Kempston Hardwick Mysteries — Box Set, Books 1-3

by Adam Croft

  37

  Greek prison cells weren’t much more pleasant than those at Tollinghill Police Station, where Hardwick had once found himself for a similar case of getting in the way of police officers. That time it was DI Rob Warner of Tollinghill Police, who had taken exception to Hardwick’s interference, as he saw it. With Hardwick later having solved the murder, Warner’s temperament softened somewhat.

  Since then, Warner had called on Hardwick specifically to help solve the murder of a famous psychic medium. He’d had to grovel to make up for the way he had treated Hardwick — a memory which Hardwick was often keen to recall when in the DI’s presence.

  ‘Obstructing justice?’ Ellis said, still not quite believing his situation. ‘It’s mad. I told you we should have told the police from the start!’

  ’No, Ellis, you didn’t. I did. You convinced me to take on the investigation. Anyway, we didn’t obstruct justice; we facilitated it. The police officers here will realise that soon enough and will have to let us go.’

  ‘And what if they don’t? We’ll be banged up here for god knows how long, trying to deal with a justice system we aren’t familiar with and a jail sentence we can only guess at. Mrs F will go loopy.’

  ‘She needn’t know, Ellis. I’m sure we’ll be out of here before long. We can just tell her our flight was delayed, or we got to the airport late.’

  ‘Late? Kempston Hardwick, late? She’ll never believe that for a second.’

  ‘Don’t panic, Ellis. We’ll sort something out.’

  Ellis sighed and paced the cell for the hundredth time. It was only thanks to the overcrowding of prison cells in the drink-and-drug-induced resort of Kakagoustos that Hardwick and Flint were forced to share a cell.

  ‘Realistically, Kempston, how long are we likely to be in here?’

  ‘Not long.’

  ‘Not long? Don’t lie to me, Kempston. I know you know about things like this. What are we looking at?’ Ellis said, closing in on Hardwick.

  ‘Well, it depends if they decide to take it to trial. If they do, the maximum period of detention before a trial is eighteen months.’

  ‘Eighteen months?!’ Ellis screamed. ‘How many bloody planes are we supposed to have missed?!’

  ‘It’s purely academic, Ellis,’ Hardwick said, not raising his voice or showing any signs of concern whatsoever. ‘We’re EU citizens, and as such are entitled to phone a family member back home to notify them of our arrests.’

  ‘What? You didn’t—‘

  ‘No, I did not phone your wife, Ellis. I’m not an imbecile, nor do I have a death wish. I may have told a little white lie and said that I was phoning a family member, but instead I called DI Warner.’

  ‘Kempston, you bloody genius! Do you reckon he’ll be able to pull a few strings?’

  ‘I should imagine so. He owes us a favour, anyway. I should imagine he’ll probably embellish our track records with this sort of thing. Either that or he’ll have to make some sort of assurances that we’ll be dealt with in the UK instead. Maybe make out that we’re wanted for bigger things there. Either way, you’ll be picking post-it notes off the cupboard doors before you can say “Yes, Mrs Flint”.’

  ‘Oh God,’ Ellis said, his hands shooting up to his mouth. ‘What about Stavros? If the police are involved, he’ll lose everything, won’t he?’

  ‘I don’t think so, no, Ellis. In fact, I’m pretty sure he’ll be absolutely fine from now on.’

  Barely ten minutes later, the door to the cell was unlocked and the younger of the two police officers stood to let Hardwick and Flint out.

  ‘It seems you have friends in high places,’ the officer said.

  38

  With Maria out in the town picking up some groceries, Stavros was manning the reception at the Kollidis Beach Hotel, his head rested on his hand as he played Solitaire on the reception computer.

  The woman walked in quietly but purposefully, her suitcase trundling behind her as she approached the reception desk. Stavros, though, was in no mood for walk-ins. Check-in day was once a week, and that was that. He dealt with holiday companies only, not bloody backpackers.

  ‘Sorry, no walk-ins. The sign on the door says so,’ he said, not taking his eyes from the deck which he’d just clicked to turn over. Sodding nine of hearts was second in the pile. He needed that one. Just his luck.

  And that bloody woman was still standing there. Perhaps he’d been a bit rude. Perhaps she wasn’t a walk-in after all. Perhaps she just wanted the key to her room. Right now, he didn’t care for people one bit. He was in another place entirely.

  ‘OK, which room?’ he asked, his eyes still not leaving the computer screen.

  The woman removed her sunglasses and ran her fingers through her short, dark hair.

  ‘The bedroom,’ she replied.

  At the sound of her voice, Stavros finally took his eyes off the screen and looked up at her.

  It had been ten years, but she hadn’t aged a bit.

  A Cry For Help

  1

  The shrill ringing of the doorbell jolted Kempston Hardwick out of his dreamworld. He’d been lost in the book for the past two hours, entranced by its language and the flow of the words.

  Grumbling, he made his way towards the front door of the Old Rectory and lifted the latch. As the cold winter air blew in, he surveyed the young woman who was stood on his doorstep. She could only have been in her late twenties, her short bobbed hair dancing around her shoulders in the wind as she smiled meekly.

  ‘Kempston? Kempston Hardwick?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ came the only word of reply.

  ‘My name’s Cassandra Harbinger,’ she said, extending her hand. Hardwick considered it for a moment and then took it lightly. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you,’ she said. ‘I... I really need your help.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t often take on private cases, Ms Harbinger,’ Hardwick replied, moving to close the door. ‘If I investigated every missing dog or suspicious partner, I’d have absolutely no time for myself. You’ll have to go to the police.’

  ‘Wait,’ she said, putting her foot in the doorway. ‘Please. You have to help me. I’ve been to the police but they won’t do anything. Please. I really need your help. I... Someone’s trying to murder me.’ She spoke with a crack in her voice and a tear threatening to drop from her eye.

  Kempston Hardwick was not a man of emotion. At this, he smiled awkwardly and beckoned Cassandra Harbinger indoors.

  The pair sat down in Hardwick’s living room and Cassandra began to talk. As she spoke, she picked at her fingernails and wrung her hands, seeming very uncomfortable with the whole situation.

  ‘It all began about two or three weeks ago,’ she said. ‘I was at a party at my friend Alice’s house in Shafford. It was going fine. Well, as fine as it could be. I mean, I’m not really one for parties, if I’m honest, but I thought I’d better show my face. I was drinking red wine. At about nine o’clock, I went to the toilet and came back and saw that another woman had sat down where I’d been sitting and was drinking from my wine glass. I didn’t know who she was. Some work friend of Alice’s, I presume. She’d already had a few glasses by that point, so she must have just made a mistake. She’d already drunk the rest of the glass by the time I got back.’

  Cassandra began to wring her hands more vigorously. ‘But then, about fifteen minutes later, the woman collapsed and started being sick. She was convulsing and everything. It was horrible. After a couple of minutes, she seemed better and decided to go home. We thought no more of it and assumed that she’d just drunk too much.

  ‘But then, later that night, when I was back at home, the same thing happened to me, although not as bad. I started being violently ill. It was then that I realised that I’d drunk some of that wine before the other woman had had some. So it stands to reason that it must have been poisoned, right?’

  Hardwick smiled in as friendly a manner as he could muster. ‘I can see the admittedly weak logic, yes, but the
re’s all manner of reasons why that might have happened. It could’ve just been a bad bottle of wine.’

  ‘Oh no, the bottle was fine,’ Cassandra said. ‘Other people had drunk from the bottle. Something had been put in that glass!’

  ‘Well it could be anything,’ Hardwick said. ‘It doesn’t mean someone’s trying to murder you.’

  ‘No, but that’s not the only thing. Just a few days ago, on Monday night, there was a fire at my house. The whole place was destroyed. The thing is, the fire brigade reckon it was arson. They said there was a petrol-soaked rag pushed through the letterbox. Someone deliberately burned my house down. The police have put out an appeal for witnesses but they don’t believe I’m being targeted.

  ‘Now, on Monday nights I’m always home by about six-thirty, and I sit down and watch my favourite soap, Hillside, at seven. I never miss it. But that day, when I got up to go to work, my car wouldn’t start. I had to catch a train instead, and by the time I came home the trains had all been cancelled because of overhead line problems. Well, that meant I had to catch a bus — three buses, actually — to get home, and it was quarter to eight by the time I got back and found the fire brigade putting the fire out.’

  ‘So you’re saying that whoever set fire to your house saw your car on the drive, thought you’d be watching Hillside as you always do at that time of the week, and burnt the house down thinking you were inside?’

  ‘Yes! Exactly! And the police don’t believe my life’s in any danger. They didn’t want to know about the party, and just said that the fire could be local kids. But I know it’s not!’

  Hardwick sat quietly for a moment. There was certainly something odd, he couldn’t deny that.

  ‘I don’t have any family nearby and the fire brigade won’t let me back in the house. Not that there’s anything to go back in for anyway...’ she broke off, crying. A few moments later she had composed herself. ‘Anyway, that meant I had to move into a hotel for the time being. That was all fine until earlier this evening. I’d been out to get something to eat and came back to my room to watch TV. I opened the door and went inside and there was a note lying on the bed. It said “You can’t hide.” That’s when I panicked and knew you were the only person who could help me.’

  ‘Why did you not take that note to the police? That’s evidence they could use to help catch whoever’s doing this,’ Hardwick said.

  ‘After the way they’ve ignored me before? I can’t trust the police. The only person I can trust is you.’

  Hardwick leaned over and attempted to pat Cassandra on the back rather awkwardly. ‘Please. Please, will you help me?’ she asked through the tears.

  Hardwick sighed. ‘I’ll do what I can, but I’ll need some more information first.’

  ‘I mean tonight. I don’t feel safe staying at the hotel.’

  ‘I’m sure if you told the police this, they’d—’

  ‘I’ve tried. You’re the only person who can help me. Could I stay here? Just for tonight. I’m happy to sleep on the floor. Anywhere would be safer than the hotel. Whoever’s doing this knows I’m staying there.

  ‘OK, I’ll help you. Listen, I’ve got a couple of spare bedrooms here. There’s no need to sleep on the floor,’ he said, barely believing what he was saying himself. ‘Now, were you followed here?’

  ‘No, no, I was very careful.’

  ‘Are you absolutely sure?’ Hardwick asked.

  ‘I went down three stops on the train line and caught a bus back up here before walking the rest of the way.’

  ‘Then I’m fairly sure there’s no danger. As you say, I suppose it’s certainly a lot safer for you than staying at the hotel, anyway.’

  ‘Oh, thank you!’ she said, flinging her arms around him as he recoiled uncomfortably.

  ‘You know, I knew it wasn’t true what they said about you. I knew you were a good person really.’

  Hardwick raised an eyebrow and grunted.

  * * *

  Hardwick groaned as he saw Ellis Flint sauntering up the garden path the next morning, a cheap carrier bag in his hand. Ellis had an uncanny knack for turning up at inopportune moments. He’d accompanied Hardwick during a number of previous investigations and, Hardwick had to admit, had actually proved very useful in helping nudge him towards the solution on more than one occasion. That was different, though. Those were murders. They were situations in which they were doing the chasing, not the hiding.

  He pulled the front door open before Ellis could reach for the doorbell, and stood aside to let him in.

  ‘Morning, Kempston! Just thought I’d pop round for a coffee,’ he said, in his customarily confident way. ‘Oh, and I bought you a little something from the new shop in town,’ he said, raising his carrier bag.

  ‘New shop?’ Hardwick asked, spooning a large scoop of instant coffee into a mug. He certainly wasn’t going to let Ellis at his Ethiopian Yirgacheffe.

  ‘Yeah, the one opposite the Midshires Bank.’

  ‘Ah. You mean the pound shop, don’t you,’ Hardwick said, more as a statement than a question, adding a fourth spoonful of sugar to Ellis’s coffee. He had been cutting down recently.

  ‘That’s the one. Absolutely brilliant in there! I saw this and thought it was just your sort of thing,’ he said, delving into the bag and pulling out a plastic fish mounted on a wooden board. He pressed the button next to it, and the fish started flapping about to the tune of Toyah’s “It’s A Mystery”. ‘It was only a pound!’ Ellis said. ‘Can you believe that?’

  ‘Yes. Yes I can,’ Hardwick replied.

  ‘I thought you might like it,’ Ellis said, smiling.

  ‘Did you?’ Hardwick said, plonking the mug of coffee down on the table in front of him. ‘How interesting.’

  Ignoring the mug of coffee, Ellis walked into Hardwick’s study and mounted the fish on a spare hook which was hanging from the wall above his desk.

  ‘There you go,’ Ellis said. ‘Pride of plaice. Geddit?’

  ‘Yes,’ Hardwick replied.

  At that point, the sound of the upstairs toilet flushing caught Ellis’s attention.

  Hardwick could almost see the cogs turning in Ellis’s brain as he tried to process this information. Naturally, it took a few moments.

  ‘Is there someone up there?’ Ellis asked.

  ‘Superb detection, Ellis. We’ll make a detective of you yet,’ Hardwick said sarcastically, heading towards the kitchen.

  ‘Who? You didn’t tell me you had company.’

  Before Hardwick could reply, Cassandra’s voice called down the stairs. ‘Kempston? Just to let you know I’ve changed the towels in the bathroom. The old ones were looking a bit dirty.’

  Ellis’s eyebrows shot up, his mouth hanging open. ‘A woman! You’ve got a woman up there!’

  ‘No, Ellis, I have not got a woman up there. There is a woman up there. There’s a difference.’

  ‘Either way, there’s still a bloody woman up there!’ Ellis said.

  ‘Yes, there is. And no, she isn’t,’ he replied, just in time to stop Ellis asking the obvious question. ‘She came here last night needing my help. She thinks someone’s trying to kill her.’ ‘You dirty old dog, you! Shouldn’t take advantage of a woman in trouble,’ Ellis ribbed. ‘Hilarious, Ellis. And before you ask, no, I don’t need your help. I’ve got the matter quite in hand, thank you,’ Hardwick replied, picking up the mug of coffee and shoving it into Ellis’s hands.

  ‘I wasn’t going to offer it. Seems like you’re more than happy to have your hands full to me!’ he replied, smirking.

  ‘Yes, I am. I mean — No, I’m not. Well. Look. Will you just go, please, Ellis?’ he said, taking the mug of coffee back. ‘I’m really rather in the middle of this right now and I need to keep a clear head.’

  ‘Oh, well that’s gratitude for you, isn’t it?’ Ellis replied, standing with his hands on his hips.

  ‘What?’ Hardwick said, looking at him. Ellis just raised an eyebrow. Hardwick sighed. ‘Thank you for the
fish, Ellis. It’s... remarkable.’

  Ellis smiled and left.

  * * *

  Hardwick and Cassandra sat at the kitchen table as Hardwick scribbled in his notebook, using his own unique form of shorthand. They’d spent the past hour going through her life story, trying to work out who could possibly want to see her dead.

  At first, it seemed like there was no obvious suspect. Of course, if there had been an obvious candidate then she wouldn’t be here seeking his help. Once Hardwick had dug a little deeper, though, things changed.

  Cassandra told Hardwick her parents had died eight years earlier in a light aircraft accident in Portugal, where they had a holiday home. There’d only been the two of them on board, with her father flying under his own private licence. Witnesses had seen him attempting a steep banking manoeuvre which had gone wrong, resulting in the plane hitting overhead electricity wires. The case had made the local Portuguese newspapers and had earned a few column inches deep in the midsts of a couple of the British nationals, but only as the tragic accident it was. This in itself was not suspicious, but it wasn’t the only time coincidence and circumstance had resulted in disaster for Cassandra.

  Hardwick asked if she’d ever fallen out with her neighbours. She said no, in fact she had never met her immediate next-door neighbours despite knocking on their door numerous times and seeing they were in. She’d often noticed lights and televisions on, but still there was no answer at the door. Perhaps they were deaf, she thought, or just not the type of people to want to socialise with their neighbours.

  She recounted how an ex-boyfriend of hers, Steven McGinty, had been particularly possessive over her and threatened to kill himself when she ended their relationship, but this was three years ago in the midst of a boozy evening and she hadn’t heard from him since. Hardwick knew that these things often took some planning, though, so he certainly couldn’t be ruled out as the person trying to kill her now.