The Crooked Shore

by Martin Edwards

‘I didn’t cash in on Ivy’s death.’ Prentice’s eyes narrowed. ‘You must know, she lied to me, the mad old bat.’

  Kingsley smirked. ‘Serves you right.’

  ‘Made me glad I killed her,’ Prentice said casually. ‘Served her right.’

  There was a long silence, broken only by the cry of a seagull. Despite everything that had happened, Kingsley couldn’t quite believe this was happening. The sheer insolence of it. Prentice believed he was above the law. He was so utterly selfish. The normal rules didn’t apply to him.

  ‘You admit it?’

  Kingsley’s voice was hoarse with emotion. Vindication at long last. Mamma had been right. So had he. The doctor, the care home manager, the police, all those smug doubting Thomases had got it wrong. This man was a self-confessed murderer.

  Prentice roared with laughter and went through a pantomime of looking around the deserted grounds. ‘For your ears only, Kingsley. Privileged information. Obviously, I’ll deny it if you tell anyone else. Nobody will believe you, trust me. Now why don’t you just fuck off out of here?’

  ‘You haven’t told me what you’ve done with Tory.’

  ‘I haven’t done anything with her.’

  ‘You slapped her, you bastard.’ Kingsley felt like spitting. ‘What else?’

  Prentice screwed up his face as if he’d lifted a stone and found something unpleasant beneath it.

  ‘Slapped her? You’re crazy.’

  Kingsley had caught him out in a lie. He had Tory’s word for what had happened.

  ‘You don’t fool me. I know that you’re violent. You hit a defenceless woman.’

  Prentice snorted with exasperation. ‘Have it your own way. I couldn’t care less.’

  He shrugged, a feudal lord dismissing a serf.

  Kingsley glanced up to the heavens. A large black cloud had appeared, as if to match his mood. He reached into his canvas bag and pulled out the Smith & Wesson.

  ‘Answer me. Where is Tory? Have you killed her too?’

  Prentice took a step back on to the jetty. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You’ve got eyes, haven’t you?’ This was more like it. Kingsley felt like preening. Merely to feel the weight of the gun in his hand gave him an indescribable sense of superiority and power. ‘Trust me, it still works. Now, where is she?’

  Prentice seemed to be in a trance. Hypnotised by the Smith & Wesson.

  ‘She can’t be far,’ he said slowly. ‘In or around the flat. We can look for her together if you like.’

  ‘You’re lying, as usual. She’s not there.’ Kingsley’s grip on the gun tightened. ‘Have you hidden her body?’

  ‘Put the gun down,’ Prentice said. ‘Stop waving it about. You’re not safe.’

  ‘No,’ Kingsley said. ‘I’m not safe at all. Neither are you. Now quit stalling and tell me about Tory.’

  ‘You talk like an ancient B-movie.’ It never took Prentice long to recover his poise, Kingsley thought. ‘I reckon you’ve finally flipped.’

  ‘I was never saner,’ Kingsley said. ‘Never more serious. I’ll count to three.’

  Prentice stood on the edge of the jetty. The two men were facing each other, six feet apart.

  ‘One,’ Kingsley said.

  ‘You’re not going to use the gun, so put it back in the bag,’ Prentice said.

  ‘You always underestimated me,’ Kingsley said. ‘You’re so arrogant. Fatally arrogant. You’ve killed Tory and now you’re playing for time. Two.’

  ‘You’re deluded,’ Prentice said. ‘You don’t need Tory, you need psychiatric help.’

  ‘You’re a self-confessed killer,’ Kingsley said. ‘I won’t take any lessons from you. Three.’

  ‘Why don’t …’

  Prentice crouched, and Kingsley realised he was about to launch himself forward and try to seize the Smith & Wesson. Kingsley lifted the gun and squeezed the trigger. A warning shot into the trees to scare him into submission.

  Prentice screamed and fell backwards, collapsing in a writhing heap on the jetty.

  Kingsley had missed his aim. The warning shot had been so wild that it had smacked Prentice in the middle of the chest.

  As he watched in speechless horror, the writhing stopped.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  ‘Sorry I’m so late,’ Tory Reece-Taylor said. ‘My car’s playing up so I decided to come by taxi, and the cabbie was delayed.’

  ‘Not a problem. Thanks for coming in.’

  Hannah had recovered her composure following that moment of revelation five minutes earlier. Her head was buzzing as she tried to make sense of the implications. As soon as this interview was over, she must decide what to do, but first things first.

  She, Bunny, and Tory were in a meeting room. A small, inadequate fan was working overtime and three cups of coffee and a jug of milk stood on a tray on the table. Bunny had a notebook and pen on her lap, but the plan was to strive for informality. Hannah passed Tory her drink.

  ‘So, Chief Inspector, what can I do for you?’

  Hannah stirred milk into her own coffee as she wondered what made this woman tick.

  Tory was as chic as an Italian film star. What lay behind the glamorous, well-preserved façade, the thick, lustrous blonde hair, almost flawless skin, enviably straight nose, full lips, and strong, even teeth? Nothing but the best for Tory Reece-Taylor. The gold bracelets and taupe handbag must have cost a fortune. Not to mention the sky-blue dress, which emphasised her well-shaped legs and slim hips and flattered her figure. Easy to understand why any man might fall for her. Let alone Melton.

  ‘As you know, Mr Kingsley Melton is concerned for your well-being.’

  Tory sipped her drink. ‘He thinks Logan Prentice is after my money. He’s afraid that I’ll make Logan my heir, giving him a reason to scare me to death. A few years ago I suffered a sudden cardiac arrest.’

  ‘It’s not our job to interfere in people’s personal lives, but your medical history means you are at risk. When such a serious allegation is made, we’re obliged to make you aware.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Tory sighed. ‘I’ve slept with both of them. Rotten choices, but it’s a free country; I please myself. I felt sorry for Kingsley, and he made himself useful around the manor. I never dreamt he’d become so jealous. He detests Logan, and for all his faults, I’ve discovered that Kingsley is right about one thing. Logan is on the make.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’ Tory contemplated elegant turquoise fingernails. ‘Logan told me he had a sister, Ingrid. She’d moved to the United States, but suffered severe medical problems. One kidney lost to cancer, the other malfunctioning. Long story short, she was in urgent need of pioneering medical treatment which wasn’t covered by insurance. I didn’t understand the details, it was all gobbledygook to me. Coming back to Britain wasn’t an option; she wasn’t fit enough to travel. The leading specialist was ready and willing to operate, and Ingrid was excited because the surgeon was confident of success. But he and his team needed paying. It was a matter of life and death.’

  ‘Mr Prentice wanted you to give money?’

  ‘Goodness me, no. Give him credit for a smidgeon of subtlety. Logan created the circumstances where I became anxious to help. He didn’t ask for a penny. I was the one who offered. Even then, he turned me down flat several times. I had to beg him to agree there was no alternative.’

  ‘In the end, he swallowed his pride?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘How much money was he talking about?’

  Tory named a figure that took Hannah’s breath away.

  ‘You were willing to spend that much?’

  Tory nodded.

  Hannah drained her cup. ‘Extraordinarily generous of you, Ms Reece-Taylor.’

  ‘A lot of money, yes, but it wouldn’t clean me out. I’ve got the flat at the manor, and these days my lifestyle isn’t especially lavish. Logan is a hunk, and I wanted to be generous. The money wasn’t going to him, but into a special bank account set up on behalf o
f his sister. I found that reassuring, as he intended. So, yes, I was gullible. A love-struck fool.’ She gave a rueful smile. ‘I’ll admit, it was out of character. My late husband once complained that I didn’t have an unselfish bone in my body. For Logan, I was willing to make an exception. More fool me.’

  ‘Did you do any – due diligence, so to speak?’

  Tory finished her coffee, and Bunny Cohen took the tray out of the room.

  ‘I thought I’d checked out his story. There’s a fund-raising website which I pored over, and I talked to Ingrid over the internet a few. She was lying in bed in some tiny cubicle in a Chicago hospital. Or so I thought. A pretty young woman, dreadfully frail. Winsome. I also spoke to the specialist.’

  ‘Or again, so you thought?’

  ‘Yes, on reflection, I suppose I was in conversation with a pre-recorded message from Logan himself, American accent and all. He and Ingrid put on a convincing double act, and I fell for it.’ She sighed. ‘Ingrid isn’t his sister. Her name is Sheena and she’s a bank clerk from Grange. I presume she masterminded the fancy footwork with the account, while he did a few conjuring tricks with technology.’

  ‘How did you find this out?’

  ‘Logan went out last night, supposedly to fix a client’s computer, and I decided to do a bit of cyberstalking. Amateur dramatics is one of his hobbies, and when I looked up his group’s website, I recognised their star performer. Ingrid, wearing a low-cut top instead of a hospital gown. It dawned on me that they’d rigged the whole thing up with the help of theatre props and computer wizardry. When it comes to IT, I’m easy to bamboozle. Mind you, he’s getting careless. When he came home, he reeked of cheap perfume.’

  ‘Have you transferred the money?’

  ‘Not a penny, thank goodness.’ Tory’s smile was grim. ‘Perhaps deep down, I never quite believed all the passionate professions of eternal devotion.’

  Tory Reece-Taylor was a formidable woman, Hannah thought. Impossible not to admire her sangfroid. Admitting frailty was never easy, but her manner didn’t hint at anger. Whatever her private feelings, she had a gift for hiding them. Of all her strengths, that was probably the most valuable.

  The door opened and Bunny came back in.

  Vesper, Vesper.

  As he stared, blank-eyed, at Logan Prentice’s crumpled, bleeding body, Kingsley’s mind slid back in time. Daniel Kind was right.

  History repeats itself, but never in quite the same way.

  His enemy was dead, and he was responsible. Long ago he’d watched Vesper die too.

  Ah, lovely little Vesper, everyone’s pet. From the moment of her birth, she’d been the apple of their parents’ eye. That cute snub nose, the charming freckles, the auburn curls.

  How Kingsley had hated her.

  Prior to her intrusion into his life, everything had been perfect. He was just old enough to understand how much she’d cost him. No longer was he the centre of the parents’ universe. He was the older one, demoted to second place. She was young, innocent, helpless. While their parents ran the shop, he was expected to keep her happy and entertained. She was mischievous, forever throwing her doll out of her pram and wailing until he picked it up so she could repeat the trick again and again until she got bored. If ever he pinched her, to remind her of his superior status, she screamed and told tales about him.

  It was all so horribly unfair. She had only herself to blame.

  Hannah leant across the table. ‘Have you challenged Logan Prentice?’

  ‘Not directly.’ Tory’s smile was thin. ‘He’d only come up with some elaborate explanation of why I’d got it wrong. I can’t be bothered with all that. I’ve spent too much of my life listening to men telling lies.’

  ‘And indirectly?’

  ‘When I asked him about Sheena, he became amusingly evasive. I suppose he’s shagging her too.’

  ‘Has Mr Prentice done anything to jeopardise your health or well-being?’

  A sardonic grin. ‘On the contrary. Ever since I said I’d transfer the money to the trust account, he couldn’t have been more caring. No sense in killing the golden goose before the cash is in the bank.’

  Hannah had anticipated Tory’s strength, but the woman’s candour was breathtaking. At least so far.

  ‘What do you propose to do?’

  Tory pursed her lips. ‘I was just racking my brains when you rang.’

  ‘In view of what you’ve told us about Mr Prentice, I could ask one of my colleagues to speak to him.’

  ‘You’ll appreciate, Chief Inspector, that I haven’t actually made a complaint about him. As a matter of fact, I’ve been frank with you, and I wonder if you could be equally frank with me?’

  Her smile was disarming, her eyes watchful as a hawk’s.

  ‘What did you want to know?’

  ‘Last week I saw you on television, giving an interview. You’re in charge of cold cases, aren’t you? I was puzzled about why you’d been talking to Kingsley Melton. I don’t mean to be rude, but you do seem to be trespassing outside your bailiwick. Surely you have your hands full with the enquiry you were talking about – some old murder, wasn’t it? It’s good of you to show such an interest, but I’m not clear why my private life should concern such a senior officer.’

  ‘You’re absolutely correct.’ Hannah was ready for this question. ‘In the normal course of events, I wouldn’t become involved, but Mr Melton particularly wanted to speak to me.’

  Tory raised her eyebrows. ‘You felt sorry for him?’

  ‘We can’t turn a blind eye to serious allegations.’

  ‘Kingsley told me that two years ago, the police weren’t interested in what he had to say.’

  ‘They found no evidence to substantiate what he said.’ Hannah felt as if she were fencing with an accomplished duellist. ‘Given the possibility that you might be at risk, I decided it was right to speak to you.’

  Tory gave a brisk nod of satisfaction, as if Hannah had passed a test. ‘Because from your point of view, the previous incident is now a cold case?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Good of you to take such an interest.’ Tory picked up her handbag. ‘Of course, I’ll be on my guard, but when I tell Logan that I’m not paying up, he’ll be off, quicker than you can say fraudster. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better look out for a cab. Good luck with your other enquiry.’

  She stood up, but the two detectives remained seated.

  ‘About that other enquiry,’ Hannah said. ‘I wonder if you can help.’

  Tory consulted her watch. It looked expensive, possibly a Patek Philippe.

  ‘I’m afraid I really ought to go.’

  ‘As you’ve gathered, we’re investigating what happened to Ramona Smith, who vanished from Bowness twenty-one years ago.’

  ‘Yes, but …’

  ‘We don’t have much to go on. However, Ramona’s fingerprints are on file. They were collected from her home as a matter of routine at the time of the original enquiry.’

  Hannah sat back in her chair and waited for her words to sink in.

  Tory said, ‘Sorry, you’ve lost me.’

  ‘There’s always been a strong presumption that Ramona is dead,’ Hannah murmured. ‘Murdered. A ton of circumstantial evidence pointed that way. A man was even tried for the crime, but acquitted.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So my job, leading a cold case review, is to start from a blank sheet of paper.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning that I believe Ramona Smith is still alive.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  ‘Ramona Smith’s appearance couldn’t be more different from yours,’ Hannah said. ‘But she was your height and general build.’

  Tory’s face was a mask. Another advantage of cosmetic surgery. She had a lifetime’s experience of hiding her feelings. Of hiding all sorts of blemishes.

  Hannah gestured towards the chair she’d vacated. After a rare moment of indecision, Tory sat down again.

  �
�Ramona would also be the same age as you, Ms Reece-Taylor.’

  ‘So are a lot of people.’

  ‘True.’

  Hannah had very little evidence to support her hunch that Tory and Ramona were one and the same, let alone proof. Hence her determination to check Tory’s prints. If they didn’t match, she’d feel stupid and incompetent, but it wouldn’t be the first time, and she’d get over it. Besides, she was convinced that by freeing up her imagination, she’d stumbled upon the truth.

  Her theory explained so much that was otherwise coincidental. What had drawn this woman from the south of England to the spot where Ramona had disappeared? And to Kingsley Melton, one of Leila Smith’s clients? Like Ramona, Tory had a vigorous sex life but no interest in commitment. Tiny pointers, at best. But to boast that she loved coming back from the dead …

  Tory’s composed manner struck Hannah as remarkable but overdone. If she wasn’t Ramona, surely she’d be more aggrieved by the outrageous suggestion that she’d faked her own death?

  Tory cleared her throat. ‘I’m not sure what you expect me to say.’

  ‘That’s up to you.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that I am Ramona Smith?’

  ‘Do you deny it?’

  ‘Really, this is ridiculous.’ Faint spots of colour appeared in her cheeks. ‘You’ve invited me here under false pretences.’

  ‘Not at all. You kindly volunteered to come to Kendal. This afternoon, you’ve confirmed that Logan Prentice’s behaviour towards you is a cause of concern. While you are here, I’m simply taking the opportunity to ask you about Ramona Smith.’

  Tory folded her arms. In the silence, Hannah could almost hear the woman’s brain shifting through the gears.

  ‘It crossed my mind that there might be a reason you were so willing to meet the detective leading the cold case review. I suppose you hoped to assure yourself that we didn’t suspect you of being Ramona Smith.’

  Tory took a breath. ‘I’ve never heard such nonsense.’

  No ranting, no raving. Her heart simply wasn’t in it, Hannah thought. She was giving herself room to manoeuvre, taking care to avoid the lie outright. Like a gambler accustomed to playing for high stakes, she was smart enough to know when she was beaten. She’d have checked her legal position and discovered that she risked being charged with perverting the course of justice. When in a hole, don’t keep digging.