by Celina Grace
“Yeah, you’re right, we did,” said Mike. He was smiling, and that broke something inside me. I felt it break. Something - my heart, my reason, my mind – snapped. “We got a big kick out of it, you stupid fat bitch.”
There was a moment of frozen, breathless silence. Then, without even thinking about it, I reached out and pushed him, hard. It was worth it just for the look on his face as he fell, his arms waving wildly in the air as he tried to snatch hold of nothing, windmilling uselessly as he fell backwards, his hands clutching at empty air in a vain attempt to stop himself falling.
He landed on the hard floor of the hallway and there was an audible crunch, even over the crash of his body hitting the floor. I watched, not even breathing, as Mike twitched a couple of times and then fell still, a slowly spreading halo of blood beginning to leak from the back of his crushed skull. After a moment, I took in a giant, whooping gasp of air and then another. There was a rustling sound in my ears and black spots bloomed in front of my eyes. I put one hand out to the wall, trying not to faint. I concentrated on dragging air back into my lungs – breathe in, breathe out – until I felt steadier. A word was repeating itself nonsensically in my head. Goddess. Goddess. Goddess.
After a few minutes, I felt calmer. In fact, I could feel myself becoming colder and calmer by the second. I stared down at Mike’s body, all the while feeling a sort of icy river flowing through me, from my skull right down to my toes. I could feel my mind begin working overtime, whizzing through scenarios and imaginings and possibilities, clicking like a computer through what I needed to do. I was not going to go to prison, was I? There was no way I was going to allow Mike and Mia to win.
Before I could flinch, I did what I had to do. It hurt immensely but it was over in just a few moments. Dizzily, I regarded the bloodstained dent in the plaster of the wall with satisfaction. Then I steadied myself again, thought about what I was going to say and, finally, reached for my phone to call for an ambulance.
Much later that night, I closed and locked the door of my hotel room and limped over to the bed and lay down. The victim support officer hadn’t wanted to leave me but I had insisted that I was fine and just needed to rest, and she eventually relented and told me she would call for me the next morning. I resettled my sore head against the pillow, wincing. The hospital had X-rayed me to check that I hadn’t actually fractured my skull – of course, I knew I hadn’t, but I was happy to comply; it would all be good evidence if the case ever actually came to trial. I lay there on the bed quietly, thinking. I wondered whether Mia had been arrested yet. I hoped so; I hoped she was locked away in some grim police cell somewhere, sweating and frightened. Hopefully they would also have told her about Mike’s death as well. It was a shame I couldn’t have been the one to do that, but you can’t have everything.
I closed my eyes and thought back through the past few hours; the arrival of the paramedics, their soothing words and hands that I was just about aware of, given my hysteria. The ride in the ambulance, leaving Mike behind on the hallway floor, the police already there. The treatment at the hospital for my injuries. The police who came to take a statement at my hospital bedside, accompanied by a duty solicitor. I told them the truth, deviating from it in only one instance. After an hour of them gently probing me for details, they left me to rest, departing with the reassuring comment that it seemed a clear cut case and there was probably no need for you to worry, Mrs. Dunsford, although we’ll be in touch. The duty solicitor, a middle-aged lady who I thought I recognised from my Weightwatchers class, whispered to me that even if the case did come to court, she believed I had an excellent defence. I cried weakly and nodded and within the privacy of my own head, raised two arms to the air in triumph.
Lying on the hotel bed, I could feel myself relaxing, drifting into sleep. I wondered when I would be able to move back into number thirteen again. Once it had been stripped of all the police tape and the fingerprint dust and the blood had been wiped up from the floor of the hallway, I could reclaim my home. Because it was my home, wasn’t it? I had no reason to fear it any more.
I would probably start walking in the pine woods again, as well. There was nothing to fear anymore, was there? There might be a shadow at the top of the stairs – I knew now that that would never leave - but that wouldn’t hurt me. In fact, the thought of it was almost comforting. I didn’t know why I had ever been afraid of the place. Number thirteen Manor Close was my home. Asharton Estate was my home. I wouldn’t change the colour of the front door, either. I stared up at the dim hotel ceiling and thought that duck egg blue just wouldn’t be suitable now, after all. I’d leave it as it was. Black, as it turned out, would do me just fine.
THE END
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Miss Hart and Miss Hunter Investigate…
“A good servant has to be invisible. So does a good detective.”
Did you enjoy Death at the Manor? Joan and Verity return in 2015 for their own series of historical mysteries, set in the 1920s and 30s. Sign up to Celina’s mailing list on her website http://www.celinagrace.com to be kept informed on how the series is progressing, publication dates and other writing news…
Miss Hart and Miss Hunter Investigate…
The new series starring Joan Hart and Verity Hunter
Coming to Amazon Kindle in 2015
Have you met Detective Sergeant Kate Redman?
The Kate Redman Mysteries are the bestselling detective mysteries from Celina Grace, featuring the flawed but determined female officer Kate Redman and her pursuit of justice in the West Country town of Abbeyford.
Hushabye (A Kate Redman Mystery: Book 1) is the novel that introduces Detective Sergeant Kate Redman on her first case in Abbeyford. It’s available for free! Read the first two chapters below…
HUSHABYE
(A KATE REDMAN MYSTERY)
CELINA GRACE
© Celina Grace 2013
Prologue
Casey Fullman opened her eyes and knew something was wrong.
It was too bright. She was used to waking to grey dimness, the before-sunrise hours of a winter morning. Dita would stand by the bed with Charlie in one arm, a warmed bottle in the other. Casey would struggle up to a sitting position, trying to avoid the jab of pain from her healing Caesarean scar, and take the baby and the bottle.
You’re mad to get up so early when you don’t have to, her mother had told her, more than once. It’s not like you’re breastfeeding. Let Dita do it. But Casey, smiling and shrugging, would never give up those first waking moments. She enjoyed the delicious warmth of the baby snuggled against her body, his dark eyes fixed upon hers as he sucked furiously at the bottle.
She didn’t envy Dita, though, stumbling back to bed through the early morning dark to her bedroom next to the nursery. Casey would have gotten up herself to take Charlie from his cot when he cried for his food, but Nick needed his sleep, and it seemed to work out better all round for Dita, so close to the cot anyway, to bring him and the bottle into the bedroom instead. That’s what I pay her for, Nick had said, when she’d suggested getting up herself.
But this morning there was no Dita, sleepy-eyed in rumpled pyjamas, standing by the bed. There was no Charlie. Casey sat up sharply, wincing as her stomach muscles pulled at the scar. She looked over at Nick, fast asleep next to her. Sleeping like a baby. But where was her baby, her Charlie?
She got up and padded across the soft, expensive, sound-muffling carpet, not bothering with her dressing gown, too
anxious now to delay. It was almost full daylight; she could see clearly. The bedroom door was shut, and she opened it to a silent corridor outside.
The door to Dita’s room was standing open, but the door to Charlie’s nursery was closed. Casey looked in Dita’s room. Her nanny’s bed was empty, the room in its usual mess, clothes and toys all over the floor. She must have gone into Charlie’s room. They must both be in there. Why hadn’t Dita brought him through? He must be ill, thought Casey, and fear broke over her like a wave. Her palm slipped on the door handle to the nursery.
She pushed the door. It stuck, halfway open. Casey shoved harder and it moved, opening wide enough for her to see an out-flung arm on the carpet, a hand half-curled. Her throat closed up. Frantically, she pushed at the door, and it opened far enough to enable her to squeeze inside.
It was Dita she saw first, spread-eagled on the floor, face upwards. For a split second, Casey thought, crazily, that it was a model of her nanny, a waxwork, something that someone had left in the room for a joke. Dita’s face was pale as colourless candle wax, but that wasn’t the worst thing. There was something wrong with the structure of her face, her forehead dented, her nose pushed to one side. Her thick blonde hair was fanned out around her head like the stringy petals of a giant flower.
Casey felt her heartbeat falter as she looked down at the body. She was dimly aware that her lungs felt as if they’d seized up, frozen solid. She mouthed like a fish, gasping for air, but it wasn’t until she moved her gaze from Dita to look at Charlie’s cot that she began to scream.
Chapter One
Kate Redman stood in the tiny hallway of her flat and regarded herself in the full-length mirror that hung beside the front door. She never left the flat without giving herself a quick once-over—not for reasons of vanity, but to check that all was in place. She smoothed down her hair and tugged at her jacket, pulling the shoulders more firmly into shape. Her bag stood by the front door mat. She picked it up and checked her purse and mobile and warrant card were all there, zipped away in the inner pocket.
She was early, but then she was always early. Time for a quick coffee before the doorbell was expected to ring? She walked into the small, neat kitchen, her hand hovering over the kettle. She decided against it. She felt jittery enough already. Calm down, Kate.
It was awful being the new girl; it was like being back at school again. Although now at least, she was well-dressed, with clean hair and clean shoes. It was fairly unlikely that any of her new co-workers would tell her that she smelt and had nits.
Kate shook herself mentally. She was talking to herself again, the usual internal monologue, always a sign of stress. It’s just a new job. You can do it. They picked you, remember?
She checked her watch. He was late, although not by much. The traffic at this time of day was always awful. She walked from the kitchen to the lounge – living room, Kate, living room – a matter of ten steps. She closed her bedroom door, and then opened it again to let the air flow in. She walked back to the hallway just as the doorbell finally rang. She took a deep breath and fixed her smile in place before she opened it.
“DS Redman?” asked the man on the doorstep. “I’m DS Olbeck. Otherwise known as Mark. Bloody awful parking around here. Sorry I’m late.”
Kate noted a few things immediately: the fact that he’d said ‘bloody,’ whereas every other copper she’d ever known would have said ‘fucking’; his slightly too long dark hair; that he had a nice, crinkle-eyed smile. She felt a bit better.
“No drama,” she said breezily. “I’m ready. Call me Kate.”
When they got to the car, she hesitated slightly for a moment, unsure of whether she should clear the passenger seat of all the assorted crap that was piled upon it or whether she should leave it to Mark. He muttered an apology and threw everything into the back.
“I’m actually quite neat,” he said, swinging the door open for her, “but it doesn’t seem to extend to the car, if you see what I mean.”
Kate smiled politely. As he swung the car out into the road, she fixed her mind on the job ahead of them.
“Can you tell me–” she began, just as he began to ask her a question.
“You’re from–”
“Oh, sorry–”
“I was going to say, you’re up from Bournemouth, aren’t you?” Olbeck asked.
“That’s right. I grew up there.”
“I thought that’s where people went to retire.”
Kate grinned. “Pretty much. There’s wasn’t a lot of, shall we say, life when I was growing up.” She paused. “Still, we had the beach. Where are you from?”
“London,” said DS Olbeck, briefly. There was a pause while he waited to join the dual carriageway. “Nowhere glamorous. Just the outskirts, really. Ruislip, Middlesex. How are you finding the move to the West Country?”
“Fine so far.”
“Have you got family around here?
Kate was growing impatient with the small talk. “No, no one around here,” she said. “Can I ask you about the case?”
“Of course.”
“I know it’s a murder and kidnap case–”
“Yes. The child – baby – belongs to the Fullmans. Nick Fullman is a very wealthy entrepreneur, made most of his cash in property development. He got married about a year ago – to one of those sort of famous people.”
“How do you mean?” Kate asked.
“Oh you know, the sort of Z-list celebrity that keeps showing up in Heat magazine. Her name’s Casey Bright. Well, Casey Fullman now. Appeared in Okay when they got married, showing you round their lovely home, you know the sort of thing.”
Kate smiled. “I get the picture.”
She wouldn’t have pegged DS Olbeck for a gossip mag reader, but then people often weren’t what they seemed.
“And the murder?”
“The nanny, Dita Olgweisch. Looks incidental to the kidnapping at this point, but you never know. What is known is that the baby is missing and as it – he’s – only three months old, you can imagine the kind of thing we’re dealing with here.”
“Yes.” Kate was silent for a moment. A three-month-old baby…memories threatened to surface and she pushed them away. “So on the face of it, we’re looking at the baby was snatched, the nanny interrupted whoever it was, and she was killed?”
“Like you say, on the surface, that seems to be what’s happened. We’ll know more soon. We’ll be there in,” he glanced at the sat nav on the windscreen, “fifteen minutes or so.”
They were off the motorway now and into the countryside. Looking out of the window, Kate noted the ploughed fields, shorn of the autumn stubble, the skeletal shapes of the trees. It was a grey January day, the sky like a flat blanket the colour of nothing. The worst time of year, she thought, everything dead, shut down for the winter, months until spring.
The car slowed, turned into a driveway, and continued through formidable iron gates which were opened for them by a uniformed officer. After they drove through, Kate looked back to see the gates swung shut behind them. She noted the high wooden fence that ran alongside the road, the CCTV camera on the gatepost. The driveway wound though dripping trees and opened out into a courtyard at the front of the house.
“Looks like security is a priority,” she said to her companion as he pulled the car up by the front door.
He raised his eyebrows. “Clearly not enough of a priority.”
“Well, we’ll see,” said Kate.
They both got out of the car. There was another uniformed officer by the front door, a pale redhead whose nose had reddened in the raw air. He was stamping his feet and swinging his arms but stopped abruptly when Kate and Olbeck reached him.
“DCI Anderton here yet?” said Olbeck.
“Yes sir. He’s inside, in the kitchen. Just go straight through the hallway.”
They stepped inside. The hallway was cavernous, tiled in chilly white stone, scuffed and marked now with the imprint of shoes and boots. Kate looked
around. A staircase split in two and flowed around the upper reaches of the hallway to the first floor of the house. There was an enormous light shade suspended from the ceiling, a tangled mass of glass tubing and metal filaments. It had probably cost more than her flat, but she thought it hideous all the same. The house was warm, too warm; the underfloor heating was obviously at full blast, but there was an atmosphere of frigidity nonetheless. Perhaps it was the glossy white floor, the high ceilings, the general air of too much space. A Philip Starke chair stood against the wall, looking as though it had been carved out of ice.
“Mark? That you? Through here.”
They followed the shout through into the kitchen, big on an industrial scale. It opened out into a glass-walled conservatory, which overlooked a terrace leading down to a clipped and manicured lawn. Detective Chief Inspector Anderton stood by a cluster of leather sofas where a woman was sitting, crouching forward, her long blonde hair dipping towards the floor. Kate looked around her surreptitiously. The place stank of money, new money: wealth just about dripped from the ceilings. It must be a kidnapping. Now, Kate, she chided herself. No jumping to conclusions.
She had only met the Chief Inspector once before, at her interview. He was a grey man: steel grey hair, dark grey eyes, grey suit. Easy to dismiss, at first.
“Ah, DS Redman,” he said as they both approached. “Welcome. Hoping to catch up with you later in my office, but we’ll have to see how things go. You can see how things are here.”
He gave her a firm handshake, holding her gaze for a moment. She was surprised at the sudden tug of her lower belly, a pulse that vanished almost as soon as she’d registered it. A little shaken, it took her a moment to collect herself. The other two officers had begun talking to the blonde woman on the sofa. Kate joined them.
