Table of Contents
Recent Titles by Jane A. Adams from Severn House
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
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
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Epilogue
Footnotes
Recent Titles by Jane A. Adams from Severn House
The Rina Martin Mysteries
A REASON TO KILL
FRAGILE LIVES
THE POWER OF ONE
RESOLUTIONS
THE DEAD OF WINTER
CAUSE OF DEATH
The Naomi Blake Mysteries
MOURNING THE LITTLE DEAD
TOUCHING THE DARK
HEATWAVE
KILLING A STRANGER
LEGACY OF LIES
BLOOD TIES
NIGHT VISION
CAUSE OF DEATH
A Rina Martin Novel
Jane A. Adams
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 world edition published 2012
in Great Britain and in the USA by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.
Copyright © 2012 by Jane A. Adams.
All rights reserved.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Adams, Jane, 1960-
Cause of Death.
1. Martin, Rina (Fictitious character)–Fiction.
2. Detective and mystery stories.
I. Title
823.9'2-dc23
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-284-9 (Epub)
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8173-1 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-438-7 (trade paper)
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.
Prologue
They had driven from the harbour up through the little village and out into open country. It was likely no one had seen them, though a few curtains may have twitched at the sound of cars passing through so late. Those who lived here were farm workers and fishermen. At this time of year they rose early and fell into bed when the sun went down; slept the sound sleep of the justifiably exhausted.
Despite the late hour it was still surprisingly light, a gibbous moon and more stars than Jerry could ever recall seeing before lending a surprising amount of brightness to the proceedings. He took time to admire the silvered light on the fields and, as the road briefly swung back on itself, the sheen on the sea. They were early; he could see the line of trees that marked their destination. Jerry did not want to be the first to arrive.
He was driving the lead car, Santos beside him in the front seat, designated spokesman as his French was better than Jerry’s. In the 4x4 behind them were two of the newbies: Skelton and Hughes. Jerry thought Skelton was a good man, but he was far from certain about Hughes, and far from happy that the boss should pick such an important and potentially difficult moment to test them out.
‘There,’ Santos said, indicating a turn just as Jerry spotted it. He swung on to the track between the trees and into the woodland, pulling up a few hundred yards along the track and, out of a habit of caution, easing the car round in a multi-point turn so they were heading in the right direction for a fast exit. Santos glanced across but said nothing, while Skelton, driving the second vehicle, took his lead from Jerry and did the same – in considerably more moves, Jerry was amused to note. A snort from Santos told him his companion had shared his observation.
They got out. Jerry slipped the keys into one of the many pockets of the photographer’s vest he habitually wore, but did not bother to lock the doors. Santos carried the pilot case and the four of them moved off down the track, pine needles soft beneath their feet, the scent of damp earth and resinous trees filling Jerry’s nostrils.
‘Lights,’ Santos muttered.
Jerry nodded. He’d already seen them. Fifty yards on and the track opened out into one of the many fire breaks that criss-crossed this forestry land. Two men stood in the centre of the clearing and Jerry spotted at least three more standing in the shadow of the trees. Their contacts had brought their vehicles right into the clearing, headlamps on. They stood, silhouetted against the light, and Jerry edged sideways, aiming to get a better view. Behind him he felt Skelton do the same.
Santos moved forward and lowered the pilot case to the ground. His opposite number came forward, knelt down and crouched over an armoured box, releasing the catches with a sharp sound that was overloud in such a quiet place. So far, so good, Jerry thought, but the feeling that something wasn’t right had been growing upon him as they entered the clearing and it wouldn’t go away.
And then all hell broke loose. Voices shouting from the tree line. Lights. A man yelling ‘Attendez!’ – and then the gunfire.
Jerry hit the deck a split second after Santos. Hughes was down, shot and unmoving. Skelton was wounded too; Jerry could hear him swearing as he struggled to get under cover.
‘Get the hell out of here,’ Santos hissed. He rolled and ran, keeping low, and Jerry wriggled to where Skelton writhed and moaned. He grabbed him and dragged; Skelton tried to help by half kicking, half crawling, and somehow they made it back into the cover of the trees.
‘Got to get to the cars,’ Jerry said. ‘Can you make it?’
‘I don’t know. What the fuck is going on?’ He was gasping for breath.
‘Where are you hit? Shit!’ He dragged Skelton deeper under the trees, wishing they had more cover. The regimentation of the forestry planting offered little defence if one of the powerful lights shone their way. Behind them in the clearing the shooting continued, and Jerry blessed the fact that those they had come to meet were more numerous and be
tter armed than his group had been, though to get into a shoot-out with what he assumed must be the authorities seemed like madness. The place would become a killing ground.
Right now, though, he was not about to question good fortune. He fumbled in a pocket of his jacket for the med pack, found a bandage, wrapped it tight around Skelton’s thigh. His photographer’s vest was a bit of a joke with the others. They called it his utility belt, and the fact that he often had the camera to go with it and actually did take pictures caused additional hilarity. Just now, though, Jerry thought Skelton would not be seeing the funny side.
‘All right, let’s go.’
He hauled Skelton to his feet, taking most of his weight as he wrapped the man’s arm around his shoulders. Together they staggered forward. Jerry was listening, hoping. The last thing he wanted was for the shooting to stop and armed police to move out again into the trees. The other fear was that they’d reach the cars and find others waiting for them. Ears straining, Jerry heard an engine fire up and something drive away.
‘Santos,’ he said. He hoped. So long as they could reach the 4x4 then they had a chance.
Knowing time was against them and feeling Skelton’s weight increase with every step, he decided to take a risk. He turned sharply, leading them back on to the track. He paused, shuffling Skelton’s body into a better position. ‘We’ve got to move fast, right?’
There was no response. Skelton’s feet dragged. Jerry could feel him trying to take steps, but his injured leg was limp now and most of the forward momentum was down to Jerry.
Behind them the gunfire died down and voices reached them across the sudden void of silence. Jerry swore. He dragged Skelton faster, harder. Skelton moaned. Fifty yards more. Somehow they made it and Jerry shoved the injured man into the back seat, thankful for the caution that had led him to leave the vehicle facing the right way.
He started the engine, suddenly aware of movement on the path behind, and also of a shadow detaching itself from the forest and running across the track ahead.
‘Fuck.’ Jerry gunned the engine and released the handbrake, surging forward. Someone behind them fired a shot. It went wide but shattered glass in the offside wing mirror. The figure up ahead raised a weapon. Jerry accelerated and the figure dived out of the way. Then they were out on to the road.
Jerry drove, not sure what direction to take or if he should be heading back towards the coast. He drove for an hour before taking the risk of stopping, and only then did he pause long enough to take a look at Skelton. The man lay very still, half on half off the back seat, and Jerry confirmed what he had already guessed. Skelton hadn’t made it.
He travelled on, making guesses at each junction until he reached a main road. He stashed the car and body in a farmer’s field and then, taking his backpack and camera, hitched a lift back to the coast and caught a ferry home.
The journey gave him time to think, and the more he thought about it the more wrong it all felt. Nothing on the news, nothing in the papers on either side of the Channel. Only the ongoing scandals that had hit the media a few weeks before: government departments implicated in the illegal sale of arms and intelligence; three high-level politicians and some very senior civil servants handing in their resignations.
Santos met him off the ferry. He’d made it back a day ahead.
‘Two men down. Boss isn’t best pleased,’ Santos said.
‘No, I can imagine losing that amount of cash isn’t going to go down well.’
Santos laughed. ‘What happened to Skelton?’
Jerry told him, briefly. Santos shook his head. ‘Should have put a bullet in his head and left him in the woods,’ he said. ‘Wasted your time, didn’t you? Boss wouldn’t look kindly on you if you’d got yourself arrested. He’s mad as hell, wants to know who sold us out.’
They weren’t police, Jerry thought, but something stopped him saying it out loud.
ONE
He watched the men come out of the pub. Three he knew: Jerry Mason, Santos, whose last name seemed to change with his mood, and Tomas James. Woe betide anyone who tried to insert an h into his name.
The other two were not familiar, and from the way the group moved it was obvious that they were new to Santos and the rest. To his practised eye there was a definite division, not a sense of hostility, but simply of the familiar versus the not yet tested. He knew the form because he would have behaved in exactly the same way towards newcomers – and had been on the receiving end of such treatment too.
Stan Holden was suddenly possessed by an odd desire to go over and talk to them, not to provoke a confrontation exactly – he was good, but he knew when he was well outnumbered – but just to get a response. They’d know he was out; it was something their boss would have been sure to keep a note of. He’d been Stan’s old boss and the relationship had not ended on a good note, but Stan Holden felt oddly sanguine about that. Yes, the threat was there, but if Haines had wanted him dead then an accident could have been arranged while Stan was still inside. No, for the moment he wasn’t registering sufficiently high on the radar for his life, death or unfortunate accident to be of top concern. Presently, to attack Stan would mean drawing unwanted attention, and he knew instinctively that, though his time might come – Haines not being the kind of man to even understand the concept of bygones being bygones – it was not yet.
He watched the five men as they moved away. This was the clearest indicator yet that his old governor had moved back and was operating again in this neck of the woods. He’d heard rumours this past year, but not been sure if they were just phantoms and legends or had some root in actual fact. Now he knew.
Stan drew back into deeper shadow. Santos was jumpy, glancing round, eyes everywhere, but it was Tomas that concerned him more. The man barely seemed to register his environment most of the time, but Stan knew he missed nothing. He had an almost uncanny instinct for trouble, and Stan had no wish to draw attention to himself – odd impulses towards bravado excepted. Tomas was dangerous in unpredictable ways, unlike Santos and Jerry Mason who were both eminently predictable, paid muscle – much like Stan had been when in the same line of work. But Tomas was something else again. Subtle as a knife, Coran had once said, and the more Stan thought about it, the more he agreed with Coran, a man now dead, gone and ungrieved. Subtle as a stiletto, Stan thought. That didn’t sound quite as good but it was far more apt. Sharp and pointed and slim enough not to be noticed until it was wedged between your ribs and killing you.
He wondered briefly about the other two, observing them carefully as they stepped out under a street light, one pausing to light a cigarette before moving on. Stan took note of the dark hair, the slight but muscular build and the designer stubble on the chin. That drew his particular attention. So, Haines was not close by; they had been sent out either on a few days’ r&r or they were preparing for something before the big man arrived. Haines was a stickler for personal appearance and would not have tolerated one of his men going unshaved.
Interesting, Stan thought. He pulled back again as Santos glanced around, and this time Tomas turned as well, pausing and staring towards the pub they had just left.
Time to go, Stan thought, backing off slowly and then slipping away down the alley at the side of the inn and back over the wall into the office car park beyond. He was happier once he’d reached the relative anonymity of the main road and the scant crowds now also leaving pubs and restaurants as the church clock struck the hour. Eleven. Stan counted automatically, though he was fully aware of what time it was.
So, what now?
Nothing, yet. Time to wait and see. Good job he’d always been the patient type.
TWO
Rina Martin stood in the hall of Peverill Lodge and studied her mail: bill, junk, a letter for Tim from someone whose writing she didn’t recognize, and a card saying she had missed a parcel. It was this last she was finding aggravating. Not only had she not been expecting a parcel, but she had only been in the kitchen when the post had co
me tumbling on to the mat, and if there had been something too big for her letterbox, then why on earth had the postman not rung the bell? Had she been quicker getting to it, then she would have opened the door and accosted the cause of her annoyance and demanded an explanation. As it was, she’d been too busy minding the bacon and eggs and by the time she had come through to collect the letters, the recalcitrant man was long gone, his red bag and blue uniform now just visible at the other end of Newell Street. The not so nice end.
Irritated, she set the letters on the side table next to the phone and went back to the kitchen to put the kettle on the hob. There were sounds coming from upstairs that told her the family was awake and slowly descending. From the thump directly above her, Tim had more or less fallen out of bed. He’d been very late home last night, Rina thought, and wondered how the new show at the Palisades had gone.
First down the stairs and floating into the kitchen were the Peters sisters, Bethany and Eliza, still in their pyjamas and pink satin gowns with their grey, bobbed hair tied up with chiffon bows. They kissed Rina good morning before settling on one side of the big scrubbed table. Breakfast at Peverill Lodge was always eaten in the kitchen, the occupants only moving to the dining room for lunch, tea and dinner. It was also the only meal that Rina regularly cooked. The Montmorency twins, Matthew and Stephen, took over culinary duties later in the day, with a little help – or otherwise – from Bethany and Eliza. Tim rarely indulged in domesticity, which was something of a relief for the food lovers in the house. Peverill Lodge might officially be a boarding house, but in reality it was home – owned by Rina, it was true, but costs and chores shared equally between all those she counted as kin.
Tim bounded through the door, fully dressed and looking chipper, Rina thought.
‘It went well then?’ she asked him.
‘Of course it did,’ Bethany said. ‘Tim always puts on a good show.’
Tim beamed. ‘Very well,’ he agreed. ‘Rina, I’ve been talent spotted, or whatever you call it. Some big London agent called Marcus Price. Do you know him?’
Cause of Death Page 1
