Cause of Death (4 page)

‘Morning, Rina.'

She turned with a smile, recognizing the voice. ‘Good morning, Harry. Find anything interesting?'

‘This morning, no. It's been too dry, but I came down a couple of days ago after that bit of a squall, big chunk of cliff had slipped during the night. Found some nice bits and pieces the next morning.'

‘Good for you. Well, I'm just going to have a bit of a firkle before the antique thing opens.'

‘Right you are then, hope you find something nice.'

She could feel him watching her as she walked away, wondering if there was something wrong. Rina sighed. Ordinarily she'd have stopped and chatted with Harry, asked him about his fossil finds and his family and exchanged a bit of gossip. Somehow she didn't have the heart for it this morning; she needed time with her own thoughts. Rina was not someone given to moroseness, but she seemed to be experiencing a real attack of it at the moment and she didn't like the feeling very much.

Rina wasn't sure what had brought it on, but she seemed to be suffering from a terrible attack of
might have beens
. A sort of false nostalgia for events that might have happened in her life if things had been different. It annoyed her, but at the same time she found she couldn't help herself.

‘You need a change of scene and a change of pace,' she told herself sternly. ‘This is no good for anyone, Rina Martin, so stop it right now.'

Unexpectedly, tears pricked at her eyes. She felt in her bag for a tissue and surreptitiously wiped them away. Just what was this all about? True, she was sad about the prospect of Tim leaving Peverill Lodge, but she knew both he and Joy would be frequent visitors, and though it wouldn't be the same, she was genuinely happy about Tim's relationship and loved Joy dearly. Maybe it was the thought that her career might not really be about to get a new lease of life. Maybe that was it – she was afraid of the disappointment?

A small boy hurtled past her, heading towards the sea, sister and mother in hot pursuit. They were laughing. Rina watched as they splashed in the shallows, jumping over the lazy little waves. She watched them with something verging on hunger. We could have had children, she thought. Fred would have made a wonderful father, and she didn't think she'd have done too badly in the maternal stakes either. After Fred had died so suddenly only five years into their marriage, Rina had given up on any ideas of motherhood. She'd known instinctively that she'd never find anyone like Fred again. That she'd never fall in love so completely and utterly. And she'd been right, hadn't she? There'd never been another man who could take his place.

‘Not that I ever looked very hard,' she muttered, dabbing at her eyes again and telling herself that it was the unexpectedly strong wind coming in off the sea that was causing her eyes to water.

Determinedly, she turned and began to walk along the beach close to the water's edge, looking for fossils or anything interesting that might have been washed out of the cliffs. Once she'd found a little geode, smashed in half and with bright white crystals inside. Mostly it was just ammonites or lumps of iron pyrite.

Would Tim and Joy have children?

Rina was pretty sure they would, in time. Bridie would be a doting grandmother and Rina a loving surrogate aunt. It was a good thought.

On that more optimistic note she turned back towards the village. She'd go and forage among the art and antiques for a bit, see which new artists had brought their wares to sell and if any of the regular traders had anything worth buying. Rina knew most of it was tat, but as the inhabitants of Peverill Lodge had something of a penchant for pretty china and unusual glassware, there was often something to be had.

Mac worked his way through the day's paperwork and the interdepartmental emails that seemed to multiply week by week. Most were irrelevant to the small team at Frantham, but he made a point of looking at them anyway, telling himself that it helped him keep track of what was going on in the wider world. A part of Mac had already resigned itself to spending the rest of his career at Frantham, followed by a quiet send off and peaceful retirement – despite the fact that retirement was actually years away. Yet at the back of his mind was the thought he might one day want a more demanding life. The past eighteen months had seen Mac involved in unexpectedly major investigations and he'd got to admit that, once he'd dealt with the fear of failure, and allowing for the more personal threats to himself and Miriam, he'd actually enjoyed the challenges.

The day brought up to date, he fetched Stan Holden's file and sat down to flick through the pages. He was familiar with Holden's career: its trajectory from armed forces to organized crime. Having spoken to him on a number of occasions, Mac could understand how this man, cast adrift from what had once been his life in the army, had been unable to reintegrate. He knew also that Stan was piercingly honest about his life and the choices he had made. He expected no pity and he made no excuses. Odd as it may sound, Stan had a very strong moral compass; that didn't necessarily mean that his magnetic north was the same as the rest of the world's.

And now he was coming back here, as Mac had always known he would. Would he reoffend? Not if Rina Martin had anything to do with it, Mac thought, but statistics were against them both in this case.

Mac sighed and closed the file. Hope for the best, he thought. Prepare for the worst – that was all he could do.

‘Rina, m'dear. Glad you turned up today, I've got something you might like.'

Ted Eebry was one of Rina's favourite stall holders. An inveterate collector of ephemera, he often had bits and bobs of a theatrical nature that Rina bought from him. This time, though, he had more than the odd playbill. From beneath the floor-length cloth covering his stacked table he produced a cardboard box and then a second.

‘What on earth do you have there?' Rina laughed. ‘Ted, whatever it is, I'll never get it on the bus.'

He kicked out a chair from behind his table and set the boxes down. ‘Take a look,' he said. ‘If you think you might be interested I can drop them off at home for you so you can get a proper look. Then we can settle on a price.'

Rina eased open the dusty cardboard boxes, curious as to the treasure that might lurk inside. ‘Where did you get this lot?' she asked, withdrawing a stack of programmes and flyers and press cuttings. Most seemed to date from the 1960s, though as she delved deeper into the box, she seemed to be delving back through the years.

‘My son-in-law does house clearance. He turned up with these a couple of nights ago. Thought they might be of interest and once I'd had a quick look I thought of you.' He turned away to attend to a customer and Rina opened one of the programmes she had picked up. She knew these names: the performers and even the impresario. She had worked with two or three of them in the early days. Those pretty girls smiling out at her had sung on the same stage. She remembered them. Now what would she have been doing . . .? Rina smiled. In her long career she'd done it all: touring theatres, knife throwers, and even a comedy dance act with a man dressed as a chicken – though she preferred to forget Jock the Rooster and his Chickadees . . .

‘Up your street?' Ted asked her.

‘Oh, I rather think they are, thank you, Ted. Did your son-in-law say who they'd belonged to?'

‘I don't know that I asked him. I will though. Right, well I'll get them dropped in to you tomorrow or the night after, you can take a rummage and then we'll sort it out from there.'

Rina thanked Ted and helped him tuck the boxes back under the table. Most people would have just thrown them out, she thought. Just a couple of boxes full of old junk. But it would be fun to wallow for a while. Leaving Ted to his customers she wandered on, mooching around the stalls and picking out odd bits and pieces she knew the Peters sisters would admire. Bethany was fond of chintz-patterned pottery and Eliza did like her blue glass. Finally, her purchases stowed away, she decided it was time to head for home.

It would be so much easier, she thought, if she could drive. That would save Ted having to drop off her parcels, it would mean she could wander further afield, and if she did get the new Lydia Marchant series off the ground, then it might prove very useful. She had, she realized, come to rely a great deal on Tim to take her about, and though she knew he would always be willing, that was going to become far more difficult as time went on and Joy moved down.

Right, she decided as she boarded the bus headed for home, that's what she would do. It wasn't that Rina couldn't drive – she'd learnt years before and owned a car until moving to Frantham – it was more a case of her never having really enjoyed the process. She could book some refresher lessons, she decided. Find herself a nice, sympathetic, patient instructor and get driving again, then get a little car.

Oddly satisfied that she'd decided on a course of action, Rina told herself that this was exactly what she needed. Some sort of focus, something to offset that unfortunate tendency towards moroseness that seemed to be overtaking her and which was bringing to her attention a Rina Martin she almost did not recognize.

Karen had watched him arrive at the restaurant. She knew his routine and it was an exemplar of his arrogance and confidence that he should be such a creature of habit. That same restaurant every Tuesday lunchtime. Usually he dined alone – apart from the driver and one of his bodyguards.

Alonso's was a family-run place. Not particularly posh or particularly big, but comfortable and welcoming and Karen could attest to the quality of the food. She waited until he'd been settled at his usual table and then sashayed across the road and went inside, a brown Manila envelope clasped tightly in her hand.

‘Mr Vashinsky is expecting me,' she told the waiter who approached her and asked if she was dining alone. The waiter looked slightly puzzled, but used to their patron's slightly odd habits, he left Karen and went over to the table set apart in the little alcove at the back.

Vashinsky frowned, began to deny that he was expecting anyone. Then looked up and saw who it was. She watched as his expression changed and his face flushed and then grew pale. He wasn't pleased to see her, then?

Karen took a deep breath as she crossed the restaurant. Eight months ago Vashinsky had decided she was surplus to requirements, and she was taking a terrible risk coming here, even if it was a very public place. No one would blink should he order one or other of his men to take her out the back and finish what they were supposed to have done back then.

Talk fast, she told herself, and say all the words he wants to hear.

Vashinsky motioned for Karen to sit down and handed her a menu. So he'd decided to be amused, she thought. So far, so good. She handed the envelope to one of Vashinsky's men. He looked at his boss, who nodded, then he ripped it open.

Karen studied the menu. The waiter, she noticed, had made himself scarce.

The man with the big mitts that she'd given the envelope to was going through the papers. He wouldn't understand them, she thought, not entirely, but he'd get the gist.

‘Boss?'

He handed the package to Vashinsky, who read in silence for a minute or two.

‘So,' he said, shuffling the paperwork together and tucking it back into the envelope. ‘And what do you want in return?'

‘Time in Frantham. I've things to do. I don't want to be looking over my shoulder while I'm doing them.'

‘Time.' He steepled his fingers together. ‘You're taking a great risk, Karen Parker. I could have you killed right here and now.'

‘You could, but that would spoil your lunch,' Karen said.

‘Oh, I don't know.' He frowned. ‘It seems to me that some of the finer details, account numbers and the like, are missing?'

Karen nodded. ‘When I've finished what I need to do, I'll give you the rest,' she said. ‘Like I said, I just need some time.'

‘To do what?'

‘Oh, kill a couple of people and make sure my kid brother's OK. Things like that.'

‘And why are you doing this? What do you have against Haines?'

Karen shrugged. ‘You want what Haines has; I need you off my back. It seems logical. It's nothing particularly personal against Haines, just payment for safe passage.'

Vashinsky nodded. ‘And the killing part?'

Karen smiled slightly. ‘Ah,' she said. ‘Now that
is
personal.'

She could almost hear Vashinsky thinking, weighing up what she had given him and what he might hope to gain. Discovering that she had been the one to provide the intel on the French debacle – and she knew he had profited greatly from that – would both amuse and possibly annoy him. Vashinsky didn't like freelancers, not unless he was paying them, and she'd blotted her copybook there.

‘Two weeks,' he said. ‘I'll give you two weeks of, as you say, free passage. After that, either you are gone from my sight or it is open season. You understand me?'

Karen nodded. ‘Thank you, Mr Vashinsky,' she said. She handed the menu back and stood up. ‘Enjoy your meal. Gentlemen.'

She managed to hold it together until she'd crossed the street and put what she reckoned was sufficient distance between herself and the men in the restaurant, then the shakes began. Karen bent over, retching painfully, and was violently sick in the gutter.

God, the things I do for you, Georgie boy, Karen thought. Though not just for George, she had to admit. Some things just brought their own satisfaction.

S
tan hadn't been sure at first that it was her; she'd changed her hair colour again – dark now, whereas in the only pictures he'd seen of her she'd been blonde. She'd let it grow as well and wore it tied back in a low ponytail. She was dressed in a blue denim skirt and pale T-shirt, summer sandals on her feet and a brightly coloured bag slung over her shoulder. Playing the tourist, are we? Stan thought, realizing suddenly that he was oddly unsurprised that she was here.