Cause of Death (2 page)

Stan Holden was suddenly possessed by an odd desire to go over and talk to them, not to provoke a confrontation exactly – he was good, but he knew when he was well outnumbered – but just to get a response. They'd know he was out; it was something their boss would have been sure to keep a note of. He'd been Stan's old boss and the relationship had not ended on a good note, but Stan Holden felt oddly sanguine about that. Yes, the threat was there, but if Haines had wanted him dead then an accident could have been arranged while Stan was still inside. No, for the moment he wasn't registering sufficiently high on the radar for his life, death or unfortunate accident to be of top concern. Presently, to attack Stan would mean drawing unwanted attention, and he knew instinctively that, though his time might come – Haines not being the kind of man to even
understand
the concept of bygones being bygones – it was not yet.

He watched the five men as they moved away. This was the clearest indicator yet that his old governor had moved back and was operating again in this neck of the woods. He'd heard rumours this past year, but not been sure if they were just phantoms and legends or had some root in actual fact. Now he knew.

Stan drew back into deeper shadow. Santos was jumpy, glancing round, eyes everywhere, but it was Tomas that concerned him more. The man barely seemed to register his environment most of the time, but Stan knew he missed nothing. He had an almost uncanny instinct for trouble, and Stan had no wish to draw attention to himself – odd impulses towards bravado excepted. Tomas was dangerous in unpredictable ways, unlike Santos and Jerry Mason who were both eminently predictable, paid muscle – much like Stan had been when in the same line of work. But Tomas was something else again. Subtle as a knife, Coran had once said, and the more Stan thought about it, the more he agreed with Coran, a man now dead, gone and ungrieved. Subtle as a stiletto, Stan thought. That didn't sound quite as good but it was far more apt. Sharp and pointed and slim enough not to be noticed until it was wedged between your ribs and killing you.

He wondered briefly about the other two, observing them carefully as they stepped out under a street light, one pausing to light a cigarette before moving on. Stan took note of the dark hair, the slight but muscular build and the designer stubble on the chin.
That
drew his particular attention. So, Haines was not close by; they had been sent out either on a few days' r&r or they were preparing for something before the big man arrived. Haines was a stickler for personal appearance and would not have tolerated one of his men going unshaved.

Interesting, Stan thought. He pulled back again as Santos glanced around, and this time Tomas turned as well, pausing and staring towards the pub they had just left.

Time to go, Stan thought, backing off slowly and then slipping away down the alley at the side of the inn and back over the wall into the office car park beyond. He was happier once he'd reached the relative anonymity of the main road and the scant crowds now also leaving pubs and restaurants as the church clock struck the hour. Eleven. Stan counted automatically, though he was fully aware of what time it was.

So, what now?

Nothing, yet. Time to wait and see. Good job he'd always been the patient type.

R
ina Martin stood in the hall of Peverill Lodge and studied her mail: bill, junk, a letter for Tim from someone whose writing she didn't recognize, and a card saying she had missed a parcel. It was this last she was finding aggravating. Not only had she not been expecting a parcel, but she had only been in the kitchen when the post had come tumbling on to the mat, and if there had been something too big for her letterbox, then why on earth had the postman not rung the bell? Had she been quicker getting to it, then she would have opened the door and accosted the cause of her annoyance and demanded an explanation. As it was, she'd been too busy minding the bacon and eggs and by the time she had come through to collect the letters, the recalcitrant man was long gone, his red bag and blue uniform now just visible at the other end of Newell Street. The not so nice end.

Irritated, she set the letters on the side table next to the phone and went back to the kitchen to put the kettle on the hob. There were sounds coming from upstairs that told her the family was awake and slowly descending. From the thump directly above her, Tim had more or less fallen out of bed. He'd been very late home last night, Rina thought, and wondered how the new show at the Palisades had gone.

First down the stairs and floating into the kitchen were the Peters sisters, Bethany and Eliza, still in their pyjamas and pink satin gowns with their grey, bobbed hair tied up with chiffon bows. They kissed Rina good morning before settling on one side of the big scrubbed table. Breakfast at Peverill Lodge was always eaten in the kitchen, the occupants only moving to the dining room for lunch, tea and dinner. It was also the only meal that Rina regularly cooked. The Montmorency twins, Matthew and Stephen, took over culinary duties later in the day, with a little help – or otherwise – from Bethany and Eliza. Tim rarely indulged in domesticity, which was something of a relief for the food lovers in the house. Peverill Lodge might officially be a boarding house, but in reality it was home – owned by Rina, it was true, but costs and chores shared equally between all those she counted as kin.

Tim bounded through the door, fully dressed and looking chipper, Rina thought.

‘It went well then?' she asked him.

‘Of course it did,' Bethany said. ‘Tim always puts on a good show.'

Tim beamed. ‘Very well,' he agreed. ‘Rina, I've been talent spotted, or whatever you call it. Some big London agent called Marcus Price. Do you know him?'

‘After my time, dear, but I know the name. So that's why you were late?'

‘Yes, we stayed talking in the bar after everything closed. Hopefully the filming will happen at the Palisades.'

‘Filming? At the hotel? That should be good for business. What's it all about then?'

‘Well.' Tim frowned as though trying to get everything in order in his brain. ‘It's a series about buildings that have been brought back to life. Theatres, hotels, that sort of thing. You know how there's been this new wave of heritage-style programmes on TV?'

Rina nodded.

‘So not actually about your magic, then?' Bethany sounded disappointed.

‘Oh, but it will still be wonderful exposure,' her sister chided. ‘Tim, you'll shine anyway.'

‘Of course he will,' Bethany agreed. ‘Tim, you mustn't be disappointed that it's not all about you. Your break will come, you know.'

‘Right,' Tim said, momentarily nonplussed.

‘So this is a series,' Rina prompted.

Tim nodded. ‘Six parts, each one looking at a different part of the country, but the good thing is, the Palisades would be featured on the Christmas edition.'

Rina looked more closely at her protégé. From the look of barely suppressed excitement on Tim's face, there was more to this. ‘And?' she said.

‘And . . . it would be going out live. Rina, imagine that. Live television.'

Rina
could
imagine, having done it herself.

‘That's quite a risk,' she said. ‘Exciting, yes, but—'

‘But Tim does his act live every night,' Eliza objected. ‘So what can possibly go wrong just because it's going to be on the television? Rina, you are a cold fish sometimes. We think it's wonderful, don't we, Bethany?'

Tom cast an apologetic look in Rina's direction, followed by a tiny shrug, a habit he seemed to have picked up from his fiancée, Joy.

‘Oh, I don't doubt Tim will be wonderful,' Rina agreed, ‘I'm just wondering how the Palisades will cope with an entire production team. It's really good news, dear. Joy will be delighted.'

Tim nodded enthusiastically and set about helping Rina carry dishes of bacon and sausage to the table, just as the final members of the household made their entrance. The Montmorency twins had performed as a double act for so long that they seemed to have forgotten how to be separate individuals. ‘The twins' as they always called themselves – as did everyone else who did not wish to cause mortal offence – could not have looked less identical, though anyone who knew them for any length of time seemed to be drawn into the same conceit and, in Rina's experience, to register only the similarities. In reality, Matthew was tall and rather elegant with his mane of steel grey curls, whereas his eponymous brother was short and slightly round, thinning on top and unlike Matthew in practically every way.

‘Any news on
your
project?' Tim asked.

‘You mean Rina's relaunch?' Eliza asked.

‘Just think,' Bethany added, ‘
Lydia Marchant Investigates
coming back after all this time.'

‘Not that she ever went away,' Matthew put in. ‘I mean, the programme has been franchised in, oh, how many countries, Rina? It's on cable and satellite all the time.'

That was true, Rina thought, a fact which contributed to the financial well-being of Peverill Lodge. ‘Nothing is fully decided yet,' she reminded them, though there had already been a series of script and scheduling meetings. Discussions centred on the possibility of picking up from where they had left off, and revamping the storylines that had already been submitted for the eleventh series which had never been made. There were some, Rina included, who thought it would be better to go for a complete relaunch. It was, after all, eight years since Lydia Marchant had graced television screens. Rina was alternately hopeful and despairing about it all.

‘Not that she ever stopped investigating,' Tim muttered, as though reading her thoughts.

She smiled back at him. ‘I'm due to give my agent a call later in the week,' she said. ‘Hopefully I'll know a little more then.' She settled to breakfast, Matthew pouring tea and Stephen serving the eggs, the morning ritual establishing itself as it always did. Rina felt a slight moment of disquiet.

‘They'll all be fine, even if you have to go away for the filming,' Tim murmured, doing that thought reading thing again. ‘And I'll be close by, Mac and Miriam too, and they're not helpless, you know. Just a bit eccentric.'

Rina nodded gratefully, knowing he was right. She was really hoping that Lydia Marchant, her most successful role, would make a comeback. For one thing it would help with the family finances, and for another she really did want to work again. It would be fun; it was what she did and, as a lady now in her sixties, Rina knew she should seize the chance as it was unlikely to be offered again.

She accepted her tea from Matthew and allowed Stephen to load up her breakfast plate. So lucky, she thought, to have good friends and to have been able to offer them all a place of refuge. The world could be cruel to those unable to fend for themselves. She counted herself so fortunate too that Tim, young enough to be her son but also her closest friend these past few years, had decided he would stick around in Frantham even after he moved out of Peverill Lodge. His fiancée had made the decision to come to live with him rather than ask Tim to move north to Manchester, and Rina was looking forward to seeing more of Joy. Her mother, Bridie, was in the process of finding the young couple a house and helping out with the financing of that – Bridie being a woman with a fortune many times that of Tim's income, even if he did now have regular work.

‘Is Mac still coming to dinner today?' Stephen asked.

‘Yes, Miriam too, though she says she might be a few minutes late. She's shopping with her sister in Exeter.'

‘Ah, that will do her good. It's not been easy, has it?'

No, Rina agreed. It had not been easy. The terrible time late last year when Miriam had been almost lost to them had taken some getting over. Miriam had found herself unable to return to work and was now preparing to go back to university to take her Masters. She was much better, much more confident now, but there was still a fragility under stress that Rina knew would take a long time to harden.

‘It will be good to see our favourite policeman,' Bethany said. ‘It's been at least a week since he came over.'

‘Well, this is a busy time of year,' Eliza agreed. ‘All of those tourists and their troubles.'

Rina hid a smile. Compared to last year, Mac must have found work a breeze. No murders, no dramas, just the usual baggage of lost children, the odd stolen purse and a couple who had to be rescued from a remote bit of beach when the tide came in. Not that Mac had actually done the rescuing; he'd just called the coastguard and organized things, but it had been a rare bit of drama in a so far very peaceful summer. Rina figured that the more settled routine had been influential in Mac's decision to stay on in Frantham as the local DI. Earlier in the year he had been very close to quitting. The excuse he'd used for changing his mind was that with Miriam going back to study they needed a steady income, but Rina knew that was only part of the truth, as a friend with a private security firm had offered Mac a well-paid position. Rina had the feeling Mac's reticence was purely down to the fact that he couldn't handle any further changes just now. He'd had enough to last him for a while. He needed routine, familiarity and a little peace, and so far this summer he had managed all of the above.

While the Martin household was having breakfast, their favourite policeman was leaning on the promenade railing, drinking coffee from the little Italian coffee shop close to the tiny police station and thinking how good life felt.

Strictly speaking, DI Sebastian MacGregor was a little overqualified to be running this substation of policing at Frantham on Sea. He knew full well that this posting was almost the equivalent of gardening leave; that he and his predecessor DI Eden had been sent here because in theory they could neither do harm nor become embroiled in anything that might cause them stress or pain. It was perceived by the powers that be as almost early retirement, but without the paperwork.