THE BEEKEEPER
A gripping crime mystery with a dark twist
STEWART GILES
First published 2017
Joffe Books, London
www.joffebooks.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this.
We hate typos too but sometimes they slip through. Please send any errors you find to [email protected]
We’ll get them fixed ASAP. We’re very grateful to eagle-eyed readers who take the time to contact us.
©Stewart Giles
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THERE IS A GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH SLANG IN THE BACK OF THIS BOOK FOR US READERS.
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“What if your mother was a serial killer?”
A BLOODY KILLER SEEMS TO HAVE RETURNED TO THE LINCOLNSHIRE FENS
Twenty years ago: a farmer and his wife are cut to pieces by a ruthless serial killer.
Now: a woman is viciously stabbed to death in the upmarket kitchen of her beautiful house on the edge of the marshes.
Then a man called Daniel Kinder walks into Saltern police station and confesses to the murder.
CONTENTS
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
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
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Glossary of English Slang for US readers
DEDICATION
For Ann & Keira.
‘Remove the bee from the earth and at the same time you remove at least one hundred thousand plants that will not survive.’ Attributed to Albert Einstein
CHAPTER ONE
“There’s something wrong with the honey,” Alice Green told her pet jackdaw.
The honey was sticky and golden brown as always. But after thirty years of beekeeping, Alice knew honey. She wasn’t sure what had caused the change. The roses, peonies and hollyhocks had blossomed at the same time as last year and the bees had performed remarkably well. Yet this batch was off, somehow. She was sure of it.
Maybe I’m coming down with a cold or something, Alice thought. Her best friend Milly had just got over one. Maybe I’ve caught something and it’s affecting my taste buds.
She looked at the jars on the huge oak table in the kitchen. Eighty-six jars of prized honey were ready to be taken to the Saturday market in Berryton. She wondered if anybody would be able to taste the difference.
Probably not. Cornwall was full of tourists at this time of year, and most of them probably never even opened the jars they bought. It was worth taking the risk. She wasn’t going to throw away eighty-six jars at £7 each.
Alice jumped as the jackdaw let out a loud shriek. She had rescued the bird from the old railway line close to St Agnes a few years earlier. It would never fly again because its wings had been damaged beyond repair but it didn’t seem to mind living in a cage. She fed it three times a day and its cage had a view over the back garden, with the Atlantic far in the distance. She liked the jackdaw’s company. Her husband Stanley had left on one of his soul-searching adventures ten years ago and had never returned.
She opened the cage door and the jackdaw immediately hopped to the bottom.
“Clever boy.” Alice scraped the remaining chunks from a tin of dog food onto the floor of the cage. The jackdaw eyed the food suspiciously, as it always did, and started to eat. “You don’t trust anybody do you, boy?” Alice said. “Probably for the best.” Funnily enough, she had never given him a name, she just thought of him as “the jackdaw,” and that seemed fine.
The kitchen door opened and Milly Lancaster came in carrying a tray of eggs. Feathers were still stuck to the shells.
“Looks like I’m just in time.” Milly eyed the jars of honey on the table.
“How’s the cold?” Alice asked.
“Much better.”
“Sit down and taste this.” Alice spread some honey on a piece of bread. “Well?” she asked as Milly chewed.
“It’s fine,” Milly said eventually. “Really.”
“No, there’s something different. It’s got an aftertaste I can’t quite put my finger on.”
“Have the bees strayed at all?”
“Not that I know of.” Alice handed Milly a mug of tea. “My bees are Italian. They’re lazy. They don’t do anything unless they really have to.”
“It’s fine, honestly.”
Alice was sure she was just being polite. “Maybe the next batch will be better. I’m taking it to Berryton tomorrow, all the same. The tourists won’t know the difference. I doubt they even eat it anyway. It’ll probably sit on the shelves in their fancy London kitchens, gathering dust.”
“You’re probably right,” Milly agreed. She picked up one of the jars of honey and examined it. “It looks the same. And honestly, I can’t taste any difference.”
It took them an hour to pack up the honey in boxes of twelve, ready for the market the next day.
“D’you want these?” Alice asked, picking up the two leftover jars. “For your efforts, and for the eggs?”
“I still have some of the last batch left. Besides, you know I’m always happy to help.”
She obviously didn’t want it. Alice was sure Milly thought it was off.
“I suppose I can
always use it in my baking,” Milly conceded at last.
“I’m going to see to the bees,” Alice said, changing the subject. “It’s getting cooler outside, so they ought to be quite sluggish.”
She was right. The bees were slowly getting ready to turn in for the night. Six boxes were stacked on top of each other under the shade of an old oak tree. Alice slid the lid off the top box and carefully removed one of the beeswax frames. She held it up to the sun to examine it more closely. The bees clung to the sheet, barely moving. Tiny dots of honey had appeared in the combs. The bees were already busy with their next batch.
“Everything seems fine.” She put the frame back. “I still don’t understand why the honey tastes different.”
The garden certainly looked magnificent. The roses against the fence were in full bloom. Red, pink and white flowers hung from thick stems. Bumblebees clumsily bashed into the flowers. The rainwater from the previous evening’s storm had settled on the inside of the petals.
“Your hollyhocks are doing beautifully.” Milly came up and ran her fingers over the leaves.
“The bees love them. I think those and the roses give the honey its special flavour.”
They were just about to go back in when Alice spotted something catching the sun beneath the clump of hollyhocks. It appeared to be metallic.
“What’s that?” Milly had seen it too. She crouched down to take a closer look. “It looks like a ring. It’s half-buried in the soil. I wonder how it got there.”
Alice almost pushed her friend out the way in her haste to get to the ring. She tried to pick it up, but it wouldn’t budge. She took a shovel and jabbed down on it. With one blow, the finger was severed from the hand.
Alice picked it up. There was a wedding ring on the finger. And though one gold band looks much like another, the finger it was still attached to was unmistakeable. Its tip was missing, just like her husband Stanley’s.
Alice dropped the finger in disgust. Milly had fainted. She was lying on the grass, stone-cold unconscious.
CHAPTER TWO
Alice gazed at the stubby finger lying on the soil. Milly was starting to stir, so she had to think quickly. Alice picked up the grisly finger and tried to pull the gold band off. It wouldn’t budge. Stanley’s fingers had got thicker over the years.
“What on earth are you doing?” Milly was upright again, staring at Alice.
“Alice,” Milly gasped, “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know.” Alice put the severed digit in her pocket. “I really don’t know what’s going on. But I do know that nobody must find out about this.”
“We need to phone the police, now!” Milly said, almost shrieking. “There’s a dead … finger in your garden. The police need to know.”
“Not yet. Not until I’ve had a chance to think things over. I’ll phone them after the weekend.”
“What’s going on, Alice?” Milly eyed her friend. “Do you know whose finger that is? The ring looked vaguely familiar.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know whose finger it is.”
“We have to phone the police.”
“Not yet,” Alice said, much more loudly than she intended. Milly flinched. She tried to sound calmer. “Not yet. What harm can a few days do? I can’t have every policeman in Cornwall digging up my garden the weekend of the market. I can’t afford it. I’ve got eighty-four jars of honey to sell. I need the money.”
Milly shook her head. “I don’t like this, Alice. We need to phone the police.”
“Please.” Alice put her hand on her oldest friend’s shoulder. “How long have we known each other?”
“Years.” Milly was shaking.
“You were my maid of honour. You know me better than anybody else. Please just keep this between us until after the weekend. I’ll phone the police first thing Monday morning. I promise.”
Alice calmly filled the hole the finger had left. The last remaining bees were now leaving the flowers and were heading back to the safety of the hives.
“This will be our secret,” Alice said. “Nobody can find out about this until I phone the police on Monday.”
Milly nodded her head unhappily. “I have to get going,” she said. “I still have some more baking to do before tomorrow.”
“I’ll see you at the market.” Alice helped her up off the grass. “And remember what I said: not a word to anyone.”
*
Alice stood by the sink and took the finger out of her pocket. It was dirty, rigid and had a blue tinge. Where it had been severed, it was treacle black. She took some butter and rubbed it around the ring. After a few twists, it came loose and dropped into the sink with a metallic ping. Alice ran some water into the sink, cleaned the soil off and examined it carefully. “S.” and “A.” and “14.6.75” were engraved on the inside of the ring. Stanley and Alice, 14 June 1975. Definitely that ring, then. She was wearing one just like it.
She thought back to her wedding day, that Saturday morning in the tiny registry office in Plymouth. It had been just the four of them: Alice, Stanley, Milly and Dennis Albarn, Stanley’s good-for-nothing best man.
Best man? Alice shook her head. Dennis Albarn had been the worst thing that had ever happened to Stanley. Dennis had been Stanley’s wingman during all the womanising. And she’d put up with it for thirty years. Thirty years of waiting at home, wondering if her husband would come back this time. And finally, ten years ago, Stanley had gone and not come back.
Until now.
She put the ring on the draining-board and threw the severed finger into the jackdaw’s cage. The bird sniffed it suspiciously and then started to peck at it. Alice began writing the labels for the honey jars.
Seven pounds a jar. No, let’s make it ten. Tourists would pay that for organic honey. That would make the total £840. Enough to see her through the rest of the month. She might even have enough left over to buy the huge television set she had her eye on. Her old television was tiny and her eyes weren’t getting any younger. The one she wanted was in a second-hand shop in Trotterdown.
By the time she had finished writing and gluing on the labels, it was starting to get dark. The wind had picked up, and the feathers on the tray of eggs were moving in the breeze from the kitchen window. The jackdaw cawed. It was time for his supper. She opened a fresh tin of dog food and scraped a few chunks onto the bottom of the cage. The finger lay there, stripped to the bone. Alice picked up what was left of it and dropped it down the sink. She ran the garbage disposal system, which growled noisily, and it was gone.
She poured herself a glass of port and looked out the window at the back garden. A few drops of rain hit the roof and she shivered. She closed her eyes and offered a silent prayer to whoever was listening.
Please, please don’t let it rain so much that it shifts the soil under the hollyhock bushes.
CHAPTER THREE
Market day dawned cloudless and still. Despite all that had happened the day before, Alice’s mood was equally untroubled. It was a trick she had learned years before during one of Stanley’s disappearances. Every night she closed her eyes, went through the preceding day step by step, faced down any demons she might have met along the way, and dropped off into a dreamless sleep from which she always awoke refreshed.
The jackdaw was making strange sneezing sounds in the kitchen as Alice went in. She smiled. Milly had come over a few days ago with her terrible cold, and the bird was now imitating her rather accurately. She fed him some more dog food and switched the kettle on. While the water was coming to the boil, she opened the back door and looked outside. Her cheerful mood chilled abruptly when she saw the rain gauge indicating that three inches of rain had fallen overnight.
She stepped outside onto the sodden grass and made her way past the beehives to the hollyhock bushes. She took a deep breath and looked directly at the soil by them. The rain had washed away a substantial amount of earth, and a bluish-black human hand was sticking out of the soil. The ring finger, of course, was
missing. Alice fought back the urge to vomit and tried to calm herself. She heard a disturbing sound from the kitchen and jumped. The jackdaw was sneezing again. She fancied she could hear her own heartbeat drumming too.
Alice scrabbled in the earth, scooping up piles of soil to cover the hand. She smoothed over the loose pile of dirt and stood on it. She felt something give as the hand was pushed deeper into the ground. She went back into the kitchen to wash her hands and finally drink her tea. The day had barely started but she already felt drained.
*
The drive to Berryton usually only took ten minutes, but in June the tourists jammed up the roads, and she had to leave more time. She got there for eight thirty and started to set up her stall. Usually Milly would have been there by now.
Milly’s baking stall was one of the market’s most popular attractions.
“Where’s Milly?” Derek asked Alice. Derek had the stall next to hers. He sold Cornish pasties, which the tourist couldn’t get enough of, even though Alice thought his pastry wasn’t up to scratch.
“I haven’t seen her. Maybe she’s running late. The traffic was terrible this morning. She’s going to lose her spot if she’s not here soon.”
THE BEEKEEPER a gripping crime mystery with a dark twist Page 1
