Bayliss & Calladine Box Set

by Helen H. Durrant

  It was only Wednesday night but the High Street was busy. A group of men were noisily drawing attention to themselves outside the Wheatsheaf pub. Someone shouted, and he heard a bottle smash. It wasn’t that late but it was already shaping up to be a wild one.

  Calladine turned down a side street. He’d go down the back lane and reach his home that way. He wasn’t in any mood to run the gauntlet of the other pubs strung along Leesdon’s main thoroughfare.

  “Detective Inspector!” The voice sounded from in front of him.

  He’d got his head down against the wind so he hadn’t noticed the pool of light coming from the shop window. Amaris Dean was sweeping up the rubbish from the footpath outside her shop.

  He looked up. She was smiling, and for a moment he was speechless. Her long hair flowed in soft waves down her back and was held away from her face with a wide band. Her skirt seemed to flow as well, right down to her ankles. There was something of the gipsy about her and he liked it.

  “You’re open late,” he noted, feeling the butterflies start.

  She smiled. “We’ve had a development session here tonight.”

  He’d no idea what she meant but he nodded and smiled back anyway. For a woman who must be close to his own age, she was in good nick. She wasn’t wearing much makeup, just a little lipstick and something that seemed to make her eyes look all smoky and sexy.

  “You keep long hours — a bit like me.” He couldn’t think of anything else to say. He was as tongue-tied as an inept teenager talking to a girl he fancied for the first time. “You still have to travel home, then?”

  “No, I live up there,” she said pointing to the first floor. “I have a lovely flat above my shop. Fancy a drink, Tom?” She smiled again.

  She had that look in her eyes, the one that made him feel sure she could see into his very soul.

  “You don’t mind if I call you Tom, do you?”

  She was still gazing at him, her eyes holding him. No he certainly didn’t; she could call him anything she wanted. He was attracted to her, but it wasn’t just that. There was something else too, which for now he’d put down to fascination.

  “You look . . . troubled,” she said, tilting her head to one side. “You almost walked right past. Work, is it? Case getting you down?”

  “Something like that,” he replied following her into the shop.

  “You should learn how to relax. Perhaps I could show you some techniques.”

  “Like what?”

  “Relaxation. You could even come here and try a reiki session.”

  Something else he didn’t understand.

  “What did you mean — development session? What is it that’s being developed?”

  She laughed and picked up a bottle from the table. It was a vodka bottle but the fluid inside was pink. He was staring again — was nothing about this woman ordinary?

  “My special cranberry vodka,” she told him. “Here, try some. It’s lovely at this time of year, warming and festive.” Her eyes twinkled as she handed him a generous glassful.

  Calladine sipped the pink liquid cautiously, but she was right, it was delicious.

  “Some of my customers show potential, for example in healing or mediumship,” she explained. “I hold workshops, invite a guest speaker and we go from there.”

  “You’ve been busy, then?”

  “Oh yes, Tom, that’s what it’s all about. Every session I hold here helps to generate business for my shop. But by far the most popular are the tarot readings.”

  Still clutching the vodka, he followed her upstairs to her flat. The sitting room was a delight — a cosy oasis far from the busy high street. She had the place decorated in subtle tones of pale green with bead curtains between the rooms. There were two large squashy sofas festooned with colourful cushions either side of an Edwardian fireplace. The place was warm, relaxing. She also had a number of paintings on her walls, some looked a little esoteric and there was a fabulous nude. His gaze fell on it and he couldn’t tear his eyes away. The woman was posing on a fur mat and her hair fell long and lustrous down her back. But it was her eyes, that steady regard, that finally made him turn and look at her quizzically.

  “Yes,” she nodded, a smile hovering on those full lips. “That is me — a good few years ago now though.”

  She was a truly gorgeous woman, and the painting simply confirmed it. Calladine sat on the sofa, sinking into the plump cushions. He checked his mobile — nothing, no messages and no missed calls. He turned the thing off, which was unusual for him but it wouldn’t hurt for once. The vodka warmed him and somewhere in the background soft music was playing. He yawned, and the day’s problems slipped away as he closed his eyes.

  * * *

  Thursday

  “Where the hell have you been? You’ve been gone all night, no word, no text, nothing!” A furious Lydia greeted him the next morning.

  She was standing in his kitchen, dressed for work in a crisp suit, her hands on her hips as she glared at him. Her blonde hair was loose and fell over her shoulders. She looked glorious. Why did he feel so guilty? He’d done nothing wrong.

  “I told you, I went to Ruth’s . . . we had a lot to discuss,” he explained with a shrug, as if it was no big deal. But, of course he knew very well it was. It was a very big deal in fact because Amaris Dean had got to him. Which would explain why he felt like a naughty teenager.

  “You left about ten. I rang her. And you turned your mobile off — you never turn your mobile off, Tom. So what’s going on?” she demanded angrily. “I’ll ask once again, where have you been all night?”

  “I fell asleep,” he replied lamely. It was true, after all. He’d drunk the vodka and fallen asleep on Amaris’s sofa. But he could hardly tell Lydia that — she had no idea about Amaris. Anyway, it wasn’t as if Amaris was a rival or anything. Who was he kidding?

  “It’s not good enough, Tom. None of it is, and I can’t go on like this anymore.”

  Alarm bells were going off inside his head.

  “You don’t come home, you don’t want to help with my work, our relationship is crashing and you don’t give a damn, do you?”

  “Of course I do.” He was struggling. “I had a lot of thinking to do, things I discussed with Ruth.” Not a lie — what about the Eve Buckley problem?

  “You’re always talking to Ruth. Don’t you ever consider talking things over with me for a change?”

  “I don’t want to burden you. Apart from you, she’s one of the few people I can talk to.”

  “You never tell me anything and you don’t take me anywhere any more. You’ve become a huge bore, Tom Calladine, and it’s not good enough, not by a long way.” She turned on her heel and marched off into the kitchen.

  What had he done? Well, she wasn’t going to believe any explanation he gave her. Perhaps he should take her out more and make a fuss of her, but the truth was, at the end of a hard day he just didn’t have the energy. It was the age gap beginning to show, as he had known it inevitably would. For now Calladine just needed to shower and change and get off to work. Lydia was fast becoming an irritation he could do without.

  “It’s six thirty, and I’m off soon. You’d better drink this.” She handed him a mug of hot coffee.

  He took the drink gratefully and downed it. He had to get his head together. Today was a big day. He rubbed his face and yawned.

  “Off where? Not back to the prison, surely? You’re not going back to see that villain? He’s playing you; you shouldn’t go near him.”

  “I’ll do what I like, Detective,” she said with her nose in the air. “But I’m not going to see Fallon today; I’m going to find myself an apartment to rent.”

  He looked at her. She stood clutching a suitcase in each hand. “Just like that?”

  “No, not just like that. We’ve both seen this coming. You’ve got your work now, and you’ve fallen back into your old habits. Work, booze, sleep, that’s your life, Tom. You don’t have room for romance, and you certainly do
n’t have room for me.”

  “That’s not true — we’re good together. You looked after me while I was ill. I thought we had something, were going somewhere . . .”

  “Going where, exactly, Detective? Because I’m not for settling down, not for a long while. And when I do decide to, my life will be a lot different from the one you seem to be offering.”

  “My job’s very demanding,” he mumbled.

  “So’s mine, and they’re not compatible.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “Like I said, I’m looking for a flat, but in the meantime Zoe and Jo have said I can have their spare room.”

  That was a good one — his own daughter taking in his estranged lover!

  Chapter 9

  “It’s barely seven in the morning! Why so early? Can’t it wait, Harriet?” Gordon Lessing asked, annoyed. “I’ve got work. My haulage business won’t run itself you know. This is most inconvenient.”

  More inconvenient than he realises, the voice purred in Harriet’s head.

  “You know how ill I am, and this won’t wait. I still have things that belonged to Sybil. You should have them — jewellery and other items she gave me.”

  He didn’t reply but she could almost hear the gears turning. He would want Sybil’s stuff if he thought it might be valuable. He was a greedy sod, so the thought of getting something for nothing, something he could sell on, was the hook she needed.

  “You know how I’m fixed, Gordon. I’m trying to leave things straight.” She cleared her throat. “It’s all good quality; most of it belonged to our mother. Your Jane gave it to me after Sybil died. But it should go back to her now — I’ve no use for it. There’re some family papers too. Jane is into all that genealogy stuff so she’ll appreciate it.”

  Jane was Gordon and Sybil’s only child — now the last of the line.

  “Do you want me to come and collect it?”

  “No I’ll bring it round in the car later. You said you had some props we could borrow for the show at the church hall, remember? The magician’s paraphernalia. I thought I could take a look while I’m at it. You’ve no idea how difficult it is to get that sort of stuff. I know I’m not well, but I did promise the committee that I’d ask you.”

  Harriet was part of a team who organised regular shows and the annual pantomime at the village hall. She didn’t appear — she was far too shy, but she was happy to sew costumes and find props where she could. This year the show was to be a revue. There was a surprising amount of talent in Leesdon, including a young man who had aspirations to be a magician. But he had no stage props.

  “Yes, I suppose that’s alright. I’m here this morning until about ten, but then I have to go out.”

  “Thank you, Gordon. I’ll be round within the hour.”

  Harriet knew that her brother-in-law had been an avid collector of theatrical bits and pieces for years, the older and the more unusual the better. He kept it all in his cellar — exactly where she wanted him to be.

  He’ll take you down there but he won’t come back, the voice reminded her in a gleeful tone.

  Harriet was excited. Gordon Lessing was the big one. She’d get him to take her down into that dark, damp cellar of his and there he’d breathe his last: cold, battered and in agony.

  Serves him right — d’you think Sybil wasn’t cold when he did what he did to her?

  The voice was right. Sybil had been trapped for days in the dead of winter with a head injury and a broken femur, and with no way of calling for help. Lessing had done that. When she was found her poor sister was very close to death from hypothermia. She’d also lost a lot of blood, and had stood little chance of survival despite the hospital’s best efforts. The medics dismissed what she’d told them as delirium. But Harriet knew differently.

  Sybil had told her weeks before that Lessing wanted her dead and that she was scared. At the time Harriet had dismissed this as pure fantasy. Sybil took medication for depression. She got obsessed about things. Harriet had put her sister’s fears down to the side effects.

  But Sybil had kept on; she wouldn’t let it drop no matter how much reassurance Harriet gave her. Then one day when Gordon had had too much to drink and was lying comatose on the sofa, Sybil has shown her the stuff on his phone. There were messages, and video footage of the girls, but most frightening of all was the photo of Yuri, his contact.

  It was then that Harriet had realised that her sister was right and Gordon Lessing was capable of anything. It was obvious from the contents of the phone that he was part of a people trafficking ring specialising in the kidnapping of young children. But what to do about it? She’d told Sybil to be on her guard, and to give him no reason to suspect that she knew.

  But poor Sybil must have let something slip. Lessing was a clever man. He’d got away with his involvement in this evil trade for years, so dealing with a frail, sickly woman gave him no problems.

  It wasn’t until after her sister’s death that Harriet pieced it together. She knew he’d driven them both to their caravan by the coast. They’d stayed for the weekend and then he’d said he had to return home alone because of work and that Sybil had wanted to stay on. But Harriet couldn’t understand that. Sybil hated being alone and, it being winter, the park would be deserted.

  Given her injuries, he must have hit her with a heavy object. He had taken a wrench or something similar to her head and leg, and left her for dead. He’d been clever too, setting things up so it looked like a robbery gone wrong. He’d told the police that when she didn’t ring he’d become worried and had gone to find out what had happened. No one could find any evidence that Sybil’s death had anything to do with him. Harriet vowed at poor Sybil’s funeral that she would make him pay. She was going to make him talk too — about everything. He’d confess to killing Sybil and he’d confess to the kidnap of the children. Harriet shuddered. She’d beat a confession out of him if she had to, and record it for the police.

  * * *

  “You look awful,” Ruth said, raising her head from the pile of papers on her desk. “The result of going walkabout last night, I presume. Want to tell me about it?”

  “Can’t look that bad.” He rubbed his chin.

  “Well, you do,” she hissed. “And I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but Lydia was on the phone half the night. I hardly got a wink of sleep. I was worried about you too, idiot! Why didn’t you just ring her and let her know where you were?”

  “Because I fell asleep.”

  “You are kidding? I mean where could you possibly put your head down between mine and yours?”

  “I bumped into someone, a friend, we had a drink, and well . . .”

  “Well what? What are you talking about, and what friend?”

  He’d have to tell her. She’d go on and on until she wheedled the truth out of him anyway, so why not just get it over with?

  “Amaris Dean.” He cleared his throat.

  “I see.”

  No, she didn’t. She had that expression on her face, the unimpressed one, as she shook her head. As far as Ruth was concerned, he was at it again. Now he’d have to explain, in detail, because she’d want to know the lot.

  “You never learn, do you? After the debacle with Monika I thought you’d do things differently but no, you carry on making the same old mistakes. You’ve still got Lydia at home. Remember her? The woman you’re supposed to be nuts about? The one you don’t deserve.”

  “You’ve changed your tune,” he replied.

  “But still you go chasing after some other poor unsuspecting female without clearing up the problem of the old one first. She’ll find out, you know. Lydia is a smart cookie and when she does I wouldn’t want to be in the firing line.”

  “Amaris isn’t poor, and I doubt she’s unsuspecting. In fact I think she’s great. She makes great vodka too.”

  “If she’s distilling her own alcohol — that’s illegal.”

  “No, she steeps cranberries in it, makes a lovely mix, very
moreish.”

  “So you got drunk, and slept where — in her bed?”

  “Don’t be daft, I hardly know the woman. No, I dossed down on her sofa. Unintentional I should add. But when I woke up she’d taken off my shoes, plumped a couple of pillows around my head and covered me in a duvet. Lovely woman, lots of promise. I reckon she quite likes me.”

  “Then she wants her head looking at — and you too. Lydia will skin you alive when she finds out.”

  “I don’t think Lydia cares anymore . . . Actually, she’s left me.”

  He winced. Ruth was looking at him long and hard.

  “How come you are able to deliver news like that with nothing more than a cursory shrug? Not so long ago Lydia Holden meant the world to you.”

  “Things change, people change; you know that.”

  “And there was me thinking you might actually make a go of it with the woman. Well, I can’t say I blame her. Finally seen you for what you are, has she? Does she know about Amaris already? You weren’t stupid enough to tell her, have you?”

  “No, and don’t you go telling her either. She’s fed up, that’s all. She’s had enough of me not being much fun, that and my reluctance to get involved with Fallon again has ruined it.”

  Calladine was well aware that Ruth knew all about his hatred of his cousin and Lydia’s desire for him to get in contact with Fallon. But did Ruth understand that Lydia’s reasons were purely selfish? Lydia still believed that Fallon could somehow benefit her career.

  “So where’s she gone?”

  “She’s staying with Zoe and Jo for the time being. Can you believe that? My own daughter is putting her up! She’ll be expecting me to make some grand gesture so that she can come back . . . Trouble is I don’t know if that’s what I want. I’m all out of grand gestures where Lydia’s concerned. I know it sounds mad, given how things have been the last few months, but now that she’s gone I feel sort of relieved.”