‘Matthew’s cooking lamb for dinner.’
‘Smell’s good,’ Rina approved. ‘What do you have there, Tim?’
The dark-haired man looked up from the papers and miscellaneous pieces of wood and glass spread across the kitchen table.
‘It’s a new illusion,’ Bethany announced, clasping her hands joyfully together. ‘It arrived by special delivery about an hour ago.’
Rina glanced at the title on the typewritten sheet. ‘Pepper’s Ghost. Oh, if I remember right, that’s quite an old illusion, isn’t it, Tim?’
‘First performed by Mr J. H. Pepper on Christmas Eve in 1862. I got dad to make up a model so I could demonstrate the effect to Blake. They’re keen to make it happen, but I don’t think Blake and Lilly quite get how it works.’
Rina examined the little model. Tim’s father was an artist and set designer and the model was based on measurements and photographs Tim had sent him of the newly restored art deco stage at the Palisades Hotel. Tim, magician and mentalist extraordinaire, worked there four nights a week and the new owners, Blake and Lilly, were keen to spread the reputation of the recently reopened hotel. Their clientele was rather more upmarket than was typically catered for in Rina’s street.
‘Isn’t it lovely,’ Bethany cooed. ‘Eliza and I think we should find a permanent display for it when Tim’s done. We thought we could put it on the piano, so we can see it and enjoy it whenever we play.’
‘Good idea,’ Rina approved. ‘Tim, your father did a wonderful job.’
‘He did, didn’t he, and the stage at the Palisades is just crying out to be used like this.’ Tim was grinning from ear to ear in his enthusiasm. Sometimes, Rina reflected, he was more like a boy than a man who would not see thirty again, though that impression was, perhaps, enhanced by the fact that everyone else in her household was at least twice his age.
Rina smiled affectionately. Tim and his father were anomalies in a family that, to a man – and woman – had made their careers in the military. Army, air force, even the odd sailor. Most had then sidestepped on retirement into something equally official, like Tim’s uncle who had joined the Diplomatic Protection Group or his other uncle who’d become some sort of Home Office advisor.
Tim’s father, on the other hand, had gone to art school and Tim made a rather precarious living as a performer.
‘Matthew, Stephen, is there anything you need me to do?’
Matthew was bending to remove a tray from the oven, from which rose a wonderful scent of roast lamb and rosemary.
‘It’s all under control, Rina dear. Stephen is just about to see to the gravy and I’ll let the meat rest while he’s doing that. Then I think we’re there, if the ladies would like to lay the table?’
Eliza and Bethany skittered off to do his bidding and Rina took two large glass pitchers from the wall cupboard and filled them with water, setting them on the kitchen table beside the assorted glassware that displayed the varied preferences held by the members of her disparate household.
She watched as Matthew lifted the meat on to the serving plate, and then stepped aside to allow Stephen access to the stove. Apart from breakfast, which Rina always took care of, most of the meals at Peverill Lodge were taken care of by the Montmorency twins; Matthew, tall and elegant and hound-like with his mane of silver hair swept back from a thin face and Stephen, short and a little rotund about the waist. Getting very thin on top – though only a very foolish or thoughtless soul would draw attention to the fact.
The Montmorencys had performed as a double act since both were children and Rina supposed that, once upon a time, their physical differences would have been a source of humour. Over the years though, they had seemed to forget that they were not even blood relatives, never mind being twins. Twindom had become reality for them and Rina had to brief new acquaintances very carefully to ensure the tacit illusion was maintained.
Mac had, she remembered, been very quick on the uptake.
The Peters sisters scuttled back in and took the pitchers. Rina followed with the glassware. Eliza and Bethany were actual sisters, another double act whose career spanned that of magician’s assistants to song and dance duo. They were by nature and inclination true vaudevillians, though even at the start of their professional lives, the golden days of variety had, in Rina’s opinion, already passed and she mourned that passing.
She and her dear husband, Frank, had themselves pounded the boards in little theatres and pier reviews, though after his death just five years after their marriage, Rina had turned to more serious roles, finding small roles with travelling companies and then finally leads. Her big break had come relatively late in her career, the title role on the long-running series ‘Lydia Marchant Investigates’. The television work had brought with it a little more security and had, in the end, allowed her to buy Peverill Lodge.
The Peters sisters, then the Montmorencys and finally Tim Brandon had made their home with her and while it could be argued, by less generous minds, that her ‘lodgers’ paid so little rent it probably only just covered the food bill, Rina had no complaint.
This was her family. Oddball and truculent it could sometimes be but, so long as she had the means, they’d be safe here at Peverill Lodge.
SIX
It was almost eight by the time Mac reached home. Miriam was cooking. She hadn’t quite moved in, but she did spend several nights at the little boathouse each week. Mac acknowledged that neither of them was quite ready to give up their own space, but it was truly wonderful to have someone to share his for a good deal of the time.
The boathouse had been Rina’s find, at a time when Mac had almost given up on finding somewhere to live and was seriously considering the possibility of camping out at the police station. The friend of Rina’s that he rented from still stored his boat downstairs, but the upper floor had been converted into a surprisingly comfortable space, open-plan but with a separate bedroom with an en suite shower room. It was a surprisingly light and airy space, broad windows had been let into one wall and velux skylights in the bedroom. Scrubbed wooden boards and whitewashed walls reflected light and did not detract from the sense of what the loft space had once been. There was an odd, surprisingly large, porthole-style window at one gable end and, if you sat on the fireside chair Mac had placed there, it gave a magnificent view of the changing seascape across the bay.
Mac had loved the place on sight and the fact that Miriam happened to be there on the day he came to view had seemed like an excellent omen.
She had heard him coming up the stairs and turned with a smile as he emerged through what had once been the trapdoor leading from the boathouse proper. ‘I hear you’ve had an exciting day.’
He went over, kissed her, then slipped his arms around her waist, standing behind her as she stirred, enjoying the movement of her body against his.
‘Some kinds of excitement I can do without. Let me guess, Stephen Montmorency’s recipe for tomato sauce?’
She laughed. ‘Yes, but à la Miriam Hastings. I’ve added a twist or so of my own.’ She paused to unlock his hands. ‘Lay the table,’ she said. ‘It’s almost ready. Andy called to say you were on your way, so I put the pasta on.’
Mac laughed. Friends and work colleagues seemed to be conspiring. ‘They’ve managed to squeeze the post-mortems in for first thing tomorrow.’
‘Yeah, I heard. Any ID on the second man yet?’
Mac shook his head. ‘No. Exeter are sending reinforcements over in the morning. I’m teaming up with our friend, Dave Kendal,’
‘Who’ll be SIO?’ Miriam asked.
‘Oh, we’ll fight over which of us will be in charge when he gets here.’ Mac laughed. ‘I’m guessing that the title of Senior Investigating Officer will be mine by default; Kendal isn’t a Frantham fan. Of course, it depends how serious it all gets, We might both have to move aside if the powers that be decide this is too much for us country coppers.’
‘Well, there has been quite a crime wave since you arrived.�
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Mac set bowls and glasses on the table and opened some wine. ‘It has been mentioned,’ he said wryly. He paused. ‘Can’t you just put the sauce on the pasta and just shove it in the oven on a low heat?’
‘Hmm.’ She turned, smiling. ‘Pasta al forno. I suppose we could always eat later.’ She put down the spoon, grabbed the front of his shirt, and sniffed critically.
‘Shower,’ she ordered. ‘I’ll do the thing with the oven and then … well then we’ll see.’
SEVEN
Bright and early the next morning Rina and Tim were at the airfield, examining the latest stage in reconstruction. This had become a regular walk for them lately, the footpath running along the perimeter giving a good view of the ongoing work and then leading up on to the cliff path.
‘Was that postcard from George?’ Tim asked. ‘I just spotted it when Matthew collected the mail.’
‘Jointly from George and Ursula. She added a postscript. They should be moving back next month when the repairs to Hill House are finished.’
Tim grinned sheepishly; he’d been rather responsible for the damage to the front of the house which meant that the childrens’ home had to be relocated for a few months. There’d been talk of moving out for good but no one seemed to want to buy the place and the council had been unable to find other premises so it looked as though George and Ursula would be moving back there after all. Currently, they were both in temporary foster care in Dorchester though for the past two weeks they’d been away on some sort of outward bound scheme in ‘wettest Wales’ as George described it.
‘He says that he hasn’t been dry since they got there,’ Rina said. ‘They’ve either been rained on or participating in “river things”. I get the feeling he isn’t keen.’
‘And Ursula?’
‘Says he’s just exaggerating. I must say, though, I’ll be glad to have them back. I had a letter from Stan too.’
‘Oh.’ Criminal turned hero in Tim’s eyes, Stan was currently awaiting trial for what Tim and Rina both viewed as a very justifiable homicide. ‘He’s well and hopeful. His legal team seem to think they have a real argument to bring to the CPS.’
‘Well with the Duggans throwing money at the problem, I think he’s got a good chance. Rina, what do you reckon happened on Paul’s boat?’
She shrugged sturdy shoulders. ‘I’m most intrigued by the identity of the second man,’ she said. ‘Something very odd is going on, Tim. The old antenna is twitching. Paul was keeping secrets from everyone, including his family, which makes me think one of two things. Either he was deliberately deceiving them or he was trying to protect them from something.’
‘And your money is on?’
‘The second. Paul didn’t strike me as a deceitful man. I’d have said that his job probably instilled a degree of caution. From what I understand, this whole hi-tech business attracts industrial spies, but I wouldn’t have said he was a dishonest man. His sister-in-law certainly didn’t seem to think so, at least, that was the impression I gleaned from the way she reacted yesterday. She was surprised. No, shocked at the idea that there was something she didn’t know about.’
‘Unless Paul was a very practised liar,’ Tim suggested. ‘And the brother?’
Rina frowned. ‘Something odd going on there too. I think he was worried about their relationship. His wife and brother, I mean. But added to that he’s a man with something important on his mind; something he doesn’t know how to deal with.’ She flicked her walking stick impatiently at a clump of nettles. ‘The annoying thing is, I have no idea what.’
Tim hid his smile as Rina’s stick whipped out again, this time taking the head off an errant thistle. She didn’t need the stick for walking, it was more potential weapon or fashion accessory than utilitarian but it could be a dangerous accessory. ‘I’ve no doubt you’ll figure it out,’ he said.
‘Oh, of course I will, but it is aggravating, Tim, not to be in possession of all the facts. There are questions I should have asked earlier; things I should have discovered.’
‘You had no reason to want to know things then,’ Tim argued.
‘Which just goes to show, Tim. One should always gather intelligence anyway. One never can tell.’
Mac and Collins, the coastguard who had attended the scene the previous day, met in the morgue. The post-mortems had already begun when they arrived, Mason, the pathologist, having come in very early in order to slip the two dead men into his schedule.
Mason confirmed what they had observed but had some interesting additions. ‘Mr de Freitas died from the effects of a bullet wound to the back of the head, but the angle seems odd, look. The bullet entered here, close to the base of the skull, and exited almost through the top of the head.’
‘He was kneeling with his head bowed?’ Mac tried to figure it out.
‘That’s one possibility. The other, I suppose, is that he was diving for cover. His companion was coming down the steps when he was shot, at least that’s what I’d surmise. The angle of the shot is slightly from above and exits through the face. The shot was fired at close range. Like de Freitas, the shot was through and through and the bullet has been recovered. It was lodged in the planking of the cabin floor. Our mystery man was shot, fell forward and his assailant doesn’t seem to have bothered with him after that, but we can now be pretty sure that he was armed.’
‘Armed!’ Collins, the coastguard, was startled. ‘There was no sign of a gun.’
‘Gunshot residue on his right hand and a 9mm bullet found in the bulkhead of the wheelhouse. Neither de Freitas nor our second victim was killed with a 9mm. There’s also blood on the handrail close by and drips on the floor of the cabin near de Freitas’ body. Our killer paused, dripped blood, then left the way he’d come. It doesn’t belong to either of our victims. Wrong blood group.’
‘So, our mystery man fired at least one shot, presumably at the killer, then ran down the steps into the cabin,’ Mac confirmed.
‘Tried to, yes. He was shot, and from the position of the body probably when he was only part way down the steps. He dropped, the gunman went on and shot de Freitas. Then, we’ve got to assume, he picked up the spare gun and left.’
‘Do we know if anything was taken?’ the coastguard asked.
‘De Freitas’ wallet was still in his trouser pocket. Our unknown male just had some loose change and a couple of keys in his pockets. Nothing to identify him unless you can find what the keys fit.’ Mason shrugged. ‘I can show you what they had for breakfast, if you like, but apart from that, I’m probably done, for now.’
Deciding that they would pass on that offer, Collins and Mac retreated to the outer office where Miriam was waiting for them. She smiled at Mac, a light flush rising to her cheeks.
‘Coffee?’ she offered. ‘Don’t worry, Mason didn’t make it. He makes truly dreadful coffee.’
‘So,’ Mac said. ‘What have you got for me?’
Miriam laughed and Collins looked from one to the other, understanding dawning.
‘Hmm, right. Well.’ She set a plastic box on the table and began to sort through the evidence bags inside. ‘Paul de Freitas’ wallet, with credit cards and thirty-five pounds in cash. Assorted pocket change, car keys – they were in the bedside cabinet. There was a PDA cradle set up in the wheelhouse but we found no sign of the computer. It’s possible the gunman took it. His mobile phone seems to be missing too and if our unknown man had one, well that’s gone too. No wallet. But we did find this.’ She laid a neat, subnotebook computer on the tabletop. ‘It belonged to Paul de Freitas, according to his brother. I’m about to send it across to the geek squad.’
‘Do we know what’s on it?’ Collins asked.
She shrugged. ‘Password protected. But it’s where the CSI found it that’s weird.’
‘Weird, how?’
‘Tucked in the bed, shoved down under the covers.’
‘Bunk,’ Collins said absently. ‘Why?’
Mac visualised the scene he had glimpsed
through the doorway of the inner cabin. ‘De Freitas was shot next to the bunk,’ he said. ‘What if he tried to hide it in a hurry? If he heard the first shot, or the other man shouted a warning, there might have just been time to do that, shove it into the bunk.’
‘You’re assuming our gunman was too thick to think of that?’ Collins objected.
‘I’m assuming he didn’t know what he was after. Maybe he thought he had it when he took the PDA. Maybe de Freitas even told him that before he died. And we know he’d been shot, we just don’t know how badly. It might have been enough to put him off his stride.’
Collins nodded. ‘I can see how it might be distracting. You know,’ he went on, ‘we examined his charts. Paul de Freitas had either got a long trip planned or he’d just been on one.’
‘Trip? To where?’
‘Well that’s the funny thing. His heading would have taken him out into the middle of nowhere. Just Atlantic Ocean.’
‘Could he have planned a rendezvous with someone?’
‘That’s what we wondered. But he’d almost no supplies on board. Trip like that, a full two days out and two back, you plan for emergencies. He was an experienced sailor, thought the world of his boat … Mac, de Freitas would have planned, he never struck me as one to take chances.’
‘Meeting who? And, when?’ Mac frowned.
‘And there’s another thing. The wheel was tied off like the helmsman had to leave it for a few minutes. Ordinarily, he’d have set the heading, tied the wheel.
‘But, well, my guess is that whoever tied it wanted the boat to keep heading out to sea. If he’d done it properly it might have taken days before anyone found it, but he either didn’t know what he was doing or maybe getting shot was a real distraction. Either way, he was no sailor. Only a landsman would use a mess of a knot like that one. It had slipped, let the wheel turn and then lock.’
‘Hence the ever-decreasing circles. Interesting.’
‘There was blood on the rope,’ Miriam told them.
The Power of One Page 3
