The Crooked Shore

by Martin Edwards

  ‘Oh, he looked after me in his fashion, made sure I had everything money could buy. It was worth putting up with his boring friends and their endless conversations about golf.’

  ‘Is that why you married him? The money?’

  ‘You make me sound like a gold-digger, sweetheart.’ She yawned. ‘He pestered me for ages before I said yes. But the years passed, I’m not complaining. I had all the money I’d wished for; I could please myself. He bought me expensive clothes, luxury holidays. It was fine, but every now and then, I asked myself the old question.’

  ‘What old question?’

  ‘Is this it?’

  ‘What about children?’

  ‘He had two from his first marriage. A miserable pair who resented me from day one. Kids are trouble. I never wanted them.’

  ‘What did you want?’

  ‘I’ve never really been sure,’ she said lazily. ‘Until now. I’ve discovered that you’re what I want, Logan Prentice. Believe me, there’s no escape.’

  She made a grab for him and they rolled around together for several minutes. He enjoyed her passion, it was remarkable for someone her age. And it had taken her mind off the inquisition.

  Except that after another mouthful of prosecco, she started up again.

  ‘Go on, then. I want to hear all about you.’

  He rolled on to his stomach and told himself not to become irritated. ‘Honestly, there’s not much to say. We grew up in Sheffield, Ingrid and me. Our father died when I was a baby. I really can’t remember him at all.’

  This was the backstory he’d devised for himself. The truth was messier, somehow less convincing.

  She ran her fingers down his spine. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘We never had much money, we just scraped along. Ingrid left home when she was seventeen. She wanted to act, she dreamt of Hollywood long before she emigrated. Pity it never worked out.’

  ‘If the specialist is right, this time next year she’ll be firing on all cylinders. Maybe sooner, given that she’s young.’ She paused. ‘Go on, I’m interested.’

  He sighed. ‘Mum died the week I started at uni. Car crash. From then on, I had to make my own way in life. Like Ingrid, I used to dream big. I’d be a movie star or a top jazz musician. But reality got in the way. Look at me now, understudying ham actors with the Newbies and thumping out ‘Auld Lang Syne’ on New Year’s Eve in an Ulverston pub.’

  ‘I’m going to buy a piano,’ she said. ‘I’d love you to play for me.’

  ‘Darling, you’re wonderful, but you can’t keep showering me with expensive presents.’

  ‘Why not?’ She jabbed him in the ribs. ‘You’re mine now.’

  Hannah convened a team meeting to update everyone on the interview with Kingsley Melton, and Bunny reported a conversation with Ivy Podmore’s lawyer.

  ‘Ivy was in poor health for years before her death and she suffered from dementia.’ Bunny sighed. ‘The fun of changing her mind about who should inherit kept her alive. The solicitor confirmed that Ivy talked about bequeathing her estate to Logan Prentice, but said a new will would never have stood up. She was too far gone. The charities which were deprived of bequests could have challenged the will in court.’

  ‘So that part of Melton’s story is accurate?’

  Bunny shrugged. ‘For what it’s worth.’

  Hannah turned to the rest of the team. ‘If you’re wondering, there are two reasons why it’s worth devoting precious time and resources to checking up on his story. One, our job is to look at cold cases. We’d be failing in our duty if we ignored the allegation that Ivy was murdered, even if the chances of making a charge stick are vanishingly small. Two, we need to get a full picture of Kingsley Melton. I’m convinced that he knows more than he’s prepared to admit.’

  Maggie said, ‘But you don’t think Melton might be Vee?’

  ‘Ramona’s secret lover?’ Les pulled a face. ‘If he’s as repellent as Bunny makes out, no chance.’

  ‘This was more than twenty years ago,’ Maggie said. ‘What if there’s more to him than meets the eye?’

  ‘Trust me,’ Bunny said. ‘You’d have to be desperate to fancy such an oddball. A bloke who surrounds himself with stuffed birds, dolls’ heads, and dead moths.’

  ‘Is he really that strange?’ Maggie asked. ‘The family sold antiques; no wonder they filled the house with curiosities. You wouldn’t judge a farmer by the fact that he works with cows and pigs.’

  ‘My uncle was a farmer, and he never kept animals in his sitting room. I’m telling you, Melton is weird. That rockery in his garden. Who knows what’s lying underneath it?’

  There was a moment’s silence.

  Les turned to Hannah. ‘Is it worth talking to Reece-Taylor?’

  ‘About what?’ Bunny said. ‘She’s having a fling with a good-looking lad who knows how to fix computers. A match made in heaven. It could only be better if he was an electrician or a plumber.

  Hannah said, ‘Melton has put us on notice about a possible threat to a woman’s life. If we ignore it, and then the worst happens …’

  Les made a throat-slitting gesture.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘You’re worried about her history of sudden cardiac arrest?’ Maggie said. ‘Even though she survived?’

  ‘Sounds to me as if she’s lucky to be alive,’ Hannah said.

  ‘Intent on having a short life and a merry one?’

  ‘It might not be difficult to contrive a situation that killed her, while looking like a genuine accident.’

  ‘You think she’s already changed her will in favour of Prentice?’

  ‘All I know is this. We can’t sit back and do nothing.’

  Hannah was in the kitchen area of Divisional HQ, pouring herself a cup of tea, when Maggie Eyre bustled up to her, flourishing a sheaf of printouts.

  ‘Five minutes of your time, ma’am?’

  Her eyes were shining, her excitement palpable. Hannah recognised the signs. Maggie had dug something up.

  ‘Sure, let’s talk over a cuppa.’

  They walked down to her office, and Maggie said, ‘Kingsley Melton intrigues me. He sounds like damaged goods.’

  ‘Bunny’s right, he’s an oddity. That doesn’t mean that he buried Ramona Smith in his back garden. Against my better judgement, there were moments during the interview when I almost felt sorry for him.’

  ‘I couldn’t resist the urge to check him out.’ Maggie laid the printouts down on the desk. ‘Old reports from local newspapers, related bits and pieces, going back forty-five years. This was a week before Melton’s tenth birthday.’

  Hannah glanced at the documents. Bowness Tragedy was one of the headlines.

  ‘An inquest into the death of Vesper Melton?’

  ‘Our man’s sister, yes. Bonny young girl, as far as you can tell from a grainy photograph.’

  Hannah peered more closely. ‘Drowned in the back garden of the family bungalow?’

  ‘Yes, she fell into the ornamental pool.’

  ‘There isn’t an ornamental pool.’ Hannah thought for a moment. ‘Just a rockery.’

  They looked at each other.

  ‘After the child died, I don’t suppose the Meltons could bear to keep looking at the pond.’

  Maggie nodded. ‘A constant reminder of the tragedy.’

  ‘So they filled it in. Perhaps the rock garden was their idea of a memorial. Not that Melton looks after it. What happened? How did his sister fall in?’

  ‘Not clear,’ Maggie said. ‘It was a summer afternoon. The parents were inside, talking to another antiques dealer.’

  ‘So the kids were left to their own devices?’

  ‘Yes. Her brother found her in the water. He called for help, but it was too late. The little girl was dead. It’s not clear exactly how the accident happened but there was no evidence of a struggle or that she’d been pushed in. Kingsley said he was in a corner of the garden, absorbed in a comic. He was terrified of water and always kept his distan
ce from the pool. He didn’t hear the splash. The coroner went to some lengths to make clear that no blame attached to him, but that sounds like kindness. God knows what the parents made of it.’

  Hannah looked up.

  ‘And then, only the other day, Kingsley Melton witnesses someone dying in the water at the Crooked Shore?’

  ‘Yes,’ Maggie said. ‘History repeating itself.’

  ‘But not in quite the same way,’ Hannah murmured. ‘Darren Lace took his own life, no question. Kingsley watched him die. Makes you wonder if that’s exactly what he did with his own sister.’

  ‘Tell me about Ben Kind,’ Kit Gleadall said. ‘Did he become fixated with the idea that Gerald Lace had killed Ramona Smith? Obsessed?’

  He’d asked Hannah to give him an update. A fan whirred in the corner of the cubbyhole he used as an office, but the air was dry and so was her throat. She took a swig of water.

  ‘Ben was persistent,’ Hannah said, ‘but not to the point of obsession. He was imaginative and shrewd.’

  ‘Like his son, then.’

  She ignored this. ‘People say that police work isn’t cerebral. Detecting crimes is a team effort, but Ben preached the value of letting your imagination roam if there’s a tricky problem to be solved. Running around like headless chickens gets us nowhere. We need to use our brains.’

  ‘I suppose bureaucracy didn’t suit him?’

  ‘He believed in results, not targets. Ninety percent of the time, he got those results. And not through breaking rules or being insensitive. He was a forceful man who knew his own mind, but never a bully.’ She drank some more water. ‘As for Lace, nobody is right all the time.’

  ‘Including juries,’ Gleadall said. ‘You think he may have been mistaken?’

  ‘Most detectives in Ben’s shoes would have formed the same opinion as him.’

  ‘But?’

  She was forced to smile. Gleadall was shrewd as well as persistent. He and Ben Kind would probably have got on well.

  ‘But knowing your own mind is one thing. Cutting off your nose to spite your face is something else.’

  She remembered that Ben had cut himself off from his two children after leaving home to make a new life with his mistress. His ex-wife had been resentful and difficult, but shouldn’t he have tried harder to keep in touch with Daniel and Louise? The truth was, his pride had got in the way.

  If only she’d seen more of Ben after his retirement instead of being preoccupied with the demands of the job while Ben was going downhill, drowning the sorrows of his failing second marriage. Alex Samaras had consoled him. She’d become his friend. Another reason to feel lacking when measured against her …

  ‘We’re all human,’ Gleadall said.

  ‘Yes. The jury’s verdict infuriated him. He thought justice had been denied. The evidence was strong enough to convict, even though it was only circumstantial. All the same, on the rare occasions he mentioned the case in later years, it was obvious he had regrets. I wonder if he began to have second thoughts. If he was afraid he’d become as blinkered as … well, as some of the detectives he didn’t have a high regard for.’

  ‘That’s why cold case reviews are so important,’ Gleadall said. ‘They give us a second chance to secure justice.’

  ‘I appreciate your support, sir.’

  ‘The press conference bought us some time, but I am – we are – still under pressure. Especially from Midge Van Beek.’ He coughed. ‘I don’t know whether you know, but Midge is my ex-wife. One of two exes, actually. And I’m separated from my current wife. So when you say that we all make mistakes, I’m a prime example.’

  She kept her mouth shut.

  ‘Three times I got it wrong.’ His tone was reflective. He might almost have been talking to himself. ‘Marrying career women suited me fine. Trouble was, none of them wanted children.’

  Perhaps he wasn’t talking to himself at all. She was acutely conscious of his scrutiny. After a moment he gave a rueful shake of the head.

  ‘Investigating a case more than two decades on is a tough gig, especially when your team is so small. Don’t worry, I’m not expecting miracles. Far less an arrest. But you’ll understand why I’m so desperate for us to be seen to be doing whatever we can.’ His smile was grim. ‘If Midge can find a way to crucify Cumbria Constabulary, and better still, me, she’ll be over the moon.’

  ‘Understood.’ She gave him a concise update. ‘So the enquiry is in danger of expanding. Melton wants us to investigate another murder in the past and forestall one in the present. Meanwhile, Maggie Eyre has discovered something about Melton’s past.’

  She told him about Vesper’s death.

  ‘You think he pushed his sister into the pond? Sibling rivalry?’

  ‘Pure speculation on my part. At this distance of time, nothing can be proved. The reports of the incident are vague about what actually happened. Perhaps what he said was vague. But the crucial point is that he was just short of the age of criminal responsibility.’

  ‘So he might be very calculating?’

  Hannah spread her arms. ‘Or very ruthless or very opportunistic or very mixed-up. Or even just very unlucky.’

  ‘Best guess?’

  ‘One lesson Ben Kind drummed into me,’ she said. ‘Don’t guess out loud.’

  ‘Fair enough. Time to give your imagination free rein?’

  ‘I don’t mean to be evasive, sir.’

  ‘Of course not.’ He looked at her intently. ‘Please, Hannah. Call me Kit. When it’s just you and me, no need to stand on ceremony.’

  She returned his gaze. ‘What I need to know is that if my enquiries lead me to step outside the narrow remit of this investigation, I have your backing.’

  ‘Absolutely.’ A wolfish grin. ‘You can have that in black and white if you like.’

  ‘That would give me some comfort.’

  He scribbled a note on a pad. ‘You’ll receive an email within five minutes of leaving this office.’

  She got to her feet. ‘Thanks, I appreciate it.’

  Putting down his pen, he said. ‘I suppose it’s too much to hope that you’ll tell me what you have in mind?’

  She smiled. ‘I’m not sure yet.’

  He grinned at her and for a fleeting instant she thought he was about to ask her for a drink. To her relief, he buttoned his lip. As she left the room, she heaved a sigh of relief. Life was complicated enough without getting personally involved with the Police and Crime Commissioner. Even if he did want a child.

  ‘Must you go?’ Tory asked.

  ‘I promised I’d call on him after he finished work.’ Logan was pulling on a short-sleeved shirt. She was still in her bikini. Early evening and it still felt as though they were on the Riviera. ‘He’s desperate to get his laptop up and running again, and I hate letting customers down.’

  She ruffled his hair as he finished dressing. ‘I suppose that’s an acceptable excuse. I’m glad you take your responsibilities seriously. When will you be back?’

  ‘You never know with an upgrade on this scale. He has a lot of files he needs transferring to his new system. Might be as late as half ten. Don’t worry about cooking for me. This client is based in Kendal, so I can pick up some fish and chips in town before I come back.’

  ‘I’ll make do with a snack.’ She patted her stomach. ‘Need to lose a few pounds.’

  ‘You shouldn’t worry about your weight.’

  ‘I need to keep healthy. I don’t want to drop dead on you.’

  She kissed him, long and hard.

  ‘You’re insatiable,’ he said as they parted.

  ‘Aren’t you a lucky boy?’

  ‘Very.’

  As he closed the door of the flat behind him and walked over to the van, he reflected that it was true. Finally his luck was turning. You should never count your chickens, but it looked as though Tory would transfer the money to wipe out the outstanding bills and pay for the first stage of Ingrid’s treatment by the end of the week. The ban
k account was set up. Those long years of frustration and underachievement would soon be behind him.

  He watched the gates open in front of him. A metaphor for the opportunities awaiting him. He was young and handsome, and soon he would be rich. The world lay at his feet.

  Yet as the van jolted over the potholes of Strandbeck Lane, a tremor of uncertainty rippled through him. So much could still go awry. Not that he was worried about Kingsley Melton. The more that jealous old blancmange made a nuisance of himself, the more he’d infuriate Tory.

  She was implacable. A woman who knew what she wanted and made sure she got it. Probably that was how she’d survived the cardiac arrest. He admired her determination, but at the same time, it unsettled him.

  Part of him yearned to do what he usually did, and take the easy way out. How tempting to stay here in the lap of luxury. Tory offered the prospect of unlimited money and sex; what more could a red-blooded man want? He’d told her the truth when he said he preferred older women. In his experience they were less self-absorbed and more eager to please than girls of his own age. Tory was a soft touch in more ways than one, but her folds of flesh didn’t put him off. He liked to have his hands full.

  Being a kept man had plenty of attractions. Already, though, he’d glimpsed warning signs. She’d already talked about buying him a piano and making him a monthly allowance. The more he demurred, the more she insisted. But he wasn’t a gigolo or a stud. Or like a collector’s item, like those horrible dead moths that Melton kept in a glass drawer.

  No. As he reached the junction with the coastal lane, near to the Crooked Shore, he reminded himself of the old legend. It would be a mistake to outstay his welcome. He must stick to the original plan.

  Logan threaded his van through the maze of Ulverston’s streets before squeezing down the alley next to the Vietnamese takeaway. It was such a tight fit that he’d never bothered to get the dented wing repaired; even if he could afford to splash the cash, it would be a waste of money, given how often he scraped his paintwork against the brick wall. Thank God his days of scrimping and saving were almost at an end. Leaving the van on the patch of asphalt at the back of the building, he unlocked the steel door leading to the staircase to his bedsit. He bounced up the steps, two at a time.