Collide-O-Scope (Norfolk Coast Investigation Stories Book 1)

by Andrea Bramhall

  “I come bearing gifts.” The curtain slid back and Wild stepped into her curtain enclosed space. He dumped a plastic bag on the bed by her feet. “Trainers, sweatpants, T-shirt, and a sweatshirt.”

  “That’s great, thanks.” While Kate was glad he hadn’t gone through her underwear drawer, she dearly wished there had been at least a bra in the bag.

  “Oh, and socks.”

  She smiled. “Perfect. Thank you.” She waited for him to go so she could get dressed and leave.

  “I’ve got a message for you from Miss Temple.”

  So leaving was out of the question. “What message?”

  “She said, she’s got Merlin and will look after her for you for a while.”

  “Oh, right.” Kate couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed, but she supposed it made sense. Sammy had taken the dog with her when Gina had first arrived.

  “She also said to tell you that it wasn’t just the situation.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “She said you’d know what that cryptic little message meant.”

  Kate frowned, then the meaning hit her.

  “I take it from that shit-eating grin that you not only know what she means, but you like what it means.” He perched on the edge of the bed. “So, spill.”

  Kate shook her head. “I don’t know what it means.” She tried to wipe the smile off her face.

  “Sure you don’t.”

  “I don’t,” Kate protested. She was lying and they both knew it.

  “Fine. Just remember one thing.”

  “What?”

  “She’s a witness in your ongoing investigation.”

  “Yes, a witness, not a suspect.”

  “You don’t know that until you’ve caught the person or persons responsible.”

  She looked him in the eye. “I do know.”

  He sighed. “I saw the way you were looking at her, and the way she looked at you. Just be careful. That’s all I’m saying.” He nodded to the bag. “I’ll leave you to get dressed. I’m guessing you’ve been cooped up long enough.”

  “Yeah.”

  “How many stitches?”

  “Ten.”

  “Need a lift back to your car?”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  He backed out of her space.

  “Sergeant, I don’t even know your name.”

  “Len.”

  “Kate,” she said. “Nice to meet you.”

  He chuckled and closed the curtain behind him. She quickly pulled on her clothes. Extremely grateful for the baggy sweatpants that didn’t touch the back of her leg at all. The local was starting to wear off and she knew that pretty soon she was going to be feeling very sore. Ah, well. That’s the price for getting vital evidence in the case. She was certain of that.

  A lobster pot with a brick in it and “53” in white paint beside it. 12.06.15. “The code. A sniper rifle-toting murderer. And the pool of suspects that just wasn’t getting any smaller.

  Okay, so maybe vital, but not the most illuminating of evidence. At least now she knew what the key was all about. It was a shame the murderer had gotten to that evidence before they did. She was sure that if she’d been able to see everything that was in there, she’d know who the killer was by now. But the question remained, how did the killer know about the houseboat hoard, when it seemed that no one else in the village knew Connie had any connection to it? Did Connie own it? If so, why did no one else know about it? If not, why did no one else know about her using it?

  It’s a tiny little village for God’s sake. Everyone knows everything, right? So who was lying to her? She’d shown the key to Leah Shaw, Ally Robbins, Gina, and William. Gina and William, no way. They’re the only ones who cared about Connie. Leah Shaw’s implicated with the coded list, the ex, money motives. Fuck, Leah’s got a motive list as long as my arm but that still doesn’t make her capable of this crime. Ally’s got a good rep on the range, but she was on a fishing boat at the time of the murder, so no go. One of them must have mentioned it to someone else who knew about the houseboat and Connie’s connection to it. It’s the only thing that made sense. But who? Matt Green or Rupert Sands?

  She pulled the curtain open in time to come face to face with the doctor who had examined her when she’d first arrived.

  “Off so soon, Ms. Brannon?”

  “I’m in the middle of a case. I need to get back to work.”

  “Case?”

  “I’m a police officer.”

  He glanced down at the notes. “Of course. Sorry. Busy day.” His smile was impersonal. “Well, let me take your temperature and write you up for some painkillers. I think you’ll need them later with those stitches. Any allergies?”

  “No.”

  “Excellent.” He stuck a sensor on the end of her finger without even making her sit down and scribbled across a pad. “I take it you’ll collect these from off the premises?”

  “Please.”

  “Very well. You’ll need those stitches out in seven to ten days. You can get them done by the nurse at your GP’s office rather than coming back to wait here. If you have any puss or smelly discharge, come back straight away. If you find the pain doesn’t settle down in the next forty-eight hours, see your GP.”

  “Got it.” The machine attached to the sensor beeped and displayed its results.

  “Still a little cold, but nothing that causes me to worry.” He tore off the script. “Lots of hot drinks, and keep warm. No more swimming in the North Sea.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s not something I plan to repeat.” She folded the prescription in half and stuffed it into her pocket. “Thanks.”

  Len was chatting to the receptionist when she walked into the waiting area.

  “Ready to go?” he asked.

  “Yup. You?”

  “As I’ll ever be.” He nodded to the receptionist again. “This is my wife, Val. Val, this is Kate Brannon. DS on this Brandale Staithe case.”

  “Nice to meet you, Kate.” She shook Kate’s hand. “I hope you aren’t hurt badly.”

  Kate laughed. “Nothing but my pride.”

  Len chuckled. “I pulled the lasagne out this morning, as ordered, love.” He leaned over the counter and kissed her on the cheek. “See you tonight.”

  “Let me know if you’re going to be late.”

  “Yes, dear.”

  Kate slapped him on the back and followed him out the door. “You’re a lucky man, Len Wild.”

  “I know.” He winked over his shoulder. “I know.”

  * * *

  “Timmons has ordered me to make sure you take the rest of the day off. So where are you parked? I didn’t see your car when I pulled up to meet you,” Wild said.

  “I’m fine I don’t need the rest of the day off,” Kate replied.

  “Tough. I’m making sure you get home. After that I’m going home to have a nice evening with the wife. You can do whatever you bloody well want.”

  Kate got it. Code for shut up and let me follow orders, and then you’re on your own. “I parked at the harbour and ran from there with the dog. Can you believe it’s been there for seven hours? It’s almost three o’clock. The day’s almost gone.”

  “Actually in the harbour?” Wild asked.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “And you were parked there before five this morning?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “It floods at high tide.”

  “You’re joking?”

  “’Fraid not.” He pulled out onto the A149. “Not all of it, though. If you were over at the back, or right by the crab shack, you should be fine.”

  Kate groaned.

  “I’m guessing you weren’t near either location.”

  Kate shook her head. “I parked out of the way of the little boats so I wasn’t blocking them.”

  “So effectively right where the water’s going to flood in?”

  “Right next to the reed bed.”

  “Yup. That’s it. Right in the flood plain.” He tried valian
tly to hide his laughter. He didn’t manage it, but he did try. “Not your day, is it?”

  Kate cast him a withering look. “Seems not.” Please let him be winding me up.

  “Well, at least it’ll take your mind off your leg for a bit.”

  “Yeah, till I have to walk everywhere and end up crippled because my car can’t swim.”

  “Want me to get Val to bring you some crutches down to the station?”

  “Ha bloody ha.” She covered her eyes and leaned her head back. “Well, nothing I can do about it now.”

  “True.” He quickly changed lanes and sped around the roundabout. “So I was looking at your picture. The one you risked life and limb for.”

  “You’re the one who told me to jump.”

  “And it’s a good job I did. Or we’d have lost that vital evidence.”

  “No need to be sarcastic, Len.”

  “I’m being serious. Did you happen to have a good look at that picture?”

  “I’m a little hazy on the details but Gina said it was a picture of a lobster pot.”

  “A lobster pot with something in it.”

  “Isn’t that what the fishermen want?” She gripped the grab rail over the passenger door. Whatever they’d given her to help with the pain in her leg was wearing off and the pain was really starting to kick in.

  “Indeed. But they’re usually hoping for lobster in their lobster pots. Not blocks of something shiny and grey.”

  “So what is it?”

  “You’re the detective, Brannon. You tell me.”

  She sighed and reminded herself to breathe through the next wave of pain.

  She pulled her prescription out of her pocket. “Can we stop at the chemist?”

  “There’s a pharmacy on the high street in Hunstanton. Will that work?”

  Another wave of pain hit her as Wild rounded a bend. “Let’s blame it on my leg and the pain and all that good stuff, Wild, but how does this break the case?”

  “Like I said, Brannon, you’re the detective not me. When you figure out what that photo means and why she was hiding it, you’ll crack this case and figure out who killed Connie Wells.”

  She leaned back against the head rest. “So you don’t know what the grey, shiny block is either.”

  “Nope, but it’s another piece in a fascinating puzzle.”

  “Yup.” She sighed and closed her eyes. “Fascinating.”

  He woke her up when they got to the harbour, a small paper pharmacy bag sat on her lap as he shook her gently awake. “I’d have taken you straight home but I figured you’d need to deal with your car first.”

  She came around slowly, groggily, and followed his pointing finger.

  “Fuck me.” She pushed open the door and stepped out of the car on rubbery legs. “You weren’t winding me up?”

  Her car sat almost where she’d left it. Almost. It was slightly more on an angle, but not much. Water was still dripping from the crack between the passenger door and the car body. The taillights were flashing quickly, while the headlights were flashing slowly, and the alarm sounded like a bull frog that got strangled into silence every minute or so before finding release to start again. Her lovely little mini was drowned.

  “I called a guy from the garage down the road. He’s got a tow truck and he’ll be here soon. He can tow it straight to the scrap yard for you, if you like.”

  “What? Scrap yard? Surely he can just dry it out and it’ll be fine, right?”

  Len shook his head. “Salt water. Even if they manage to dry out all the components the salt’s what does the real damage. It dries up and sticks to the components. Look at the way your lights and alarm are going haywire. The salt water’s got into all the computer parts of the engine. Excuse my language, Brannon, but it’s fucked.”

  “Bugger.”

  * * *

  The guy from the garage turned out to be a lot nicer than the chap on the phone from her insurance company. It took several threats to his manhood, his life, and eventually with Twitter before they agreed to a courtesy car even though the incident was clearly her fault. Apparently, ignorance of the tide doesn’t make one exempt from the “Act of God” clause in an insurance policy. She was not looking forward to her renewal next year but the car would be dropped off at her house later that afternoon. Both the insurance Nazi and the mechanic agreed with Len, the car would be written off, and she was now in the market for some new wheels. Yay. Not.

  She pulled the few remaining personal items from her car and tossed them into the black bag the mechanic had handed her. Then she fished the keys from her pocket and watched him load the car onto his truck. She swallowed a couple of the pain pills Len had picked up for her and leaned against the fence rail, wedging the foot of her injured leg onto a lower rung to watch. She needed to get the weight off her leg for a bit.

  She stared out to sea. It was bright today. Barely a cloud skidding across the sky. The October sun offered little in the way of warmth, but it was more than enough to make you believe it had plenty more in the tank. She looked across at Scolt Head Island—a barren, desolate place, reserved for the breeding of birds and illicit trysts for those with the knowledge of how to navigate the tidal waters of the harbour. And access to a boat.

  Len sauntered over.

  “You didn’t tell me how you got on with Dr. Anderson and your geek yesterday,” Kate asked.

  He smiled. “Well, our shooter’s either better than I estimated, or I’m on the wrong track all together.”

  “Why?”

  “I was right about the gun. The metal slivers confirm it was a 7.62 by 51 millimetre NATO round. I sent Goodwin a list of potential guns last night. But the distance is deceptive here.” He pointed out across the water. “Grimshaw programmed the computer to show where the marsh was covered due to the tide. Land was a lot farther away from our vic than I’d estimated. Our shooter had to be at least eleven hundred yards away from her.”

  “I’m guessing that making a shot like that is pretty much impossible?”

  “Well, no. Not impossible. But not likely either.”

  “So what is likely?” Kate asked, still staring out at the water.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Could she have been facing the other way? There were a few houses in that direction and you said yourself that the sun was rising that way.”

  Len sucked on his teeth. “Well, yes, it was, but from the position of the body, she was looking towards the harbour, not away from it. She had to be up on the embankment or her body wouldn’t have gone so far towards the creek and the camera wouldn’t have made it to the water.” He folded his arms. “No, she was definitely on the embankment facing the harbour with the camera held to her face.”

  “There are houses there too, Len. Could the shooter have been in one of those windows maybe?”

  “Then surely the whole village would have heard it. The round definitely came from a big rifle. Someone would have heard it. Besides, the angle’s all wrong. She’d have had to be taking pictures into someone’s bedroom window to make that scenario work. Which would mean she’d have landed with her feet towards the village, not her head. The way she landed, she was facing the harbour but slightly towards the sea. Maybe ten degrees off straight, and the shot had to come sea to shore to push her head back towards the village rather than shore to sea.” He pointed as he spoke. “Seems like it came from the island except it’s too far away to really be feasible.” He shook his head. “Doesn’t add up.”

  “Silencer? On the path farther ahead of her?”

  He barked a laugh. “This is Brandale Staithe, Brannon. We’re in the middle of nowhere. A silencer?”

  “Is it really any more absurd than a pinpoint accurate shot from, what? Over half a mile away?”

  Len opened his mouth looking ready to argue, and then he stopped. “I guess not, but that would still put the angle off. She’d have stayed on the path, then, rather than being pushed down the embankment. I wish there was some way of bein
g able to tell exactly how high the water was and where someone could have been positioned.”

  “I thought Grimshaw’s computer program did that for you.”

  “Yeah, well, all that whizz-bang shit gives me a headache. I want to see it in front of me now.” He pointed out at the marsh. “I want to see it out there.”

  Kate smiled and felt like kicking herself for not thinking of it before. “You live close by, Len?”

  He shook his head. “No, Lynn born and bred, me.”

  “Ever been sailing?”

  “No way. Fish crap in that water. You won’t get me in there if I don’t have to.”

  Kate chuckled and pushed away from the fence she leaned against. “Well, I grew up on the water in one way or another.” She dusted off the back of her pants cautiously. “Come on, then, let me show you how they do all that tidal crap. Let’s see if we can figure out what was covered and what wasn’t.”

  She limped her way across the harbour and up the short road, and crossed the A149 to the chandlery. She went in. There was a selection of sailing clothes, wetsuits, and life vests to the left, deck shoes, sandals, and boots straight ahead. A selection of ropes hung from a board over the back of the till and were strung up in the rafters neatly, making use of the otherwise wasted space. A small room off to the right was packed full of boating spares and repair equipment. Pulleys, cleats, metal rings, adhesives of all kinds, marine filler, and buoys filled the room. On the window sill was a neat selection of nautical books and charts. She quickly searched through and located the one she wanted. Imray’s Y9 Nautical Chart of The Wash and a chart table. She handed over her card to the guy behind the counter and asked to borrow his marker pen.

  “So, Len, how high was the tide?”

  “Anderson puts TOD at seven a.m. on the twenty-ninth. High tide was at seven zero seven and nine point six metres.”

  Kate whistled and checked over the tide chart noting the prevailing tide directions, the height of the land masses on the marsh, and increment depth of the creaks. Using the blue marker she’d borrowed from the cashier she marked a dotted line around the marsh, including the Coastal Path at several points, and then cross-hatched the enclosed area.