THE BEEKEEPER a gripping crime mystery with a dark twist

by Stewart Giles

  Alice stood up and put her hand on Taylor’s shoulder for a minute without saying anything.

  “I’m over it,” Taylor said, “I’ve moved on. I just had to get as far away from Edinburgh as possible. I like it here.”

  “Men,” Alice mused, “they’re all the same deep down. Weak, that’s what they are. That’s just the way it is. My Stanley promised me the earth and never failed to let me down.”

  “I’d better get going,” Taylor said abruptly. “I don’t even know why I told you all of this — I’ve never really spoken to anybody about it before.”

  “And what you’ve told me will stay within these four walls. It doesn’t do you any good to keep it bottled up. The first time Stanley buggered off, I was in tatters. Milly had to try and put me back together again. As the years went by I soon developed a thick skin. It’s what we women do. Don’t give up, though. There are still a few good ones out there. Take old Eddie Sedgwick next door for example. He may be an old gossip, but he has a good heart. No, don’t give up.”

  “When was the last time you saw your husband?” Taylor asked.

  “Ten years ago, thereabouts.”

  “He was seen in Trotterdown last week,” Taylor told her.

  “Who said that?” Alice sounded rather sharp.

  “A man in the Old Boar. Albarn. That was his name.”

  “Dennis Albarn?” Alice shook her head. “Good-for-nothing criminal. He was Stanley’s best man. He’s done time, you know.”

  “So I heard.”

  “It figures. Stanley would rather come and see his low-life friend than me. Probably for the best, anyway.”

  “I really ought to be going.” Taylor stood up. “If you think of anything else that might be useful about Peter Sugden, give me a ring. You still have my number, don’t you?”

  “Of course. It’s on the fridge with all the other important numbers.”

  “And thank you for listening to my babbling,” Taylor added. “Like I said, I haven’t really talked about it before.”

  “Look at us,” Alice said, “what a pair we make. Two women sifting through the wreckage left by our awful husbands.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  When Taylor got back to the station, DI Killian was nowhere to be seen. She went to the office she shared with DS Duncan, sat behind her desk and turned on her computer. While she waited for it to boot up, she thought about what she had told Alice Green.

  She wondered why she’d opened up to the old woman.

  She clicked on her emails and sighed when she saw the address on the first one. It was from the law firm that had represented her husband’s estate. The whole experience had been relatively painless — Danny’s will had been quite straightforward — and it was supposed to be all over.

  What do they want now? I paid all the fees in full. She paused for a moment and opened up the email, which said only: ‘Please see attached’.

  Taylor opened the attachment and read it twice in disbelief. It was a letter from the company Danny had worked for. The deal that Danny had been working on before he died had finally been completed. Taylor, as sole heir to Daniel Taylor’s estate, was due the commission Danny had made on the deal. After the legal costs, she stood to get almost £14,000.

  “Fourteen thousand,” she said out loud. Just for the moment, she wasn’t even sure if she wanted the money. She’d deal with it later. It was too much to think about at the moment.

  She scanned her other emails. Apart from the forensic report from Milly Lancaster’s car, there was nothing of interest. She printed the report and placed it in a plastic file. DS Duncan entered the room and sat down at his desk. He was sweating heavily.

  “How can they expect us to work in this sauna?” He wiped his head with a handkerchief. “We need air con in here.”

  “It’s not that bad,” Taylor said. “We used to freeze to death in Edinburgh, summer and winter.”

  “How did the interview with Sugden go?”

  “He says he didn’t do it.”

  “Of course he does. They all say that. I’d have got him to spill the beans. I don’t know why Killian insisted on having you in there.”

  “Where is the DI? Still at the hospital?”

  “His wife’s taken a turn for the worse. I hate to say it but it could be for the best.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “She’s in for an infection, but her main problem’s Alzheimer’s. One of those types you get really young. She’s in the advanced stages, I’m afraid.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “He doesn’t shout about it, but he was even thinking of taking early retirement at one stage so he could look after her. She wasn’t having any of it. She managed to persuade him to hire a full-time carer instead. It’s a horrible disease.”

  “The poor man. I’m so sorry. D’you think one of us should be at the hospital with him?”

  “He wouldn’t thank us. Best thing we can do for Jack is to crack on with this investigation.”

  “I don’t know what to make of it. I can’t find any reason why Peter Sugden would want to kill Milly Lancaster.”

  “Bugger the motive, we’ve got evidence. That’s enough for me.”

  “Hmm.” She changed the subject. “Is there any more news on that body the fisherman picked up this morning?”

  “Nothing. They might find out something from dental records but that’ll probably take some time. I wouldn’t even bother, to be honest. It’s just a poor bastard who happened to run into a hungry shark.”

  “It wasn’t a shark.”

  “And you’re suddenly an expert on shark attacks too, are you? Haven’t you got work to do? In case you’ve forgotten, I’m your superior officer, especially with Killian otherwise engaged. We’ve got two days to get Sugden to crack before we have to let him go. Let’s get on with it.”

  Taylor was about to say something but she realised it was pointless arguing with the bull-headed detective sergeant.

  “What’s our next move then, sir?” she said.

  “I’m going to let Sugden stew overnight and have a crack at him in the morning. Let’s see how he copes with a night without nicotine. You can sit in if you want. You might learn something.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  Taylor tried to concentrate on the forensic report, but she was worried about Killian. The poor man, she thought, why hadn’t he mentioned his wife’s illness before? She felt strangely lost without the DI around. Killian had taken her under his wing from the start. She had grown to like and respect him. He had integrity. It wasn’t a quality she’d come across often, and it was very refreshing after the years of backstabbing in Edinburgh.

  She skimmed through the report and then forced herself to read it again more carefully. The first section concentrated on the condition of the car. Obviously, after plummeting 25 metres over a cliff, it was a total wreck. It had landed nose first and the engine had been destroyed. The water had washed over it for some hours but Milly Lancaster’s blood had still been found on the broken pieces of the windscreen and on the upholstery on the seats.

  They didn’t even know whether Milly was alive when the car went over the edge. Unless the body washed up, they would probably never know.

  She tried to put the pieces together of what might have happened that night.

  If Peter Sugden was responsible he would have had to drive with Milly up to Merryhead. How had he got back? It was a five-mile trip and Sugden didn’t have a car. There was no way he could have made it back to Polgarrow unless he had help and that seemed unlikely.

  Taylor read the report again. All four locks on the car had been tampered with. Even a little old lady like Milly Lancaster would have put up a fight once she realised what was happening. It would take time to jam all four locks and it would have been done one lock at a time.

  Milly was already dead when she went over the edge, Taylor decided. It was the only logical explanation. Or perhaps not. Maybe Milly wasn’t even in the
car when it went over the cliff. Perhaps someone had made it look as if she was inside to send them off in the wrong direction.

  Taylor made a mental note to bring this up when they interviewed Peter Sugden the following morning. She wanted to see his reaction. Her head was spinning from all the contradictory theories that were bouncing around in her brain. She took out her phone and tried calling Killian. It went straight to voicemail. “Jack,” she used his first name for once, “if there’s anything you need, just give me a call.”

  She looked at the time. It was almost eight. She picked up the forensic report and headed home.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Harriet Taylor was exhausted but she did not feel like going home to her empty house. Alice Green’s words had stuck in her mind: “Don’t give up.”

  Maybe I should try again, maybe men aren’t all as bad as Danny. Or Stanley Green.

  She found it curious that Alice’s husband had come back and not made an effort to get in touch with his wife of forty years. Even if he was a bastard, nobody was that much of a bastard.

  Instead of taking the coast road home, she drove inland to Polgarrow. Alice had pretended not to care that Stanley had been in the area without even popping in to say hello, but Taylor could tell that wasn’t true. She was obviously very hurt.

  Taylor tried the Old Boar first. She knew that Stanley’s friend Dennis always drank in the pub in the evening and, if anybody knew where Stanley was, it would be Dennis. She parked outside. The late evening air was thick and muggy. Taylor had been in the south-west long enough now to know that a thunderstorm was coming.

  She looked round the bar. Some young people were dancing to a live band. A couple of old men were nursing half pints of ale in the corner of the room, but there was nobody she recognised. “Excuse me,” she shouted to the young barman over the music, “I’m looking for Dennis Albarn. Has he been in tonight?”

  “Not yet. Sometimes he comes in a bit later. Want a drink?”

  Taylor thought hard for a second.

  What am I actually doing here? This is none of my business.

  She decided to give Dennis Albarn an hour. If he did not show up in that time, she would leave. “I’ll have a tonic and lime,” she said. She took her drink to the only free table.

  The band was good. The singer had an unusual raspy, bluesy voice and the drummer seemed to be lost in a world of his own, banging away on the drums like a maniac. Every now and then he would bash the cymbals so hard Taylor was scared they would break. It made her realise she should get out more, and listen to more music.

  *

  A huge clap of thunder suddenly rattled the glasses behind the bar, making Taylor jump. She checked the time. It was almost nine. She finished her drink and stood up.

  “I wouldn’t venture out in that, love,” a man sitting by the bar warned Taylor as she walked past, “that’s going to be a nasty one. I know, I’ve seen them like that before. I reckon the power’s going to be out in a minute. You mark my words.”

  As he said that, the music was almost drowned out by the sound of rain hammering on the roof. The man gave Taylor a knowing smile and took a satisfied sip of his beer.

  I need to get home. I’m dog-tired and a bit of rain’s never bothered me. Heaven knows we have plenty of it in Scotland. She exited the Old Boar into the downpour. She was drenched in seconds, but the water wasn’t cold. It was quite invigorating. Lightening flashed all around, lighting up the puddles on the road. She stood with her eyes closed, enjoying the feel of the blast on her skin and the sense of being out in the wild. Then she ran to her car and got in.

  The rain was still coming down with a vengeance. She couldn’t face driving through it — she was too tired and she knew she couldn’t concentrate properly on the slippery roads — so she decided to wait until the storm had died down a bit. The windows fogged up inside the car.

  She took off her soaked shirt and sat in just her bra. Nobody can see me through the steamed-up windows. She lay back on the seat and closed her eyes. She had started to drift off to sleep when the loudest clap of thunder she had ever heard made her jump so violently that she almost hit her head on the windscreen.

  There was another loud bang. It shook the ground underneath Taylor’s car. She knew straight away this one wasn’t thunder.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Taylor grabbed her clammy shirt, wrestled it back on and was out of the car in seconds. The rain had relented while she was dozing. She spotted the source of the almighty blast immediately. A house up the road from the pub was on fire.

  She prayed no one was inside. Killing two birds with one stone, she phoned the Trotterdown switchboard — to organise a fire engine and to get as many available officers to the scene right away. PC Eric White answered.

  “Eric,” she said, “I need a fire engine in Polgarrow immediately. There’s been an explosion just up the road from the Old Boar pub.”

  “What are you doing in Polgarrow?” PC White asked.

  “Just organise that fire engine,” Taylor told him, “and I need as many available officers here as soon as possible. We need to keep the people away from that house. It’s an inferno already.” She rang off.

  The rain had almost stopped. Taylor wished it would pour down again to help extinguish the blaze. She knew she should stay well back — there might be a risk of another explosion — but she approached the burning building. She was desperate to know if anyone was hurt. The fire engine had to travel from Trotterdown. It would take it at least ten minutes to get to Polgarrow and it was clear that the only thing it could do at this stage was damage control.

  The next-door cottage was at risk too. Taylor took a deep breath and pushed her way through the heat to try the front door. It opened — nobody round here locked their doors, she thought. She could just make out the shape of a man on the floor in the hallway.

  “You have to get out,” she shouted. There was nobody near enough to help — she’d have to try and drag him out. He was an old man, shaking, and clearly in shock. “Come on.” She grabbed his arm and helped him up. “I need to get you out of here now.”

  She held his arm but he shrugged her off. He took a framed photograph off the wall in the hallway and followed Taylor out onto the road.

  They staggered out into the choking heat and smoke. A crowd had formed outside. Everyone from the pub seemed to be there, along with others, presumably neighbours. “Everybody,” Taylor shouted, “please get back. There might be another explosion. The fire brigade are on their way.”

  Right on cue, the sound of sirens could be heard in the distance. She reckoned they were still about four minutes away.

  “Please,” she shouted again, “move away from the house. If you have to watch, do it from outside the pub.”

  The crowd shuffled away. Taylor took the old man by the arm and walked him to the Old Boar too. He was clutching the photograph as though his life depended on it.

  Two police cars arrived outside the pub just ahead of the fire engine and she went out to meet PC Thomas White and a woman she vaguely recognised.

  “What happened?” Thomas asked.

  “I don’t know. There was just this huge explosion and the house must have gone up.”

  “Good lord.” Thomas looked at what was left of the house.

  “It’s all very nice having a quaint wooden house in the country,” the woman said, “but look what happens when it catches fire.”

  “This is Jo.” Thomas was blushing. “Jo Freer. She works for Littlemore in forensics. We were sort of together when the call came through.”

  “What do you think happened?” Taylor asked her.

  “Probably gas. I’ve seen it plenty of times before. Old biddy forgets to turn off the gas stove. The slightest spark would’ve been enough. It was probably the lightning. Old people shouldn’t be allowed to own gas cookers.”

  “You’re all heart,” Taylor said.

  The fire engine finally appeared. There was not much
they could do now for it, but at least they could save the old man’s house next door.

  Thirty minutes later, it was all over. The flames were out and all that was left of the wooden house was a crumpled shell. It was obvious that everything inside had been consumed. The old man still held the framed photo in his arms.

  “Are you all right?” Taylor asked him.

  “I’ve seen worse,” he said. “I’m Fred. Fred Gunnell.”

  “Do you have somewhere to stay tonight? I’m afraid your house will need to be checked over before you can go back.”

  “I can stay with Bill. He won’t mind. We’ve been in and out of each other’s houses since we were boys.”

  “Good. Then you’ll be all right. Is there anything else you need?”

  “I’ve got everything I need right here.” Fred showed her the black-and-white photograph of a young woman. “That’s my Ellie,” he said proudly. “It was taken just after we were married. April. Nineteen fifty-five.”

  “She’s beautiful,” Taylor said. The young woman’s smile lit up her face in the old photo.

  “Thank you for coming to get me out. I really thought I’d had it,” Fred said. He had a tear in the corner of his eye. “Well,” he said, “I’d better be going.” He turned to leave.

  “Fred,” Taylor said, “I’m sure your house will be fine tomorrow. It looks well built.”

  “Like I said, I’ve seen worse.”

  “Who’s the owner of the house that burned down?” Taylor asked at last.

  “That’s young Dennis’ house. Dennis Albarn.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Alice Green was nearly ready for bed when she heard the explosion. After the thunderstorm, she had gone outside to the garden to check on the bees. The hives were well-protected and the bees were not normally fazed by the storms, but she still wanted to make sure. She was replacing the final frame in the hive when the blast rattled the windows of the house.