A Reason to Kill

by Jane A. Adams

  ‘That’s nice of you,’ Mac said. ‘Mrs Martin, this might seem like a strange thing to ask, but did you know Mrs Freer had a gun?’

  Steven Montmorency laughed. ‘Oh, that old thing,’ he said. He piled the washed salad into a spinner and began to turn the handle. ‘Of course we knew. She keeps it under her pillow.’

  ‘It doesn’t work,’ Rina said. ‘I made sure of that the first time I saw it. But it made her feel better to have it so I left well alone. You can only interfere so much in other people’s affairs.’

  ‘I’ve had to have it removed,’ Mac told her reluctantly. ‘When she showed it to me, I had to call uniform and get them to take it away, just to be sure.’

  Steven tutted. ‘Now what will she do?’

  ‘Had to be done, Steven,’ Matthew returned. ‘We kept telling her it wasn’t a good idea.’

  ‘What do you mean we kept telling her? You wouldn’t set foot in the place. You said it stank.’

  ‘I never did.’

  ‘Boys, please! If you must quarrel then take it outside.’ Rina turned her attention back to Mac. ‘What can you do?’ she said. ‘Brothers always quarrel and I’m sure twins are worse.’

  ‘Twins? I …’

  A tiny, almost imperceptible shake of the head came from Rina and Mac trailed off. ‘Right,’ he said, and decided to return to safer ground. ‘The gun. Do you know where she got it from?’

  ‘I would imagine,’ Rina replied, ‘that it belonged to her husband. Matthew, make the tea, would you, I think the kettle is about to screech. Her husband was a member of the local gun club. Years ago that must have been, but she once showed me trophies he had won. I believe he competed all over the country.’

  ‘It looked to be quite an old gun,’ Mac mused.

  ‘Smith & Wesson, thirty-eight, snub-nosed. At one time it was standard US police issue.’

  Mac stared at her. This day was just getting too weird. What was it with elderly ladies in Frantham? Did they all belong to some local militia he hadn’t been told about?

  ‘Lydia Marchant Investigates,’ Steven Montmorency informed him proudly, pointing to the far wall.

  Puzzled, Mac got up to see. ‘Oh, yes.’ Suddenly it all became clear. That vague sense of familiarity he had noted when Rina Martin had let him in. The way she knew about the gun. Well, now it made a little more sense. He studied the black and white publicity shot, comparing it with the woman who faced him across the expanse of scrubbed wooden table.

  ‘Research?’

  Rina nodded. ‘Weapons of one sort or another showed up in the scripts on a regular basis. I always thought I had a duty to get the detail right, even if the stories were sometimes frankly unbelievable.’

  Mac laughed. ‘My mother loved the series,’ he said. ‘My aunt too.’

  ‘Not you?’ Rina’s mouth twitched in a half-smile.

  ‘Mrs Martin, frankly, I can’t watch whodunnits of any kind. They feel too much like homework.’

  Rina laughed then and the stern face was transformed. Mac caught a glimpse of a much younger, much gentler woman. ‘You were very successful,’ he commented. ‘The series ran for years.’

  ‘More than ten,’ she agreed.

  ‘You can catch it on satellite and cable most days,’ Matthew Montmorency told him. ‘And sometimes they show it in the afternoons on proper television. Rina, darling, will you set an extra place for our guest? He’s been salivating ever since he came in and if we wait for him to go the pasta will be ruined.’

  Mac had been going to refuse but it rapidly became clear that he had no say in the matter – and besides, he was hungry. He’d never had much of an appetite until coming to Frantham and, as his last posting had also been coastal, he didn’t think he could blame the sea air. Maybe it was all the walking he’d done. His petrol bill had dropped almost to nothing in the past couple of weeks, while his food consumption had rocketed.

  The table in the dining room was set with blue and white china, heavy, old-fashioned cutlery and an odd assortment of pretty but uncoordinated glasses clustered about a large, cut-glass jug. He found himself seated between two women of Rina’s age, he guessed, though they could have been anything from fifty to seventy. Carefully applied make-up and a light blonde rinse to take the edge off the grey confused the issue for Mac, who was not all that good at guessing a woman’s age anytime.

  These two obviously were sisters and probably real twins, or at least very close in age. Rina introduced them as Eliza and Bethany Peters as she directed Mac to his seat and placed a basket of fresh rolls on the table, instructing him to help himself.

  ‘Where’s Tim?’ Rina asked.

  ‘Marvello is rehearsing,’ said Matthew Montmorency, rolling his eyes in theatrical despair.

  ‘Marvello?’ Rina looked worried. ‘I thought the booking was for The Great Stupendo? I can’t see them wanting a mind-reading act at a children’s party. Steven, fetch him down, will you, and tell him to hurry.’

  Steven Montmorency exited. He had, Mac noted, an odd, shuffling walk, as though his knees hurt if he bent them too much. By contrast, his twin loped along, evoking, to Mac’s mind, some large breed of long-haired hound. A saluki, perhaps.

  The Peters sisters, by contrast, were more the Yorkshire terrier type, not that they were yappy or shrill, but fussy and effusive as they ensured he was comfortable, and competed with each other to get him the best bread roll and the prettiest glass for his water.

  Rina met his gaze and shook her head indulgently. ‘We don’t have too many guests,’ she said.

  Steven returned, carrying the tea tray and followed by a tall, ascetic-looking man that Mac guessed must be Marvello – or Stupendo. He paused for a moment in the doorway, allowing time for everyone to take note of his arrival. When no one did, he pursed his lips and wandered over to his seat, opposite Mac. He looked younger than the others, Mac thought. Too thin, too tall and too spare, dressed entirely in black. Mac remembered what Rina had said about a children’s party and struggled with the image.

  ‘I’m told you’re a policeman,’ Marvello said. ‘I’m Tim, otherwise known as Marvello or The Great Stupendo.’

  ‘DI McGregor, otherwise known as Mac. And you are a magician?’

  ‘So I’m told, yes.’ The studied moroseness of his words was spoiled by the sudden smile. It reached his eyes, sparking life into the drawn and sallow face. ‘Actually, I think of myself more as a mentalist than a magician, you know, like Derren Brown.’

  Mac nodded. ‘Thanks,’ he said as a heaped bowl of pasta and a second of salad were paced before him. ‘I’ve seen him on the TV.’

  Tim laughed. ‘Unfortunately, my agent doesn’t share my vision. He keeps getting me bookings more suited to Coco the clown.’ He dug a fork into his bowl and twirled it enthusiastically, then shrugged. ‘But it’s all work, I suppose. Pays the bills.’ He shoved the loaded fork into his mouth and Mac followed his lead, soon eating with the same silent enthusiasm as the rest gathered about the table. Food in the Rina Martin household was, Mac realized, something to be dealt with in all seriousness and given full regard as one of the important things in life. Like clean sheets and winter pansies.

  Marvello finished first, then took a bread roll and proceeded to stuff it full of salad. He consumed that and started on another. How, Mac wondered, could he eat that much and still be so stick thin?

  ‘So, any leads on these burglaries?’ Marvello asked between bites of overfilled roll.

  Mac shook his head. ‘Mrs Freer said she thought the boys were young, maybe fourteen. That doesn’t really tally with what our other witnesses have said. I’m going to re-interview the other victims this afternoon.’

  ‘Well, we all wish you good luck with that,’ Matthew Montmorency said. ‘I doubt you’ll get much help from the Jubilee.’

  ‘Jubilee?’

  ‘The Jubilee Estate,’ Rina said.

  ‘Ah, Gala Crescent. Yes, of course. Though there have been two more on this road as well, I believe.’ />
  ‘True,’ Matthew went on, ‘but it’ll be kids from the Jubilee responsible, you mark my words.’

  Marvello grimaced. ‘Matthew has a few prejudices,’ he said.

  ‘It isn’t prejudice if it’s true,’ Matthew insisted.

  ‘Well, I’ll be looking at all possibilities,’ Mac assured them. ‘I don’t yet know the Jubilee Estate well. I’m new to the area; you’ll have to give me time to get the lie of the land.’

  ‘New?’ Rina asked.

  ‘New job, yes. I arrived two weeks ago.’

  ‘And do you like it here?’

  ‘So far, yes I do.’

  ‘Is it very different from your last position?’

  ‘It’s quiet,’ he said. ‘I was told it would be when I applied.’

  ‘Quiet except for this mini crime wave of ours,’ Rina reminded him sternly.

  Mac nodded. ‘Apart from that.’

  ‘Well.’ Rina stood and began to stack the crockery. ‘I’m sure you’ll soon have that sorted, won’t you?’

  Would I dare not? Mac thought.

  Five

  Mac arrived back at the police station just before they shut up shop at five. Cover, from that point in the evening, had to come all the way from Dorchester or Weymouth.

  ‘Had a busy day, I hear?’ DI Eden emerged from his office, coffee mug in hand that exuded fumes of more than hot coffee.

  ‘It’s been eventful,’ Mac agreed.

  ‘Find anything new, apart from one armed and dangerous old lady?’ He guffawed loudly and took a swig from his mug. ‘Come on through.’

  Mac followed Eden into the warm office, shedding coat and scarf and gloves. He took a seat in one of the two old-fashioned captain’s chairs. Eden took the other. ‘Any news on the weapon?’ he asked.

  ‘Non-functional,’ Eden confirmed.

  ‘Good, but she still can’t go round waving it at people.’

  ‘People who should not be breaking into her house,’ Eden observed. ‘But no, it isn’t a good idea.’

  Mac remarked to himself, not for the first time, that his boss was fond of understatement. ‘I went back and re-interviewed the earlier victims. Or at least, those who were home and willing to talk.’

  ‘How many did you find?’

  ‘Well, I talked to a Mrs Emmet on Gala Crescent and also to Julie Harper.’

  ‘First and second burglaries, right?’

  Mac nodded. ‘The Bakers, victims of the third break-in, were out but seem to have acquired a very large dog.’

  Eden laughed again. ‘Anything new?’

  A lot of abuse, but that wasn’t new. ‘I gained the impression that both Mrs Emmet and Julie Harper had a good idea who might be responsible but—’

  ‘But they weren’t saying. It’ll be local kids. We had a spate of this before.’ He delved into one of the precarious stacks of paperwork piled on the left-hand side of his desk, produced a list. ‘PlayStation and games, mobile phone, a bit of cash. Kids.’

  ‘Could be drugs related.’

  Eden shook his head. ‘Not round here,’ he said. ‘We just don’t get it. The other two though, now I’m not so sure that was just kids after toys.’

  Mac agreed. ‘Neither of the householders on Newell Street were at home. The neighbours came out and had a look at me, wanted to know what I wanted and then, when they found out who I was, they asked what I was doing about it.’

  Eden nodded. ‘That sounds about right. Oh, don’t be fooled, the whole of the Jubilee Estate would have known your business from the moment you set foot on Gala Crescent, but on the whole they’ve a policy of not talking to coppers. It’s a different picture on Newell Street. Different attitude.’

  ‘It’s an odd road,’ Mac said thoughtfully. ‘Those big houses up at the top end and then – what are they – housing association down the other end?’

  ‘Run by the Alderman Calvin Trust, yes. So is the old folks’ home. You see that?’

  ‘Circular thing? Ugly yellow brick?’

  ‘That’ll be the one. Don’t know how the planners got away with it.’ Eden sounded disgusted. ‘Palms greased somewhere along the line, must have been. That’s the only excuse I can think of for allowing anyone to build such cheap-skate rubbish. Any nosy neighbours have anything useful to tell?’

  ‘Useful? No, I don’t think so. A lot of talk about kids hanging about and some complaints about motorbikes on the wasteland. They seemed to connect the two.’

  Eden nodded. ‘Wasteland to the back of the tin huts?’

  ‘Tin huts?’

  ‘Oh,’ Eden amended, ‘that’s what the locals call them, seeing as most started out that way and some are little better even now. Small industrial units, some little bits of manufacturing. There’s a local carpenter, painter and decorator, pair of brothers that make specialist machine tools, that sort of thing. Go and take a look tomorrow. You can check out the bike riders too. Take Andy with you; do him good to get outside.’

  Andy, Mac recollected, was the red-haired probationer, on attachment from Dorchester but to what purpose Mac had yet to work out. ‘I had an interesting encounter with Rina Martin,’ he said.

  ‘We thought you might enjoy that,’ Eden said.

  ‘You know her well?’

  ‘Everyone knows Rina. Know her well? No, I don’t think I do but she usually has her finger on the local pulse. What did she have to say?’

  Mac thought through what he had gleaned from the post-lunch conversation. Rina and the others had been free with their opinions, true, but out of the general discussion had come some interesting points. ‘She’d agree with us,’ Mac said at last. ‘That the robberies were different. That it was probably local kids on the Jubilee that robbed the properties on Gala Crescent, opportunists out for what they already knew was there. The three break-ins on Newell were more speculative, somehow. Or at least the first two were. Mrs Freer was certain that the two who tried to get into her house were young, not more than fourteen or so, and they scared easily.’

  ‘Easily? The gun would have been enough, surely, even if it was an old lady holding it. I’d have left in a hurry, I can tell you.’

  ‘Hmm, maybe. But what was taken was a little different too. Sure, on the second robbery they took a games machine, but the search was more systematic. They looked for money and jewellery, didn’t just grab what was in plain view.’

  ‘I’d agree,’ Eden said. ‘The other oddity was the passports. The second robbery. Mr and Mrs Green. Both retired but not too badly off. They were planning a couple of weeks in Spain, to get away from our wonderful British winter. Kids wouldn’t bother with passports. No one would bother with passports unless they had the means to sell them on.’ He rummaged for another list. ‘Passports, some bits of jewellery, nothing exceptionally valuable but some of it sentimental. Nothing distinctive enough that it would be hard to shift. Mobile phone, cash and a few bits of silver. The Greens had more cash in the house than usual because of the planned holiday. They were intending to get it changed the following day.’

  ‘And someone knew.’

  ‘Anyone could have known. They were excited about their holiday. Talked to neighbours, told friends in the local pub. People do.’

  Mac nodded. ‘The pub,’ he said.

  ‘I asked. The Railway. And yes, a couple of the other victims drink there too, but so does half the Jubilee Estate and most of the bottom end of Newell Street too. It’s closest.’

  ‘Might be worth a look though.’

  ‘Feel free.’ Eden eased himself out of his chair. Mac had heard that he was once quite an athlete but that must have been a while ago, before the belly grew large enough to cover his belt buckle and he acquired the jowls that took a full second or two to catch up with the movement of his head. Eden still thought like a policeman, Mac thought, but he was starting to act like one already retired, not someone who still had four months to go.

  He’d heard rumours that bad health had brought Eden to this backwater posting. Welcome to Fr
antham-on-Sea, rest home for worn-out coppers.

  He followed Eden’s lead and made for the door, bidding goodnight to the other two inhabitants, the desk sergeant and Andy the probationer, informing the latter that he was with Mac in the morning, working the burglary case. He could almost see the red hair wilt.

  Mac made his slow way home, stopping off at the convenience store for essentials. He had managed to get a flat overlooking the promenade, but only on a temporary contract. From Easter onwards it was let out to holidaymakers at extortionate weekly rates and Mac would have to find something permanent by then. He had started to look in a half-hearted sort of way, but even the knowledge that his let had less than a month to run was not enough to spur him on.

  His flat was on the top floor of a house like Peverill Lodge. The view was spectacular, taking in the whole of Frantham Bay. Mac could see Marlborough Head rising above the undercliff, and the posh side of town and Druidston Point, known locally as Druston, marking the boundary to his left. Beyond that, just hidden from view by the point, was the small harbour and the ‘old town’, the remnants of Frantham village as it once had been.

  Mac deposited his shopping on the table – living room and kitchen combined in the one area – and drew the curtains, pausing to observe the cold grey ocean in the fast fading light. He glanced reflexively towards Marlborough Head. Twice now, late in the evening, he had seen lights close to Marlborough, where the cliff jutted farthest out into the sea, guarding the bay, and he had wondered who might be daft enough to be out in a boat so close to the rocks at the base of the cliffs and so late at night. He had meant to mention it to Eden, ask if the coastguard patrolled and if that would account for the lights, but he kept forgetting.

  He put the kettle on to boil and set about preparing his evening meal, thanking the god of microwaves and ready meals. I’d like a drink, he thought. A glass of wine. The shop sold wine. I could pop back.

  Immediately he dismissed the thought. He hadn’t drunk in months, not since … not since the days after the child had died, when he had collapsed in upon himself so completely and utterly that the remnants of self could be confined easily within a whisky glass.