The Crooked Shore E-Book

Martin Edwards

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Lake District Cold-Case Mysteries
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 442

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

'A satisfying mystery is played out with lashings of local colour and history' -The Times Crime Club 'Perhaps beneath the surface we're all capable of cruelty. Even if we don't intend it.' 'Perhaps.' 'All right, you win. Let me explain why Ramona Smith had to die.' DCI Hannah Scarlett is an acknowledged expert in solving cold cases, but she is struggling under the weight of bureaucracy when Ramona Smith's disappearance from Bowness more than twenty years ago crosses her desk. The prime suspect was charged but found not guilty. Now the case has come back into the public eye as the result of a shocking tragedy on the Crooked Shore, the fount of dark legends south of the Lake District. A ruthless killer, who has already got away with one murder, plans further appalling crimes. DCI Scarlett finds herself racing against the clock as she strives to solve the mysteries and save innocent lives.

Leseprobe

THE CROOKED SHORE

Martin Edwards

For Nigel Moss, a connoisseur of detective fiction

CONTENTS

TITLE PAGEDEDICATIONAFTERWARDSCHAPTER ONECHAPTER TWOCHAPTER THREECHAPTER FOURCHAPTER FIVECHAPTER SIXCHAPTER SEVENCHAPTER EIGHTCHAPTER NINECHAPTER TENCHAPTER ELEVENCHAPTER TWELVECHAPTER THIRTEENCHAPTER FOURTEENCHAPTER FIFTEENCHAPTER SIXTEENCHAPTER SEVENTEENCHAPTER EIGHTEENCHAPTER NINETEENCHAPTER TWENTYCHAPTER TWENTY-ONECHAPTER TWENTY-TWOCHAPTER TWENTY-THREECHAPTER TWENTY-FOURCHAPTER TWENTY-FIVECHAPTER TWENTY-SIXCHAPTER TWENTY-SEVENCHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHTCHAPTER TWENTY-NINECHAPTER THIRTYCHAPTER THIRTY-ONEAFTERWARDS, CONTINUEDAUTHOR’S NOTEABOUT THE AUTHORBY MARTIN EDWARDS COPYRIGHT

AFTERWARDS

‘So you want to know why I killed Ramona Smith?’

‘Yes,’ Hannah Scarlett said.

‘You disappoint me, Detective Chief Inspector. I thought you were a mind-reader.’

Hannah refused to rise to the bait. ‘I’d rather hear the full story from your lips.’

‘To satisfy your curiosity?’

‘Ramona wasn’t a bad woman. Selfish, yes, but many people are.’

‘She loved to have men eating out of her hand.’

‘But she wasn’t cruel.’

‘Wasn’t she?’ A shake of the head. ‘Perhaps beneath the surface we’re all capable of cruelty. Even if we don’t intend it.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘You sound sceptical.’ A long sigh. ‘All right, you win. Let me explain why Ramona Smith had to die.’

CHAPTER ONE

Why has a murderer come to Strandbeck?

Kingsley Melton sat on his favourite bench, gazing out over an expanse of sea and sky, shingle and sand. This stretch of coastline was jagged with tiny creeks and estuaries. People called it the Crooked Shore. Local legends warned that strangers who outstayed their welcome suffered seven years of bad luck.

Superstitious claptrap, Kingsley insisted if anyone mentioned this as he escorted them around the luxury dwellings at Strandbeck Manor. A story born of narrow-minded parochialism and misunderstood history. His heart wasn’t in the denials. He loved things of the past, even the old wives’ tales. Even if they did deter prospective purchasers, at least they kept the tourists away.

For Kingsley, the shoreline was a safe haven, a sanctuary from the rest of the world. The peace and quiet soothed him. He loved it best at times like these, when his brain felt scrambled. Some days he sat here for hours on end, as if hypnotised by the restless tides.

The water looked lovely, but to him it was frightening. He’d never learnt to swim, and in his nightmares, he often drowned. Always he kept a safe distance from the waves. Even so, they fascinated him. The bay never stopped changing. Sandbanks appeared and disappeared; by turns the water was dappled or calm. A touch of salt seasoned the air. Listen and you might catch a curlew’s mournful cry.

A skinny jogger passed the bench, loping away from the shore towards the bay. His hair was short and dark, and he wore a plain black singlet and white shorts. Without breaking stride, he glanced back over his shoulder, as if startled by the sight of Kingsley. A stoop-shouldered man in his fifties, smart in suit trousers and tie, contemplating the flicker of sunlight on the water.

Kingsley paid the jogger no heed. He was lost in dark imaginings.

What is Logan Prentice doing here?

Seeing Prentice again had shocked him to the core. Five minutes earlier, Kingsley had turned out of Strandbeck Lane to rejoin the coastal route leading to the Crooked Shore. A grubby blue Fiat van with a dented wing was parked by the roadside, hazard lights winking. The driver was down on his hands and knees, mending a puncture. Someone had scrawled Wash Me! in the dirt on the back of the van. As Kingsley drove past, the driver glanced up. He looked like a little boy lost.

It was a miracle that Kingsley didn’t swerve off the road. When he parked in his usual spot a quarter of a mile away on the grassy verge above the shore, his hands were still trembling.

Logan Prentice was in Strandbeck. That slender figure, the floppy fair hair, the cherubic lips, the wide-eyed mask of innocence, all were unmistakeable. Kingsley had spent two years trying to scrub every last memory of Prentice from his mind. Now the past had returned to haunt him.

It didn’t make sense. Kingsley associated Prentice with Sunset View, a care home perched on a hillside above Windermere, fifteen miles away. What on earth would bring him to the Crooked Shore?

Kingsley hadn’t set eyes on Prentice since a drab afternoon at Sunset View, with rain streaking the double-glazed windows of the conservatory. Prentice was playing old show songs on the piano, his hair tousled, a seductive smile plastered across his face.

‘I could have danced all night,’ he sang.

Never mind dancing all night, most residents of Sunset View couldn’t keep their eyes open for ten minutes at a time. Except for frail, little Ivy Podmore, fiddling coquettishly with her pearl necklace and smirking with adoration at the pianist serenading her. And except for Kingsley’s mother. Mamma sat bolt upright in her armchair, scowling in disapproval.

Later that day, Ivy Podmore was found dead in her bed. Mamma loathed Logan Prentice and was convinced that he’d killed Ivy. Smothered her with a pillow, it was easily done. Ivy’s fatal mistake had been to announce to all and sundry that she was making dear Logan her heir. The last instruction Mamma ever gave to Kingsley was that he must not let the killer get away with his crime. Within twenty-four hours, she suffered her fourth stroke and this one proved fatal.

Ivy’s murder was shocking, and Logan Prentice’s wickedness undeniable, but Kingsley had enough on his plate without doing the police’s job for them. His mother’s death had prostrated him with grief. What could he do about Prentice if everyone else thought the sun shone out of the boy’s neat little backside? It wasn’t his place to interfere. Anyway, he daren’t push Prentice any further, for fear of provoking a cruel revenge. The people in charge ought to shoulder responsibility. Instead, they were adamant that old Ivy had passed away in her sleep. Natural causes. The care assistants were unsurprised, and the manager declared that she’d had a good innings. As for the doctor … well, whoever they were, people in charge so often let you down.

Clouds swarmed across the sky; the afternoon was chillier than expected. Kingsley scolded himself for leaving his jacket in the car. Why in heaven’s name did he place his faith in the forecasters? They should be paid by results, like him. He gave a little shiver, not that he blamed the Met Office for that. It was all Logan Prentice’s fault.

‘I’ve got you under my skin,’ Prentice used to croon.

He’d got under Kingsley’s skin, all right. The man called himself an IT consultant, but he was just a computer nerd operating from a tiny rented bedsit above a Vietnamese takeaway in Ulverston. Prentice used to visit Sunset View twice a week to tinkle the ivories. He’d wormed his way into the home manager’s good books after repairing her laptop. She and her carers believed he turned up to entertain the residents out of the goodness of his heart. Their gullibility made Mamma snort with cynical laughter. At one time she’d adored the young pianist, but she’d become jealous of Ivy, who was old and ugly and hopelessly senile, yet the apple of Logan Prentice’s eye. The young man always made a fuss of his pet, claiming to feel sorry for her because she had no family. He talked about spreading the love and bridging the gap between the generations. The staff thought him a saint, but Mamma knew better.

‘On the make, is that lad,’ she whispered loudly, prompting a carer in a bilious plum-coloured uniform to make furious shushing gestures. ‘Never mind those big puppy eyes. He’s only bothered about what he can get out of her. She’s so besotted, she’s changed her will. Her solicitor ought to be frogmarched out of the Law Society. Absolute disgrace.’

‘Poor old soul.’ Kingsley dreaded his mother getting herself worked up.

‘She’s as daft as a brush.’ One of Mamma’s favourite insults. ‘Acting like a teenage girl. She’s eighty-two if she’s a day.’

And because Mamma’s memory was fading fast, they repeated the same conversation twice more before he said goodbye.

Kingsley stared out at the bay. So often things were not as they seemed. This was true of his own life and it was equally true of the lonely coastline. From a distance, the beach appeared seductive. In reality, it was all mudflats and quicksand. The bay was a haven for birds. Redshanks, ringed plovers, curlews, you name them. They loved the mud because it teemed with life. Cockles, shrimps, lugworms, easy prey for those greedy long beaks. Natural victims. Like Ivy Podmore. Like Vesper, in a sort of way.

Kingsley ran a palm over his forehead. Throughout his life, headaches had plagued him. Over the years, the doctors had routinely dismissed his anxieties, and even Mamma’s sympathy rubbed thin. She accused him of exaggerating how poorly he felt in order to gain attention, but that was unfair. His life wasn’t straightforward; he’d contended with more than his fair share of bad luck and stress.

As for today, it was turning into a disaster.

He’d so looked forward to taking Tory Reece-Taylor out for lunch. At her best, she was delightful company, and the previous time they’d met, she’d been on top form. They’d kissed each other goodbye, and she’d touched his wrist and said how much she valued his kindness. But from the moment he arrived at her home in Strandbeck Manor, everything went wrong. Her greeting was perfunctory, and even before they arrived at the restaurant in Ulverston, her breath was sour with alcohol.

During the meal, Tory’s mood became truculent. She picked at the pricey sea bass, complaining that the doctors wouldn’t allow her red meat, and rewarded his cheerful chatter with monosyllabic grunts. He’d invested in a bottle of Chablis, and she knocked back most of it, which was par for the course, doctors or no doctors.

His confidence that she’d mellow once they returned to the Manor proved to be misplaced. Hoping to earn a few brownie points, he tipped her off about a forthcoming increase in the service charge for her flat, only to provoke a furious tirade. It was an own goal, an unforced error. He should have kept his mouth shut. Any chance of an invitation to stay for a spot of supper evaporated. Every other minute she checked her watch, making no secret of her impatience for him to be gone. Finally he surrendered to the inevitable and said he’d better make tracks.

‘See you soon,’ he said as he was leaving her flat.

‘Mmmm.’ Tory didn’t bother to get out of her armchair, let alone give him a farewell kiss.

And then, as if this rebuff wasn’t bad enough, five minutes later that bad penny Logan Prentice turned up.

Kingsley felt as if he were in a trance, his mind a muddle of dismay and anxiety. When he gazed out into the distance in search of inspiration, he spotted a dark figure heading straight for the sea. The jogger who had passed him a few minutes earlier. Must be. Nobody else was in sight.

Kingsley gasped.

Is he mad?

The bay was treacherous. Since time immemorial, the deceptive calm of the vast stretch of water had lured the unwary to their doom. Everyone who lived in these parts knew stories about people who were cut off by the bore and drowned. Beneath the seemingly placid surface ran hidden channels and shifting sands. The underwater landscape changed from one day to the next, wilder and less predictable than any kraken. Some folk died a few yards from dry land, caught by the currents surging up gullies between ridges of mud. The tide was ruthless. It never showed mercy or remorse, sweeping in faster than anyone could run. Even the swiftest jogger.

Kingsley got to his feet and shouted.

‘Hey!’

The figure kept advancing into the bay.

‘What are you doing? You need to turn round!’

Kingsley’s heart pounded. His waving was frantic. A terrible memory invaded his brain.

Vesper, Vesper.

Arms outstretched as if in crucifixion, he bellowed, ‘Danger! You’re in terrible danger!’

As he watched, the man stopped moving.

The currents were ferocious and the quicksands deadly. If your feet got stuck, you started to sink. As the mud sucked you down into its clinging depths, the liquid hardened. It was like being set in concrete. You pushed your arms and legs out to spread the weight and give yourself a little more time, but once your knees slid beneath the surface, it was time to abandon hope. When the waves crashed over you, there was no chance of escape. The more you struggled and fought, the harder the mud squeezed against your body. Trapped and helpless, you were forced to watch and wait for the incoming tide. Salt water rushed into your eyes, your nose, your mouth, filling your lungs until you could no longer breathe.

‘For pity’s sake, come back!’

Now he couldn’t see the man. Only water.

‘Help!’ Kingsley screamed. ‘Help!’

In his distress he turned to right and left, desperate for a miracle.

But he was all alone on the Crooked Shore.

CHAPTER TWO

‘This man who walked into Morecambe Bay last week,’ the police and crime commissioner said. ‘Darren Lace. Does the surname ring any bells?’

Detective Chief Inspector Hannah Scarlett considered. Kit Gleadall had breezed into her office as she tried to catch up with her admin. She was losing the battle with bureaucracy. This was her first morning back from a conference in London, where she’d presented a paper about the challenges of leading a cold case review. She was still surprised to find herself described as an expert in solving unsolved crimes. Impostor syndrome, her old failing. Would she ever free herself from its clammy, unsettling clutches?

Despite having been away for only a week, she’d found herself wading through hundreds of emails. Many had spreadsheets attached. The PCC’s arrival counted as a welcome distraction. Their one and only previous meeting had intrigued her, and the way he’d parked his bulky frame on the other side of her desk meant this was more than a courtesy visit.

Gleadall was younger than the typical PCC, late forties, at a guess. Belying his rugby player’s build, his movements were nimble, and he had the long, well-manicured fingers of a musician rather than a businessman. Although he’d made his money in London, he’d never lost his Carlisle accent. Fizzing with energy, he’d made no secret of his determination to break with the hands-off management methods of his late predecessor, a superannuated politician twenty years his senior. Since his election, Gleadall had hit the ground running. Running too fast for some members of Cumbria Constabulary, for sure.

Police officers hated any form of change, let alone change imposed by a rank outsider with a taste for sharp suits and a background in public relations. Like her colleagues, Hannah had feared the worst, but her initial impressions of Gleadall when he came to talk to senior officers were unexpectedly favourable. His questions about cold case work were incisive. Wonder of wonders, he even seemed to pay attention to her answers. Perhaps his heart was in the right place after all. Or did that simply demonstrate his expertise at marketing?

Her head was swimming with budget figures and the small print of internal recruitment protocols. Who was Darren Lace, why should his name mean anything to her? Preoccupied with drafting her conference paper, she’d barely glanced at reports of the Strandbeck suicide.

‘Sorry, sir, my mind’s a blank.’

Kit Gleadall showed his white teeth. He looked like a bear with a tailor in Savile Row. ‘Let me give you a clue. How about Gerald Lace, known as Gerry Lace, does that sound familiar?’

Yes, in some distant recess of her memory, it did. Was he a criminal? For some reason, she associated Gerry Lace with trouble. Not for her personally; she had near-perfect recall of her own cases, especially her occasional calamities, and she was sure he didn’t feature among them.

‘I can’t quite …’ she began.

‘OK, I can see Lace’s name means something to you,’ he said. ‘He was a prime suspect in connection with the murder of Ramona Smith. The disappearance of Ramona Smith, strictly speaking. Any the wiser?’

Hannah nodded. At last she had a clue as to where this was heading. ‘Ramona was the Bowness woman who went missing … what? Twenty years ago?’

‘Twenty-one,’ Gleadall said. ‘Ramona worked in a bar in Bowness. One evening she vanished and was never seen again. Nobody has heard of her from that day to this. All the evidence suggests she’s dead, but the investigation got nowhere until it was taken over by a very experienced detective. I’m told you used to work with him. Detective Inspector Ben Kind?’

Hannah hoped she wasn’t blushing. How much did the PCC know? It was no secret that she’d been close to Ben Kind during his lifetime. More recently, she’d got even closer to his son Daniel. At one point she and Daniel had lived together. Not so long ago, she’d thought that one fine day, they might become a couple on a permanent basis. Now she was less sure.

Brushing thoughts of Daniel away, she said, ‘You’ve done your homework.’

‘Yes.’ Gleadall didn’t preen. If he was vain, and Hannah suspected he was, at least he had the wisdom not to parade his ego. ‘So far, I’ve only skimmed the records, but it was an extraordinary case. I’m told Ben Kind was a shrewd cop.’

‘Correct.’

‘He was convinced that Gerry Lace murdered Ramona Smith, and the evidence seemed to back him up. Lace was tried for murder, but he was found not guilty, much to everyone’s consternation. He was lucky in his legal team and even luckier in his jury. Nobody else was ever charged, and although the file was never officially closed, the investigation fizzled out. Not that Lace enjoyed his freedom. He and his family were given a rough time. They had a shop, which some hooligans daubed with offensive graffiti. The business went bust, and he couldn’t find another job. He suffered badly from depression.’

Hannah felt a prickle of dismay. ‘The case is coming back to me now.’

‘Lace protested his innocence, but you know the Lake District. Everyone knows everyone else. He was a pariah, with no chance of sinking back into grateful anonymity, the way you might in London or Leeds. In the end, he couldn’t take any more. Even if you’re as guilty as sin, living with suspicion must be hellish. How much worse if you did nothing wrong? You might not see the fingers pointing or hear the tongues wagging, but you know what other people are saying to themselves.’ Gleadall lowered his voice. ‘You got away with murder.’

He paused, but Hannah didn’t utter a word.

‘You recall what happened?’

She took a breath. ‘Lace committed suicide. He left his widow a note blaming police harassment. Specifically on the part of Ben Kind.’

‘That’s right,’ Gleadall said. ‘Remember how he died?’

Hannah’s eyes widened. At last she was joining the dots.

‘He drowned himself.’

‘Yes,’ Gleadall said. ‘He walked into the sea at Strandbeck. Twenty years on, to the day, his son followed his example. He took his own life in precisely the same way as his father. On precisely the same strip of coast.’

Behind the wheel of his ancient Vauxhall Corsa, Kingsley Melton bumped down the looping lane that connected Strandbeck with the rest of the world. The ancient settlement nestled under a rocky incline close to one of the narrow creeks that gave the Crooked Shore its nickname. There was only one way into Strandbeck and one way out. For him, its isolation was part of its allure. So was its misty, mysterious history.

In his mind’s eye he pictured the Druids of ancient times, building their temple of stones up on Birkrigg Common. The Romans had come later to mine iron ore. Folklorists insisted that the village of Strandbeck was once much larger than the present hamlet, until the waves washed most of the buildings away. In this medieval catastrophe lay the origins of that folk tale about strangers outstaying their welcome and suffering ill fortune.

A big house had stood on the same site for centuries. Strandbeck Manor was the latest, built for a nineteenth-century entrepreneur. Once work on the manor was completed, he set about establishing a creek port on the Crooked Shore, a rival to Greenodd on the river Leven. He dreamt of making his fortune as a shipping magnate, but lack of capital led to his downfall. Within weeks of beginning the port’s construction, he ran out of money. Only thanks to the generosity of his trustee in bankruptcy was he allowed to stay on in the manor. While he lingered on as an embittered recluse, the new Furness Railway bypassed Strandbeck, and his vision was stolen and improved upon a few miles west at Barrow. When he could take no more, he loaded a rifle and put a bullet through his brain. Grist to the mill of those who claimed that a miasma of doom clung to the Crooked Shore.

This history of misfortune never deterred Kingsley from coming back whenever he got the chance. His love affair with this place had lasted far longer than any fleeting romantic attachment. Now he depended on Strandbeck for his bread and butter. He worked for Greengables, the virtual property agents, and his main task was to look after the manor and its occupants while striving to market the flats which remained unsold.

This was his first time back at the beach since the tragedy. The drive from his bungalow in Bowness felt like a rite of passage. Watered by forty-eight hours of non-stop rain, the fields were lush and green. Nature’s process of constant renewal taught a life lesson. He needed to put the past behind him. Time to make a fresh start.

Strandbeck was quiet. As the grave sprang to mind. No, scrub that. Think positive. People came and people went. The bay would last forever.

The emergency services had left no trace of their frantic efforts to save the jogger. Nor had the rubberneckers who flocked to the Crooked Shore once news got round that a man had run calmly to his death in the bay. Kingsley half-expected to find the bench covered in floral tributes, in the sickly sentimental modern fashion that he found so repellent, but the only flowers were a single bunch of lilies, accompanied by a note in a round, unformed hand.

In Memory of Darren My Love, My Life Cruelly Taken Rest In Peace, Darling Jade

Jade was the woman he’d seen on television and read about in the papers. Blowsy, heavily made-up for the cameras, and vociferous. Intent on luxuriating in her fifteen minutes of fame. She was no doubt making a song and dance on social media, not that Kingsley had any truck with tweeting and all that rubbish. It wasn’t as if Jade was the dead man’s widow. On the contrary, she was nothing more than an ex-girlfriend. She’d given up on their relationship before Darren Lace gave up on life.

Overhead, a gull wheeled. Kingsley caught a glimpse of white plumage out on the mudflats. A little egret was on the prowl, black bill poised for action, ready to stab its prey. Kingsley closed his eyes and inhaled the damp air, casting his mind back to his last time here, visualising the doomed jogger in his black singlet and shorts.

His spine tingled with apprehension. Was this how it felt if you were a murderer returning to the scene of your crime? Burdened by guilt, dreading exposure? Deep in his heart, he felt sure the answer was yes. There was no escape. As regards the death of Darren Lace, though, he was entirely innocent. In a so-called civilised society, the way he’d been treated after Lace’s death was an outrage. Not for the first time in his life, he’d committed the cardinal error of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

How shocking to witness a suicide, to watch a man deliberately end it all. To sit on the shore as the fellow waded into the bay until the quicksand trapped him and the salty water flooded his lungs. Kingsley still couldn’t believe what he’d seen. The death of a grown man, in front of his eyes.

When the emergency services arrived in response to his garbled phone summons, he’d tried to describe what had happened. His breathless explanation made little sense. Surely it was an understandable reaction to a shattering experience? Not for the first time in his life, he’d been the sole witness to the final moments of a fellow human being. Shock and horror overwhelmed him. He felt as if he too were succumbing to the onrushing tide.

The rescuers did their utmost, risking their own lives, but there was never any hope of a miracle. You could survive for hours if the tide was out and you held your nerve. Quicksand was an accomplice, not a killer. You didn’t die simply because you were stuck, unless you fell in headfirst or lost your footing. What finished you was the water. Once the waves came crashing in, you had no chance.

At first Kingsley felt like a hero. Waves of sympathy lapped around him, gentle and unthreatening. Because he couldn’t swim, there was no way he could have saved the man single-handedly, but he was the person who had summoned help. If Fate had been kinder, everyone would have hailed him as a saviour. It was only when it emerged that he’d seen the man earlier, jogging out on to the shingle, and that he’d failed to warn him or sound an alarm, that he sensed a subtle shift in the mood.

‘You ignored him?’ a voice demanded, brimming with incredulity and scorn.

No, no, Kingsley insisted, it hadn’t been like that at all. He had so much on his mind, he was miles away. He barely restrained himself from adding that he wasn’t his brother’s keeper. How absurd to imply that somehow he was in the wrong. If anything, he was a victim too.

The spell broken, his cheeks began to burn. How could he make people understand? When a pleasant young woman asked if he’d mind taking part in a news conference, he almost bit her hand off. A journalist offered a handsome sum for an exclusive interview, explaining that this was a priceless opportunity to set the record straight, so of course he said yes to that as well.

With hindsight, he’d blundered by talking so freely about what happened. He should have known better than to trust the media. Their only interest lay in conjuring up a story sensational enough for readers to salivate over. It wasn’t enough for a man to die of his own volition. Someone else must take the blame.

A freelance reporter with an Antipodean accent wrinkled her nose, as if sniffing for a scandal.

‘Tell us about your conscience, Mr Melton. Does it trouble you?’

‘Why should it?’ he retorted. ‘I did my best.’

‘Really? I’m so sorry, did I misunderstand? Isn’t it right that you waited until Mr Lace was too far out to be rescued before you called for help?’

‘I didn’t see him!’

Her chin jutted forward, hatchet-sharp.

‘You’re a native of the south Lakes, you told us so. Brought up to respect the tides of Morecambe Bay. Accustomed to the hidden dangers. If you’d acted five minutes sooner, it would have made all the difference. Didn’t you think to say something to Mr Lace when he jogged right past you? Because you admitted seeing him then, didn’t you?’

The newspaper interview, with his remarks set down in black and white minus the context of a friendly chat with a sympathetic reporter, made him look like a callous attention-seeker, content to watch a disturbed man lope to his death without lifting a finger to help until it was too late. The legend of the Crooked Shore gave the journalists an opportunity to ginger the story with a touch of melodrama.

As if that were not bad enough, they discovered the connection between the suicides of father and son, twenty years apart. It gave them an excuse to make a meal of Gerald Lace’s acquittal of the Ramona Smith murder. What a miserable fiasco that had been. Kingsley had hoped and prayed that Ramona Smith had long been forgotten.

The interview appeared in a tabloid newspaper, previously Kingsley’s favourite. The photograph of him was grotesquely unflattering. At first he’d barely recognised that gaunt, hollow-eyed man who looked as though he’d seen a ghost. His fine head of hair was his pride and joy, but on the page, in black and white, it looked faintly ridiculous and almost effeminate. He’d never buy another copy of that poisonous rag. It was an absolute disgrace.

‘Call me irresponsible,’ Logan Prentice used to sing.

The cruel irony lay in the journalistic innuendo. It was as if Kingsley’s personal irresponsibility had led to a man’s death. The reporting was slanted, dripping with bias and bile. If anyone was to blame for what happened, it was Logan Prentice. Kingsley might not have seen a ghost, but he’d spotted a murderer in Strandbeck. Was it any wonder that he’d scarcely noticed Darren Lace passing, far less realised that the man was determined to die?

‘A woman called Jade Hughes is kicking up a stink,’ Kit Gleadall told Hannah. ‘Darren Lace’s ex. She left him six months ago, couldn’t cope with his long-running mental health issues. Her way of dealing with grief is to blame us.’

‘She feels guilty about walking out on him?’

‘The word she keeps using is devastated. According to her, everything is our fault. Darren Lace posted a note to her on the day he died, making it clear he’d never got over the way the police supposedly persecuted his father. The press scent blood. Crucifying that sad loser who sat and watched Lace wander into the bay isn’t enough to occupy them. They’re having a field day over the connection with his father’s death.’ He mimicked a hoarse newspaper vendor: ‘Police Condemned over Strandbeck Tragedy, read all about it!’

Despite herself, Hannah was tempted to smile. The new PCC obviously fancied himself as a performer. To be fair, he wasn’t bad.

‘As for social media, the trolls are already out in force,’ he said ruefully. ‘Hashtag Gleadall Out!’

She sighed. ‘Yeah, the police were too incompetent to solve Ramona’s murder or find where her remains are buried. We couldn’t even fit up an innocent man efficiently enough to secure a conviction. Darren Lace’s father was the fall guy. Now our failures have cost another life. What do you intend to do about it, Mr Commissioner?’

‘Got it in one. Cumbria Constabulary has let down two families. The victim’s, as well as the suspect’s. Naturally, they want a full response from the PCC.’

‘And?’

‘I’ve bought myself twenty-four hours …’

Hannah couldn’t help butting in. ‘You mightn’t solve the case quite that quickly.’

He laughed. ‘Believe it or not, even I’m not that ambitious. If I learnt anything in the PR game, it’s not to shoot from the hip. All the same, fast response is as vital as if one’s dealing with an armed terrorist.’ He winced, as if remembering past embarrassments. ‘Actually, I’ve come across one or two journalists who would make rather good terrorists. I said we’d go back to them tomorrow with a definitive statement, that I wanted to familiarise myself with the details before setting out our plan of action. That’s why I wanted a word with you.’

‘I see.’

And it was true, she did see precisely what was coming. Kit Gleadall read her mind and gave a confirmatory smile.

‘The murder of Ramona Smith is a cold case. Luckily for us, we have a first-rate Cold Case Review Team.’

‘Thanks for your confidence.’

Hannah spoke through gritted teeth. She ought to be pleased, but her team had shrunk so much it was almost invisible. How could they cope with a major enquiry?

Kit Gleadall leant forward. ‘Let me make one thing clear. I’m not here to take things easy. It’s already clear to me that the Ramona Smith business was a debacle. Without wishing to be wise after the event, nobody comes out of it smelling of roses. We owe it to people to do a better job. Discover what really happened to Ramona. In a perfect world, find her body so that her family can have closure. As for the Lace family, there can never be a happy ending, but at least it’s better if everyone knows.’

Her stomach clenched. Now that Ben Kind was no longer alive to defend himself, he made the softest of targets.

‘Is Ramona’s family making a fuss as well?’

‘Ramona was an only child and her parents split up when she was young. Her mother died before she did, and her father always gave the media a wide berth. Some of the original coverage hinted that Ramona pretty much got what she deserved. In this day and age it seems shocking, but things were different then.’

‘Perhaps not as different as we’d like to think.’

Her mind had shifted into overdrive. Investigating Ramona Smith’s disappearance would be one hell of a challenge. All hands to the pump. What were the chances of finding out the truth? Yes, it sounded like just the sort of case her team had been created to investigate. Trouble was, with minimal resources, the likelihood of delivering an answer to such an old mystery was negligible. At least she’d have an excuse for putting her budget forecasts to one side.

‘As for Gerry Lace, his wife went on a crusade after he took his own life. She devoted herself to what she called her quest for justice. Never forgave us for the way he was treated and spent years complaining to local MPs and anyone else who would give her a hearing, demanding a public apology and compensation.’

‘I don’t suppose there was ever much chance of that.’

Gleadall nodded. ‘Shirley Lace died of an aneurysm at Easter. Darren was very close to her, and the bereavement probably tipped him over the edge. His sister moved away from the area years ago, and has kept out of it. Jade Hughes, Darren’s ex-partner, is the one egging on the journalists. Juicy local stories are few and far between, and this one overflows with human interest. More’s the pity.’

Hannah took a breath. There was never a good time to introduce a note of caution, but she needed to manage his expectations. ‘I’ll be honest with you, sir. After all this time, it’s very unlikely we’ll ever turn up a corpse. I realise we have to deal with the press, but we mustn’t give people false hope. That will only stoke up more anger.’

Gleadall sprang to his feet. His every movement was brisk, decisive. A man who knew what he wanted, she thought. Plenty of them around; what made the PCC different was the confidence he exuded in his ability to get his way.

‘Yes, figuring out the truth of a crime committed more than two decades ago is a tall order. But that’s the nature of cold case investigation. I’ve seen the stats, read the reports. Since your team was formed, you’ve notched up a series of impressive results. That Dungeon House business last year, for instance. Extraordinary.’

Hannah nodded. There was a case she’d never forget.

‘Time for history to repeat itself. Are you up for it?’

What could she say? ‘Yes, sir. Of course.’

‘Very good. See if you can succeed where Ben Kind and others failed.’

Hannah couldn’t let that pass. ‘He was the best detective I ever worked with.’

‘Nobody gets it right all the time. Maybe Gerry Lace was innocent, and the focus on him meant that other suspects were overlooked.’ He paused. ‘One more thing.’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘There’s a staff do here at headquarters this evening, I gather. A couple of junior officers going off on maternity leave? Thought I’d look in. Not that I want to be a party-pooper, but I said when I took on this job that it’s vital for me to know people. Understand how things work, what makes you detectives tick. Otherwise, I can’t do my job properly.’

It was on the tip of Hannah’s tongue to say that had never bothered his predecessor. His fatal heart attack while playing deck tennis on a yacht in the Caribbean had created the vacancy resulting in Kit Gleadall’s election.

‘No, sir.’

‘One of the leavers is a member of your team, isn’t she?’

Hannah had to hand it to the PCC; he really didn’t skimp on his research. ‘Linz Waller; it’s her first baby. She’s been with me since we set up the team.’

‘And I hear that someone else has transferred to the north east?’

‘Billie Frederick, that’s right, sir. Our most recent recruit, but her new partner is based in Newcastle and the travelling …’

‘OK, so you’re woefully under-strength. Down to the bare bones.’

‘Other than admin backup, we have one sergeant, plus a consultant on a fixed term contract. Both are excellent, but even so.’

Gleadall winced. ‘Can’t make bricks without straw.’

‘The years of austerity,’ she said wryly, ‘have taken their toll.’

‘I bet.’ He allowed himself a smile. ‘We can’t run complex projects on a shoestring. Looks to me as if you’ve been suffering death by a thousand cuts.’

She pushed her hair out of her eyes. ‘Well …’

He was spot on. Hannah had spent years rather than months waiting for someone in high office to break the news to her that Cumbria Constabulary could no longer afford the luxury of a unit dedicated to cold cases. A handful of high-profile successes had kept the grim reapers of Finance at bay, but eventually someone was sure to sound the death knell for her team. In the meantime, she’d been starved of resources. At least Kit Gleadall recognised the reality. His candour left her groping for words.

‘I’ve spoken to the chief constable as well as the ACC,’ he said. ‘Don’t waste precious time conjuring up a business case for new recruits. Consider it done. Two new detectives should help to ease the load in the short term. One with bags of experience, plus someone more junior. With commensurate back office support. It’s not enough, but it’s a start. Speak to HR tomorrow so they can get the paperwork moving.’

Hannah blinked. For an insane moment she was tempted to throw her arms around the PCC and kiss him.

‘Thank you …’

He silenced her with a wave of his hand. ‘There’s a catch.’

Ah, she might have known. ‘Oh, yes?’

‘I need you to talk to Jade Hughes. An hour ago I saw her myself and gave her my personal assurance that we’d do everything in our power to find out the truth, even after so many years. I did my utmost to calm her down, but she wanted to speak to the officer in charge of the case review to reassure herself that we mean business, and aren’t just fobbing her off by giving the old files a quick once-over and then declaring that nothing can be done. The media is itching to give us a bloody good kicking over this business. We need to reset the dial. Good PR will work wonders. So I agreed to her request.’

Hannah said drily, ‘And volunteered me?’

‘I’m afraid so.’ He looked her in the eye. ‘I won’t pretend I found Ms Hughes an easy woman, but we have to remember that she’s suffered a grievous loss. A spot of female empathy may work wonders. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not obsessed with public relations, they aren’t the be-all and end-all. But we do need to build bridges with the people we serve as well as with the press.’

She knew better than to fight against a fait accompli. ‘Understood.’

‘You’ll see her tomorrow morning?’

‘Why not?’

‘Excellent. Life’s too short to waste, Hannah.’ As if to emphasise the point, he sprang to his feet. ‘We need to make the most of every moment. See you tonight.’

CHAPTER THREE

Kingsley checked his watch. Time to go. He’d promised Tory that he’d arrive no later than four. Obviously, he could turn up at his office in the manor much earlier, but he had his pride. He preferred to masquerade as a man in demand, a busy executive who spent his days dashing from one job to another. It never paid to appear underemployed, far less needy.

Tory had called him because she’d spotted an intruder in the grounds of the manor the previous evening, just before dusk. It was probably something and nothing, she admitted, but she felt she ought to report it.

Her husky voice sounded cheerful enough, and he was glad the incident hadn’t disconcerted her, given that the manor was isolated and she was living alone. He’d been quick to offer reassurance. You’d never think it to look at her, but she had a history of serious heart trouble. The last thing he wanted was for her to suffer any acute distress.

Privately he suspected that the incident wasn’t worth worrying about. The grounds to the front of the manor were surrounded by a long stone wall, but farther back, the rear of the property was edged by rickety wood-and-wire fencing. People occasionally sneaked through a gap in the fence to save walking all the way round the perimeter. He’d seen them do it himself, and six months ago he’d given a couple of young trespassers a piece of his mind. Not that they were in the least apologetic. In fact, they’d been extremely rude.

No matter. What mattered was that Tory was in good humour. Absence evidently did make the heart grow fonder. How exciting that soon he’d be in her company again.

The manor stood half a mile inland, at the end of a potholed lane; rather than walking, he drove there from the Crooked Shore. Turning up for work by car seemed more businesslike, and besides, he loved to make the most of his designated parking place. A self-employed contractor in the gig economy deserved to feast on every morsel of status he could grab.

Flicking the electronic fob to open the ornate iron gates, he felt a familiar thrill. Of all the Greengables properties in his portfolio, the manor was far and away the most prestigious and expensive. Here, he didn’t simply represent management, he was the management.

Five years ago, the manor had lain derelict. Ripe for bulldozing. The ground-floor windows were smashed, and patches of roof gaped open to the unforgiving elements. If the building hadn’t been so remote, it would have become a vandals’ playground. The grounds were wild and overgrown. The deep lake at the rear of the estate was a foul death trap, stagnant and messy with vegetation.

Since the Victorian entrepreneur’s bloody demise, the manor had endured successive incarnations as a progressive school, a care home, and a boutique hotel. After the hotel business failed, the building decayed until it became uninhabitable. The curse of the Crooked Shore hadn’t lost its sting.

Salvation came in the form of a joint venture between a firm of architects and a construction company, dedicated to transforming the manor into a dozen upmarket flats. The renovations took much longer and cost far more than expected. Merely to transform the lake from an eyesore into an attractive, reed-fringed feature with its own wooden jetty, a natural version of an outdoor swimming pool for residents, required serious investment. The interior had to be gutted and then luxuriously fitted out from top to bottom. As a result, the developers marketed the flats at prices high enough to make any prospective purchaser gulp. When sales weren’t forthcoming, Greengables were appointed as agents, taking charge of sales of the flats as well as day-to-day maintenance of the manor and its grounds.

Kingsley was Greengables’ local representative. His mother’s death had triggered a long and debilitating period of depression, and he’d lost his zest for buying and selling antiques, the only trade he knew. A job with flexible hours, for an online, invisible employer, seemed an ideal way of feeling his way back into working life. Within a fortnight of being handed a contract, he was given sole responsibility for the manor. In his more cynical moments, he suspected that Greengables regarded the job as a poisoned chalice. Perhaps they’d recruited him because no seasoned property specialist would tolerate the uncertainty of earnings based mainly on commission. He didn’t care. Without Greengables, he’d never have met Tory.

Tory Reece-Taylor came into his life forty-eight hours after he took over at the manor. She was the very first person he showed around the development, an exquisitely dressed woman with thick blonde hair, designer spectacles, and high heels. She explained that she lived in Rye on the Sussex coast. A year earlier, her husband had died following a long illness.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘That must have come as a terrible shock.’

‘Not really. Winston was past his three-score-and-ten. He was twenty years older than me.’ Her dazzling smile dared him to stammer that she looked not a day over thirty-five. ‘I was his second wife. Arm candy, I suppose. His ex hated me, but I couldn’t care less.’

‘No, of course not,’ he stammered. Her bluntness was invigorating but took some getting used to.

‘The poor old soul was an accountant who retired early to devote more time to the real love of his life. Golf, such a bloody boring sport. They call it a good walk spoilt, one of the great understatements. Many’s the time I’ve been tempted to bash his head in with a seven-iron and cash in on the life insurance. Poor old soul; he never dreamt what was going through my mind at golf club dinners while his chums were pawing my thighs. I reckon I earned every penny he spent on me.’

Kingsley nodded, lost for words.

‘In return he indulged my love of travel. The Atacama Desert, Hawaii, Machu Picchu, Goa, Dubai, Japan, you name it, we went there. Everywhere but the Algarve; they’ve got too many golf courses.’

‘How marvellous.’ Kingsley was a home bird. He’d never ventured farther than Rome, and he’d found the Eternal City infernally hot.

‘After he died, I splashed the cash on a world cruise. Got the travel bug out of my system, at least for the time being. I’m ready to take my ease. When I got back to England, I decided to sell up in Rye. Make a new beginning.’

‘You’ve come to the perfect place!’ Kingsley announced.

‘You think so?’

‘There’s a village called Newbiggin just down the coast!’

She clapped her hand with delight, making him feel like a latter-day Oscar Wilde.

‘I love the idea of living so close to the Lakes.’

Kingsley frowned. ‘I’m honour bound to tell you that here we aren’t quite within the boundary of the national park …’

She burst out laughing. ‘Oh, I knew that already. Don’t worry, I’m not really a dumb blonde. And Mr Melton …’

‘Kingsley, please.’

She beamed. ‘Kingsley, you’re far too truthful to be an estate agent.’

‘I’m new in this job,’ he admitted.

Her giggle was infectious, her personality as overpowering as her lavishly applied perfume. There was something fascinatingly contradictory about her. She was an extrovert, evidently at ease in any sort of company, yet she insisted that she liked to keep herself to herself.

Her aim was to settle somewhere off the beaten track. Rye was delightful, but in summer the cobbled streets thronged with tourists. She was determined to stay close to the coast, and Strandbeck fitted the bill. The hamlet comprised a dozen houses and most of them were either intermittently occupied holiday accommodation or second homes.

The downside of the idyllic setting was a lack of local facilities. The developers’ hope that, when the manor was fully occupied, the residents would create a little community of their own, was still a long way from being fulfilled. There was no shop or post office within walking distance, and although the old Norman church survived, services were only held once a month.

Tory pooh-poohed these drawbacks.

‘I won’t lose any sleep over any of that. I don’t like neighbours, I shop online, and I never believed in God.’

Startled though he was by her directness, he found her captivating. He’d been brought up by elderly, conservative parents, and some of their prissiness had rubbed off. To be in Tory’s company felt like gorging on forbidden fruit.

As they strolled around outside, she said, ‘This place is marvellous. Such heavenly seclusion.’

Privacy was one of the manor’s selling points. The property was set in twelve acres of grounds, and you couldn’t see it from the lane or the paths skirting the perimeter.

‘Far from the madding crowd, eh?’

‘I’ve had my fill of madding crowds,’ she said. ‘Mind you, once upon a time, being in a crowd saved my life.’

‘Really?’

Eighteen months ago, she told him, she’d collapsed while out shopping in Rye. A sudden cardiac arrest. She’d only been saved thanks to a passer-by who happened to be a nurse. The woman gave her CPR while an ambulance was called. Against the odds, she’d been brought back to life.

‘Good grief,’ Kingsley said. ‘What an astonishing story.’

Honesty compelled him to add, ‘I’m afraid there’s no doctor’s surgery nearer than Ulverston.’

Tory roared with laughter. ‘Don’t worry. I reckon I’ve used up my quota of luck. Next time it will be curtains.’

Appalled, he put his hand to his mouth.

‘Oh, don’t look so horrified. None of us knows what tomorrow may bring. My philosophy’s simple. Live for the moment. If you’ve any sense, you’ll get me to sign on the dotted line quick, before I keel over for good.’

True to her word, before a taxi arrived to take her back to the station, she agreed to buy the show flat, the largest and priciest in the manor. Not only did Kingsley earn an extravagant amount of commission for a minimal amount of effort, he was bowled over by Tory’s vivacity. Thank goodness he had his own base at the manor. There was every opportunity, every excuse, to see her regularly.

Her decision to spend so much money on an impulse amazed him. The late Winston Reece-Taylor had obviously indulged her whims, and Kingsley understood why. A woman with such verve and personality came along once in a lifetime. Easy to see why a boring number-cruncher had been swept away.

After she moved into the manor and they became better acquainted, he discovered that she was prone to frequent mood swings. These were baffling and impossible to predict. Her outbursts of temper were savage, and her tongue cut like a knife, but on top form, she was irresistible. Night after night she featured in his dreams. He’d never experienced anything like this before. She’d changed his life.

He passed through the gates and past a clump of sycamores on either side of the winding gravel drive. As he rounded a bend, the manor reared up in front of him. A granite fortress in the Gothic Revival style, it had steep-sloping roofs of Westmorland green slate, spindly chimney stacks, and a solitary turret by way of eccentric Victorian flourish. With a precision verging on the absurd, he parked within his designated rectangle close to his office.

The truth was, he could have left his car anywhere. Apart from Tory’s electric BMW, the place was deserted. This wasn’t unusual. A couple in their early seventies owned a modest-sized flat at the rear of the first floor, although they spent most of the time away providing free childcare of their grandchildren. Otherwise, his only other sale to date had been to Fiona and Molly, a lesbian couple who ran a nail bar in Carlisle and had a sideline of investing in holiday lets. The snag was that competition for bed-nights in the south Lakes was intense, and the high rent and lack of local amenities deterred most tourists.