Table of Contents
Cover
A Selection of Recent Titles From Priscilla Masters
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
A Selection of Recent Titles from Priscilla Masters
The Martha Gunn Mystery Series
RIVER DEEP
SLIP KNOT
FROZEN CHARLOTTE *
SMOKE ALARM *
THE DEVIL’S CHAIR *
The Joanna Piercy Mysteries
WINDING UP THE SERPENT
CATCH THE FALLEN SPARROW
A WREATH FOR MY SISTER
AND NONE SHALL SLEEP
SCARING CROWS
EMBROIDERING SHROUDS
ENDANGERING INNOCENTS
WINGS OVER THE WATCHER
GRAVE STONES
A VELVET SCREAM *
THE FINAL CURTAIN *
GUILTY WATERS *
* available from Severn House
GUILTY WATERS
Priscilla Masters
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
This first world edition published 2014
in Great Britain and 2015 in the USA by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.
Trade paperback edition first published 2015 in Great
Britain and the USA by SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.
eBook edition first published in 2015 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2014 by Priscilla Masters.
The right of Priscilla Masters to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Masters, Priscilla author.
Guilty waters. – (Joanna Piercy series)
1. Piercy, Joanna (Fictitious character)–Fiction.
2. Missing persons–Investigation–Fiction.
3. Women detectives–England–Staffordshire–Fiction.
4. Detective and mystery stories.
I. Title II. Series
823.9’2-dc23
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8461-9 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-564-3 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-612-0 (e-book)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,
Stirlingshire, Scotland.
By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin’ lazy at the sea,
There’s a Burma girl a-settin’, and I know she thinks o’ me;
For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say:
‘Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!’
Come you back to Mandalay,
Where the old Flotilla lay:
Can’t you ’ear their paddles chunkin’ from Rangoon to Mandalay?
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the flyin’-fishes play,
An’ the dawn comes up like thunder outer China ’crost the Bay!
’Er petticoat was yaller an’ ’er little cap was green,
An’ ’er name was Supi-yaw-lat – jes’ the same as Theebaw’s Queen,
An’ I seed her first a-smokin’ of a whackin’ white cheroot,
An’ a-wastin’ Christian kisses on an ’eathen idol’s foot:
Bloomin’ idol made o’ mud
Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd
Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed ’er where she stud!
On the road to Mandalay …
Excerpt from ‘Mandalay’, Barrack-Room Ballads and Other Verses,
Rudyard Kipling, 1892
ONE
Sunday, 19 May, 2014
He spotted the picture at a car boot fair on a rainy day in May. Amongst the piles of outgrown toys and racks of clothes, bric-a-brac spread out randomly on plastic sheets, Barker spotted a framed print leaning against a trestle table looking straight at him, seduction in her eyes. As though pulled on a string he moved towards the exoticism which beckoned him across the muddy field. Pushing a few people out of his way he strode towards her, quickening his pace as he grew nearer. It was her. He knew her. He recognized her.
It was Supi-yaw-lat. The girl from the poem – the very poem he had named Mandalay after. Right down to the ground. Petticoat yaller. Little cap green. Well, she’d left that off today to show her lovely thick black hair.
He picked it up and studied it closer, almost smelling her exotic perfume – oleander, patchouli, musk. He liked everything about her, from the shining, embroidered gold of her exotic costume to the pensive look on her face. Her foreign features, full red lips, dark, dark hair. She looked … Barker put his head on one side. Burmese, of course. She had to be. There was only one strange thing about her that jarred: her skin colour. It was a sort of unhealthy blue/green. It was not realistic. What had the artist been thinking of to distort such a beautiful face? Why had he painted her skin tone that strange, dead colour, as though she was not from Burma but from somewhere else, maybe another planet? Barker narrowed his eyes. It was the only thing that annoyed him.
But he still had to have her, to take her home, as it were, to live with him. He held the picture at arm’s length and studied her closer.
‘It’s a bargain that,’ the vendor put in, standing far too close behind him, trying to push the sale with his smoky breath. ‘Most popular picture of the sixties.’ He had a slight cockney accent which made him appear a bit of a spiv, a wide boy. A cheat. Barker turned to look at him, took in the mean, grabbing little eyes, the thin mouth, the hands wafting him towards a purchase. And the man rattled on: ‘Practically an icon of the sixties.’ When Barker said nothing in response he continued with his spiel, walking around him to stand next to the picture. ‘That’s more than fifty years ago, of course. Now she’s practically an antique.’ He glanced slyly at Barker. ‘Maybe I should put a nought on the end of the price.’
Barker stiffened. He wasn’t paying a hundred pounds for her.
The vendor looked affectionately at his picture. ‘Know what they called her?’
Barker shook his head, mesmerized by the dark invite in the girl’s slanting eyes, so dark they wer
e unreadable, and contrasting almost glaringly with the gleaming richness of the yellow shawl that half-covered the red dress.
The guy laughed through tobacco-stained teeth. ‘The real title is Miss Wong but they call her the kitsch Mona Lisa.’ He giggled and Barker eyed him, puzzled. What was funny about that? It was … insulting. He looked curiously at the woman. She didn’t seem kitsch to him, although she was a sort of inviting, exotic Mona Lisa. He felt almost protective towards her. He wanted to defend her against that horrid description – kitsch.
The vendor’s mouth was open wide and he was still laughing, which made Barker want to punch him. He bunched up his fists but kept his arms rigidly by his side. He was not really the fighting sort.
The vendor hadn’t finished with him yet. ‘Want to know something else, mate?’
Barker’s hostility was compounded. This man was certainly not his mate.
The dealer picked up the girl and held her at arm’s length, his hands gripping the frame so hard his knuckles showed through, knobs of blue/white bone. He put his face close to Barker so he could smell his breath. ‘It’s the most reproduced painting in the whole world.’
Barker eyed the girl with suspicion. He wasn’t sure he was pleased she had put herself around quite so much. He frowned. It sounded … well … cheap. The dealer saw the frown and continued hastily, studying both the picture and his potential customer hard, trying to find the right words to complete the sale. ‘Yeah. She’s popular, Miss Wong.’
Barker’s face tightened. ‘Oh, no,’ he said clearly and with dignity. ‘Her name is Supi-yaw-lat.’
The vendor gaped at him. Was this guy for real? Was he even sane?
But Barker knew she was not Miss Wong. That wasn’t her name at all. He knew exactly who she was. And now he had identified her, when he looked at her he felt conspiratorial. Oh, what fun, what adventures they would have together, he and Supi-yaw-lat. What sights they would see together! There was only one thing he didn’t know. ‘Who painted her?’
A couple had approached the stall, which was little more than a flimsy plastic gazebo to shelter potential customers from the gusts of rain, and were peering over his shoulder at the picture. Barker panicked. What if they liked her too? What if they knew the poem and her real name?
The vendor was losing interest in him and was eyeing up the couple, sizing up their purchasing potential and comparing them favourably with the weirdo in front of him. He didn’t even look at Barker when he answered the question. ‘Don’t know, mate. There’s some sort of name in the corner. Looks Russian or somethin’.’
Barker felt resentful. People did this to him all the time: got bored with him, turned their attention to someone else. Anyone else was better to speak to than Barker.
The vendor was talking quickly to the couple now. Trying to sell the girl to them.
‘Frame’s nice too, ain’t it?’
The frame was, in fact, horrible. Chipped white gloss paint on a narrow, mass-produced sliver of wood. Cheap as chips, Barker thought. Cheaper even. And an insult to her. He would have painted the frame gold.
He eyed up the vendor, wondering how much he would have to pay for Supi-yaw-lat. The vendor was short and plump with a lazy, lardy face. He was wearing ill-fitting jeans looped below a beer belly and a thin brown fleece that was slipping off his shoulders and he shrugged back up when he thought about it. He had pale brown eyes, almost the same colour as the fleece. His hair was sparse, grey and wispy and he had very bad teeth, a missing incisor and a mean look to him, as though he would squeeze every penny out of Barker. ‘It’s just a print,’ he said dismissively, tossing the words over his shoulder, ‘but a very famous one.’
Barker nodded again, sure that she would rather come home with him than stay here on this seedy stall, on this muddy field crowded with tat. He was already apologizing to her for what he was about to do. But sometimes bad things had to be done. She had a role but she wasn’t his yet. He fingered his purse and peered ostentatiously at the label – £10, it read. And now he had a quandary. At car boot fairs it was his policy always to bargain. It was expected of you. That was what people came to car boot fairs for – to bargain away as though you were in a souk. Arguing over the pounds and the pence was part of the fun. But she was watching him. He couldn’t bargain right in front of her, treating her no better than if she was on parade at a slave market. He pulled his purse out of his pocket and took out a ten-pound note, looking at it reluctantly as he handed it over, feeling the loss as keenly as a bereavement. Barker worked hard for his money. He disliked waste and tried to justify every penny he spent.
The man grabbed the tenner. ‘Wanna bag?’
Barker shook his head. ‘No, thanks.’
‘You be careful,’ the man said, pocketing the money and widening his grin to display almost all of his gaps and horribly stained teeth. ‘She has a way with men.’
Barker didn’t reply. Supi-yaw-lat was safely tucked underneath his arm as he strode across the field, back towards his car. She was his. He put her carefully, face up, in the boot. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said to her as she watched him suspiciously. ‘I’ll try not to hurt you too much.’
In her face he had already read forgiveness.
TWO
Barker was home in less than half an hour.
Home was a large, Victorian house within sight of Rudyard Lake, today rain-spattered and grey. The house had originally belonged to his mother and father, but his father had died years ago, leaving him alone with his mother. It had seemed too big a house for the two of them and money was tight, but neither had wanted to abandon it so Barker’s mother, Dora, had hit on the bright idea of opening it up as a guest house. That had been ten years ago, when they had rebranded Laurel Lodge as Mandalay and marketed it using Kipling’s image both as their logo and their icon. The thick moustache and rimless glasses looked good on their business cards and even better on the website Barker had perfected five years ago.
Of course, they had needed to carry out some alterations over the years. Tastes in décor had changed radically. People these days expected en suite bathrooms, the highest standards of cleanliness and a good breakfast to send them on their way. But this had been no problem to either Barker or his mother, and they had made a tidy profit until his mother had had a stroke three years ago and died shortly after, leaving Barker to do all the cleaning himself plus all the cooking – breakfasts only, mind – as well as keeping Mandalay in reasonable condition. He also did all the laundry and acknowledged it had been a struggle, but all in all it was a very satisfactory business. Many of the people who stayed were Kipling fans who appreciated the relaxed atmosphere and prints of colonial India as well as the framed printouts of his better known poems. ‘If’ was always going to be popular and featured in four of the rooms, but ‘Mandalay’ was Barker’s favourite. Most occupants were either couples or climbers. Holiday makers mostly, and a few families, though he didn’t encourage children. Truth was he didn’t like them.
At the moment he had a young couple from Berkshire and a teacher from Holland, who appeared to be travelling around the country on her own in a small red Citroen. She spoke such excellent English that Barker found it hard to believe she was Dutch. However, luckily, both the young couple and the Dutch girl were out for the day and not due back until this evening. At the moment he had Mandalay to himself. Himself and Supi-yaw-lat.
He opened the front door to the empty house then, returning to his car, he lifted Supi out of the boot, carried her inside and placed her, face up, on the kitchen table. He felt guilty as she eyed him with her two slanting eyes. She must be wondering what he was about to do to her. He evaded her gaze and trotted out to his garden shed, returning with a Stanley knife then carefully, very carefully, oh so carefully, apologies bubbling out of his mouth like water from a spring, he cut around the outline of her left eye, the blade slicing easily through the backboard. Then he picked the picture up, turned it around and put his own eye to the hole. Now he and Supi
-yaw-lat could watch their own peep show together. He took her upstairs into the small twin-bed room, next to the box room, and hung her on the wall that stood between them. With a gimlet, he marked the spot where he needed to drill a hole through from the other side. Ten minutes later? Job done.
He stood back. There was one problem that worried him. His own eyes were blue, whereas his lady’s eyes were dark. Very dark – almost a black hole in her oriental face. It was possible that his eye, peering through, would look too bright. He would just have to hope that no one noticed.
Ever.
THREE
Four months later
Saturday, 7 September, 10 a.m.
On the outskirts of Paris, in the suburb of Vincennes, Madame Cécile Bellange was looking at the mantelpiece on which stood a very fine Japy Frères boulle clock. A postcard was propped against it. For the umpteenth time since she had put it there she picked it up and studied the picture. It looked such a nice place, a pretty lake, a few boats sailing. A train in the background. People in the foreground all looking happy. She smiled. Happy families. Children, dogs, all running around, throwing balls, enjoying themselves. The English at play at a lake called Rudyard. She turned the postcard over and read the back. Again.
Maman, it read, c’est beau ici. Les gens sont très sympathiques et nous avons trouvé un endroit propre agréable où séjourner. Se détendre. Il n’est pas trop cher. Nous avons encore de l’argent de côté. Vous nous verrez, quand nous aurons dépensé tout notre argent. J’ai découvert le letterboxing. Je t’embrasse, Annabelle XXXXXX
It was clear the girls were having a good time, Annabelle talking about how beautiful it was there, how friendly the people were and how they’d found a clean, nice place to stay which wasn’t too expensive. They still had money left, and Cécile would see them when it ran out. Her daughter had discovered letterboxing. She had signed off by sending her love.
Guilty Waters Page 1
