggie said. ‘That’s not so strange; it’s a lovely spot.’
‘One thing that is strange about Kingsley Melton,’ Hannah said, ‘is that he’s convinced that murder is about to be committed at Strandbeck Manor.’
Every face turned towards her.
‘Anticipating our interest in him, he sent me a personal message. Daniel Kind told me about it over the weekend.’
She gave a concise summary of Kingsley’s allegations against Logan Prentice.
‘Terrific,’ Les said as they digested the news, ‘so we’re not only looking for someone who committed murder twenty-one years ago, we’re supposed to prevent another killing in the here and now.’
‘If Kingsley Melton is to be believed,’ Hannah said.
‘What did Daniel make of him?’
‘A sad loser, basically. Melton doesn’t seem to have had satisfactory relationships with women. Perhaps the fault of this domineering mother of his, who knows? He seems to have had a brief crush on Prentice. In Daniel’s opinion, Melton genuinely believes that Prentice is a rogue, but maybe his judgement is warped by mixed-up emotions.’
‘The press slaughtered him for not doing more to save Darren Lace,’ Bunny said.
‘He’s besotted with this Reece-Taylor woman and jealous of Prentice. She obviously prefers to spend her time with a toy boy.’
‘Who can blame her?’ Bunny asked.
‘I asked Maggie to check on the alleged murder at Sunset View. An incident record was kept, thank goodness.’
‘Wonders never cease,’ Les muttered.
‘Don’t get too excited,’ Maggie said. ‘The investigation was cursory. Not surprising in the circumstances. The doctor was satisfied that Ivy Podmore died of natural causes. The care home manager said the Meltons were stirring up trouble for the sake of it. Mother and son loathed Prentice. Ivy hadn’t actually made a new will. So there was no motive for murder.’
‘Not necessarily,’ Hannah said. ‘If Prentice was fooled into believing that he was her heir.’
‘Yes, but the sole witness to the supposed murder was dead.’
‘So there’s no mileage in reviewing Ivy’s death as a cold case?’ Les said.
‘We can’t justify it,’ Hannah said. ‘Not with zero forensic evidence. We’d need a new witness to come out of the woodwork. A care assistant, maybe. The longest of long shots.’
Maggie’s brow creased. ‘I don’t suppose we can tip Ms Reece-Taylor off about Prentice, just in case?’
‘With nothing to go on but Kingsley’s instinct?’
‘Hell hath no fury like an estate agent scorned,’ Bunny said.
‘We could dig deeper into Prentice’s background, fish around for anything of interest, but I can’t justify diverting our resources. Suppose he is a young man on the make, having his wicked way with an older woman who enjoys spoiling him. So what?’
‘If he’s that dishy,’ Bunny said, ‘I might not say no myself.’
‘I ran a quick check on Prentice,’ Maggie said. ‘He doesn’t have a criminal record.’
‘Like so many other criminals,’ Les grumbled.
‘Logically,’ Hannah said, ‘we need to concentrate on Kingsley Melton. When he was talking to Daniel, he referred to guilty secrets and now we know why. He paid Ramona Smith’s mother for sex. Yet he claimed he’d never met the daughter who lived in the same house.’
‘To be fair,’ Bunny said. ‘He probably made sure he called when Ramona was out.’
‘Even so.’ Hannah waved the business card that Daniel had given to her. ‘I have Melton’s details. Let’s see if after all these years he still sticks to his story.’
‘Hey,’ Bunny sai
d, ‘you don’t think he might be the mysterious Vee?’
‘Good question,’ Hannah said. ‘Let’s ask him.’
Kingsley needed air. He stumbled through the revolving doors at the front of the hotel and made his way blindly along the pavement, not knowing or caring where his feet might take him. Was this how a boxer felt, when punches from a bloodthirsty opponent kept raining down and one lacked the strength to defend oneself, let alone hit back?
The persecution he’d suffered at the hands of the media after the jogger’s demise had been brutal enough. The savagery of Tory’s rebuff hurt a hundred times more. Now this crippling blow. Annabel had stripped him of his livelihood and self-respect, and as if that were not enough, she’d robbed him of his office at the manor, and the chance to keep within touching distance of the woman he worshipped.
His headache was raging and he fumbled inside his jacket pocket for a couple of pills. Emergency rations. He flung the small capsules down his throat and swallowed hard.
Instinct took him along Rayrigg Road, his feet guided by a subconscious yearning for the lovely and familiar. One of his favourite ways of spending a fine day on his own was to make the circuit of Queen Adelaide’s Hill and Millerground and admire the magnificence of Windermere from one of the finest vantage points in Cumbria. He pushed through a kissing gate and plodded up the stony path.
At the top of the drumlin, he looked out towards the far side of the lake. The views never failed to take his breath away. Crinkle Crags, Harrison Stickle, Pavey Ark, Loughrigg, their evocative names etched in his brain since childhood. His father, a keen walker who had a nodding acquaintance with Alfred Wainwright, the guru of the Lake District fells, had never convinced Kingsley of the joy of slogging up steep slopes in all weathers, but for all that he relished his native landscape. When life became almost too painful to bear, he took solace from the rugged grandeur of the rocky horizon.
He breathed in the aroma of grass and vegetation, feeling a light breeze ruffle his hair. Sheep contemplated him with vague indifference. This picturesque spot reeked of history. The hill, like the city in Australia, took its name from a queen who came here to visit; her boat had landed just below this hill, and she came ashore at Millerground. During the last world war, soldiers in the Home Guard had patrolled the lake in motor boats with mounted machine guns, guarding the flying boat factory and no doubt praying that Hitler would choose some other target.
The Crooked Shore Page 19