by Rachel Green
“Eddie Burbridge? What would he want with an old witchfinder’s chest?”
“I think it was his nest egg of laundered money. He bought it from an auction before he came to Laverstone to start a new life. I think he was killed for it, his wife was killed for it and Joseph was killed for it.”
“And he built this place, too, and gave me a huge discount on the renovations.” He looked at the cracked white ceiling. “Maybe it’s hidden here.”
Chapter 30
“Hidden here? I doubt it.” Meinwen put a hand over her mouth to stop the giggles escaping. “Why on earth would an East End crime boss hide his nest egg in a garage?”
“Not in the garage as such.” Winston stamped the floor. “Under it. It stands to reason, really. His first big building contract becomes a repository for his wealth and riches.”
Meinwen pursed her lips, shaking her head to refute the idea. “And then he sells the building? I don’t think so.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Winston closed the toilet seat and lowered himself down. “So…did you get a lift to Boscastle?”
“I did, actually, with the murder medium.”
Winston frowned, half-laughing. “Who?”
“You haven’t heard the news today? Michelle Browning, a self-styled medium was having a seance–” she used air quotation marks “–for Shirley Burbridge to converse with her late husband.”
“Eddie Burbridge?”
“Exactly, when the lights went out and Shirley was stabbed in the back by person or persons unknown but who was probably her friend Vera.”
“With friends like those, eh?”
“Quite. Well, not content with having one of her seances ended by a murder, Michelle Chattered about it online and managed to increase her persona into an all-powerful medium capable of summoning a murderous spirit. Now she’s as popular as God, at least for a day or two, and can’t answer the phone for taking another booking.”
“Ah, right. I get it now.”
“Get what?”
“You’re jealous of her success. You’ve been a witch ever since I’ve known you and you don’t have anywhere near that sort of popularity.”
“I am not jealous. She’s a trumped-up little upstart who’s too far up herself to realize the trouble she’s in.”
“That’s a lot of ‘ups.’”
“Was it?” Meinwen had to pause to regain her train of thought. “Where was I going with that? Right. Yes. Blackmail. Someone–she thinks it was a man–phoned her last night or this morning to blackmail her into revealing where this missing money is.”
“What money?”
“The money Eddie Burbridge brought with his when he left London to come here. The money we think he laundered with the purchase of John Stearne’s travelling chest, the key to which he dropped or hid on the canal bank when a person or persons unknown mugged him and dumped him in the canal.”
Winston closed his eyes so tight it gave him crow’s feet at the corners. “But this woman…”
“Michelle.”
“…isn’t a real medium, so she doesn’t know where the money is hidden.”
“No.”
“Why can’t she just go to the police?”
“Because the knife used to kill Shirley Burbridge was stolen from her by Vera and has her fingerprints on it. It’s hard to clear yourself when your dabs are all over the murder weapon.”
“Don’t I know it!”
“What?”
“Nothing.” Winston made a steeple of his index fingers and rested his front teeth against them. “What’s your part in all of this? Don’t tell me you’re on the case again?”
“I am, as it happens. Michelle asked me to clear her name. That means finding out who the murderer is. Vera had the opportunity to kill Shirley but she must have had an accomplice to kill Eddie. And why would she, anyway? She’d been his right-hand woman for thirty-odd years. Why suddenly turn on him?”
“Perhaps she’s not the guilty party.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, consider this. What if Eddie was killed for reasons that may or may not involve this money and Vera realized the danger the rest of the family was in. I mean, if Vera stole the knife from Michelle it’s a bit obvious she’s involved, isn’t it? What if she’s being framed by a third party?”
“I hadn’t even thought of that.” Meinwen leaned back against the sink, chewing skin on the side of her forefinger. It helped her think. “Who do you think this third party is?”
“How should I know? I’m just the local mechanic.”
“You’re anything but ‘just the mechanic.’” Meinwen raised her eyebrows and licked her lips. “Sorry. I need to talk to Vera, don’t I? See if I can get her to spill the beans.”
There was a knock on the door. “Are you two done in there, yet? There are people out here who need the bathroom too, you know.”
“Sorry”. Meinwen unbolted the door and stepped out. The tall man with the blonde hair was leaning on the car Winston had been working on last night. His bottom was almost in the exact position hers had been when–
“Gary.” Winston came out of the bathroom pulling up his trousers. “All yours, my man.”
“Cheers.” The two of them did a complicated little handshake as they passed, the meaning of which eluded Meinwen but for the deep suspicion it was somehow about her.
“Are you playing poker or what?” Brian lounged backward on his chair, balancing the two back legs with the lightest movement of his raised foot against the card table.
The youngest of them, the one with the curls, snorted beer out of his nose. “Isn’t that what he was doing? Playing poke her?”
“I’ll give you a point for that. That was funny.” The fourth man, an older black guy with a beard and a bluesman’s hat, tossed a plastic chip across the table.
“Sure. Meinwen was just on her way out.” Winston flopped down into his chair. “Whose deal is it?”
“I’ll see you tomorrow then?” Meinwen looked around at the four faces. It was as if they’d already forgotten she was there, so interested were they by their manly rituals.
“Sure, yeah.” Winston waved with only a glance up. “Can you get back all right?”
“Fine, thanks. It’s only a forty minute walk.”
“You’ve no car?” The oldest of them looked at her, his card momentarily forgotten. “You can’t walk in this. You’ll catch your death.”
“No, honestly. I’m used to walking.”
“Nonsense.” He threw down his cards and scooped up his poker chips. “I’ll take you home. I was on a losing streak anyway and these boys are all about the drinking.” He stood, dragging his coat off the back of the chair, and gave a mock bow. “Allow me to escort you home, my lady.”
Meinwen glanced across at Winston. His eyes were hooded, watching but not reacting. “Is that all right? Can I trust this gentleman?”
“Lucas? Sure. He’s a good man. A friend of my dad’s.”
“God rest his soul.” Lucas swung the jacket like a bullfighter’s cape, slipping both arms in and zipping it closed before it settles. He picked up a felt cap and jammed on his head. “This way, Madame.” He held out his crooked arm.
“Why, thank you, kind sir.” Meinwen picked up her bag and slung it over her shoulder, then took the proffered arm.
* * * *
Lucas switched on the ignition but remained parked for a few minutes, letting the car warm up and the windows de-mist. He blew into his hands while they waited, rubbing them together like a theatrical miser. “Circulation,” he said when she glanced across. “Ever since I was diagnosed with diabetes I’ve had bad circulation.”
“How’s your diet? Plenty of fiber and fresh vegetables?”
“You sound like my wife. ‘Lucas, eat your beans. Carrots. Peas.’ I love her like my right hand but still, you know. Too much, woman.” He snorted and nudged her with his elbow. “That’s what she used to say to me, too.” He raised his voice to illus
trate. “‘It’s too much, Lucas, I can’t manage it all.’“
“I’m sure you made her happy.”
“Happy? She was ecstatic. Isn’t it every woman’s dream to find a chef to fall in love with? I used to feed her dishes from every country under the sun and a few more besides.” He chuckled and nudged her again. “You thought I meant something else, didn’t you. You modern girls have all got one-track minds.”
“I was going to say you should exercise regularly to reduce your blood pressure but I’d be opening another box of innuendo, wouldn’t I?”
“Only if you wanted to.” Lucas pulled away from the curb. “Where am I taking you?”
“Vicarage Road, please, near St. Pity’s?”
“Ah. I know it.”
They drove without speaking for a few minutes, Lucas humming softly as he worked his way through Laverstone’s one-way system. He asked for more directions only when they had pulled into her road and she indicated her house. He pulled up outside of it. “Listen. I might be an old fool but I’ve known Winston since he was knee high to a walnut. He keeps his feelings to himself for the most part but I can tell what’s going on in his noggin. All I’m asking, really is don’t break his heart.”
“Me? Break his heart?” Meinwen shook her head thinking there must be something in her ears to make her hear what she thought she’d heard. “He’s the one being all aloof and enigmatic.”
“He’s just afraid of getting his heart broken.” Lucas patted her hand as it rested on her bag. “He’s dealt with a lot of loss in his life and he’s in a good place at the moment. If you treat him badly it might do him harm.” He let go again. “I’m just saying.”
Chapter 31
“Nobody seems to have much respect for you, do they, Mr. Dibben?” Eden looked up from mixing paste. Animal glue had become less popular these days, mostly thanks to cheaper plastic-based alternatives but Eden tried to keep everything as natural as possible.
Frank Dibben made no comment either way and seemed content with whatever she thought best. Thankfully, he was scheduled for cryomation so she was free to use surgical staples to close the Y-section sutures. A little bone glue over the top would stop him leaking between preparation and viewing.
His head was a different matter. His thin hair would have left the staples visible, hence her use of horse glue to re-attach the plate of bone to the skull. She’d let that dry overnight then prepare him for the memorial service by arranging the hair to cover the cut line. She’d still recommend a closed casket but ultimately it was up to the family to decide. At least she’d taken the trouble to give them the option.
She left him in the autopsy suite overnight. It was cool there but not cold and would allow the glue to dry. Legally, she had to pack him with dry ice to slow decay but the room was sufficiently cool not to need as much as the government recommendations suggested. Every canister of dry ice used was a slice of her profits. The funeral business was exactly that, when it came to the crunch. A business.
She stripped off her latex overshoes and gloves and binned them, then peeled off her gown and dropped it in the industrial cleaning hopper. The laundry was done by an outside company who also serviced the hospital and several of the other undertakers in town. Just as well, really. Even her industrial washer would have been hard pressed to cope with Frank Dibben’s fluids. It barely coped with David’s.
She trooped upstairs to find the flat still shrouded in darkness. It was after eight already, long after David was usually home and she checked the answer phone for messages. Someone wanting to book a table at the Contented Poacher. She deleted it. It her luck, or lack thereof, to have a telephone number one digit removed from that of a local hostelry. They took two or three calls a week and while the first few had annoyed her she had soon become resigned to the misdials. Once in a while she took the booking and imagined the confusion when the party turned up at the restaurant. Mostly she just gave people the right number though to her knowledge the staff at the Contented Poacher never sent any business her way.
She checked her own phone. Nothing. Not even a ‘sorry-I’m-going-to-be-late’ message. It was unlike him not to call.
She glanced at the clock again. Eight-eleven. Should she call the police? The hospital? She was about to call DI White when lights washed across the walls and ceiling. She hurried to the window in time to see David’s car go into the garage beneath her. She put the kettle to boil and went to the door to meet him. He was just coming up the stairs as she opened it and he beamed to see her waiting for him.
“I’m so sorry. I had an awkward client for public representation. He pleaded innocent on all charges despite the police having surveillance video of his misdemeanors. We had to go for a bail hearing, hence the lateness.”
“And your phone? Did that break too?”
“Actually, yes.” He fished it out of a pocket. “Darned little tyke snatched it off me, found it was keypad locked and threw it at the wall.” He showed her the cracked screen. “It’s lucky I took out the extended warranty on it.”
“It certainly is.” She took his briefcase and coat and hung the latter in the hall closet, then went to make his tea and her coffee. He was kicking off his shoes in the lounge when she returned.
“That’s it for the night. I’m not going out again. Ah!” He sat on one end of the sofa and took the proffered cup. “Thanks love. I need this. I shall be glad when my stint as public defender is over. It’s no wonder it has to be on a rota. Nobody would stick the job otherwise.”
“There are worse jobs.” Eden put her coffee on the floor and flopped onto the other end of the sofa. She kicked off her shoes and lifted her legs, shifting position to lay them over David’s ample thigh. “You should see the body I had to sort out today. Post-autopsy.”
“Hospital or Police.”
“Police.”
“Ugh.” He made a face and began stoking her feet with his free hand. “Not in one piece, I take it?”
“No. I wouldn’t mind the messy corpses if they took the trouble to be respectful. I mean, what if it was their mother? Would they do a simple basket stitch then? Of course not. It only takes a couple of minutes to change basket into blanket and the whole thing looks more professional.”
“You should complain.”
“I did, as it happens. There was a policeman here this morning.”
“About the tractor? Are we going to get it back?” He stroked the ball beneath her big toe and the stress left her body like a rubber band being released.
“God, that feels good.” She took a deep breath. “No. Well, yes, but he wasn’t here about that. Someone dumped a dead body in our compost heap.”
“Good lord.” David stopped massaging her foot to take a sip of his tea. “A body in a cemetery. That’s actually quite clever. It would have been cleverer still if they’d dug a grave. There’d be a chance of it never being found.”
“Well, whoever did it wasn’t bothered about it being found. It was an old man. A tramp, I think, or at least I got that impression. There was worse though.”
“Worse?” David reached forward to put his cup on the coffee table. He resumed massaging. “Go on.”
“Malcolm’s blackmailing me over the art projects.”
“Malcolm the gardener? I thought he was a friend.”
“So did I until this afternoon. The trouble is, I can’t get rid of him now without him blabbing to the papers about what I do with unclaimed bodies.”
“Leave it to me, love.”
“What? Are you going to kill him?”
David snorted. “Hardly. I’m a solicitor.”
“Right. I see.” She reached for her coffee and took several long swallows before putting it down again. “You’ve got contacts you can ask. Call in some favors, that sort of thing.”
“I’m not entirely certain you know what I actually do for a living. I was thinking more along the lines of a legal precedent to apply for a gag order.”
“You’ve shattered my il
lusions of you being a gangland kingpin. For a moment there you were the Tom Hagen of Laverstone.”
“Who?”
“Tom Hagen. You know. The lawyer from The Godfather?”
“Ah. Nothing so glamorous, I’m afraid. I’m just a little cog in a very big machine but leave it with me. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Without letting the cat out of the bag?”
“Just so.” He ran his thumbs up the sole of her foot and she gave a low grown of pleasure, her eyes closing and her toes curling. She opened her eyes again to look at the absolute concentration on her husband’s face, then twisted one foot to rub at his groin.
“How about letting the little fellow out to play?” She rubbed against it with the side of her foot. “Feels like you’re under a little pressure there.”
He leaned forward to kiss the toe of the stationary foot, then back against the settee to unbutton his trousers. His penis sprang up like an x-rated Jack in the Box.
Eden grinned and shuffled far enough down to allow herself some leeway to move her feet, then arranged them on either side of David’s erection, grasping it between the balls of her feet and her toes. She began to squeeze and release in a rhythm she knew from long experience pleased him.
He placed his hands over her feet and she tutted at him. He raised them again and held them up, obviously unsure where to put them.
“Sit on them.”
He smirked and did as he was told, the slight lift thrusting his penis higher. She curled one foot after the other over his engorged tip, using the gel of his pre-cum to lubricate the shaft. She speeded up the rhythm, alternately gripping and releasing the shaft with her toes until his head lolled back and his breathing changed.
She moved her feet to take the shaft between the arches, using her knees to control the up-and-down motion while the pressure against the shaft rolled it enough to a give him a twist of pain with the building orgasm. He began to gasp; a series of almost inaudible breaths of air that increased in pitch the closer he came to orgasm. She increased the pressure against his cock but slowed the rhythm down until he was quivering with the need for release, and which point she stroked him as fast as she could, his body arching as the orgasm ran through him, great gouts of semen spurting high into the air like the water spout of a whale, only stickier.
