‘One of the leavers is a member of your team, isn’t she?’
Hannah had to hand it to the PCC; he really didn’t skimp on his research. ‘Linz Waller; it’s her first baby. She’s been with me since we set up the team.’
‘And I hear that someone else has transferred to the north east?’
‘Billie Frederick, that’s right, sir. Our most recent recruit, but her new partner is based in Newcastle and the travelling …’
‘OK, so you’re woefully under-strength. Down to the bare bones.’
‘Other than admin backup, we have one sergeant, plus a consultant on a fixed term contract. Both are excellent, but even so.’
Gleadall winced. ‘Can’t make bricks without straw.’
‘The years of austerity,’ she said wryly, ‘have taken their toll.’
‘I bet.’ He allowed himself a smile. ‘We can’t run complex projects on a shoestring. Looks to me as if you’ve been suffering death by a thousand cuts.’
She pushed her hair out of her eyes. ‘Well …’
He was spot on. Hannah had spent years rather than months waiting for someone in high office to break the news to her that Cumbria Constabulary could no longer afford the luxury of a unit dedicated to cold cases. A handful of high-profile successes had kept the grim reapers of Finance at bay, but eventually someone was sure to sound the death knell for her team. In the meantime, she’d been starved of resources. At least Kit Gleadall recognised the reality. His candour left her groping for words.
‘I’ve spoken to the chief constable as well as the ACC,’ he said. ‘Don’t waste precious time conjuring up a business case for new recruits. Consider it done. Two new detectives should help to ease the load in the short term. One with bags of experience, plus someone more junior. With commensurate back office support. It’s not enough, but it’s a start. Speak to HR tomorrow so they can get the paperwork moving.’
Hannah blinked. For an insane moment she was tempted to throw her arms around the PCC and kiss him.
‘Thank you …’
He silenced her with a wave of his hand. ‘There’s a catch.’
Ah, she might have known. ‘Oh, yes?’
‘I need you to talk to Jade Hughes. An hour ago I saw her myself and gave her my personal assurance that we’d do everything in our power to find out the truth, even after so many years. I did my utmost to calm her down, but she wanted to speak to the officer in charge of the case review to reassure herself that we mean business, and aren’t just fobbing her off by giving the old files a quick once-over and then declaring that nothing can be done. The media is itching to give us a bloody good kicking over this business. We need to reset the dial. Good PR will work wonders. So I agreed to her request.’
Hannah said drily, ‘And volunteered me?’
‘I’m afraid so.’ He looked her in the eye. ‘I won’t pretend I found Ms Hughes an easy woman, but we have to remember that she’s suffered a grievous loss. A spot of female empathy may work wonders. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not obsessed with public relations, they aren’t the be-all and end-all. But we do need to build bridges with the people we serve as well as with the press.’
She knew better than to fight against a fait accompli. ‘Understood.’
‘You’ll see her tomorrow morning?’
‘Why not?’
‘Excellent. Life’s too short to waste, Hannah.’ As if to emphasise the point, he sprang to his feet. ‘We need to make the most of every moment. See you tonight.’
CHAPTER THREE
Kingsley checked his watch. Time to go. He’d promised Tory that he’d arrive no later than four. Obviously, he could turn up at his office in the manor much earlier, but he had his pride. He preferred to masquerade as a man in demand, a busy executive who spent his days dashing from one job to another. It never paid to appear underemployed, far less needy.
Tory had called him because she’d spotted an intruder in the grounds of the manor the previous evening, just before dusk. It was probably something and nothing, she admitted, but she felt she ought to report it.
Her husky voice sounded cheerful enough, and he was glad the incident hadn’t disconcerted her, given that the manor was isolated and she was living alone. He’d been quick to offer reassurance. You’d never think it to look at her, but she had a history of serious heart trouble. The last thing he wanted was for her to suffer any acute distress.
Privately he suspected that the incident wasn’t worth worrying about. The grounds to the front of the manor were surrounded by a long stone wall, but farther back, the rear of the property was edged by rickety wood-and-wire fencing. People occasionally sneaked through a gap in the fence to save walking all the way round the perimeter. He’d seen them do it himself, and six months ago he’d given a couple of young trespassers a piece of his mind. Not that they were in the least apologetic. In fact, they’d been extremely rude.
No matter. What mattered was that Tory was in good humour. Absence evidently did make the heart grow fonder. How exciting that soon he’d be in her company again.
The manor stood half a mile inland, at the end of a potholed lane; rather than walking, he drove there from the Crooked Shore. Turning up for work by car seemed more businesslike, and besides, he loved to make the most of his designated parking place. A self-employed contractor in the gig economy deserved to feast on every morsel of status he could grab.
Flicking the electronic fob to open the ornate iron gates, he felt a familiar thrill. Of all the Greengables properties in his portfolio, the manor was far and away the most prestigious and expensive. Here, he didn’t simply represent management, he was the management.
Five years ago, the manor had lain derelict. Ripe for bulldozing. The ground-floor windows were smashed, and patches of roof gaped open to the unforgiving elements. If the building hadn’t been so remote, it would have become a vandals’ playground. The grounds were wild and overgrown. The deep lake at the rear of the estate was a foul death trap, stagnant and messy with vegetation.
Since the Victorian entrepreneur’s bloody demise, the manor had endured successive incarnations as a progressive school, a care home, and a boutique hotel. After the hotel business failed, the building decayed until it became uninhabitable. The curse of the Crooked Shore hadn’t lost its sting.
Salvation came in the form of a joint venture between a firm of architects and a construction company, dedicated to transforming the manor into a dozen upmarket flats. The renovations took much longer and cost far more than expected. Merely to transform the lake from an eyesore into an attractive, reed-fringed feature with its own wooden jetty, a natural version of an outdoor swimming pool for residents, required serious investment. The interior had to be gutted and then luxuriously fitted out from top to bottom. As a result, the developers marketed the flats at prices high enough to make any prospective purchaser gulp. When sales weren’t forthcoming, Greengables were appointed as agents, taking charge of sales of the flats as well as day-to-day maintenance of the manor and its grounds.
Kingsley was Greengables’ local representative. His mother’s death had triggered a long and debilitating period of depression, and he’d lost his zest for buying and selling antiques, the only trade he knew. A job with flexible hours, for an online, invisible employer, seemed an ideal way of feeling his way back into working life. Within a fortnight of being handed a contract, he was given sole responsibility for the manor. In his more cynical moments, he suspected that Greengables regarded the job as a poisoned chalice. Perhaps they’d recruited him because no seasoned property specialist would tolerate the uncertainty of earnings based mainly on commission. He didn’t care. Without Greengables, he’d never have met Tory.
Tory Reece-Taylor came into his life forty-eight hours after he took over at the manor. She was the very first person he showed around the development, an exquisitely dressed woman with thick blonde hair, designer spectacles, and high heels. She explained that she lived in Rye on the Sussex coast. A year earlier, her husband had die
d following a long illness.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘That must have come as a terrible shock.’
‘Not really. Winston was past his three-score-and-ten. He was twenty years older than me.’ Her dazzling smile dared him to stammer that she looked not a day over thirty-five. ‘I was his second wife. Arm candy, I suppose. His ex hated me, but I couldn’t care less.’
‘No, of course not,’ he stammered. Her bluntness was invigorating but took some getting used to.
‘The poor old soul was an accountant who retired early to devote more time to the real love of his life. Golf, such a bloody boring sport. They call it a good walk spoilt, one of the great understatements. Many’s the time I’ve been tempted to bash his head in with a seven-iron and cash in on the life insurance. Poor old soul; he never dreamt what was going through my mind at golf club dinners while his chums were pawing my thighs. I reckon I earned every penny he spent on me.’
Kingsley nodded, lost for words.
‘In return he indulged my love of travel. The Atacama Desert, Hawaii, Machu Picchu, Goa, Dubai, Japan, you name it, we went there. Everywhere but the Algarve; they’ve got too many golf courses.’
‘How marvellous.’ Kingsley was a home bird. He’d never ventured farther than Rome, and he’d found the Eternal City infernally hot.
‘After he died, I splashed the cash on a world cruise. Got the travel bug out of my system, at least for the time being. I’m ready to take my ease. When I got back to England, I decided to sell up in Rye. Make a new beginning.’
‘You’ve come to the perfect place!’ Kingsley announced.
‘You think so?’
‘There’s a village called Newbiggin just down the coast!’
She clapped her hand with delight, making him feel like a latter-day Oscar Wilde.
‘I love the idea of living so close to the Lakes.’
Kingsley frowned. ‘I’m honour bound to tell you that here we aren’t quite within the boundary of the national park …’
She burst out laughing. ‘Oh, I knew that already. Don’t worry, I’m not really a dumb blonde. And Mr Melton …’
‘Kingsley, please.’
She beamed. ‘Kingsley, you’re far too truthful to be an estate agent.’
‘I’m new in this job,’ he admitted.
Her giggle was infectious, her personality as overpowering as her lavishly applied perfume. There was something fascinatingly contradictory about her. She was an extrovert, evidently at ease in any sort of company, yet she insisted that she liked to keep herself to herself.
Her aim was to settle somewhere off the beaten track. Rye was delightful, but in summer the cobbled streets thronged with tourists. She was determined to stay close to the coast, and Strandbeck fitted the bill. The hamlet comprised a dozen houses and most of them were either intermittently occupied holiday accommodation or second homes.
The downside of the idyllic setting was a lack of local facilities. The developers’ hope that, when the manor was fully occupied, the residents would create a little community of their own, was still a long way from being fulfilled. There was no shop or post office within walking distance, and although the old Norman church survived, services were only held once a month.
Tory pooh-poohed these drawbacks.
‘I won’t lose any sleep over any of that. I don’t like neighbours, I shop online, and I never believed in God.’
Startled though he was by her directness, he found her captivating. He’d been brought up by elderly, conservative parents, and some of their prissiness had rubbed off. To be in Tory’s company felt like gorging on forbidden fruit.
As they strolled around outside, she said, ‘This place is marvellous. Such heavenly seclusion.’
Privacy was one of the manor’s selling points. The property was set in twelve acres of grounds, and you couldn’t see it from the lane or the paths skirting the perimeter.
‘Far from the madding crowd, eh?’
‘I’ve had my fill of madding crowds,’ she said. ‘Mind you, once upon a time, being in a crowd saved my life.’
‘Really?’
Eighteen months ago, she told him, she’d collapsed while out shopping in Rye. A sudden cardiac arrest. She’d only been saved thanks to a passer-by who happened to be a nurse. The woman gave her CPR while an ambulance was called. Against the odds, she’d been brought back to life.
‘Good grief,’ Kingsley said. ‘What an astonishing story.’
Honesty compelled him to add, ‘I’m afraid there’s no doctor’s surgery nearer than Ulverston.’
Tory roared with laughter. ‘Don’t worry. I reckon I’ve used up my quota of luck. Next time it will be curtains.’
Appalled, he put his hand to his mouth.
‘Oh, don’t look so horrified. None of us knows what tomorrow may bring. My philosophy’s simple. Live for the moment. If you’ve any sense, you’ll get me to sign on the dotted line quick, before I keel over for good.’
True to her word, before a taxi arrived to take her back to the station, she agreed to buy the show flat, the largest and priciest in the manor. Not only did Kingsley earn an extravagant amount of commission for a minimal amount of effort, he was bowled over by Tory’s vivacity. Thank goodness he had his own base at the manor. There was every opportunity, every excuse, to see her regularly.
Her decision to spend so much money on an impulse amazed him. The late Winston Reece-Taylor had obviously indulged her whims, and Kingsley understood why. A woman with such verve and personality came along once in a lifetime. Easy to see why a boring number-cruncher had been swept away.
After she moved into the manor and they became better acquainted, he discovered that she was prone to frequent mood swings. These were baffling and impossible to predict. Her outbursts of temper were savage, and her tongue cut like a knife, but on top form, she was irresistible. Night after night she featured in his dreams. He’d never experienced anything like this before. She’d changed his life.
He passed through the gates and past a clump of sycamores on either side of the winding gravel drive. As he rounded a bend, the manor reared up in front of him. A granite fortress in the Gothic Revival style, it had steep-sloping roofs of Westmorland green slate, spindly chimney stacks, and a solitary turret by way of eccentric Victorian flourish. With a precision verging on the absurd, he parked within his designated rectangle close to his office.
The truth was, he could have left his car anywhere. Apart from Tory’s electric BMW, the place was deserted. This wasn’t unusual. A couple in their early seventies owned a modest-sized flat at the rear of the first floor, although they spent most of the time away providing free childcare of their grandchildren. Otherwise, his only other sale to date had been to Fiona and Molly, a lesbian couple who ran a nail bar in Carlisle and had a sideline of investing in holiday lets. The snag was that competition for bed-nights in the south Lakes was intense, and the high rent and lack of local amenities deterred most tourists.
He was proud of his own private access to the manor, an unmarked door at the side of the building that led into his office. It gave him a sense of belonging. This afternoon, he let himself in at the main entrance, pausing as usual to admire the magnificence of the communal hall. The lyrical sales particulars he knew off by heart. The restoration of the lobby to its former glory was calculated to take your breath away. The sweeping panelled staircase, reconstructed with timber of the highest quality, complemented the original newel posts, while bespoke handcrafted sash windows combined energy efficiency with elegance in keeping with the manor’s spirit and history. Gothic stone arches, the original fireplace (now occupied by a vase of carnations) and a polychromatic ceramic-tiled floor produced, the glossy brochure insisted, a sympathetic yet effortless blend of the traditional and contemporary environmental consciousness.
Crossing to Tory’s front door, he pressed the bell. Within moments the door was flung open. Promising, very promising. If she got stuck into the gin, she was capable of ignori
ng you, no matter many times you rang.
Her wide, welcoming smile displayed a lot of expensive teeth. The sweet, sensual mix of apricot and jasmine in her perfume was enough to make him swoon. The night that they’d become lovers, she’d confided her fondness for Givenchy’s L’Interdit, and told him that the creamy fragrance possessed the thrill of the forbidden, the dangerous allure of crossing a line.
She wrapped strong arms around him. ‘Darling, how marvellous to see you!’
The vigour of her embrace winded him, but the moist touch of her lips on his cheek was exhilarating. He felt himself responding to her ardour and told himself he’d worried too much. Everything was going to be fine. Last time had just been unfortunate. Even a paragon is entitled to an occasional off day.
‘Come in, come in, take the weight off your feet. Let me get you a drink, and you can tell me all about it.’
Before he could utter a word, she led him into the living room and then through the glazed doors that gave on to a canopied private terrace. Outside stood a wrought-iron table and cushioned chairs. The perfect place, as he’d explained at the initial viewing, to dine alfresco and watch the setting sun.
‘Earl Grey? With lemon?’
The tension in his body oozed away. ‘Lovely.’
‘How are you managing? You’re even paler than usual. I’ve been so worried.’
He was taken aback. It was unlike Tory to worry about anything. Let alone, he thought unworthily, about somebody else. A woman who had survived a sudden cardiac arrest could cope with anything, but she sounded like a nurse greeting a patient.
Since the suicide on the Crooked Shore, they’d only spoken once. After seeing him on the regional television news, she’d phoned him, agog for details of the terrible tragedy. After his mauling at the hands of the journalists, his response had been terse. The following day, he’d texted to say he was unwell. It was no exaggeration. His crippling headaches had returned, and the time it took to navigate his surgery’s online booking system to secure an audience with his GP left him in the depths of despair. Alas, the appointment was a fiasco; the wretched doctor insisted it wasn’t safe to give him any stronger medication. What he took was supposed to be powerful stuff, but he insisted it wasn’t touching the pain. Unconvinced, she murmured about him going back to see his psychiatrist. He’d flared up and told her straight: the problem was physical, not mental, how many times did he need to repeat himself?
The Crooked Shore Page 3
