Table of Contents
Cover
A Selection of Recent Titles by Peter Guttridge
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
A selection of recent titles by Peter Guttridge
The Brighton mystery series
CITY OF DREADFUL NIGHT *
THE LAST KING OF BRIGHTON *
THE THING ITSELF *
THE DEVIL’S MOON *
THOSE WHO FEEL NOTHING *
SWIMMING WITH THE DEAD *
THE LADY OF THE LAKE *
The Nick Madrid series
NO LAUGHING MATTER
A GHOST OF A CHANCE
TWO TO TANGO
THE ONCE AND FUTURE CON
FOILED AGAIN
CAST ADRIFT
* available from Severn House
THE LADY OF THE LAKE
Peter Guttridge
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
This first world edition published 2019
in Great Britain and 2020 in the USA by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY.
Trade paperback edition first published
in Great Britain and the USA 2020 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.
eBook edition first published in 2019 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2019 by Peter Guttridge.
The right of Peter Guttridge to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8967-6 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-665-4 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0363-2 (e-book)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents
are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described
for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are
fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
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For my much missed big brother, Michael.
(1945–2018)
‘Sweet were the days when I was all unknown,
But when my name was lifted up, the storm
Brake on the mountain and I cared not for it.’
(Idylls of the King, Tennyson)
‘Other women cloy the appetites they feed but she makes hungry where most she satisfies.’
(Antony and Cleopatra, Shakespeare)
PROLOGUE
A heron alights on a high tree branch, closing its wings with a fast flutter that sounds across the large pond below. The heron watches the turbid waters with its sharp eyes.
Among the mass of marsh marigolds there is the occasional splash as carp come from the muddy depths to the surface to snatch at the hovering dragonflies and flitting pond striders. Shafts of sunlight poke down between the trees in the woodland round the pond.
The pond is placid because there is no wind and the springs that feed it are little more than slow trickles. They never have been more, even when the Romans first dammed the springs to create this pond and the watercress beds beyond.
But now there is this gentle ripple, working its way towards the small island near the middle of the pond. A naked man has lowered himself from the bank into the water. He wades gingerly into deeper water, stirring up silt. Stirring up something else. As he starts to swim towards the nearest cluster of marsh marigolds, behind him an outstretched hand slides up from the water and points at the sky.
Oblivious, a few yards away, the naked swimmer floats on his back, eyes closed, basking in the sunshine.
Another splash as another carp surfaces. The heron takes flight.
ONE
The call about a dead body in Beard’s Pond, Plumpton Down came into Haywards Heath police HQ around eight in the evening. Just around the time Detective Inspector Sarah Gilchrist and Detective Sergeant Bellamy Heap of the Brighton division were leaving a post-meeting meal in a chain restaurant in the town’s thriving restaurant area. They’d been having the meal with police officers from Lewes and Haywards Heath, following an afternoon briefing there about county line drug trafficking in rural areas and how they could use Norfolk’s Operation Gravity, launched in 2016 and deemed a success, as a blueprint for their own approach.
‘Going country’ – drug gangs recruiting teenagers as drug mules – had become an epidemic in the UK. Some fifteen hundred drug trafficking routes were known to exist, including a number coming out of Brighton and spreading all across Sussex. Of particular concern was the potency of cannabis, which had doubled across Europe in the past decade, both in cannabis resin and herbal cannabis. Levels of Tetrahydrocannabinol, or THC, the main psychoactive part of cannabis linked to psychosis and mental illness, had doubled to seventeen per cent in cannabis resin and doubled to ten per cent in herbal, supposedly healthier, cannabis.
Police at Lewes District were taking the lead in the county. However, Lewes was notoriously short-staffed thanks to the draconian police cuts of recent years so Gilchrist and Heap had been seconded there for three months. Both Haywards Heath’s and Lewes District’s only murder investigation officers were on leave, so Gilchrist and Heap offered to check out the dead body and report back.
As they drove out of Haywards Heath on the Ditchling Road, Bellamy Heap said: ‘I’m not sure whether Beard’s Pond is a large pond or a small lake. Such a stretch of water in the Lake District might be called a tarn.’
‘Thank you for that clarification, Bellamy. I’m sorry to say that while I regret the loss of anyone’s life, I’m pleased we have a potentially meaty investigation.’ She saw his glance at her. ‘Oh, come on, Bellamy. Aside from this county line stuff it’s not exactly all go out here in the country is it? Did you see the Lewes daily briefing this morning?
‘A woman’s emotional support guinea pig died of fright when somebody rehearsing for Lewes Bonfire Night set off a string of fireworks nearby. Catnapping is on the increase and there’s a worry it’s going to spread to dogs – that gang needs to be found and pronto.’ She nudged Heap’s arm. ‘I’m serious, Bellamy. British people can cope with any kind of horrors inflicted on humans – especially Johnny Foreigners – but harm to a pet is a hangi
ng offence. And there is a positive epidemic of pet-snatching in Sussex. Do you remember when it happened in Kemp Town? Owners forced to pay hundreds of pounds in ransom?
‘But we do need to be on the lookout for some hard man with Lewes connections who escaped from Wandsworth prison by climbing over the outer wall on a rope ladder dropped by a drone.’
‘He’s probably halfway across Spain by now,’ Heap said.
Gilchrist looked out of the window absently then turned back to Heap. ‘How’s Kate? You know she and I are having a girls’ night out tomorrow night?’
Kate Simpson had been Gilchrist’s best friend for some years. She still was, really, but they’d seen much less of each other in the past couple of years since Kate and Bellamy had become an item. Recently Kate had given up her flat in Brighton to move into Heap’s spacious flat in Lewes.
Gilchrist glanced at Heap now with fondness. He was a small, unassuming man who looked like a teenager, down to the blushing when he got embarrassed. But she knew there was steel in him and all the good qualities that made a decent man. If only there were another man with his qualities out there, she found herself thinking. Then: Gawd, Sarah, stop being maudlin.
Heap looked serious.
‘I know you’re having a drink, yes, ma’am. I’m pleased. Kate’s finding it very difficult. The failure of her Channel Swim and the suicide of her mother coming so close together.’
‘The swim wasn’t her fault though,’ Gilchrist said. ‘The weather conditions turned atrocious – the pilot of the support boat did the right thing to turn back.’
Gilchrist and Heap had both been in the boat as Kate’s supporters. Fat lot of support Gilchrist had been once the boat got into what the pilot called ‘very lumpy’ water. When she wasn’t throwing up over the side – or, given the wind, more usually over herself – she was curled into a ball under a blanket groaning. Bellamy, of course, capable as he was in every field, or so it seemed, was fine. He must have a Teflon stomach.
‘When is her mother’s funeral?’
Gilchrist had never warmed to Kate’s mother on the couple of occasions she had met her. One of those well-preserved, well-turned out, stick-thin, chilly and remote older women Brighton did so well, although they were pretty much ghettoized in the huge old apartments of the Regency squares or up around the Seven Dials.
Kate’s mother had not, of course, had anything to do with Kate’s Channel swim attempt, except to comment, typically, on how much weight Kate was putting on. She only ever huffed when Kate explained umpteen times that Channel swimmers needed a bit more blubber to function effectively in the chilly waters. You were supposed to eat a lot.
‘The funeral is in three days,’ Heap said. ‘So she’s keeping herself busy with the arrangements. Then there is her father, of course.’
Kate’s father, William Simpson, had been a corrupt politician, involved in suspect activities for which he’d never been brought to account. An ex-government spin doctor, he now made a substantial living as a public relations consultant for various dubious dictators and states around the world. Kate’s mother had left him unexpectedly as part of the fallout of the notorious Milldean Massacre some years earlier.
Kate had a fractious relationship with him. Oddly, his name had come up in the murder investigation Gilchrist and Heap had concluded a few months earlier. Not as a suspect but in some potentially suspicious business dealings involving the West Pier that had come to nothing.
‘I can only imagine what she’s going through,’ Gilchrist said. ‘Does she at least like living in Lewes?’
‘Being waited on hand and foot you mean, ma’am?’
Heap had a lovely big grin on his face. Gilchrist barked a laugh.
‘That’s not exactly—’
‘She seems to be liking it, ma’am.’
Gilchrist often forgot Heap’s pawky sense of humour. Pawky – she so liked that word. She’d come across it when she was about twelve and reading all the Sherlock Holmes short stories. Holmes had referred in passing to Watson’s pawky sense of humour.
Ma’am. She’d once tried to persuade Heap to call her Sarah but it hadn’t taken. He’d stayed with ma’am, except that now he used it all the time as a kind of acceptance he was being silly. She read his use of it as respect – quite right too – and affection.
‘You continue to take care of my friend, Bellamy, or you’ll answer to me.’
‘I intend to, ma’am,’ he said. They were driving now down to the roundabout in the middle of Ditchling Common. The Downs filled the near horizon, their soft, undulating lines looking impossibly English. ‘The whale-backed Downs,’ Heap murmured.
‘That sounds very poetic, Bellamy,’ Gilchrist said.
‘Kipling, ma’am. He lived down this way for a few years.’
‘I like Kipling.’ She lowered her voice and gruffly half-sang, half-spoke: ‘I’m Louie, King of the Jungle, yeah, Louie that’s my name.’
Heap giggled. It was an odd sound to come from Mr Sobriety and it made Gilchrist laugh too.
‘I’m not sure he actually wrote the songs in the Jungle Book, ma’am.’
‘Get outta here,’ Gilchrist said. ‘Next you’ll be saying T. S. Eliot didn’t write Cats.’ Heap shook his head.
‘I think I’ve burst enough bubbles for one evening, ma’am.’
They turned left at the roundabout and wiggled down onto lengthy Spatham Lane, which would bring them out eventually right underneath the Downs on the Lewes Road.
‘I like walking on the Downs,’ Heap said as they came into sight again. ‘It only takes five minutes to get onto them from my house.’ Heap lived in Lewes, near the prison, which somehow seemed fitting for a policeman who was so devoted to his job.
‘Have you walked the South Downs Way yet?’ Gilchrist said.
‘Not yet but I intend to. Have you, ma’am?’
‘I’m not much of a walker. I wouldn’t mind cycling it.’
‘Not in Lycra, I trust,’ Heap said.
Gilchrist bridled.
‘What? You think I’m too fat for Lycra?’
Heap flushed and stammered, clearly startled by the speed of her angry response: ‘N-not at all. I merely meant that, personally, I dislike anyone wearing Lycra in the countryside. Those garish colours are such a vulgar contrast to the natural greens and browns all around – especially at this time of year.’
‘Well, I agree,’ Gilchrist said. ‘I’d never dream of wearing something gaudy. I got you there though.’
‘You did, ma’am.’ Heap looked relieved. ‘Lot of cyclists on the Downs, mostly up from Brighton,’ he said. ‘Sadly, they are usually going at speed so can’t appreciate the beautiful scenery they’re passing through. Give me walkers and horse-riders every time.’
‘I get it, Bellamy. Enough said.’
They pulled on to the Lewes Road and turned left. Soon the road went under a canopy of trees and curved sharply at Westmeston church. As the road straightened, they passed on the right the V of trees planted on the side of the Downs to commemorate Queen Victoria’s Jubilee. On the left were field after field of vines.
‘All these vines,’ Gilchrist said, ‘everywhere you look.’
‘It’s taken the local farmers long enough to realize what the Romans knew 2,000 years ago – this is the perfect land for planting vines. The wine industry is flourishing.’
‘It’s like being in Tuscany,’ Gilchrist said, remembering her one holiday there.
After Plumpton Agricultural College and the Half Moon pub the road got even more winding. Beyond Novington Lane, Heap turned left into a narrow, tree-canopied lane. They turned right again into a driveway. There was a sign that stated Access to Plumpton Down House Only. A white-painted five-bar gate in front of a cattle grid swung away from them as they approached.
They drove slowly along the narrow, curving driveway, over regular speed bumps, past sheep grazing on unfenced meadows either side of them. They nudged patiently along when the sheep were in their path, wa
iting for them to move out of the way.
A bright yellow digger was parked some ten yards from the road, its bucket half raised, beside the thick base and exposed roots of an old oak that had come down in some storm. The oak’s big trunk lay on the meadowland, branches already sheared off and piled high either side of it.
There was heavy woodland off to the right as they approached another five-barred gate and cattle grid. A police car was squeezed into a passing place on the left and a policewoman was standing beside the cattle grid. There was a roll of police tape on the ground beside her.
‘Ma’am,’ she said, leaning down to Gilchrist’s window. ‘I’m PC Duffy. There is parking just up the drive a hundred yards on the left at the far edge of the lake. There’s a gate there onto a path you need to follow for a couple of hundred yards where my colleague, PC Malcolm, is with the person who found the body. And there is the body, of course.’
Gilchrist pointed down at the tape.
‘I wasn’t sure what to do ma’am,’ the PC said. ‘There are people driving to and from the house quite regularly. There is no other way out or in. I didn’t know if they should be prevented from going about their business given the body was discovered over towards the far end of the lake.’
Gilchrist nodded.
‘Leave it for now.’ She looked to the left as Heap drove slowly forward, rattling over the cattle grid. Behind a low, Victorian iron railing and a sparse hedge of trees and bushes there was a long stretch of water, fringed by another wood. She couldn’t see the far end of the lake. There was a passing place at the end of the 100 yards with a police car already there.
There was a Private: Keep Out sign on a well-made narrow gate. A chain and combination padlock hung off the gate post. The wire fencing either side of the gate was sagging. Gilchrist reflected it would be easier just to climb over the fencing than go to the faff of fiddling with the padlock.
The Lady of the Lake Page 1