Scimitar (A Kate Redman Mystery

by Celina Grace

  ***

  The next morning dawned cold and bright. The first frost of the season sparkled on the ground, coating each blade of grass, each dead leaf, each ridge of mud with a glittering rind of ice. Kate had planned to walk into work again but the first step outside her front door made her reconsider. Shivering, she scraped frost from the windscreen of her car and clambered into the driver’s seat, flexing her numbed fingers.

  She stopped off at the garage on the way to pick up a takeaway coffee, yawning as she queued to pay. God, she hated this time of year. Nature shut down for the winter, dark, cold, damp, frost, snow. A few hours of daylight and then night descending at four o’clock in the afternoon. Okay, so Christmas was a highlight, but even that wasn’t without its stresses and strains… As Kate tapped her debit card to the contactless reader, she wondered whether she could persuade Anderton to have a hot Christmas for once. Barbados? The Seychelles? Australia? As Kate unlocked her car once more, she knew she was being silly. They were about to buy a house; that meant there were hardly spare funds for a few weeks in the sun. Damn.

  She parked her car in the station carpark and hurried indoors. One thing to be said for the station, the heating was very efficient. After half an hour at her desk, Kate had thawed out thoroughly; so much so she was rather regretting wearing a long-sleeved top underneath the jumper she’d already discarded.

  Chloe and Theo seemed to have kissed and made up after their row of yesterday. Feeling a bit more cheerful, Kate offered to make the first round of hot drinks. As she was sitting back down after distributing them, her desk phone rang.

  She recognised Rosamund Kite’s rather soft voice immediately.

  “How can I help you, Mrs Kite?”

  Rosamund sounded diffident. No, not that, awkward. “I—I was wondering if I could… If I could speak to you. At some point. I know you’re very busy.”

  Kate was conscious of a spurt of adrenaline. This sounded promising. “Of course. We can talk right now if you like?”

  She heard the other woman’s hesitation over the phone. “I—well—would you be able to come here? I’d rather speak to you…well, face to face.”

  “Of course,” Kate said in her most reassuring tone. “I’ll drive over to you right now if that works?”

  Apparently, it did work. Kate obtained Rosamund’s address—clearly, the woman wasn’t at work—and said goodbye. She replaced the handset with a feeling of triumph. This was going to be a better day than yesterday.

  “What’s up?” asked Chloe, who had obviously noticed her pleased expression.

  “That was Rosamund Kite. The deputy manager of Bucklesbury House.” Kate hit the button of her desktop monitor to turn off the screen and slotted her chair neatly under her desk. “I’m going to interview her now.”

  Chloe looked interested. “What do you think she’s going to confess to?”

  “I have a pretty good idea.” Kate tipped her a wink. “But I’m not going to say, just in case I jinx it.” A thought occurred to her. “Oh, bird, by the way, can you start to organise a full search of Bucklesbury House and grounds? Mark thinks that should be the next thing we do.”

  Rav and Martin had wandered over by this point. “What does he think we missed the first time?” Martin asked. Kate shot him a look—that remark had the faintest whiff of criticism about it—but after a moment, she realised he wasn’t being antagonistic. Martin didn’t do antagonistic.

  Kate smiled at him. “I think he thinks we just have to cover all bases.”

  Rav was nodding. “Am I the only one who thinks that the location of the crime scene is key?”

  They all looked at him. Rav spread his hands in what was almost a shrug.

  “Young, Asian guy found stabbed to death in the grounds of a National Trust stately home. It’s hardly Agatha Christie, is it?”

  Conscious that she really should be going, Kate hesitated. “You’re not wrong, Rav.”

  Rav seated himself on Kate’s desk and went on talking. “My parents, right, immigrated here from India, in, what, the seventies, I think. I don’t think they’ve ever been to a stately home in their lives. It’s just not on their radar.”

  Chloe looked uneasy. “Yes, but Samir was…young. He was second generation British. Why wouldn’t he go and visit a National Trust property if he wanted to?”

  Theo laughed out loud. “That’s just not what young guys do, Chloe, mate. Come on.”

  Chloe stuck her tongue out at him. “You’re hardly young anymore, Theo, mate.”

  “All right.” Kate hefted her handbag onto her shoulder. “Discuss amongst yourselves, please, I have to get going. Rav, you make some good points. Take it up with Mark. Can you all please start getting this search in motion while I’m out?”

  Martin nodded. “Of course, Kate.”

  “Thank you. Pull in as many uniforms as you can. Mark’ll authorise.”

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Rosamund Kite lived in Charlock, an affluent area of an affluent town. The houses were detached, set in large gardens, and expensive cars sat parked on the generous driveways. Rosamund’s house was built of golden Bath stone, the roof tiled with shining grey slate, flowerbeds under the bay windows planted with rosebushes, skeletal and spiky at this time of year.

  The front door was painted duck-egg blue. Kate rapped the brass door knocker and waited.

  Rosamund Kite opened it with a nervous smile on her face. She was wearing another wrap dress and it suited her hourglass figure. Her lovely hair was twisted up and fastened with a tortoiseshell comb and she wore red lipstick. War paint. Kate could sympathise; being able to paint on a battle mask was one of the few advantages of being a woman, in her opinion.

  “Coffee? Tea?” Clearly, the woman was in a placatory mood. Kate agreed to tea—it was harder to muck up a cup of tea than it was a coffee, in her opinion—and sat back and observed as Rosamund left the room to make it.

  A family home. That was obvious. There were multiple photographs in various frames on the top of the sideboard and the bookshelves; Rosamund, a heavy, balding man who was clearly her husband, two teenage boys. There were older photographs of the two boys, when they were in their toddler years, and then school photographs with them both looking smart in their uniforms, gap-toothed smiles and carefully brushed hair. A large, silver-framed photograph displayed a wedding day picture, where a much younger, slimmer, Rosamund and her husband with a full head of hair posed on the steps of a church, smiling happily.

  Rosamund returned to the room holding a tea tray with a flowered china teapot and two mugs arranged on it, plus a small china plate of biscuits. It had been a while since breakfast and Kate’s stomach growled. Noting the fine china and biscuits, Kate rather regretted not plumping for coffee – it would probably have been the good stuff.

  Rosamund handed her a mug of black tea, smiling nervously. Kate added milk, smiling back, trying to put the woman at her ease. “What was it you wanted to talk to me about, Mrs Kite? Rosamund?”

  Rosamund hesitated. Then she said, in a rush, “I… I’m afraid I was rather rude the other day. To you, I mean.”

  “That’s fine,” said Kate, anxious not to make the woman clam up.

  Rosamund brushed a loose lock of hair from her face. “It’s just—well—it was—”

  Would she ever get to the point? Kate tried not to show her impatience.

  Rosamund took another deep breath. “You asked… Well, you implied that I was--well, that I was in a relationship with Nick. Nick Riley,” she added, as if there were many men of that name working at Bucklesbury House. Kate nodded encouragingly. Rosemund clasped her hands together and spoke again. “Well, we… We were. For a bit. Not anymore. It’s over now.

  Kate nodded, waiting to see if there was any more.

  Rosamund said, in a voice that trembled. “Will my—will my husband have to know?”

&nbs
p; Kate didn’t have to think that one through for long. “I wouldn’t have thought so, Mrs Kite. Unless it’s pertinent to the investigation, your marriage is none of our business.”

  Rosamund dropped her head and exhaled. “I don’t know why I did it,” she said in a low voice. Then she looked up at Kate. “I suppose I just wanted something for me. I’ve had years and years of being a wife and a mother and doing everything for everyone else. I just wanted something for me.”

  Kate said nothing. She’d had this before: confessions and justifications of people’s most intimate, personal actions.

  Rosamund gaze went to the sideboard behind Kate where the family photographs were kept. She bit her lip. “He made me feel—oh, I don’t know…alive. As if I were waking up from a deep sleep.”

  Kate fought to keep her face neutral. Did these cheats think they were unique? She could almost recite Rosamund’s words from the memory of interviewing many other adulterers. Having seen first-hand that terrible pain that came from discovering that your nearest and dearest had been lying to your face, perhaps for months or even years, Kate could never condone cheating, especially long term cheating. It took a special kind of – well – bastard to let their loved ones think that they were living one type of life but actually deceiving them in living another, secret one.

  Then she remembered Ricky Khan, and shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

  Rosamund was still talking, almost to herself. “Anyway, it’s over now. I don’t want to hurt my husband or my—or my sons.”

  Boy, that horse has bolted. Kate said nothing but behind the cover of her raised notebook, clenched her fists.

  She waited for more but Rosamund went quiet. To break the uncomfortable silence that filled the room, Kate asked, “Is there anything else you want to tell me, Mrs Kite?”

  Rosamund gave her a nervous glance. She was clearly regretting her recent words. “No, there’s nothing else I can think of.” Her gaze dropped to her lap. “I’m so ashamed of myself,” she whispered.

  Kate coughed. “Well, here’s my card if you think of anything or need to get in touch with me.” She was aware that Rosamund was starting to cry. “I’ll see myself out, Mrs Kite.”

  Driving back to the office under a clear blue sky, the autumnal sunshine failed to warm Kate as she thought about what she’d just heard. Rosamund Kite must be in her late forties, perhaps early fifties. And Nick Riley was—what—twenty eight? That was a whopping age gap. She thought of Ricky Khan with a sheepish smile. She could see the appeal, certainly on Rosamund’s side. A young, handsome, muscly, virile young man… But what was in it for Nick? Umar Minhas’s words reoccurred to her. They’re just so sexy. I think it’s the confidence thing. And the experience. They’re much better in bed. And they don’t play games.

  Well, it wasn’t as if Nick and Rosamund had been going to run off into the sunset together, was it? It had probably been all about sex. Kate’s thoughts threatened to creep back to Ricky Khan, and she had to make a concerted effort to switch her train of thought to a less—well, let’s be honest—arousing topic. Keep your mind on the job, Kate. What’s next?

  Re-interviewing Nick Riley was a matter of priority. Kate wondered if the search of Bucklesbury House had been organised yet. There were more witness interviews to go through, and CCTV footage to be checked for further sightings of Samir, Rosamund and Nick—well, of anyone pertinent, really. And she really did have to talk to Ricky Khan soon, to see if they could shed any more light on Samir’s associates.

  Driving on, Kate’s thoughts meandered to the more personal. She needed to check on Chloe, out of work time. Perhaps she could invite her over to dinner (providing Anderton was happy to cook). Despite their heart to heart the other day, Kate was guiltily aware that she still hadn’t really spent any quality time together with her partner since then. I’ll take him out to dinner later, if he wants to go. Oh God, and then there was Christmas looming on the horizon. Sighing out loud, Kate pressed her foot to the accelerator to go a little faster as she drove towards the station.

  Chapter Thirty

  Kate was in two minds about where to interview Nick Riley. She didn’t really want to summon him to the station; he wasn’t under arrest and she’d prefer him to be a good mood—or at least an amenable mood—when she questioned him. Should she go to his parents’ house? After some thought, she phoned Nick directly and asked where they could meet.

  He sounded guarded, which she could understand. She reassured him that she only had one or two questions that she hoped he could help her with and reiterated the fact that he wasn’t under oath.

  He chose the pub in Bucklesbury Village which had once been a very old bakery. It was quite charming, actually, thought Kate as she pushed open the door to the main bar. Kate wasn’t particularly tall, but even she had to duck to get under the lintel. Leaving here as a tall man must be a nightmare, particularly if drunk, she thought, with a grin. The ceilings were low and heavily beamed, the windows small and diamond-paned, and the walls were a mixture of wood panelling and ancient stonework.

  Nick Riley sat up at the bar, reading the sports pages of a tabloid newspaper. A half empty pint stood on the bar in front of him. A good fire crackled deliciously in the large stone fireplace at one end of the room. Kate thought she might stay for a quick drink or even lunch after the interview, it was so cosy in there. She looked surreptitiously around her for a menu.

  “Good morning, Mr Riley.”

  He gave her an unenthusiastic ‘hello’. Kate suggested that they move somewhere away from the bar for privacy.

  Seated by one of the mullioned windows, Kate gave him a reassuring smile. “I won’t keep you, there’s just a few little things to be cleared up.”

  Nick nodded but remained silent.

  “I’ve been speaking to Rosamund Kite,” said Kate, and she was amused to see that he immediately blushed.

  Nick held his pint before his mouth like a shield. “Yeah?” was all he said.

  Kate hesitated for a moment. “She confirmed that you and she had…had been in a relationship.” Nick’s face was quite blank. “A sexual relationship,” she clarified.

  Nick was silent for so long that Kate was about to prompt him. Eventually, he said, rather hoarsely, “Well, that’s not illegal, is it? It’s nobody else’s business.”

  Apart from her husband and family and your girlfriend, thought Kate, but she kept that judgement to herself. Out loud, she asked, “So it’s true then?”

  Nick’s face went blank again. His gaze flickered minutely upward. “Yeah. Yeah it is,” he said.

  Kate nodded. “That’s all I wanted to know, Mr Riley, on that subject.”

  Nick had been drinking his pint in fast nervous gulps. Now it was empty. “Can I get you another?” Kate asked, feeling a little sorry for him.

  “No, no, you’re good.” Nick put the empty glass back on the table. “Thanks,” he added, perfunctorily.

  Kate looked at the notes on her writing pad. “Can you tell me who has keys to the whole of the Bucklesbury estate? I mean, everywhere, house, gardens, outbuildings? Would you know?”

  Nick thought about it. “I don’t know for sure, but I’d guess that Bernard would. And, um, Rosamund as well, perhaps. But I don’t actually know.”

  That had been Kate’s conclusion. She wondered whether she should mention that they were going to be doing a thorough search of the estate but dismissed the thought. She thanked Nick Riley and dismissed him as well. He hurried from the pub as if he couldn’t wait to get away from her, which made Kate smile. Once he was gone, she stretched her feet out to the warmth of the fire and made a pleasurable perusal of the lunch menu.

  Once her roast chicken with all the trimmings was ordered, Kate read back over her notes. Something was niggling at her, something that Nick Riley had done or said. She looked at what she’d written, frowning. What was it? She hated it when she got
a feeling like this; it was so frustrating, and on occasion nothing at all to do with the case under investigation. Intuition was all very well, but you couldn’t rely on it. She remembered Anderton, years back now, pacing the office floor. A feeling is not evidence.

  Kate took a sip of her lime and soda and sighed. At least she knew that if was really important, the revelation would come to her. It would be helpful if her intuition could hurry it up, though, she thought, smiling to herself.

  Stuffed to the gills from the biggest roast dinner she thought she’d ever eaten (she made a mental note to go back to the pub for Sunday lunch sometime with Anderton—he’d love it), Kate drove back to the office. Should she call Ricky Khan? They seemed to have rather lost sight of their original suspect, Mohammed Abib. The literal accuracy of that thought made Kate giggle. Perhaps MI5 had tracked him down already? Abbeyford certainly weren’t having much luck.

  After a moment’s thought, Kate pulled into the side of the road, put on her hazard lights and quickly tapped out a text to Ricky, asking for any updates. She tried to make it professional but friendly, not a hint of flirtation about it. She looked at Ricky’s last text, the one with a kiss on the end of it. Would it be rude not to respond in kind? After all, loads of people ended texts to anyone with a kiss or several; Olbeck tended to use three, though Kate hoped not in his correspondence with the Chief Constable. She dithered for a minute and then thought the hell with it. She added a single X and pressed send.

  Chapter Thirty One

  Kate had arranged to meet Chloe in The Black Cat, one of their favourite bar cum restaurants in Abbeyford. She’d proposed the time of their meeting at eight pm, wondering as she had done so whether work commitments would allow either of them to make it. As it happened, the office had been relatively quiet that afternoon. There were no further developments on the case, which was frustrating but it did at least mean Kate and Chloe could leave on time. Walking down the high street, Kate saw with annoyance that most of the shops had already decorated their window displays for Christmas. The street glowed under the twinkle of fairy lights and illuminated displays. It wasn’t even December yet. Kate had no problem using the full thirty one days of the last month of the year to celebrate the birth of Jesus, or observe the winter solstice, depending on your point of view. But she drew the line at all the madness beginning in bloody November.