A Reason to Kill

by Jane A. Adams

  ‘These shoes are not made for cliff climbing,’ Tim complained as he slipped for the fourth time.

  ‘Which is why you are going down first,’ Rina told him. ‘See, it’s not so bad now, is it?’

  Tim didn’t comment, concentrating on the placing of his feet on the loose and slippery surface. The ‘path’ down from the top of the cliff consisted of wet mud and gravel in a combination designed for neck-breaking and he clung eagerly to the tussocks of grass on either side of the increasingly steep slope, hoping against hope that he would not end up sliding on his backside the rest of the way down. It wasn’t so bad here though, he had to admit that. Worst had been those first few steps over the grass-concealed edge. He had clung pathetically to Rina’s gloved hand and then to the outgrowths of plant and ageing root as he lowered himself down, still not convinced that this slit in the side of the cliff could ever be defined by the gratefully solid word ‘path’.

  ‘You’re almost there,’ Rina told him. ‘I think.’

  ‘What do you mean, you think?’

  ‘Well, it is a little while since I came down here. There may be a bit further to go than I remember.’

  Tim groaned. ‘Rina, this is torture.’

  ‘Is it? I thought it would be a lovely way to spend the afternoon.’

  Tim just groaned again, but he was happy to hear that she at least had the grace to sound a little breathless. She had been right after all: they were almost down although the disadvantage of that was that the path now turned and Tim found himself peering down between his feet at a horrifyingly vertiginous view of the ocean.

  ‘Deep breaths, deep breaths.’

  ‘Yes,’ Rina agreed. ‘It does help if you keep breathing.’

  Then, after what seemed like hours, Tim stood with his feet firmly planted on solid ground.

  ‘Pretty here, isn’t it?’ Rina suggested, pushing her way past him and going to stand as close to the lapping water as she could without wetting her toes.

  Tim looked around. Behind them the cliff rose to block out any view of the hotel or the upper part of the path or even the sky. The beach was no more than twenty yards long, he estimated, and about ten wide at the most. Boulder strewn and wild, freezing cold despite Rina’s assurances that it would be more sheltered here, and pungent with the smell of what he hoped was only rotting sea weed.

  ‘Delightful,’ he said. ‘Rina, can we just get out of here? I’m half frozen.’

  ‘It isn’t cold,’ she said. ‘It’s bracing.’

  ‘You,’ he pointed out, ‘are wearing a coat and, no doubt, about a dozen layers underneath. What are we looking for anyway?’

  ‘Signs of use,’ she said. ‘Signs that someone might have been here recently. There’s a little cave, if I remember right, just back that way.’

  ‘Rina, I think the tide’s coming in.’

  ‘Of course it is, but we’ve got another ten minutes or so. Plenty of time to collect evidence.’

  ‘Evidence of what?’ Tim wanted to know.

  Rina’s steely glance told him it should be obvious. ‘Smuggling, of course.’

  Fourteen

  ‘Smuggling?’ Tim said sceptically. Rina was already marching off towards the far end of the little beach. ‘Does our pet policeman know you’re doing this?’

  ‘No, of course not. There didn’t seem much point telling him unless we had something to tell.’

  ‘And are we likely to have anything to tell him? I mean, smuggling, Rina, that’s a bit melodramatic, isn’t it?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be the first time along this coast. For that matter, it wouldn’t be the first time here. Five or so years ago it was cigarettes, I believe, and a year or so after that it was illegal immigrants.’

  ‘You’re kidding me. I didn’t think anything happened round here.’

  ‘As I said, you don’t open your eyes. But think about it, Tim, this coastline is riddled with little coves and beaches, most of them so off the beaten track that the tourists don’t find them and quite a few that even the locals don’t know are there. This, for instance: you can only get down here from the landward side when the tide goes right out and, as you can see from the wet stones, it doesn’t go out very far or stay out for very long.’

  Tim cast a worried glance back at the water. It seemed to have crept further back up the beach even as they had stood there. ‘We’re not going to be long, are we?’

  ‘No, Tim, we’re not going to be long. I’m well aware of what the tide is doing. This, however, stays above the water line even at the spring tides.’

  Tim turned his attention back to Rina. Curious, he joined her at what turned out to be the mouth of a small and very well hidden cave.

  ‘See!’ Rina was triumphant. ‘I knew it was here.’

  The mouth of the cave was almost concealed behind a collection of loose boulders. Tim scrambled over them, reaching out a hand to help Rina. ‘Fossils,’ he said. ‘Nice ones too.’ He bent to examine the large ammonites embedded in the smooth grey rock, fingering them curiously. He moved closer to the cliff face, pulled gently at fragments of outcropping stone. ‘Y’know, the strata are really clear here. You can see the fossil layer; it runs right down almost to the beach.’

  ‘Well you’ll have to bring your hammer and collecting bag, but I suggest you leave it for another day. As you’ve already noted, the tide is rising and we don’t have much time, so tear yourself away from the Jurassic and come and look at this.’

  Obediently, Tim dipped his head and entered the cave. It was taller inside than he’d anticipated. Rina could stand upright, but Tim needed considerably more headroom. Rina had, of course, brought a torch, which she swung around the empty space, showing Tim that it sloped upwards, back into the cliff. ‘You see, the water never gets to the far end. Plenty of room.’

  ‘For what?’

  Rina shrugged. ‘Who knows? But, ah, this is something.’

  Tim squatted down to see what she had found.

  ‘Hold this, please,’ she told him, handing Tim the torch. She pulled a roll of plastic freezer bags and a ballpoint pen from another pocket in the capacious jacket.

  ‘A Coke can,’ Tim said. ‘Rina, it probably washed in here.’

  ‘Not likely, it’s above the water line.’ She poked the end of the pen into the opening of the can and slid it into the bag. ‘And this – look, cigarette butts. It isn’t likely they washed in here, is it?’

  ‘No,’ Tim agreed, watching as she bagged those too, ‘but Rina, if you look hard enough there’ll probably be a selection of used condoms hereabouts as well.’

  Rina cocked an eyebrow. ‘Not very comfortable for that kind of activity, I wouldn’t have thought.’

  ‘Well, maybe not,’ he conceded, ‘but neither is the back seat of a Mini …’

  He trailed off and Rina barked a laugh. ‘Well, well, we learn something new about our Tim, do we?’ She poked about in the loose sand and gravel on the cave floor but there was nothing else and it was Tim who made the last find.

  ‘What’s that up there?’ Tucking his six-feet-three-inch frame still tighter, he duck-walked to the rear of the cave.

  ‘Do you need a bag?’

  ‘OK, I need a bag.’ He took the freezer bag and the pen and flicked the small square of cardboard inside, careful not to touch it. He told himself that this was all a stupid wild-goose chase, a whim of Rina’s, set off because she was missing the old days and her alter ego of Lydia Marchant, but he was careful nonetheless.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  ‘A match book,’ Tim told her. ‘It probably came from the hotel. I can’t see the label. It’s all a bit dark.’

  Rina pocketed their finds. ‘We’d better get a wriggle on,’ she said. ‘Or we’ll be getting more than wet feet.’

  The tide had risen fast, leaving only a foot or so of beach still dry. Tim was shocked at how fast it had turned. Rina led the way back to the cliff path and began the ascent. Tim gave her a few yards’ head start, watching
suspiciously as the waves crept closer to his feet. The sky, which had been pleasantly clear and the palest blue when they had left the hotel, had darkened gradually and now, far out to sea, had taken on a steel-grey hue. The wind had freshened again and Tim shivered, suddenly aware at how much warmer the cave had been simply because it had sheltered them from the wind. Dancing back from a more than usually precocious wave, he began to follow Rina back up the cliff, noting as he did the signs of erosion, the scatter of sea weed, the pebbles and larger stones embedded on the softer clays. The tide must rise quite high, he realized. Certainly high enough for a small boat to gain easy access to the beach. And Rina was right: there was absolutely no sign that the water reached the far end of the cave.

  Daring himself to glance down, Tim saw that the water now lapped and rushed at the base of the cliff, tearing and eroding even more of the fragile surface. The waves splashed upward, spray falling cold on his already frozen hands and as he risked one more glance out to sea, Tim saw that the steel-grey sky was advancing upon them, swift and dark and threatening.

  Mac sat in Dr Mason’s office and sipped the too-strong coffee. He could already feel the caffeine buzz begin. Recently, he had discovered that the little café on the promenade did a decent Italian laced with either almond or vanilla, depending on his mood. So far, Mac had kept this discovery to himself, suspecting that Eden would see it as a somewhat effete vice. There was nothing effete about Dr Mason’s coffee. This was medicinal grade, designed for late nights and long shifts and the recipe was, Mac guessed, a hangover from Mason’s days as a junior doctor.

  ‘As you saw,’ Mason said. ‘There are defensive wounds. She tried her best to fight back. Some of the bruising on her arms has only just developed.’

  Mac nodded. ‘The way I read it is he grabbed her upper arms and grabbed hard, then he got hold of her again, but just the right arm. He shook her, which was when the shoulder fractured, then he hit her, dropped her, finished things off with … whatever he used.’

  ‘Seems like a reasonable set of assumptions.’ The door opened and Mason’s assistant appeared with the photographs Mac had requested. She placed them on the desk and left with a smile for Mac. Pretty, Mac thought, appreciating the dark hair and the vivid blue eyes.

  ‘My guess,’ Mason continued, ‘is that whatever it was had some kind of base or even plinth.’ He pointed at the photographs now laid out between them. ‘You see the edge of this wound and then of this one. Clean and straight and there’s a distinct corner here that’s pierced the skin and tissue far more deeply.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know, maybe a heavy ornament with a square base?’

  ‘The place was a mess. So far, though, we’ve found nothing that fits that sort of profile.’

  ‘You think the killer took a trophy?’

  ‘Wouldn’t be the first time.’ Mac shrugged. ‘We’ll take another look in the house but I’m coming to the conclusion he took it with him.’

  ‘It goes without saying he’d have blood on his clothes, probably his shoes.’ Mason stood, rinsed his mug in the tiny sink in the corner of his room. ‘I’ll get the full report to you as soon as.’

  Mac nodded. His head reeled from the caffeine hit and his mouth felt oddly dry. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘What about the blood found on the stairs?’

  Mason nodded, anticipating the question. ‘Plenty for comparison,’ he said. ‘Don’t you worry, the bastard left enough of himself behind.’

  Fifteen

  ‘So, what’s up then, our kid?’ Karen ruffled George’s hair, knowing he hated it but also that he’d hate it if she didn’t.

  She’d been home for a couple of hours but this was the first chance they’d had to talk, their mother having dominated Karen’s time up until now. Carol Parker had fussed as she always did, chattered and nagged about everything and nothing … ‘This boy you’re seeing. You’re sure he’s all right and not … you know. They’re all OK at first. It’s after. You sure you’re getting enough to eat? And that job of yours, what is it?

  ‘I’ve got two jobs, Mam, and I’m at night school three days a week. You remember?

  ‘Yes, of course I do, but what jobs? Karen, you’d tell me if anything was wrong. I’m always so tired these days and the doctor won’t give me any more pills he says I should get more exercise, maybe do a yoga class or something, learn to meditate. Meditate! Yoga! What does he know?

  ‘Wouldn’t do you any harm though, would it, get you out and meeting people.’

  ‘Why would I want to do that?’

  It was significant, George thought, that not once had his mother mentioned the murder three doors down.

  Finally, just to get away for long enough to talk, Karen had volunteered to do some shopping and said she’d take George along with her.

  ‘Here,’ she said, handing him an insulated cup bearing the convoluted logo of the promenade café. She had treated them both to hot chocolate and blueberry muffins but they had elected to get them to take out, George being prepared to suffer the winds blowing along the promenade if it meant a little more privacy.

  He had talked to Paul again and they had decided not to tell yet about Mrs Freer. To wait, see what happened. Paul was scared. George realized his friend just wanted for it all to go away and he was hoping against hope that if he didn’t talk about it no one else would and so he’d be safe.

  George sipped the sweet hot chocolate and poked at the soft denseness of the muffin.

  ‘So, what’s on your mind, our kid?’ Karen swung her legs up on to the bench, her back against the arm and her knees raised. Smiling at his sister, George did the same, their feet wedged against each other’s, sitting like two bookends. It was an old habit from their hostel days when they had sat either end of the tiny sofas that seemed to come as standard with the accommodation. Facing one another, shutting out the world. On the bench it wasn’t exactly a comfortable posture.

  He licked the muffin crumbs from his lips and hugged the chocolate cup close and tight to his body, thinking suddenly that the problem with insulated cups was just that. They kept the heat inside and gave nothing back to hug against a cold chest. ‘I think I saw him,’ George said.

  Karen didn’t need to ask him who. She leaned forward as far as her knees would allow. ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘You can’t have. You know you can’t have.’

  George looked away, staring anxiously out across the bay. He licked his lips again, then wiped them with the back of his hand as the wind dried the moisture and contracted the skin. ‘I know I can’t have done,’ he said. ‘But I did.’

  Karen shook her blonde head. ‘Where? How?’

  ‘I don’t know how but he was standing outside the school. I seen him from the bus.’

  ‘How close was he?’ Karen demanded. ‘George, I was seeing him everywhere for months after. I knew it couldn’t be him but I kept us moving all the same just because I kept thinking that I saw him. But George, you know that isn’t possible. You know that. Don’t you?’

  George nodded and then shook his head. ‘I’m not making a mistake, Kaz, I saw him. I saw him close to, from the bus window; he was stood there on the pavement. He was looking, but I ducked down when we went past. I saw him, Kaz.’

  His sister frowned intently, chewing on her lips, her face pale. George could see she no longer doubted him.

  ‘What do we do?’ George asked but he knew the answer and his heart sank. He’d finally just started to make friends and even the thought of getting away from Dwayne and his ilk was no compensation. There were Dwaynes everywhere. Dwaynes and Mark Dowlings and they grew up to be people like his dad. ‘We’re going to have to move again, aren’t we?’ he said.

  Karen nodded. ‘Looks that way,’ she said.

  Sixteen

  Sunday arrived with spiteful wind and driving rain. By ten o clock, Mac was back at Mrs Freer’s house with Andy the probationer and two community support officers he had managed to borrow for a couple of hours. The press contingent had been driven away by
the lack of shelter and decidedly inclement weather – and the more immediate and attractive proposition of a stabbing a few miles up the coast. Mrs Freer’s house had now been properly secured with metal shutters and padlocks on the doors. Yellow tape, tugged free by the gale blowing down the length of Newell Street, waved and snapped plastic ribbons across the front door and Mac caught at them, tugged them down and stuffed them into the pockets of his raincoat. He hated the look of abandonment suggested by the broken tape.

  His three companions shivered despite being wrapped tight against the chill. ‘I need a couple of hours,’ Mac told them, ‘and with a bit of luck you’ll be inside for most of that.’

  A giggle from one of the community support officers. ‘You don’t know the locals, do you? Invite us in? They might look guilty.’

  Her companion laughed.

  ‘Well, just do your best,’ Mac told them. ‘Memories have had time to be jogged, so you never know. Andy and Jane, you take the houses across the street – and best have another chat at the OAP home too. Sally, you take that part of the row from the murder scene back to the crossroads. The people I’m most interested in are the next-door neighbours. They reckon they heard nothing on the night but … You know how it works. I’ll make my way back down this side as far as the nursing home. Any problems, shout up.’

  Mac’s interest was in the two boys he had seen the day before but he was reluctant to draw attention to them. He started with the house directly next to Mrs Freer and, unsurprisingly, added nothing to his fund of information as he already knew from previous statements that they worked nights. The next house was inhabited by an elderly couple who invited him in and offered tea. He declined the tea but spent some time getting his ear bent about the young people in the area and how the local shop had been burgled twice in the past five years. ‘Drugs, that’s what it’ll be. Drugs.’