The Crooked Shore

by Martin Edwards

  Kingsley wasn’t a churchgoer or a religious man in the conventional sense, but he nourished a vague and incoherent faith that good shall prevail. One day the meek really ought to inherit the earth. This conviction had kept him going through so many rough times, experiences that – he reminded himself – would have destroyed a frailer spirit. The death of his sister, his academic failures, the loss of his father, the betrayal by Logan Prentice, Mamma’s strokes.

  A weaker soul, Gerald Lace or his son for instance, might abandon hope in the face of overwhelming adversity and put an end to it all. Not Kingsley Melton. People thought he was a pushover, but they were wrong. No matter how many times Fate knocked him to the floor, he picked himself up and battled on. Often down, but never out.

  The pills were working their magic. His headache had cleared. As he walked down by Wynlass Beck, his steps had a spring unimaginable even half an hour earlier. It wasn’t just his medication. Nature’s healing powers were at work. The sunlight warmed his cheeks and brow. Two plump, white-throated dippers were paddling in the stream, and he spotted the delicate yellow blooms of a patch of rare balsam, known as touch-me-not.

  Touch-me-not. It was a splendid motto; he must adopt it. He threw back his shoulders and lengthened his stride. Logan Prentice, Annabel Wheeldon, even Tory Reece-Taylor, let them do their worse. Bruised and battered he might be, but he wouldn’t break.

  ‘I’m truly sorry,’ Tory said as Logan switched off the laptop. They were sitting next to each other. Outside the sun blazed, but the living room had a chill of melancholy.

  He wouldn’t meet her eyes. When he spoke, his voice was muffled.

  ‘She’s so brave. It’s so … unjust.’

  He buried his face in his hands and she hugged him to her. ‘There’s always hope, sweetheart,’ she said. ‘This new treatment the doctor talked about.’

  ‘You heard what he said.’ They’d listened on his laptop, not daring to interrupt. The video link hadn’t worked, but the specialist, a native New Yorker by the sound of him, had sounded downcast during the five minutes he’d granted them. ‘It’s experimental, unproven. And the cost …’

  ‘You mustn’t give up hope!’ Tory nuzzled his neck. ‘Ingrid is depending on you. Don’t worry about the cost.’

  ‘How can I not?’

  ‘I told you I’m willing to pay.’

  He pulled away from her. ‘No, I can’t let you do that!’

  ‘Hey.’ She seized hold of her wrist. Her grip surprised him with its strength. ‘You promised that if the news wasn’t good, You’d let me help. This isn’t about you, it’s about your sister. She’s dying. I want her to have the gift of life.’

  Kingsley had turned his phone to silent prior to the calamitous encounter with Annabel, and he only remembered to switch it back on as he arrived home at the bungalow. There was a message on his voicemail from an unknown number. He listened.

  The call was from Cumbria Constabulary. Some young female flunkey had left her number and asked him to ring back. She wanted to know if she could make an appointment for him to see Detective Chief Inspector Hannah Scarlett. DCI Scarlett was willing to visit Kingsley at his home, if that was convenient. Was he free tomorrow?

  Had he misjudged Daniel Kind’s reaction to their conversations at Amos Books? The historian had come up trumps after all. Despite his apparent doubts, he must have passed the information on to his friend. At last Kingsley was getting somewhere. On television, Hannah Scarlett had struck him as highly sympathetic. A civilised chat with her was a very different proposition from trying to persuade a sceptical underling to take him seriously.

  He dialled the number given by the girl. He tried to prise some information out of her about the purpose of the meeting, but she sounded junior; if she knew what had passed between Daniel and Hannah Scarlett, she wasn’t admitting it. He fixed the meeting for half past ten.

  Energy surged through him. His luck was beginning to turn.

  Time to return to Strandbeck Manor.

  ‘It will take time,’ Logan said. ‘Years, I suppose, but I’ll pay you back. My luck will turn soon. I’ll get the cash together. Every penny.’

  ‘You won’t,’ Tory said. ‘This is between me and Ingrid. Nothing to do with you.’

  ‘You’d never have heard of her if I hadn’t mentioned …’

  ‘True, but irrelevant.’ She kissed him long and hard. ‘Don’t kick up a fuss, sweetheart, it won’t make any difference. My mind is made up. I’ve never been a do-gooder. For once in my life, I’m going to do something for someone else.’

  He caught his breath. ‘You’re amazing.’

  ‘I know,’ she said.

  Daniel had just come off the phone with his publisher when Louise called. She was on sabbatical, and although she was supposed to be writing a chapter in an academic book, she looked for any excuse to avoid getting down to it. He couldn’t blame her since he knew the feeling.

  ‘About this boat trip,’ she said.

  ‘What boat trip?’

  A theatrical groan. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.’

  ‘You mean with Alex Samaras?’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Let’s do it sooner rather than later. I know you said you’ve got a lot of work on, but she’s definitely interested, Daniel. Trust me, I can see the signs. You’re lucky. She’s very desirable.’

  It was his turn to groan. ‘You’ve forgotten, I’m not in the market.’

  ‘On the way back to Grasmere, she asked me about Hannah. Said she didn’t want to tread on anyone’s toes.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said I didn’t know how things were between the two of you. Which is the honest truth.’

  ‘And what did she say?’

  ‘Just that she didn’t want to spoil things. Either interfere with your life, or mess up her friendship with me. She’s afraid you think she’s a shallow fangirl. A failed actor, not bright enough or serious enough for a leading historian.’

  ‘I hope you told her that I couldn’t care less about reputations, mine or anyone else’s. She’s got tons of charm, and I enjoy her company. But that’s as far as it goes.’

  A heavy sigh. ‘All right. You’re making a mistake, but it wouldn’t be the first time. Just tell me you’ll join us on the boat trip.’

  He grinned at the phone. One thing about Louise, she never gave up a lost cause.

  ‘All right. I’ll go on the boat trip.’

  Kingsley parked his Corsa in his usual spot close to the Crooked Shore, but instead of ambling towards Morecambe Bay, he lifted his briefcase out of the boot and headed up to Strandbeck Lane. Events had conspired against him for too long. His hopes for a reversal of fortune depended on subtlety, even a degree of low cunning. If he drove up to the manor, there was a risk that Tory would spot him before the time was ripe, and that would never do.

  At the gates of the manor, he took the right hand footpath, following the line of the boundary wall until it gave way to a wooden fence. After two or three minutes he reached the point where the fence was broken. This allowed access to the manor grounds and the route favoured by trespassers taking a shortcut. Repairing the most recent damage to the fence had been on Kingsley’s to-do list for months. Thank goodness for his inertia. Everything happens for a reason, he told himself, and sometimes things don’t happen for a reason as well.

  The great advantage of this gap in the manor’s security was that Tory had no view of it from her flat. She wouldn’t be able to see him unless she happened to be strolling nearby.

  Seeing no sign of human life in the grounds, Kingsley squeezed through the gap. He made his way through a clump of trees and shrubs into the wild garden, in other words the outer part of the estate that the outside contractors weren’t paid to maintain. They worked here every Monday, and he’d timed his arrival in Strandbeck to coincide with when they knocked off. Predictably, they’d already left for the day. The lawn was freshly mown,
and he inhaled the smell of the grass as he strolled across towards the far side of the building.

  He let himself into his office. Everything had gone to plan, nobody had seen him. The manor had four CCTV cameras, but only two of them were functional at present, and keeping out of their fields of view proved to be a doddle. Upgrading the security was one more task Kingsley hadn’t got round to. Never mind, not his problem now. Let his wretched successor sort it out.

  Through the front window he saw Tory’s car. Logan Prentice had parked his dirty old van right next to it. Unless he and Tory had gone out for a walk, they must be inside her flat.

  Kingsley opened first one desk drawer and then the other. After stashing a few personal possessions into his briefcase, he contemplated the antique gun and the ammunition.

  He picked up the Smith & Wesson and cradled it in his hands. On impulse, he loaded the bullets. Not that he was intending to shoot anyone, obviously, but you couldn’t be too careful. He gave the gun an affectionate pat and put it back in its hiding place. Merely to know it was there, should he ever need to make a point, gave him comfort and confidence.

  During the manor’s redesign, his office and cloakroom had been separated from three other rooms, which remained vacant and locked. Eventually they would be joined together to constitute the last flat to be sold. Kingsley fished the key to the dividing door from his desk and entered the empty suite. Passing through the main room, he opened a walk-in cupboard at the far end. The air was stale and the dust so thick that he sneezed. In the confined space, the noise he made sounded to him like a grenade exploding.

  He shut his eyes, fearing he’d given the game away. The back of the cupboard also formed the rear of a cupboard in Tory’s bedroom. If she were there now, she must surely have heard him.

  Nothing happened.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, he reminded himself to take the utmost care. The slightest slip could lead to catastrophe. Given Tory’s recent form, if she discovered him keeping tabs on her, she would show no mercy. At the very least, she’d be on the blower to the appalling Annabel, who would no doubt take great delight in marching him out of his office, changing the locks, and beefing up the camera surveillance.

  He found some tissues in the cloakroom and gave the inside of the cupboard a quick wipe before settling back inside. Soundproofing in the renovated manor was good, but the wall separating the two cupboards was a weak point. The builders had saved time and effort where they thought they could get away with it. More than once Kingsley had crouched inside the cupboard, listening to the clatter of coat hangers and Tory’s tuneless humming. It excited him to picture her, blissfully unaware of his presence a few inches away.

  After ten minutes he heard movements next door. Then voices, muffled yet discernible.

  ‘Take it off,’ Logan said.

  A coquettish giggle. ‘Shall I?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He listened for several minutes, until he could bear no more. He crept out of the cupboard and dragged himself to the cloakroom, where he splashed cold water over his face.

  What was happening to Tory horrified him. It was as if Prentice had cast a spell over the woman and made her his slave. He was robbing her of every last shred of dignity. She was helpless. At his mercy.

  Kingsley fled from the office and hurried back the way he had come. At least he needn’t worry that Tory was watching. When he arrived at the Corsa, his head was buzzing. For once he had no wish to linger on his bench by the Crooked Shore.

  His mission was clear. Like a knight in shining armour, he needed to rescue the woman he loved. With any luck, Hannah Scarlett would help. Come what may, he must act quickly, before it was too late.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ‘Kingsley Melton? I’m DCI Scarlett and this is DC Bunny Cohen.’ Hannah paused as he gaped at the two women standing outside the front door of his bungalow. ‘You remember our appointment for this morning? May we come in?’

  Kingsley was startled to see that Hannah Scarlett wasn’t alone. He’d envisaged a private conversation. The detective constable was roughly his own age, with a sharp edge to her nose and chin. She scrutinised him as if he were a scrap of forensic evidence in a polythene bag. Cynicism radiated from her like a cheap perfume; he scented a hard-nosed feminist who believed men were never to be trusted.

  ‘Well, yes,’ he stammered. ‘Of course. Follow me.’

  He led them down the hallway and into the sitting room at the back of the bungalow. He’d dusted so scrupulously even Mamma would have had to give his housework grudging approval. For all his efforts to tidy up, he was conscious that a stranger might think his house cluttered. Claustrophobic, even. His parents had often brought home treasures from the shop and he’d filled every remaining nook and cranny with antiques that caught his eye. He’d kept the original furniture, of course; he shared Mamma’s belief that Art Deco never went out of fashion. The leatherette upholstery showed its age, inevitably, but for all the cracks it was hard-wearing and comfortable enough, even if the bolshy-looking constable made a point of wincing as she sat down.

  ‘Can I offer you a cuppa?’ Important to be hospitable, he needed the police on his side. ‘Yorkshire tea, if that’s all right with you. No trouble, the kettle’s only just come to the boil.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Hannah put her leather briefcase down on the freshly hoovered floral carpet. ‘Milk and no sugar for both of us.’

  ‘Can I tempt you with a Viennese whirl?’ He chuckled at their bafflement. ‘My favourite type of biscuit.’

  ‘Nothing to eat, thanks. Tea will be fine.’

  While he fussed around, he was conscious of the two women weighing up their surroundings, admiring the antiques. Easy to guess that they were forming opinions about him. No doubt they’d judge him to be respectable but rather a fuddy-duddy; he was well aware that was how he often came across to other people.

  ‘It’s good of you to see us,’ Hannah said as he poured the tea. ‘I’m sure you’re very busy.’

  ‘I’m fortunate to be able to organise my own schedule,’ he said. ‘I could never have coped with being an employee, condemned to the treadmill, nine-to-five.’

  ‘Yet you work for an estate agency?’

  ‘As an independent contractor, not a member of the permanent staff. At least I’m with them for the time being.’

  ‘You’re leaving the job?’

  It had crossed his mind that the police might check his bona fides, and he didn’t want them to think that Greengables were giving him the sack. It was almost the truth to claim that the decision was his. He’d yearned to be free of the tyranny of the spreadsheets and regular reports ever since he’d moved into Strandbeck Manor. It did no harm to put a positive spin on his impending departure.

  ‘I’m ready for a change. To be honest, I find their nitpicking tiresome. I long to regain my independence. I’m planning to go back to dealing in antiques, being my own boss. Answerable only to myself, not a bunch of jumped-up clerks. Our family had an antiques shop in Kendal. We ate, breathed, and slept antiques. You’ve probably gathered!’

  With a little laugh, he indicated their surroundings. The cabinet of lapis lazuli. The porcelain dolls’ faces that used to terrify his young sister, even more than the collection of dead hawk-moths housed in a glass display drawer. The grumpy constable was mesmerised by the tropical birds in his bamboo-edged taxidermy case.

  ‘Victorian,’ he told her. ‘Wonderful how they have retained their colours. The toucan makes such a cheerful centrepiece.’

  The Cohen woman’s eyes were out on stalks. Anyone would think she’d never seen a stuffed bird before. Hannah Scarlett, to give her credit, didn’t seem fazed by his love of curiosities. She had clear eyes and good skin, and seemed quite relaxed. Calm, unthreatening, not in the least judgemental.

  She was savouring her tea. DC Cohen hadn’t touched hers; surely she didn’t think he was trying to poison them? Her distrustful expression struck him as rude. Anyone would imagine that he
wasn’t a law-abiding citizen. She was still a public servant. He paid his taxes, which paid her wages. Not to mention funding her gold-plated pension.

  ‘You asked Daniel Kind to pass on some information to me,’ Hannah said. ‘You’ve made a serious accusation. I’m not clear why you didn’t speak to us directly?’

  He settled back in his chair. An easy question; he’d prepared for it, and the only challenge was not to reel off his answer without pausing for breath.

  ‘I raised my concerns about the death of Ivy Podmore at the time and nobody took me seriously. I was asked for evidence which I didn’t possess and which it wasn’t my job to provide. Frankly, I hoped people in authority would find proof of the crime, but nothing happened.’

  Hannah inclined her head. She wasn’t trying to argue or pick holes in what he said. Encouraging.

  ‘When I became aware that Prentice was taking an unhealthy interest in Ms Reece-Taylor, naturally I was concerned. Knowing his past and knowing that she is vulnerable. A wealthy woman with a history of serious heart trouble. Sudden cardiac arrest. He’s less than half her age, without a penny to his name.’

  DC Cohen piped up. ‘Perhaps she takes a maternal interest in him.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Kingsley retorted. ‘For a start, Tory isn’t in the least maternal. She once told me that she was never interested in having children. No, she’s a passionate woman. Not to put too fine a point on it, she has a considerable … well, appetite, if you follow.’

  ‘We follow,’ Hannah said.

  ‘I’m the first to admit that Prentice is a handsome fellow with a deceptively charming manner. Animal lust I can understand, as a man of the world. But what are his motives? That’s the question.’

  ‘Mr Prentice doesn’t have a criminal record.’

  ‘He’s clever,’ Kingsley said. ‘Cunning, deceitful, sly. He has a confidence trickster’s ability to win your sympathy, then turn it to his own advantage. Anyway, I knew that if I approached the police myself, you’d quiz me like this and point out that there was little or nothing to go on. The likelihood was that I’d be fobbed off with a cynical subordinate and get absolutely nowhere.’