To Die For
Hidden Norfolk - Book 9
J M Dalgliesh
Contents
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To Die For
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
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First published by Hamilton Press in 2021
Copyright © J M Dalgliesh, 2021
The right of J M Dalgliesh to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a purely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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To Die For
Prologue
The door closed and the latch clicked as it dropped into place. He looked across the room to the figure standing resolutely at the door, one hand resting on the frame, head bowed. The footsteps on the decking faded as the last guests walked to their cars. The only sound was the ticking of the clock mounted above the fireplace; a monotonous staccato as the hand moved around the face. He watched the movement, sitting bolt upright on the sofa, hands on his knees, for almost a full revolution until it hit twelve and the minute hand passed effortlessly to midday.
His brother sighed, drawing his eyes to him as he came to the centre of the room, breaking his concentration. He didn't speak in reply to the gesture, which was undoubtedly his brother's intention when making the noise, but he merely followed the younger man with his eyes as he first loosened his tie, unbuttoned his shirt at the collar, and then sank into the armchair to his right shaking his head slowly. His brother looked at the clock.
"It's been a long day."
He nodded briefly but still said nothing.
"And it's only lunchtime."
His brother stared hard at him, his eyes narrowing, their gaze fixed on one another.
"Do you… think we should have done more?"
It was a curious question. Open ended. He shrugged, unsure of what he was expected to say. This was one of the things that regularly irritated him about his sibling, this innate need to analyse every detail, to explore the possibilities of what has happened, could happen or would happen in any given scenario. What did it matter? What was done was done and couldn't be revisited. His brother misinterpreted the movement.
"About holding a wake, I mean?" he said, running the palm of his hand slowly back and forth across his chin. "It's one thing to have a handful of people back here but…"
He cocked his head to one side.
"But what?"
"We could have done more, couldn't we?"
The suggestion irritated him but he didn't know why. His brow furrowed. The expression appeared to please his brother for some reason because a half-smile crept onto his face.
"So, you are still in there then."
The irritation grew.
"I wasn't aware that I'd ever left."
His brother sighed again, lowering his head into his hands. He ruffled his hair before sitting up.
"I think it's time we talked, don't you?"
"About what?"
"Well…" he looked around. "This place for starters."
He followed his brother's eye around the room. Everywhere he looked reminded him of their mother. The pictures on the walls were all her choices. She was obsessed with the southern Mediterranean, the mountains of Spain, the vineyards of Bordeaux and the rolling hills of Tuscany, all reflected in her choice of painting or framed photography. They were all prints of course. She'd never been to any of them. In fact, he couldn't remember her ever having left Norfolk, let alone ventured abroad. So, what was it? The exotic implication of faraway lands? He didn't know. There was every chance his mother didn't know where any of these places were. It didn't matter. Not to him anyway.
"So, what do you think?"
The tone in his brother's voice suggested this was a repeated question. He met his eye.
"About?"
"Keep or sell? The land is probably worth more if we parcel it up and the house," he looked around again, almost like he could imagine an estate agent appraising the value, "would fetch a tidy sum if we fixed her up a bit."
"It's not for sale."
"Excuse me?"
He licked his lower lip. It felt as dry as his mouth.
"I said it's not for sale. I'm not selling."
"But that's what we need to talk about—"
"No." He shook his head, rising from the sofa and crossing to the sideboard; opening the top drawer. Picking up an envelope, he returned to stand in front of his younger brother and handed it over. His brother took it from him and lifted the flap. He returned to his place on the sofa and sat back down, once again resting his palms on his knees. Looking back at the clock, he watched the second hand begin another pass of the clock face as his brother flipped through the pages nearby.
"B-But… this has to be wrong—"
"It's not wrong," he said, eyes fixed on the clock. "Read it for yourself—"
"I have read it." There was tension in his voice, more than merely displeasure. Shock, maybe? "I can bloody read! I just can't believe she… why would she do this to me?"
He turned away from the clock to observe his brother who was staring at the pages in his hand, lips parted, eyes wide.
"Like I said. It's not for sale. None of it."
"But she can't do this!"
"And yet she has."
His brother lurched to his feet, scrunching the paper in his grasp and brandishing it before him as he came
to stand over him, glaring down at him.
"This wasn't what she said she'd do."
He shook his head. "It doesn't matter what she said. It is what it is."
"And you're happy with this, are you?"
It was disbelief. That was what he'd heard in his tone before, disbelief at the decisions their mother had made towards the end of her life. He thought his younger brother a little odd at that moment, but that wasn't for the first time either. They'd always been different as far back as he could remember. Their approach to life, friendships – parents – were vastly at odds with one another and noticeably so to the point, that if they didn't look so alike one might conclude they were of different parentage.
He shrugged. "Like I said. It is what it is."
"You did this!" His brother shook the paper in front of him and then, having not elicited the expected response, threw the papers in his face. The disbelief was gone now, replaced first by indignation and now by fury. "I'll not take it lying down."
He angled his head to one side, pursed his lips and looked up at his brother. The skin of his face was blotchy, turning that pinky-red colour it does when frustration gets the better of you. A flash of anger that must be kept in check no matter what. The alternative was to lose control. That was something else his brother was good at, losing control. He was one of the most undisciplined people he'd ever known. Most people would feel vulnerable at this point faced with such a combustible individual but he remained calm, unfazed. His brother was many things, many of them bad, but violence had never been a thing up to this point in his life at any rate.
"There are things I can do… people I can go to… solicitors and stuff."
He shrugged. "Do what you feel you have to—"
"I'm entitled to what's mine, damn you."
"That's not what Mum thought."
"You did this to me, didn't you? Staying here, working on her day after day? You did this."
He shook his head. "We didn't talk about it, not until near the end. It is what she wanted, not me."
His brother was furious, his hands by his side, fists balled and hands shaking.
"So, what are you going to do? How will you manage?"
"I will… somehow."
His anger seemed to dissipate then and he threw back his head and laughed. A dismissive sound, hollow and artificial.
"You'll manage! Have you seen all these?" he said, marching over to the kitchen table and returning with a stack of envelopes, many unopened and stamped on the exterior with red ink, and hurling them at him. The envelopes bounced off him harmlessly and he ignored the confrontational gesture, turning his gaze back to the clock. "If Mum and Dad, with your help, couldn't make this place work how the hell are you going to go it alone?"
"I'll manage," he said slowly, a smile crossing his face.
He didn't watch his brother leave or listen to what he was mumbling, no doubt curses…. The next he heard was the door slamming shut. The sound of footsteps on the decking receded and he looked around the family home, picturing the memories: children, fun and family occasions. His eye drifted to an old grainy photograph taken on the beach barely a quarter of a mile from where he was sitting, the two boys in dungarees, smiling, each holding a mother's hand as they paddled in the gentle surf. They couldn't have been more than five or six years old that day. Days like those would return.
He would find a way. What else did he have to do?
Chapter One
The car bottomed out on the unmade track up to the house. The driver winced. Not because of the sound of the sump grating against the loose stones and the frozen earth, but the dark look on his wife’s face.
"I know, love, I know."
The admission did little to lighten her expression.
"I was supposed to be there by now. You know what my mum is like when I'm late—"
"Two minutes, no more. I promise."
"Honestly, Gary. Why couldn't you just phone him."
He sighed. "I have phoned him… several times but he's not picking up."
"Maybe he doesn't want the work."
Gary laughed, the car jolting on the uneven surface as they bounced along. The access track to the property could do with some tender loving care, that was for certain.
"Since when have you ever known Billy to turn down work? Particularly when it's cash in hand?"
His wife, Jenny, thought about it as she firmly grasped the door handle and muttered a curse under her breath as they lurched to the left.
"Ill then?"
Gary inclined his head, still focussed on steering the car via the path of least resistance. "Yeah, maybe." He looked over at her. "But, again, when was the last time you remember Billy being sick?"
She tutted. "What do you think I am, his secretary or something? I've barely spoken to the man."
Gary glanced sideways briefly at her but said nothing. They reached the five-bar gate at the entrance to the property, a timber cabin in the centre of a clearing some four hundred yards from the highway along the unadopted road. He stopped the car. The place was in darkness. That in itself wasn't necessarily unusual as it was mid-afternoon, but the day was overcast even for mid-March. Spring seemed tantalisingly close but was yet to assert itself. There was still a chill wind coming in off the sea, winter's last gasp; an attempt to hold onto them before allowing the onset of warmer weather. The least he'd expect to have seen though, was a curl of smoke drifting up from the chimney but, aside from the branches of the surrounding trees swaying in the breeze, everything in the yard was still.
"Do you think he's home?" Jenny asked.
Gary leaned forward over the dashboard, squinting as he scanned the outside of the property. The cabin was a single-storey affair, dilapidated and in need of repair with the exterior cladding rotting in places and two of the windows had obvious cracks in them. Besides the main residence there was a collection of outbuildings, although the term was arguably at odds with the reality, for they were little more than an ageing mix of haphazardly placed sheds incorporating several makeshift lean-tos. A three-berth caravan was set to the right of the furthest one on the far side of the yard. It was once white but was now faded to a grungy tone of cream tinged with a strange green growth across the exterior including the windows which were themselves shrouded by dirty old curtains anyway. Moss grew on the roof and the tyres were flat. The caravan hadn't moved in years.
"His car is there," Gary said, pointing to a small blue Nissan hatchback parked to the side of the cabin. "And his tractor is there as well."
"Geez… does that thing still move?"
Gary smiled. She was right. It was an ancient Ford model that predated the current safety regulations for agricultural machinery, it didn't even have a cabin. It was an agricultural relic, but Billy somehow managed to still keep it running. That was testament to the man's skills.
"Come on. Let's go and give him a knock."
Jenny didn't speak as he pulled the car into the yard. Two spaniels appeared from their makeshift kennels and ran to the boundary of their chain-link fencing, excitedly barking at them and jumping up against the barrier.
"Well, he wouldn't go on holiday without asking someone to have the dogs," Jenny said, absently watching their frantically wagging tails as Gary brought the car to a standstill.
"Billy go on holiday? As if he would," Gary said, cracking his door open. "And he wouldn't agree to the work if he knew he was going to be away, would he?"
Jenny shot another dark look in his direction and internally Gary regretted being so dismissive. She was already annoyed and he should know better than to poke the beast inside her.
"I just meant he's not the holiday-taking kind, is he?"
"He used to go away though, didn't he? A while back, I mean."
Gary held the door open with his hand but didn't get out, a cold draught passing over him as he thought about it. She was right, again; Billy used to go away for a couple of weeks every year, but that was some time ago now, although he had
been away the previous year for a few days but he couldn't remember where. He'd forgotten about the annual breaks Billy used to take. He never said where he was going. He shook the thought away and got out.
"Two minutes!"
He smiled at her. "You don't fancy coming in then?"
She shook her head. "Nah. Gives me the creeps."
Gary looked over his shoulder at the cabin. "It's not that bad."
"Not the house – him."
He waved away her comment and shut the door, approaching the steps and mounting them up onto the decking. There wasn't a doorbell, just an old-style brass bell with a cord hanging from the clapper to the right. He glanced back at Jenny watching him intently from the car. She raised her hand and pointedly tapped the watch on her wrist. He looked away and rang the bell. The dull sound reverberated in his head and set the dogs barking again.
There was no movement from within and Gary leaned closer to the pane of glass in the door and tried to peer through the netting hanging from the other side. He could just about make out the interior but there was nothing of note. The car horn startled him and he jumped. Spinning around, he glared at Jenny whom he could see laughing. Dispensing with the bell, he rapped his knuckles on the glass door and called out.
To Die For: A chilling British detective crime thriller (The Hidden Norfolk Murder Mystery Series Book 9) Page 1
