by Jo Bannister
Contents
Cover
A Selection of recent titles by Jo Bannister
Title Page
Copyright
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
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
A Selection of recent titles by Jo Bannister
The Gabriel Ash and Hazel Best Mysteries
DEADLY VIRTUES
PERFECT SINS
DESPERATE MEASURES
OTHER COUNTRIES *
KINDRED SPIRITS *
The Brodie Farrell Mysteries
REQUIEM FOR A DEALER
FLAWED
CLOSER STILL
LIARS ALL
* available from Severn House
KINDRED SPIRITS
Jo Bannister
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.
First published in Great Britain and the USA 2018 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY
This eBook edition first published in 2018 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Trade paperback edition first published
in Great Britain and the USA 2018 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD
Copyright © 2018 by Jo Bannister.
The right of Jo Bannister 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: 978-0-7278-8796-2 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-920-7 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-976-3 (e-book)
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 living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland
ONE
The woman said, ‘You know what to do?’
The man said, ‘Yes.’
The woman said, ‘Don’t make any mistakes. You won’t get a second chance.’
The man said, ‘There won’t be any mistakes.’
The woman said, ‘You have the photograph?’
The man sighed. ‘Yes, I have the photograph. I have made copies of the photograph. Everybody will have one. Anyway …’ He didn’t continue.
The woman raised an eyebrow. ‘Anyway what?’
‘She shouldn’t be difficult to spot. How many Chinese girls do you think will be outside the school at chucking-out time?’
‘I don’t know,’ the woman said pointedly. ‘Neither do you. That’s what the photograph is for. So you can be sure.’
The man nodded. ‘I’ll be sure.’
‘The hired help. You can count on them?’
‘Yes.’
‘How much do they know?’
‘Almost nothing. Just enough to do the job.’
‘Where did you find them?’
‘Up north. And they’ll be on their way back there as soon as their job is done and they’ve handed over their … consignment.’
‘They know not to hurt the children?’
The man bridled. ‘Of course they know not to hurt the children.’ His head turned and he looked past her. ‘Where’s the wall-art?’
The woman smiled. A cold, cold smile. ‘Where people wandering into my office won’t see it, of course. Don’t worry, it’s safe. Personally, I’d as soon have a nice print of The Monarch of the Glen, but perhaps I’m a philistine. The main thing is, it’s back where it belongs. No one on this earth has a better right to it.’
‘You won’t tell’ – discretion won – ‘anybody?’
Her gaze was withering. ‘Who would I tell? Who would I trust with that kind of information? Who deserves to know? This is our secret, yours and mine. And I know I’ll keep it safe, so you’d better be sure you do too.’
He shook his head. ‘I have as much to lose as you have.’
‘More, in fact.’ She looked him up and down, seemed to find him wanting. ‘The only thing that ever really mattered to me, I’ve already lost.’
He had no answer to that. ‘This will be over soon. Then …’ Frowning, he couldn’t find a suitable end for the sentence. That painting she saw no merit in, that oblong of ancient paint on ancient canvas, had been valued at millions. To him, and to her, it was just a symbol, but an important symbol. It meant that a quest which had dominated so much of his life was entering the end-game. Right now he couldn’t imagine what they’d do with themselves, what they’d talk about, what would occupy their thoughts, when it was finished.
The woman said, ‘Just don’t make any mistakes. I’ve waited long enough.’
TWO
Gabriel Ash pivoted on his heel, gazing up at the shelves stacked to the ceiling, and considered the distinct possibility that he’d gone mad. Again.
If there was ever a time in the history of the printed word not to be opening a bookshop, surely it was now. Hardly anyone he knew bought books. He didn’t know that many people who read books, but those who did bought them on-line, and more often than not downloaded them digitally to one of those … gadgets. Perhaps he was the last man in England – the last man in the civilised world – to enjoy the sensation, both sensual and intellectual, of paper pages curling away under his fingers. Of words, and the ideas they encoded, waiting for him to find them – and staying close at hand after he’d read them, in case he needed to flick back a page or two to check something. If he was, his venture was doomed before it had even started.
It wasn’t as if he had any experience of the book business. He’d never run a bookshop before. He’d never worked in a bookshop, or any other kind of shop. He’d taken the gamble for two reasons, and only one of them was good. He had to open his own shop because he didn’t think anyone would employ him in theirs, and in that he was probably correct. And he’d chosen to stock it with books for the commercially absurd reason that he didn’t think they would attract too many customers. Gabriel Ash had spent too long as a recluse to be comfortable with crowds now.
The one saving grace of the whole enterprise was that he didn’t need it to make much money. He’d be satisfied if it broke even in the first three years. He wasn’t working becaus
e he needed an income, he was doing it because he needed to work. He had two young sons to raise, and it seemed to him that one of the best things he could teach them was that the way to get the life you wanted was to work for it.
Almost as if she’d read his mind, the young woman standing high on the stepladder feeding the last few books into the top shelves turned her head and smiled down at him. ‘It’s time I went for the boys.’
Ash looked at his new watch. He hadn’t worn one for so long that the strap was still irritating his wrist. ‘Frankie will meet you at the school gates.’ His gaze dipped, embarrassed. ‘I wanted her here too. She’s part of the family now.’
Hazel Best regarded him fondly. Coming from a man both physically and intellectually substantial, that schoolboy diffidence still had the power to charm her. ‘Of course she is. She’s the best thing that’s happened to you since … since …’
‘Since you,’ said Gabriel Ash simply.
Hazel jumped the last three steps to the ground with a grin. ‘And don’t you forget it. I’ll be about fifteen minutes. If you can refrain from reading the merchandise, you’ll have the last of the stock on the shelves by the time the mayor arrives to cut the ribbon.’
Ash looked up and down his new shop, daunted by the task he’d taken on. ‘I’m still not sure about this cataloguing system.’
‘For today,’ Hazel said firmly, ‘all that matters is emptying the cardboard boxes and filling the shelves. Just do that. From tomorrow you can arrange the books alphabetically, by subject, or even by the colour of the covers, in the gaps between customers.’
Ash suspected he’d be able to write some new books in the gaps between customers. But he said, ‘Go get the boys. Patience and I will finish up.’
After she’d gone, he emptied the last box onto the long table running down the centre of the shop, and attempted to find logical places for its contents on the fast-filling shelves.
When it was done, he glanced at his assistant. ‘What do you think?’
Patience gave a non-committal shrug with her eyebrows. Not really my field of expertise.
‘You think it’s mine?’
It’s your shop.
Ash sighed. ‘Humour me, will you? Just tell me the books look fine, the shop looks fine, everything’s going to be OK.’
His assistant gave this some thought. Then: There aren’t enough blue ones.
‘Blue …?’ He hadn’t even thought of the colours. But she was right, the shelves were heavily weighted towards the red end of the spectrum. Ash fought the urge to pull all the books out and start again. Then he frowned. ‘I thought you were colour-blind.’
Believe that, yawned Patience, and you’d believe anything. And that’s the mayor’s car arriving.
She was never wrong about sounds. Or smells. Ash raked a distracted hand through his thick dark hair and hurried to the door, pinning in place a smile that he hoped looked competent and welcoming, and not harassed and confused which was what he felt. ‘Your Worship. Welcome to Rambles With Books. It’s very kind of you to perform the official opening.’
Norbold’s mayor was a stout, astute man who sold shoes for a living. He’d put on his chain of office but not his robes and certainly not the hat with the plume in it, which he considered ridiculous and donned only for state occasions. ‘Funny name,’ he remarked, tilting his head back to scrutinise the new signage. ‘Still, ours is called Parsons, so who am I to judge?’ He extended an arm. ‘This is my lady wife, Mrs Parsons.’
In contrast to her husband, the mayoress positively relished a fancy hat. Hers had both plumes and beads on it, and she wore a lighter version of the mayoral chain about her narrower shoulders.
‘Madam Mayoress.’ Ash hoped that was the correct form of address. ‘I’m Gabriel Ash. And this is Patience.’
A mayoress has to attend a lot of events she wouldn’t choose to. The ability to look at least mildly interested at a school play, a cattle show or a ball-bearing production line is an important qualification for the job. Audrey Parsons had climbed down from the mayoral Rover with polite interest pinned securely in place, ready to make admiring noises about the town’s new bookshop for the twenty minutes this was going to take, for the sake of the love she bore her husband.
But at the sight of Patience, waiting by the door, her expression changed – warmed, softened, became animated. ‘What a delightful little doggie!’
Patience rolled her toffee-coloured eyes at Ash, and in the privacy of her head she said, The things I do for you!
Ash ushered them inside, taking them on a brief tour of the shop. Returning to the table where Hazel had laid out his mother’s silver tea set, he glanced apologetically at his watch. ‘My sons were supposed to be here to show you round.’
Mrs Parsons took the cup he offered. ‘How old are they?’
‘Seven and nine. My friend Miss Best went for them in her car. Do you know Miss Best?’
The first citizens exchanged a significant glance. Oh yes, they knew Miss Best.
‘I expect they’ll be here in a minute,’ said Ash, a shade desperately as he ran out of small talk. ‘Something must have held them up.’
‘That must be it,’ agreed the mayoress, while the mayor helped himself to the smoked salmon sandwiches.
Hazel pulled up outside the school just as the boys spilled into the playground. She spotted the diminutive, self-assured figure of their nanny Frankie Kelly waiting by the wrought-iron gates, then shifted her attention to the parking space that was opening up as a big 4x4 trundled off with its cargo of small children.
So she didn’t see the start of the incident. Even the sound of children screaming was not enough to distract her from claiming the space. It was her experience that young children needed very little excuse to scream, and several hundred of them had just been released from classroom confinement with energy to burn. They were running and bumping into one another, and dropping their school bags and yelling and laughing and, yes, screaming, just as they did at this time five days every week.
Then one voice reached her through the general din, and it was a voice she knew. It was only one word – ‘Frankie!’ – but Hazel knew that shocked tone was no part of playground histrionics. Gilbert Ash, aged nine going on thirty, was not a child for football, or running round with a gang of mates, or shouting mindlessly because other boys were doing it. He was a quiet, stubborn, difficult, intelligent boy, and getting him to ask for help was like pulling teeth. But Hazel knew instantly that he needed help now, and she was shrugging out of her seatbelt, abandoning her car still halfway into the road, before she was aware she’d made the decision to.
Hazel tended to act on instinct. It was a habit that had got her into trouble before now. And also, before now, had saved lives.
What she saw, as she dodged between the cars, was a grey van backed up against the pavement with the rear doors open. One man – average height, average build, nondescript clothing – was bundling a small Asian woman into the back of the van while another was wrestling with two young boys. The boys were Ash’s sons, the woman was their nanny.
There must have been forty parents, mostly mothers but some of them fathers, standing within a few metres; and they were decent people who would not have stinted the effort or even the risk involved to prevent a crime. But shock affects most people like a powerful tranquilliser. They freeze. They don’t know what to do. They wait for someone who might know what’s going on to give them a lead. None of those forty people lifted a hand to help, and it wasn’t because they were afraid for themselves or even for their children but because nothing in their lives before had prepared them for a kidnapping in broad daylight outside their local primary school.
What set Hazel Best apart from the other people at the school gates that afternoon was the fact that she was no stranger to criminal activities. That was only partly because she was a police officer. Partly it was because she was a friend of Gabriel Ash.
So instead of freezing, Hazel moved into ov
erdrive. She fixed her eyes on the grey van, and used all the strength she could muster to force her way through the startled, confused, indecisive crowd until she reached the van.
Whoever these men were, whatever their purpose, she didn’t think they’d consent to being arrested so she didn’t try. She used her momentum to ram shoulder-first into the man holding Frankie Kelly by the arm. As he staggered forward, Hazel bounced off him into the van’s back door, slamming it shut. It might only buy a few seconds, but you can’t force someone through a closed door. She flung one fist in his face, hoping he’d have ducked before he realised how little he had to fear from her, and grabbed Frankie with her other hand.
By now the crowd was starting to react, to gather around the second man and the boys. A handful of them were moving purposefully towards the van. The man holding Frankie hesitated, then throwing her arm back at her reversed quickly towards the driver’s door. Two of the fathers moved to intercept him but he shoved them aside, banging the door shut behind him.
There was a second’s pause then, where nobody seemed to know what came next. Hazel looked at the second man, who was holding Gilbert Ash’s wrist in one hand and Guy’s collar in the other, and he looked back at her with furious dislike. Then Frankie swung her bag – a substantial piece of kit that contained not only personal items but spare hankies, shoelaces and socks for the boys, a simple first-aid kit and a small selection of fruit to last them until dinner – with real venom, and the brass reinforced corner laid his cheek open.
That was the end of it. By now everyone had recovered their wits and the power of movement, and there was no possibility that the two men could finish what they’d begun without producing a sub-machine gun. The one still on the street dropped Guy and slapped a palm to his bloody face; Gilbert writhed determinedly out of his grasp; the man pushed past Hazel and piled into the van beside his colleague, and the vehicle took off at speed, adults and children skipping out of its way.
‘Are you all right?’ Hazel shook Frankie’s arm to get her attention. ‘Frankie – are you all right?’ The other woman blinked rapidly several times and then nodded. ‘Gilbert, Guy – where are you?’ Hazel scanned the bank of agitated faces until she found them. ‘Are you all right? Are you sure?’ But they both nodded, and apart from Gilbert’s torn blazer and the tears on Guy’s face they seemed unharmed. ‘Stay here. Stay right here with me. I’m calling the police, and they’ll be here in two minutes.’
