by Rachel Green
Salisbury Man convicted of Unlawful Death
Derek Blake, aged nineteen, was convicted of causing the death of Faye Fenstone, aged six, on the morning of July twenty-first. He admitted the charge of reckless driving and causing the death of a child. He was sentenced to not less than three years in prison and a fine of seven thousand pounds.
Meinwen stared at the screen and the little picture of Faye she’d last seen in John’s house on Ashgate Road. Why would Peter have been bothered about killing Derek Blake? It seemed out of character.
She picked up her new phone and dialed Mary Markhew. She’d painstakingly reconstructed her address book from the partial sync on her computer, ably assisted by her friend Harry, the local computer wizard. He’d laughed at her clumsy attempts to synchronize her old file with her new phone, but sorted it in less than ten minutes, giving her the cable for the computer connection and a mains charger from a box he kept for the purpose.
“Hello?”
“Mary? It’s Meinwen.”
“What can I do for you? Do be quick I’ve an appointment shortly.”
“Yes, thank you. It’s about the necklace you gave Peter.”
“Yes. The police showed it to me. What about it?”
“When’s the last time you remember seeing it?”
“Hmm. The day he went to the hospital. They must have made him take it off there.”
“Right, I thought so. Thanks.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes, thank you, Mary.”
“No problem. I’ve got to go and get ready.”
Meinwen gave an inward sigh. Mary being this chatty meant she wanted to tell her something. “Oh? Ready for what?”
“I’ve got a dinner date.”
“How lovely. With whom?”
“Jimmy Fenstone! Isn’t that great? I’ve seen his brother’s will. He’s going to be rich. Richer than Uncle Robert ever was.”
“That’s...great, Mary. Good for you.”
“I’ll invite you to the wedding!” The phone went dead and Meinwen stared at it. It was probably unusual to plan a wedding before one had even gone on a first date but she knew Mary well enough to know that what Mary wanted she generally got. For a moment, and only for a moment, she realized how a person could murder someone over want of a man. She laughed it off. What would she do with Jimmy’s lifestyle? Give up her little cottage and her shop full of little gods for a life of riches and luxury? Tempting as it was, she couldn’t see it. Besides, Jimmy had made it clear she wasn’t his type.
So according to the evidence, or at least the projected theory, between his discharge from the hospital and his fatal attempt to murder Richard, Peter Numan had dashed to Salisbury, kidnapped and killed Derek Blake and buried him in a Laverstone grave reserved for the man he was about to kill.
It didn’t seem very likely, in her opinion, but then, there was no evidence of anyone else being involved, was there? And Peter was a known murderer.
“That’s better.” Dafydd stood at the bottom of the stairs in the slippers she’d bought him from the supermarket. “Cup o’ tea then, cariad?”
Chapter 40
Meinwen watched Dafydd put the last of his bags in the back of the ice cream truck. It looked better than it ever did. Winston had resprayed it from the ground up. It was no longer covered in faded vinyl pictures of grimacing children and now sported monochrome portraits of fifties-era film stars. It looked like a different van. “I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you too.” He slammed the door closed and came to the doorway again. “Are you sure your friend Winston’s okay with waiting for the payment?”
“He said so. I’ll pay him and you can give it me back when Mary’s payment comes through.”
“Aye. Sure you don’t fancy coming back to ’Dovey with me?”
“Soon, maybe, for a visit.” She pulled him into a hug, banging him in the back with the small bag she was carrying. “Not this month, though. I’ve too much to do at the shop.”
“Aye, fair enough. It looked a right mess when we were there last week.” He grinned. “What’s that? A pressie?”
“Just a small one.” She gave him the bag and he opened it at waist height, peering down to look inside it. He looked back at her. “You’re kidding, right?”
“It’s a horse tail butt plug. You can think of me when you wear it.”
“Right.” She caught the faintest hint of a deeper color in his cheeks as he turned to throw the bag onto the front seat. He climbed in after it and pulled the door closed. “I’ll be off then.”
“Drive safely.”
“Always.” He turned the ignition and the engine roared into life. Contrary to her expectation, there was no plume of black smoke from the exhaust. She heard the clunk as he put it into gear. “‘Bye then.”
“‘Bye.” She walked to the end of the drive to open the gate and waved him through, closing it again when he cleared the pavement, waving like a child going on holiday.
As it pulled away with a final blast of Animal Crackers through the PA horn, Meinwen stopped waving and sighed, her hand dropping. She had the house to herself again. No more mens underpants in the laundry. No more strange, sugary smells in the lavatory. No more crusty white stains on the sheets. On the other hand, there would be no more laughter in the evenings, no more slow, no-pressure sex on a Sunday morning and no “Fancy a cup of tea?” after her Meal Monitor Veggie Lasagna for One.
Her gaze was broken only when the van turned the corner and was gone. Across the road, unobtrusive but obviously waiting for her, stood Mary Markhew. She was wearing black, but whether it was for the death of Peter, her interpretation of a dominatrix’s everyday attire or just her reevaluation of her teenage wardrobe Meinwen couldn’t begin to guess. She raised a hand in greeting, neither inviting nor disregarding the woman. It was up to Mary to make the next move.
She crossed the road and Meinwen opened the gate for her. “Your fella gone back to Wales?”
“Yes.” Meinwen managed a smile. “But he’s not my fella. We’ve been friends since we were at school together and I’d rather that than force some idea of a partnership on him. It was nice to have him here but we both have our own lives to lead.”
“Will he be back?”
“Soon enough, I expect. He does a series of odd jobs, one of which involves clearing houses and transporting furniture. He looks out for statues and the like I can sell in the shop. That why he was here in the first place.”
“Yeah. Sorry he was here so long. That was partly my fault. I made Peter stop you leaving that morning, otherwise he wouldn’t have jumped out in front of your van.”
“I doubt he would have minded if we’d been killed.”
“I don’t think that’s true at all. He liked you a lot. You really helped Richard last time. It wasn’t your fault everything went to shit.”
“True.” Meinwen drew her cardigan around herself and shivered. “What can I do for you, anyway? Would you like some tea? There’s probably some of Dafydd’s left.”
“No thanks. I prefer coffee, to be honest.” They headed toward the cottage. “I could never get into this whole English-people-drink-tea thing. I just have a couple of things for you.”
“Oh?” Meinwen opened the front door and stood to one side to allow Mary in first. “Such as?”
“This for one.” Mary pulled an envelope out of her bag and handed it to her. Meinwen slid her thumb along the seal and looked inside. There was a single slip of paper.
“What’s this?” She pulled it out and looked at it. The red Paid stamp was prominent. “Winston’s bill?”
“I paid it. Well, Peter paid it, to be precise. I’ve been clearing out his flat and selling off his possessions. He had a huge collection of jazz albums on vinyl. I didn’t think anyone but him listened to vinyl any more but apparently they do. Who’d have guessed scratchy old records were worth so much?”
“Thanks. I promised Dafydd I’d take care of it but I honestly didn’
t know where I’d find the money.” She looked at the receipt again. “I’ll tell him when I speak to him next.” She headed into the kitchen. “Are you sure you won’t have a drink? I’ve got dandelion-root coffee, if you’d like some.”
Mary grimaced. “No, it’s fine. Really.”
Meinwen raised an eyebrow at the speed of the reply. “I’m putting the kettle on anyway if you change your mind.”
“Okay.” Mary trailed her hand over Meinwen’s desk. “There’s a laser printer if you want it. I tried to sell it bit it’s not worth the trouble, really.”
“A laser printer?” Meinwen thought of John’s suicide note. “Thanks. That’d be really handy.”
“I’ll get someone to drop it round.” Mary grinned. “Not literally”
“I should hope not.” In the kitchen the kettle sputtered on the stove.
“I remember the first time I came here. You told us we all had secrets and one of us was a murderer.”
“And I was right.” Meinwen stood in the doorway, watching as Mary, her back to her, lifted objects off the shelves, examined them and put them back. She spent several moments poking her fingers into the eyeholes of the grinning, horned mask hung on one wall. “That came from Japan, you know. It’s a Hannya mask dating back to the nineteenth century.”
Mary jumped but recovered quickly. “What was it used for?”
“Japanese theater. It portrays the souls of women who have become demons due to obsession or jealousy. When the actor looks straight ahead, the mask appears frightening and angry; when tilted slightly down, the face of the demon appears to be sorrowful, as though crying.”
“How clever. Why do you have it? There’s nothing else Japanese here.”
“It was supposed to be haunted. Someone gave it to me hoping I could exorcise the spirit possessing it.”
“And did you?”
Meinwen laughed. “No, but then it wasn’t haunted at all. If you look in the back you can see a groove in the nosepiece. I found a tiny Bluetooth earbud inside, which the mask amplified. Clever, really. An interesting way to frighten an old lady to death.” She returned to the kitchen and poured boiling water over her Lemon and Ginseng tea bag. Not that she’d need the reputed qualities of ginseng for a while. She returned to the sitting room. “Was there anything else?”
“Yes.” Mary opened her bag again and took a mobile phone out. She put it on the desk and placed a bank card next to it.
“My phone.” Meinwen avoided touching it. “And my debit card. They were stolen that night I was mugged.”
“I found them in Peter’s room.” Mary’s voice was softer than usual. It was almost as if she actually cared about someone other than herself. “I’m sorry. I honestly didn’t know.”
Meinwen swallowed several times. “It’s all right. Why would you? At least I’m alive, which is more than can be said for his other victims.”
“That Inspector came to see me this morning. I don’t think Peter killed that other man, the one they found in the grave.”
“Detective-inspector White.” Meinwen corrected her absently as she picked up a pencil, using it to sweep both phone and debit card into the bin as if they were cursed. She’d replaced both and canceled the SIM, anyway. “There’s no evidence to suggest anyone else.”
“Peter couldn’t have done it. He was wearing his necklace when he went to the hospital and he hadn’t time to kill that man afterward. And why would he, anyway? He didn’t know him.”
“Kevin Blake. He served time for reckless driving.”
“It doesn’t matter. Peter didn’t kill him.”
“I believe you, but Peter killed two people and tried to kill two more. I’m not going to waste time trying to prove he didn’t kill this one too.”
“But...” Mary deflated. “Oh, what’s the point? I suppose you’re right.”
“Was there anything else? I need to go and sort out the shop. With Dafydd here I’ve rather neglected it. I shan’t be surprised to have lost customers.”
“There was one more thing.” Meinwen twisted her hands, the thumb of each to the little finger of the other. It looked as if she were playing insy wincy spider.
“Yes?”
“Is there anything between you and Jimmy Fenstone?”
“Jimmy?” Meinwen raised an eyebrow. “No. Not really. He asked me to look into John’s death, that’s all.”
“Then you’d be okay with me going out with him? He’s really hot, and he’s straight too. Richard had his brother. Now it’s my turn.”
“You know he was in prison for stealing cars?”
“He’s put all that behind him now.” Mary leaned forward, dropping her voice. “And he got the insurance from his brother’s death. Two million pounds.”
“As much as that.” Meinwen shook her head and laughed. “If I’d known that, I would have suspected Jimmy of killing his brother himself!”
Chapter 41
Meinwen leaned her bicycle against a tree and walked past the car and over the short grass of Moot Point, all the while watching the man standing on the promontory overlooking Hobb’s Wood and wondering what he was thinking.
He turned as she approached, the shadows on his face broken by a smile in the predawn light.
“I didn’t expect you to get here before me.” Meinwen’s Welsh lilt broke the silence. “This is one of my favorite spots in Laverstone.” She looked down at the jagged rocks that lined the bluff. “Some of those trees below us date back over a thousand years.
“I can believe it.” Jimmy stooped to pick up the plastic canister. “John liked it here too. I’m surprised you didn’t know him.”
“Maybe I saw him from afar.” She squeezed his arm but kept her distance. She could smell his muskiness under the deodorant and didn’t want to be sucked into longing for him again. “Are you going to say anything?”
“Hadn’t really thought about it.” Jimmy unscrewed the top of the urn. “So long, brother. Look after Mam and Faye.” The sun broke past the horizon as he upended the urn, sending John’s ashes spiraling into the wind and out over the forest below. He sighed. “It all seems a bit pointless, really. I hadn’t seen him for ten years but now he’s dead I miss him.”
Meinwen placed a hand on his shoulder. “Isn’t that always the way?”
Rachel Green
Rachel Green is a disgraceful, red-headed Englishwoman who has far too many swords for her visitors to be safe, especially as she’s well versed in the use of every one of them. She also knows several methods to dispose of a body. Not that she ever would.
Rachel’s eMail: [email protected]
Rachel’s Website: www.leatherdyke.co.uk
FB and Twitter: leatherdykeuk
Also by Rachel Green
Laverstone Chronicles
Screaming Yellow
Sons of Angels
Viridian Tears
Lyrical Press books are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2013 Rachel Green
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Lyrical Press and the L logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.
First Electronic Edition: February 2013
ISBN-13: 978-1-61650-440-3