Death Rope E-Book

Leigh Russell

• Herausgeber: No Exit Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Seitenzahl: 449

Beschreibung

Introducing the electrifying eleventh instalment in the million-copy-selling Detective Geraldine Steel series, where Leigh Russell's masterful storytelling will leave you breathless. Mark Abbott's death is shrouded in mystery. In an apparent suicide, he is found hanged at his home, but his dogged sister refuses to accept that explanation certain there must be something more sinister at play. Enter Detective Sergeant Geraldine Steel, the only one willing to dig deeper to uncover the truth. When members of Mark's family suddenly vanish into thin air, Geraldine's suspicions intensify. But her investigation takes an unexpectedly dangerous turn when she finds herself face-to-face with a foe more deadly than anything she has ever encountered. Can she outsmart this adversary and survive the perilous game they're playing? With time running out, Geraldine's boss, Ian, is closing in. Will he arrive in the nick of time to rescue her from the brink, or is this the end for Geraldine Steel? Prepare for a heart-pounding rollercoaster ride as Leigh Russell delivers a chilling tale that will keep you on the edge of your seat. Don't miss your chance to experience the electrifying world of Geraldine Steel in this unputdownable novel which can be enjoyed as a stand-alone

Leseprobe

DEATH ROPE

THE ELEVENTH GERALDINE STEEL MYSTERY

Mark Abbott is dead. His sister refuses to believe it was suicide but only Geraldine will listen. When other members of Mark’s family disappear, the police start to take notice.

With three dead bodies and few leads, Geraldine is under pressure. Taking a risk, she finds herself confronted by an adversary deadlier than any she has faced before… Her boss Ian is close, but will he arrive in time to save her, or is this the end for Geraldine Steel?

CRITICAL ACCLAIM FOR LEIGH RUSSELL

'taut and compelling' - Peter James

'Leigh Russell is one to watch' - Lee Child

'Leigh Russell has become one of the most impressively dependable purveyors of the English police procedural' - Marcel Berlins, Times

'A brilliant talent in the thriller field.' - Jeffery Deaver

To Michael, Joanna, Phillipa, Phil, Rian and Kezia

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank Dr Leonard Russell for his expert medical advice, and all my contacts in the Metropolitan Police for their invaluable assistance.

Producing a book is a team effort. I am fortunate to have the guidance of a brilliant editor, Keshini Naidoo. I am very grateful to Ion Mills, Claire Watts, Clare Quinlivan, Katherine Sunderland, Frances Teehan, Jem Cook and all the team at No Exit Press, who transform my words into books. I would also like to thank Anne Cater and her wonderful team for organising my blog tour. I am grateful for their support which has been invaluable.

My final thanks go to Michael, who is always with me.

Glossary of acronyms

DCI – Detective Chief Inspector (senior officer on case)

DI – Detective Inspector

DS – Detective Sergeant

SOCO – scene of crime officer (collects forensic evidence at scene)

PM – Post Mortem or Autopsy (examination of dead body to establish cause of death)

CCTV – Closed Circuit Television (security cameras)

VIIDO – Visual Images, Identification and Detections Office

MIT – Murder Investigation Team

Preface

Reaching her in waves, the shrill sound seemed to come from somewhere inside her head. It was a few seconds before she realised she was listening to her own screams. For an instant she stood transfixed, a helpless spectator, before she ran outside, bawling for help. Thankfully the gardener was there, and he followed her back into the hall where her husband was hanging from the banister. As she fell silent, she could hear him grunting with the effort of supporting the body. His arms clasped around her husband’s legs, he struggled to stop the rope from pulling taut. Above them, Mark’s arms swung limply, and his head hung at an odd angle. She was aware of the gardener’s mouth moving before she realised he was yelling at her to call an ambulance. Trying to nod, she couldn’t move. Her eyes were glued to a ghoulish caricature of a familiar face, bloated tongue protruding between dry lips, tiny red dots of blood speckling the whites of bulging eyes. She stared, mesmerised, at a drop of saliva crawling down his chin, trying to work out whether it was still moving.

The gardener glared at her, and she realised he was still shouting at her to call for help. As if in a dream, she reached for her phone and dialled 999.

A voice on the line responded with unreal composure, assuring her that help was on its way.

‘What does that mean?’ she gabbled. ‘When will they get here?’

‘They’re on their way.’

Time seemed to hang suspended, like the body.

They waited.

Looking down, she struggled to control an urge to salvage her shopping: tomatoes had rolled across the floor, along with other soft foods she had carefully packed on top of packets and tins. One tomato had already been trodden into the carpet. While she was dithering she heard a siren, followed by hammering at the door, and then her own voice, oddly calm, inviting uniformed men into the house.

Of course they were too late to save him. She had known that all along.

Contents

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

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Also by Leigh Russell

About the author

Copyright

1

Geraldine smiled at her adopted sister. Despite her complaints about disturbed nights, Celia looked happier than Geraldine had seen her in a long time. Her month-old baby snuffled gently in his sleep as she rocked him gently in her arms.

‘Would you like to hold him?’ Celia asked.

Still smiling, Geraldine shook her head. ‘It might wake him up. Anyway, I really should get going.’

‘It’s still early,’ Celia protested. ‘Even you can’t pretend you’ve got to get back for work tonight. It’s Sunday, for goodness sake. Why don’t you stay overnight and go home tomorrow?’

As a detective sergeant working on murder investigations, Geraldine’s job was no respecter of the time of day, but she wasn’t on a case just then. All the same she shook her head. Even though there was no pressing reason for her to hurry away, she had a long journey ahead of her, and she was back on call in the morning.

‘He’s lovely,’ she repeated for the hundredth time. Privately she thought that her tiny new nephew resembled a pink frog. ‘Don’t get up. We don’t want to disturb him.’

Celia gave a sleepy smile. ‘You’ll come back soon?’

Geraldine was quick to reassure her sister that she would return as soon as she could. She made good time, and reached home in time for supper. She had been living in York for nearly three months and, after a miserable winter, she was starting to feel settled. She was even thinking of selling her flat in London and buying somewhere in York, putting a stamp of permanence on her move. The transformation in her feelings seemed to have taken place almost overnight. One evening she had gone to bed feeling displaced and lonely. The following morning she had woken up unaccountably at ease in her new home. Driving to work her spirits had lifted further on seeing a bank of daffodils, bright against the deep velvety green slope below the city wall. Already, early groups of oriental visitors were beginning to throng the pavements. She wasn’t looking forward to an influx of summer tourists clogging up the bustling streets of a city that unexpectedly felt like home.

A few weeks had passed since then, and she was still undecided what to do. Celia would be disappointed if Geraldine decided to make her move to York permanent, but the idea of settling there seemed increasingly appealing with every passing week. She had to live somewhere, and York was as good a place as any. She liked it there. Besides, her oldest friend and colleague lived there. She wondered how Ian Peterson would react if he knew she was considering him in making a decision about where she wanted to spend the rest of her life.

Mid-morning on Monday, Geraldine was summoned to an interview room where a member of the public was waiting to lodge a complaint. As an experienced officer, Geraldine was used to fielding vexatious accusations. With a sigh she made her way along the corridor to the room where the irate woman was waiting for her. Stocky and square-jawed, with short grey hair, she sat with trousered knees pressed together and fleshy arms folded across her chest.

‘What seems to be the problem, Ms Abbott?’ Geraldine asked as she sat down.

The grey-haired woman’s eyes glittered and her voice was unsteady. ‘I want to talk to someone about my brother’s murder.’

‘Are you saying your brother’s been murdered?’

‘Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying.’

‘And is this a murder case that’s under investigation? What’s your brother’s name?’

The woman shook her head, and her ruddy face turned a deeper shade of red.

‘No, no, no. You’re not investigating it. No one’s investigating anything. Look, my brother was found hanging from a banister nine days ago.’ She leaned forward and lowered her voice. ‘They said it was suicide, but that’s simply not true.’

Geraldine frowned, and tried to look interested. She found it was usually best to let aggrieved members of the public have their say.

‘Perhaps you’d better start at the beginning. What makes you suspect your brother’s death wasn’t suicide?’

‘It’s more than a suspicion. I know my brother – that is, I knew him. There’s no way he would have taken his own life. He wasn’t that sort of a person. He was – he was a robust man, Sergeant. He loved life.’

‘Circumstances can have a devastating effect on people, even those we think we know well –’

‘Please, don’t dismiss this as the ramblings of a grieving woman. I knew my brother. He would never have killed himself. He was blessed with a cheerful disposition, and, before you say it, he didn’t suffer from depression, and he didn’t have money worries, or any problems with drink or drugs. There was nothing in his life that might have prompted him to end it. And hanging’s not the kind of death that can happen by accident. No, he was murdered, I’m sure of it. I waited as long as I could before coming forward because I thought no one would believe he killed himself, but now she tells me they’re burying him on Wednesday, so we don’t have much time. I came here to plead with you to look into what happened, before it’s too late.’

Geraldine did her best to pacify the distressed woman, wondering whether Amanda Abbott was simply trying to cause trouble for her brother’s widow.

‘Do you have any evidence that your brother was murdered? At the moment, all you’ve given me is supposition.’

Amanda shrugged her square shoulders. ‘I wasn’t there, but I know – I knew my brother. Why would he have suddenly done away with himself?’

Geraldine was faintly intrigued. Amanda didn’t strike her as the kind of woman who might be given to hysterical delusions.

‘So if he didn’t commit suicide, and it wasn’t an accident, what do you think happened?’

‘My sister-in-law did it,’ Amanda answered promptly. ‘It’s obvious. They never got on. And now she gets her hands on everything he worked for.’

‘How long were they married?’

‘Over thirty years.’

‘That’s a long time for a couple who don’t get on to stay together,’ Geraldine said quietly.

‘And she finally had enough of him and killed him, only she made it look like suicide so she could get away with it. I’m convinced that’s what happened. Nothing else makes sense.’

Geraldine almost dismissed what she was hearing as a family disagreement, but Amanda was so insistent that she agreed to look into Mark Abbott’s death.

‘Please, you have to find out what happened,’ Amanda said. ‘He was my brother and I’m not going to sit back and see her get away with it, not if I can help it. Will you keep me posted,’ she enquired as she stood up, ‘or can I come back to see how you’re getting on?’

Geraldine promised she would do her best to find out whether there might have been anything unlawful about the death. Having seen Amanda off the premises, she went to speak to her detective chief inspector, Eileen. A large woman, about ten years older than Geraldine, she had dark hair greying at the temples, sharp features, and an air of solidity that was both reassuring and overbearing at the same time.

‘It sounds like family politics,’ Eileen said, when she had listened to Geraldine’s account. ‘The sister of the deceased is going out of her way to make trouble for his widow. Perhaps she was expecting to be mentioned in his will and is disappointed to have been left out of it?’

‘That’s what I thought. But there’s one more thing. The deceased took out a fairly hefty life insurance policy with a two-year suicide exclusion clause.’

Eileen nodded. ‘And you’re telling me the two years ran out –’

‘A week before his death. Of course, that doesn’t mean he didn’t kill himself. He might have waited so his wife would benefit from the policy,’ she added, speaking more to herself than to her senior officer. ‘But there’s something about it that doesn’t feel right.’

‘If you want to make a few discreet enquiries, that’s up to you. I can’t see we’ve really got anything to investigate, but you can take a look if you like, as long as it doesn’t distract you from your work here.’ Eileen paused. ‘If every widow was accused of murdering her husband when she inherited his estate, we’d have more suspects than police officers.’

2

SometimesCharlotteforgot about her new circumstances. After more than thirty years of marriage, she still woke up expecting to hear her husband snoring beside her. She was used to lying awake at night, listening with growing irritation as each sonorous inhalation was followed by a brief hiatus before the sigh of air released from his lungs. Now it was the silence that disturbed her sleep. Somewhere overhead a pipe rattled and wheezed, a faint echo of the noise she had endured every night for decades, ever since they had moved into their spacious property. She flung one arm out sideways, savouring the empty expanse of bed beside her, the sheets cool and unwrinkled. Tentatively she stretched her leg out as well, until she was occupying half of her husband’s share of the mattress. It didn’t matter. There was no one to kick her back on to her own side of the bed. There were no longer any sides. The whole bed was hers.

The funeral had been set in motion. In two days’ time mourners would gather to mumble hymns, someone would recite a eulogy, and everyone would talk about what a devoted husband and father Mark had been to her and Eddy. The thought of it irritated her, but there was no point in exposing his occasional lapses now he had gone. No one would want to hear about her dead husband’s philandering, least of all his son. She drew her arm and leg quickly back on to her own side of the bed and wrapped her arms around her body, wondering who would attend the ceremony. Her stepson, Eddy, would be there, of course, accompanied by his wife. Her own sister was unable to travel all the way over from New Zealand with her family, but they had all sent their condolences.

A few of Mark’s work colleagues would show up out of a sense of duty, as would the handful of friends she and Mark had kept in touch with over the years. She wasn’t close to any of them, but they had all known one another for a long time and that counted for something. It was partly pride that had prompted her to contact them. She didn’t want people thinking she had no friends now that Mark was gone, although the truth was that she had no real friends of her own. She never had. But the main reason she had invited as many people as she could, was that it would be easier to avoid her sister-in-law in a room full of people. Much as she hated the prospect of seeing her, she could hardly have kept the news about Mark’s death from his only sister.

‘I suppose Aunt Amanda will have to be there,’ Eddy had said, voicing his mother’s feelings.

‘Don’t worry,’ Charlotte had told him. ‘I’ll deal with her.’

She had felt nowhere near as confident about speaking to her sister-in-law as she had pretended. An overbearing woman, Amanda had understandably been shocked on hearing the news of her brother’s death.

‘But I don’t understand,’ she had barked, as though it was impossible to believe that an overweight man in his sixties could possibly have died. And that was before she had learned about the circumstances surrounding his death.

Charlotte could almost feel her sister-in-law glowering at her down the phone line. She hesitated, but there was no easy way to answer the question. Her one-word reply had prompted a cry of outrage.

‘Suicide?’ Amanda had repeated, her voice rising in a horrified shriek. ‘What do you mean, it was suicide? How could it be? Mark would never have killed himself. I don’t believe it.’

Charlotte had drawn in a deep shuddering breath and tried to sound sympathetic. Of course it was terrible for Amanda to lose her brother in that way, and Charlotte was devastated to have to pass on such terrible news. But she couldn’t help feeling the tragedy was far harder for her to cope with. Not only had she lost her husband of over three decades, but she had been the one to find him, suspended from the banister. For the rest of her life she would be haunted by the memory of his swollen face, his dead eyes glaring at her in wordless accusation.

She had gritted her teeth as Amanda proceeded with her enquiries. Doing her best to avoid focusing on the horrible memory, Charlotte had tried to describe what had happened in a detached way, as though she was talking about a scene in a film. Amanda had a right to know and besides, until she was satisfied she would never stop bombarding Charlotte with questions. Amanda had never been sensitive to other people’s feelings. As accurately as she could, Charlotte described how she had found Mark hanging in the hall and had rushed outside, screaming for help, and how the startled gardener had dropped his rake, narrowly missing injuring himself. To his credit he hadn’t hesitated to run all the way up the length of the garden to go inside with her. Although clearly shocked, he had taken control of the situation, yelling at her to call an ambulance while he righted the upturned chair, clambered on to it, and flung his arms around Mark’s legs to support him. All the time he had continued shouting at her to summon help.

‘Why didn’t you call an ambulance straight away?’

For an instant the question had hung between them unanswered, then Charlotte began babbling about shock and the urgent need at the time to free Mark from the noose. She hadn’t added that for a moment she had been unable to move. Instead of calling for help she had stood, rooted to the spot, staring at the two men entangled in their macabre one-sided embrace. After that, she could remember nothing more until the pounding at the front door had shattered the silence. Even then the gardener had been forced to shout at her to open the front door, or the police would have smashed their way in.

‘But I don’t understand,’ her sister-in-law had repeated when Charlotte finished speaking. ‘It doesn’t even make sense. How could he have reached the upstairs banister? Not Mark. I can’t believe it of him.’ She had sounded close to tears.

The last thing Charlotte wanted to do was talk about what had happened, but she supposed she might as well get it over with or Amanda would never let it rest.

‘We think he went upstairs and tied the rope around the banister up there and then threw the end of the rope over, so he could reach it from the hall. Then he must have gone downstairs, climbed up on a chair, and…’

Her voice had tailed off. Surely Amanda wouldn’t want her to continue.

‘I see,’ Amanda had replied curtly, too upset to continue.

‘So I’m sorry,’ Charlotte had resumed after an awkward pause, ‘but –’

‘I don’t understand,’ Amanda interrupted her. ‘What could have driven him to do it? Mark wasn’t the sort of man to take his own life. Something must have happened to make him do it, if it really was suicide, which I doubt.’

Charlotte hadn’t replied to what sounded like a veiled accusation. Whatever vile conclusion Amanda chose to draw was of no consequence. She hadn’t been there, and Charlotte had. The police were convinced that Mark had taken his own life, and nothing Amanda could say was going to change their minds. It was over, and Mark was gone.

3

Geraldine hadn’t worn her long black jacket since her birth mother’s cremation. It was hard to believe nearly a year had passed since then. Giving the jacket a shake, she pulled it on over black trousers and a grey shirt, an appropriate outfit to wear to a stranger’s funeral. Fulford Cemetery was not far from where she worked, and easy enough to find, but all the same she was nearly late. The car park was three-quarters empty as she parked her car and hurried into the prayer hall. Although the front rows were only half full, she slipped into a seat near the back of the hall. She had barely sat down when the funeral cortège arrived and everyone shuffled to their feet. As the coffin was brought in, Amanda caught sight of Geraldine and her expression tautened with recognition. Other than that, no one seemed to notice the stranger in the back row.

It was a dreary service, even for a funeral, with a dull and generic eulogy. Geraldine was reminded of her birth mother’s funeral, where no one had spoken apart from the celebrant who had never met the dead woman or her family, and had taken no trouble to find out anything about her. The ceremony seemed to drag on interminably, but at last it drew to a close and the congregation filed outside to gather in clusters in the chilly spring sunshine. Observing the mourners, Geraldine could see nothing to arouse suspicion. The widow’s grief was evident but restrained. At her side a man, presumably her son, stood stiff and dignified. A young woman was holding his arm, a solemn expression on her face. Her hair was as black as Geraldine’s but hung down to her shoulders, while Geraldine’s was short. A few people hovered near them, looking slightly awkward. It wasn’t clear whether they belonged to their group or not.

The dead man’s sister stood a few feet away from the widow and her party. After a brief hesitation, Geraldine joined her.

‘That’s his family,’ Amanda said, nodding her head in the direction of the group. ‘That’s his widow, Charlotte, with my nephew, Eddy, and his wife, Luciana.’

If Geraldine hadn’t heard Amanda accuse her sister-in-law of having murdered the dead man, she might have been startled by the hostility in her voice. But there was nothing Geraldine could do to question any of them, or to look into the circumstances of this death, and nothing about the funeral that prompted her curiosity. Amanda had been so insistent; Geraldine had allowed her own judgement to be overruled and had consequently wasted her time attending the service.

She was uncomfortably aware that she had only been tempted to investigate the death because it offered her an opportunity to assume some responsibility for her work. Having been recently demoted from detective inspector to the rank of sergeant, she was struggling to contain her frustration at waiting for tasks to be allocated to her when she had been accustomed to running her own team. Still, in attending the funeral, at least Geraldine had done her best to satisfy Amanda that her accusation had been taken seriously. With luck that would pacify her for a while, hopefully until she recovered from the shock of her brother’s suicide – if he really had taken his own life.

Geraldine was about to return to her car when a portly man accosted her.

‘Are you a relative?’ he enquired.

About to reply that she had worked with the deceased, Geraldine hesitated. ‘I used to be a neighbour,’ she muttered vaguely. ‘I kept in touch.’

It was as well she had been circumspect, because she learned that her interlocutor had been working with Mark Abbott until his death.

‘It came as a shock, I can tell you,’ he added, lowering his voice. ‘I still can’t believe it. Did you know him well?’

Geraldine shook her head and mumbled something appropriate.

‘He was the last person I’d expect to go and do anything like that,’ the man went on. ‘Not that there is anything quite like that, is there? But I mean, Mark of all people. You knew him, didn’t you?’

Geraldine mumbled quietly.

He glanced around, probably to check close family weren’t within hearing. ‘I thought it was a wind-up when I first heard the news. I mean, it would have been in pretty poor taste if it had been, but I simply couldn’t believe it. He just wasn’t that kind of person, was he?’

‘No, he wasn’t,’ Geraldine agreed. ‘Still, you never know.’

‘True,’ he nodded. ‘You think you know someone and then –’ he shrugged. ‘What gets me is that we were out the night before it happened, and he was right as rain then. Well,’ he hesitated, ‘that is to say, he seemed all right. He told me he was planning a holiday, and we arranged a game of tennis for the weekend. We used to knock up once in a while, you know. Nothing too serious. Not like when I was younger and could move around the court.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘But it’s hardly what you expect a chap to be talking about the night before he tops himself, is it? Oh well, you never can tell.’

He wandered off. Geraldine watched him go and talk to the widow and her son, before she turned to make her way back to the car park. Before she had left the forecourt, Amanda came over and barred her way.

‘I’ll be coming to see you again,’ she announced. ‘I’m not letting this go.’ She leaned forward conspiratorially and went on, without lowering her foghorn of a voice. ‘They think I’m going to give up, but I know what happened and I’m not going to stop until you find out who did it.’

‘Oh for goodness sake,’ Charlotte interrupted her sister-in-law, stepping forward and hissing at her in a furious whisper. ‘Can’t you ever shut up? This is his funeral.’ She burst into tears and her son and daughter-in-law bustled her away, throwing angry glances at Amanda as they moved away.

‘Oh yes, they’d like nothing better than to shut me up,’ Amanda told Geraldine. ‘Her and her crocodile tears.’ She turned to glare at Geraldine. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘I’m not likely to have anything new to tell you tomorrow,’ Geraldine said.

With a grunt, Amanda strode away. Nothing in the mourners’ demeanour had borne out the accusation that had been levelled against them. But now a second person had cast doubt on the idea that Mark Abbott had killed himself, and the dead man’s colleague from work was hardly likely to be harbouring a personal grudge against the widow. Aware that the dead man’s sister might be acting maliciously, Geraldine had to acknowledge that the funeral had raised a further question over Mark Abbott’s death. However hard she tried to ignore her unease about his suicide, she couldn’t shake off the suspicion that something was wrong.

Returning to the police station, she shelved her curiosity about the alleged suicide, and settled down to work. It had taken her a few months to learn her way around York and get to know her colleagues at the police station in Fulford Road, but now her new place of work had become familiar, and she had struck up a friendship with a couple of her colleagues. Ted Allsop was a stocky man nearing retirement who had befriended Geraldine right from her first day at Fulford Road. She soon realised that he was equally sociable with everyone, but that only made her warm to his broad smile all the more. Another colleague who looked set to become a friend was a raven-haired woman called Ariadne, who had a Greek mother and an English father. She was about the same age as Geraldine and also single. Apart from that they had very little in common, but it was enough. If Geraldine could make just one real friend at work, she would be satisfied. Besides the relationships she was hoping to forge, her old friend, Ian Peterson, worked in York. His presence hopefully meant she was going to feel less lonely. Conscious that she could never return to London, she tried to focus on the positive aspects of her new life.

4

Although he wanted to disagree with her, Eddy nodded at his wife. He could never bring himself to argue with anything she said. Her long thin face was animated under her straggly black fringe, her cheeks flushed with exasperation, but she spoke kindly.

‘I’m sorry about your father, really I am. I know what it’s like to lose your parents.’

Eddy dropped his gaze. Luciana rarely spoke about her parents who had died when she was in her teens. He had never even seen photographs of them. All he knew was that her mother had been an Italian who had married a Yorkshireman.

‘It’s not a competition,’ he muttered, and was immediately ashamed of his callous response.

‘I know, but the point is, you aren’t responsible for your stepmother. That’s all I’m saying. I don’t want to sound uncaring, but in the end she has to deal with her situation herself, and she has to sort out her own life. You can’t do it for her. It’s not fair of her to expect so much of you. It’s not as if she’s even your real mother.’

‘She’s been my mother for thirty years.’

‘And what about you? You lost your mother, and now you’ve lost your father, but she isn’t thinking about you, is she? She only ever thinks about herself.’

‘You never liked my stepmother.’

‘That’s not true, and you know it. She was the one who resented me.’

‘You could have made more of an effort.’

Luciana scowled. ‘Yes, yes, I know. We could all be better people than we are. Listen, I know it’s a cliché, but the truth is she hated me from the first time she met me. And I don’t think she likes you much either.’

‘She doesn’t hate you.’

‘Well, she didn’t exactly welcome me into the family, so if I don’t feel inclined to rush to support her now, it’s hardly my fault. Don’t blame me, is all I’m saying. She brought it on herself.’

Eddy shook his head. He hated feeling torn like this. In a way, Luciana was right. His stepmother had been distant with her right from the start. All the same, with his stepmother so recently widowed, he couldn’t help feeling disappointed by Luciana’s reaction. Apart from anything else, it would have helped him if his wife had been willing to shoulder some of the burden, but she had made it clear that she wasn’t prepared to spend any more time with her mother-in-law than she had to. And Luciana didn’t know the half of how his stepmother had been behaving, expecting him to help her in all sorts of ways, without any thanks or acknowledgement.

Organising the funeral had proved far more time-consuming than it should have been because his stepmother had kept changing her mind. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have a job to hold down, but she had expected him to do everything, and he would be the first to admit that he was hardly the most organised of people. His boss had been very understanding, but it wasn’t really fair, considering that his stepmother didn’t even work. He didn’t mind being involved. He owed that much to his father, at least. But his stepmother had insisted on him accompanying her wherever she went. He had been pushed into making decisions, most of which she had overturned. She was an infuriating woman. He had even offered to lend her some cash until the probate was settled, when she knew he was hard up. It would have been reassuring to know she was going to give him his share, once she had her hands on the considerable estate his father had left. But so far she hadn’t offered to pass any of it on to him. All he knew was that his father seemed to have left everything to her. Still, he wished she got on better with his wife. It would have made his life easier.

He spoke cautiously, wary of upsetting Luciana. ‘I just think we should spend more time with her, at least until she comes to terms with what’s happened.’

Luciana sighed. ‘You’re right, but be careful, Eddy. With some people, the more you give them, the more they demand. If you keep going round there every day, she’ll come to expect it. She’s one of those people who have an overblown sense of entitlement. I don’t want you to get yourself into a situation where she relies on you to do everything for her.’

‘I’ve only been going there to help her with the funeral, and then with sorting out the house.’

Luciana snorted, as though to say he couldn’t sort out his own affairs, let alone his mother’s.

‘I get that you’re trying to help her, but you can’t carry on like this. It’s unrealistic.’

He nodded. ‘I know. But we ought to keep an eye on her.’

‘She’s not a child.’

‘No, but she’s on her own.’

They bickered for a while, finally arriving at an uneasy compromise. Eddy would visit his stepmother once a week, and he or Luciana would phone her every day for the first month. After that, they would review the situation.

‘With any luck, she’ll meet someone else, and then she won’t be on her own any more, and we can stop worrying about her,’ Eddy said. ‘She’s only fifty-six, young enough to start a new life with someone else. Lots of people do. It might be the best thing for her, after what’s happened. She might meet a nice widower, or someone who’s divorced.’ He frowned. ‘As long as she meets someone who doesn’t spend all her money, and who hasn’t got any children. My dad’s left her a fortune. Once she’s gone it should all come to me, every penny of it. He was my father. He wouldn’t want his money going to some stranger.’

It was a sore point with him that the entire estate had been left to his stepmother. As a man in his early thirties, with a wife and a mortgage, Eddy was the one who needed money, not his stepmother. If her mortgage hadn’t already been paid off, it would be now. Unlike Eddy, she didn’t need money. If his father had only thought to mention his son in his will, Eddy could have sorted out his debts and Luciana would have been none the wiser. All he needed was one large windfall to free him of his problems. It wasn’t an unrealistic expectation. Meanwhile, he was slowly getting himself in deeper and deeper. So while he mourned for his father, his grief was soured by resentment. His father could so easily have saved him.

Luciana shrugged. ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Your mother probably won’t meet anyone. And in any case, she might decide to spend it all. You can’t rely on anyone but yourself. But at least you’re in with a chance of inheriting something,’ she added bitterly.

No doubt she was recalling her own circumstances, and her vain attempt to claim compensation after a fire had killed her parents.

Eddy didn’t answer.

5

Geraldine hesitated over whether to pursue her suspicions concerning Mark Abbott’s death. She was going to have to proceed discreetly, if at all, because there was no obvious crime to investigate. All the same, Eileen had told her she was free to look into the incident in her own time. Keen to take some initiative in her work, Geraldine was excited at the prospect of following a lead of her own. If it turned out, as seemed likely, that the verdict of suicide was correct, it could do no harm if Geraldine had gone around asking a few questions. Nothing but her professional pride would suffer, and since she was acting on her own, no one else need even know about it. Although she was fairly busy during the day processing reports of local crimes, the task was mundane compared to her work on murder investigations in London, and didn’t occupy her mind in the evenings. She missed the challenge of a more serious investigation. So that evening she drove out to Charlotte Abbott’s house in Clifton, reminding herself that this was not an official enquiry but a hunch she was following briefly. She drew up outside a well-maintained detached brick house. The front garden had been paved over, the only sign of life a couple of pots of wilting flowers that hung from brackets on either side of the front door.

The widow responded to the bell straight away. She looked surprised to see Geraldine on the doorstep, and glanced around as though she had been expecting to see someone else.

‘Yes? Can I help you?’ She listened with a puzzled frown as Geraldine introduced herself. ‘What’s this about?’

The door wasn’t open wide enough to allow Geraldine to enter. There was a smell of fresh paint and a faint sound of scraping, but she couldn’t see what was happening inside.

‘Can I come in, Mrs Abbott?’

‘What is it you want?’

Gently Geraldine explained that she had a few questions to ask about Mark.

The widow shook her head. ‘Mark? You mean, my husband, Mark?’

‘Yes.’

‘But –’ her face twisted in a bitter grimace, ‘surely they’ve told you? Mark’s dead.’

Evidently she hadn’t noticed Geraldine at the funeral.

‘I know. That’s why I’m here, to ask you about him. It’s just routine,’ Geraldine added quickly.

‘Oh well, I suppose you’d better come in.’

While they were speaking, Charlotte’s stepson appeared in the hallway behind her.

‘Who is it?’ he asked.

‘It’s just someone from the police come to tie up a few loose ends,’ Charlotte replied. ‘Why don’t you go home? I’ll deal with this. Watch out for the wet paint,’ she added, standing aside to let Geraldine to enter.

Eddy was standing in the hall, a wide brush in his hand, and a pot of paint on the floor beside him. The lower half of the banisters had been given a fresh coat of paint, some of which had dripped on to the carpet.

‘You go on home,’ Charlotte repeated.

‘This won’t take long,’ Geraldine said. ‘I just want to ask you a few questions.’

‘I’ll be back tomorrow evening, mum,’ Eddy said, wiping his brush on a rag. ‘I’ll soon get this job finished.’

‘Thank you,’ she replied. She turned to Geraldine. ‘I couldn’t bear to look at it, knowing…’

Since Mark’s death was not being investigated as suspicious, there was nothing Geraldine could do to stop his widow painting her hall. All the same, fresh paint could cover up telltale evidence. It might now be impossible to establish who else had been present when Mark had died. If Amanda’s accusation was correct, there could be a sinister reason for Charlotte wanting her hall redecorated.

After some half-hearted protest Eddy left, with assurances that he would speak to his stepmother first thing in the morning.

‘If you’re sure you’ll be OK, mum,’ he said, glancing anxiously at Geraldine.

‘Yes, of course. Stop fussing, will you, and get going.’

Having dismissed her stepson in a fairly peremptory manner, Charlotte led the way into a neat front room. Geraldine refused an offer of tea, and expressed her condolences, conscious that she had to proceed carefully. What Mark’s former colleague had told her at the funeral seemed to support Amanda’s accusation, but Geraldine had no hard evidence to substantiate the suggestion that Mark had been murdered. Not only was she unable to question the widow as though this was a regular interview, but she couldn’t risk any complaint being raised about her visit, which hadn’t been specifically sanctioned by a superior officer. Still unused to working as a sergeant, Geraldine knew she risked getting herself in trouble for allowing her pursuit of the truth to outweigh any other consideration, but once the suspicion of murder had been raised, she couldn’t ignore it. Her life had been dedicated to seeking justice for the voiceless dead. She wasn’t ready to stop.

‘What is it you wanted to know?’ Charlotte asked.

‘Tell me about your husband.’

‘What do you mean?’

Feeling as though she was fishing around in the dark, Geraldine almost gave up.

‘What kind of a man was he?’

‘He was – a man. Ordinary. A man, like anyone else. I don’t know what you want me to say.’

‘Did he suffer from depression?’

‘Oh I see. No, there was nothing like that. He was quite even tempered, cheerful most of the time.’

Geraldine rephrased her question. ‘Were you surprised by what happened?’

‘You mean was I surprised to find he was dead? Well, yes, of course. It was a shock, a dreadful shock, to find him like that…’ Her voice tailed off and she dabbed her nose with a tiny white hanky.

‘Yes, it must have been terrible for you. But were you surprised by how he died?’

‘If you’re asking me whether I was expecting him to kill himself, no, of course I wasn’t. If I’d had the slightest idea he might have had anything like that on his mind, I would have insisted he got help.’ Charlotte spoke quite clearly, but although her voice was steady, her hands were trembling. ‘Yes, of course I was surprised. More than surprised. I still can’t believe it. But it’s happened and we just have to accept it, don’t we? I mean, there’s no turning the clock back. If only I’d known…’

She insisted that she could think of no reason why her husband might have decided to kill himself. Geraldine understood that Charlotte might not want to admit that her husband had been suicidal, even if she had known about it, but she thought the widow seemed genuinely shocked by what had happened. Before Geraldine could attempt to probe further, Charlotte burst into tears. After a moment she pulled herself together, and Geraldine sounded her out gently about her husband’s life insurance, but she didn’t seem to know much about it.

‘I’ve asked my son to speak to the lawyers about the will and everything,’ Charlotte said. ‘I’m not very good with money and that sort of thing. Mark used to deal with everything like that.’ She looked up at Geraldine and burst out, ‘Why did he do it? He had so much to live for. What reason could he have had for…?’

‘That’s what we’re trying to find out. Charlotte, are you sure you can’t think of any reason why Mark might have wanted to kill himself?’

‘Nothing I know about. But he did it,’ she added miserably, ‘so I suppose there must have been a reason.’ She looked directly at Geraldine, her eyes puffy and bloodshot from crying. ‘It’s driving me crazy, not knowing what was going on in his life. I keep asking myself, was it something I did? I thought we were jogging along OK. I didn’t know there was any problem. How could I not have known how unhappy he was? If I’d known, if he’d talked to me, whatever it was, we could have worked it out. But not like this. Not this… please find out what happened. I need to know. Please…’ she broke down in tears, sobbing incoherently.

Relieved that Charlotte didn’t appear to resent her visit, Geraldine left after promising to let the grieving widow know if she discovered anything more about her husband’s death. What Charlotte had told her seemed to bear out what Mark’s colleague had said at the funeral. A man was unlikely to be planning a holiday, or arranging a tennis match, the night before he was intending to kill himself. Either something unexpected had come up on the day of his death, or he was mentally ill, or his death had not been a suicide at all. Although it wasn’t Geraldine’s place to enquire into the circumstances of Mark’s death, she resolved to continue looking into it for just a little longer. She was committed to ensuring the guilty were brought to trial. That the outcome of such proceedings wasn’t always fair was out of her control. She couldn’t be judge and jury as well as a law enforcer. But her passion for justice had governed her life for so long, she couldn’t walk away from a possibly suspicious death. Because if her suspicions were right, not only had Mark Abbott been murdered but his killer looked set to escape justice.

6

She used to complain when he left her alone in the house. She especially hated it when he went out on jobs at night. She never knew who might be outside, watching the house in the darkness. He scoffed at her fears.

‘What are you talking about, you daft cow? There’s no one out there. Who’d be interested in you, anyway?’

Ironically, now that she was never alone in the house, she was more frightened than ever. Since he had brought the beast back with him, she had been living in constant fear. The animal had taken against her right from the start, growling and baring its yellow fangs at her whenever she entered the room. Every time she shrieked at him to keep the monster away from her he laughed, pretending to be amused by her terror, but she knew he was scared too. She could see his fear in the way he narrowed his eyes and pressed his lips together until they virtually disappeared.

She begged him to put the dog out in the garden, but he refused. When she tried to insist, he explained that he could get in serious trouble if any of the neighbours spotted a Pit bull crossed with a Rottweiler on the premises. He might even be reported to the police for keeping an illegal dangerous breed, in which case the dog would be taken away from him and he would be fined. So the animal, he said, would remain where it was, chained up in a kennel in the living room. Only rarely had she dared to contradict him, but for once she was too frightened to avoid a confrontation.

‘You can’t keep a large dog like that cooped up indoors,’ she protested. ‘It needs daily exercise. Besides, the whole house stinks. It’s filthy. We’ll all get sick. And people are going to notice the smell.’

‘What are you talking about? What people? No one comes here.’

But he looked anxious, and she knew the presence of the dog in the house worried him. The next day he came home with a large cosh, and wound a length of barbed wire carefully around it. Her guts began churning, and she retreated, crying with fear. Ignoring her whimpering, he turned away from her and ran up to the dog. As the animal raised its head, he swiped at it with the stick, hitting the side of its head with a thud. The creature cowered back in its kennel, casting a baleful glare at her. As though any of this was her fault.

‘What are you doing?’ she cried out.

‘Get out of the way!’ he yelled at her.

The dog growled, crouching down in its kennel. As it leapt, snapping its jaws, the kennel jolted and jerked forwards. Restrained by its chains, the beast couldn’t reach him. He whacked it again and it drew back. Dashing round behind the kennel, he bent down and began to push. The tendons in his neck bulged as he forced the kennel across the carpet towards the door.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’

‘I told you to get out of the way!’

Sobbing, she ran into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her, determined not to come out until the dog had gone. She had no idea what he was planning to do, and she didn’t want to know. Through the door she heard his voice raised, and a lot of banging. Lying on the bed, she rolled herself a spliff. It wasn’t enough, so she swallowed a couple of pills and then pulled a pillow over her head and lay there trembling. Hours seemed to pass before she heard the bedroom door open and felt the bed jolt as he flopped down beside her.

‘I’ve done it,’ he said.

She tossed her pillow aside.

‘What you done?’ Even to her own ears, her speech sounded slurred. ‘What have you done?’ she repeated, enunciating her words carefully.

He waved his forearm in front of her face. ‘Look what that bleeding animal did to me!’

With horrible fascination, she watched a steady stream of blood trickling down as far as his elbow and then dripping on to the sheet.

‘How’d you do that?’

But she didn’t need to ask. She could see the gashes where vicious teeth had torn at his flesh.

‘What have you done with it?’ she whispered, hardly daring to hope. ‘Is it dead?’

‘Dead? No. But the kennel got smashed.’ He laughed suddenly. ‘It fell all the way down the stairs. You should’ve seen it. It’s a miracle the bloody dog survived,’ he went on, serious again. ‘Bloody animal did this to me while I was chaining it to the wall. It would never have got me, if it hadn’t caught me off guard. But I was lucky. If I wasn’t so quick, it would’ve killed me.’

‘And then it would have come for me,’ she whispered. ‘You got to get rid of it. Please. Get rid of it before it kills us.’

He told her how he had pushed the kennel, with the dog inside it, all the way across the hall to the cellar door. When it reached the top of the stairs, he hadn’t been able to stop it toppling forwards and falling down into the cellar.

‘I thought the dog was dead, but it was just stunned. That’s how it got me.’ He held up his injured arm again. ‘It went batshit crazy. If I’d had a shooter I would’ve put a bullet in its head. Look what it did to me!’ He held his arm up right in front of her face so the blood dripped on to her T-shirt.

She shuddered and drew back, pressing herself against the wall. ‘Where is it now?’

He told her the dog was chained up in the cellar.

‘Don’t look so scared,’ he said. ’It can’t get out. That chain’s unbreakable.’

But she knew the filthy brute was there, lurking in the darkness. She told him exactly what she thought about that, alternately pleading with him to get rid of it, and losing her temper with him over it. But nothing she said made any impression on him. When she threatened to leave if he didn’t throw the beast out, he laughed at her.

‘Go on then,’ he taunted her. ‘Bugger off. You’re easy to replace. I can get another tart just like that.’ He snapped his fingers in her face. ‘That dog’s a one-off, specially bred to be aggressive. I spent a fucking fortune on it, but it’ll be worth it. You’ll see.’ He leaned forward and growled at her, making her squeal with alarm.

‘Don’t do that! Fuck off!’

He laughed again.

Weeks later she still hadn’t forgiven him for refusing to get rid of the dog, but there was no point in arguing with him. If she aggravated him, he would raise his fist against her. He was no better than the dog, really. They were both vicious animals.

7

The next morning, Geraldine reread the reports on Mark Abbott’s death. Apart from his sister’s unsubstantiated accusations, and a random comment made by one of his colleagues, there was nothing to suggest he had been murdered. Even his widow seemed resigned to the fact that he had taken his own life and just wanted to know why he had done it. The man was dead and buried and there, it seemed, the matter would rest. So when Amanda returned to the police station, Geraldine determined to put an end to her demands. But if anything, Amanda appeared even more het up than she had been on her first visit to the police station. Nostrils flaring, she launched into a tirade before Geraldine had even sat down.

‘I can’t believe it’s nearly a week since I was here,’ she began.

‘Four days,’ Geraldine corrected her quietly.