Murder Takes the Stage (25 page)

Cath was joking, but there was no answering grin from Buck this time.

TWELVE

A
warm beach. Luke at her side, the sun beating down – Georgia stirred uneasily. Or was it fireworks? The sky seemed to be lit up to celebrate – celebrate what? With a start, she was fully awake, aware of the patterns dancing on the curtains and the crackle – of what? Immediately she was out of bed and rushing to the window.

‘Luke! Fire!'

Flames were leaping and flickering from the oast house. Even as she dashed for the phone, she heard a grunt and the sound of his moving as rapidly as she was. Why, oh why had she left her mobile downstairs? No, it was here, thank heavens. As she punched in 999, Luke rushed past her down the stairs in a towelling robe; by the time she joined him he had already seized the small fire extinguisher from the wall. Grabbing a coat, Georgia hurried after him, desperately trying to think as she did so: water, blankets, buckets, water—

‘Luke,
don't
go in!' she shouted. Too late.

It looked as if the fire had reached only the storage end of the oast house and not yet the office itself. How long before the fire engines would be here? As she reached the door to the oast house, the heat was already intense, with small flames greedily licking their way towards her. Seeing her there, Luke passed his computer to her, but then to her horror he went back in. Long seconds ticked on by.

‘Come on, come out, Luke,' she pleaded, and at last, at blessed last, he did, clutching another computer.

‘I could get another one—' He was gasping already.

‘No!'

He glanced at her and thankfully saw sense.

Time ticked by agonizingly slowly as she watched it burn. They were helpless to achieve anything more than the fire extinguishers had already accomplished, but at last she could hear the wonderful sound of a fire engine siren. That must mean it was still on the Canterbury Road, she thought; another few minutes before it would arrive here; she blinked tears of frustration from her eyes. Luke was the calm one now.

‘Think of the bright side. Only unsold backlist gone. The new ones aren't in yet.'

It gave her no comfort at all. What did was the arrival of not one but two fire engines.

The rest of the night was punctuated only by cups of coffee and tea as the firemen's assessment officers went about their work. At least the fire hadn't been at Medlars itself, she tried to comfort herself, but with the smell of the aftermath of fire in her nostrils it was hard. Offices could be replaced, she told herself, even oasts – and looking at it now that the flames were mostly out, the oast itself looked as if it might survive, even if the attached storeroom had not.

As dawn came, the smell and desolation seemed to get worse. There seemed an endless procession of firemen, police and insurance and assessment officers, while she and Luke remained mere onlookers. At last Luke went out with the police, but came back with a grim face.

‘The good news is that my office and the staff office in the oast are mostly OK. It's chiefly confined to the back room, with minor singeing to the oast. We were lucky the clapboards didn't catch.'

‘And the bad news?'

‘They're pretty sure it was started deliberately. It seems to have begun at the rear access door.'

‘A random arsonist?' She couldn't believe that and was not surprised when Luke replied, ‘Perhaps. But a coincidence we should have a threatening letter one day and only a week later a fire. The PC thought I was barking to consider that letter a threat, but I'm afraid we might think otherwise.'

‘It doesn't fit with Harold Staines, Luke,' she said wearily. ‘He's well over eighty. He wouldn't be prancing around with accelerants in the middle of the night.'

‘No,' Luke agreed, ‘he'd send his lawyer.'

A feeble joke, but Georgia managed to laugh.

Sleep, when it came at last for a brief hour or two, provided nightmares of flames and heat, but at least when she awoke at ten o'clock she felt marginally rested.

I'll be late for the office, was her first thought. This suddenly seemed inordinately funny as the full horror of the night came back to her. Then, realizing that Peter would be worried by her no-show, she dragged herself downstairs to telephone him. The smell of the fire was so strong, even in the house, that she wondered if any of the sparks could have reached as far as Medlars' ancient wooden beams, but she decided to put the thought aside. She couldn't cope with everything at once. Medlars seemed its usual comforting, solid self, however. Getting breakfast on the table provided reassurance today, rather than routine. Luke had already come down, she realized, and must already be outside. Should she join him? No, a quick bite and drink first after ringing Peter. She needed sustenance to face what lay outside.

Peter snatched up the phone so quickly that Georgia felt guilty, knowing he must already have been worrying. She told him what had happened, and he just said, ‘I'll be over.' The receiver was replaced.

At that moment Luke returned to announce, ‘Frost & Co will survive to publish a few more books. The flames had reached further than the structural damage they had caused. Quite a bit of stock has gone, but the metal shelving must have helped slow the flames a little.'

‘Can you still work in the office?'

‘Not yet. I've sent Cheryl and Dinah home today. Will's out there helping clear up.'

‘And it still looks as if it was deliberately started?'

‘Let's say there's no sign of accident yet. Over to the insurance folk now. Then Frost & Co can get back to its autumn programme.'

It sounded comforting, but they were only brave words, and both she and Luke knew it.

Peter was longer than Georgia had expected, and when she heard his car draw up, she realized why. He was not alone. Detective Superintendent Mike Gilroy was now inspecting the damage. As she and Luke went out to join him, he grimaced. ‘Not as bad as it could be, but nasty,' he commiserated with them.

Peter joined them, explaining, ‘Mike told me some nonsense about a police luncheon he had to go to, but he saw my point that he was needed here.'

Georgia caught his eye and controlled an insane desire to laugh. His next words stopped that. ‘Think it will happen again?' Mike asked.

Luke looked aghast at the very idea, and it was Peter who answered gravely, ‘It could do.'

‘Thanks,' Luke said gloomily.

‘Unless,' Peter added meaningfully, ‘we get a move on with police help and get this business sorted.'

‘By which you mean my business or yours?' Luke asked wearily.

‘Both. I know you think I'm barmy, Mike,' Peter said mildly, ‘but we're all involved. Luke because he's an easy target with the office here, with the result that a threat can be made to him without physical danger to him or Georgia, and Georgia and myself because if that does not deter our determination to continue this case, we could be the next target.'

‘It's our fault, Luke,' Georgia acknowledged. ‘You're the victim because we chose this case.'

‘If I remember correctly,' Luke said, ‘I accepted the risk.'

‘You'd better tell me all, I suppose,' Mike said in resignation. ‘Can we go inside?'

Once back in Medlars, the situation assumed slightly more normality. ‘This Broadstairs case of yours isn't in my patch,' Mike pointed out, ‘but this one is.'

‘Good,' Luke said.

‘I'm not sure I agree with that, but I can't change the situation, so shoot, please. And before you ask, Peter, I had a word with DI Jenkins at Thanet HQ about the Winton murder. It's still ongoing. They've got their eye on some connection with a shooting in south London last year.'

That was a point in favour of Ken's death being unconnected with the Tom Watson case, Georgia thought, although she still could not believe it was. ‘Any link between the victims?' she asked.

‘None found yet. But,' Mike added sourly, ‘if Ken Winton's death was linked to the death of that fifties case you were talking about
and
this fire, a whole different picture might emerge. So spit it out, Peter.'

He listened patiently as Peter duly spat out the Tom Watson story, including his return visit in 1975, but then Mike picked on the obvious objection. ‘So you don't know where Tom Watson went after then. Tried advertising for connections?'

‘Of course. He's on our website now under both Bert Holmes and Tom Watson. Nothing after seventy-five.'

‘Your website isn't viewed by the entire population.'

‘That is true,' Peter admitted, ‘but it did bring forth two fruitful lines of enquiry for the period
before
seventy-five. So if Tom Watson
was
killed on that visit to Broadstairs—'

Mike knew Peter's thinking of old. ‘You'd like us to check all the unidentified bodies between Broadstairs and John O'Groats for the last quarter of a century. Certainly. Easy as anything.'

‘More locally would be acceptable,' Peter said hastily. ‘And perhaps up to 1980 would be reasonable.'

‘Easier,' Mike grudgingly agreed. ‘Any DNA to help?'

‘No chance. His only relative, his daughter, turns out not to be his.'

‘Naturally,' Mike remarked. ‘It's one of your cases. Nothing ever is simple.'

Luke was fully occupied with his own problems and had made it clear to Georgia that her help was not wanted. ‘What you can do to help is get on and solve the Watson case,' he told her in a rare fit of irritability.

This, she acknowledged, was a reasonable request. The problem was how to translate it into action the following day when she was trying to grapple with an elusive Tom in the Haden Shaw office.

‘Let's assume that Tom Watson did disappear in July 1975,' she said at last. ‘To recap, there's no known reason for any of the four people who knew about his visit to want to get rid of him.'

‘There may have been others,' Peter pointed out. ‘Micky or Matthew could have casually mentioned it to anyone. Acquaintances could have seen him in the street – Tom made no secret of his visit.'

He was right, of course. ‘So where does that leave us?' she asked.

‘I was struck by a word Mike used: connections. Remember that story of the Silver Gang?'

‘Yes, but I also remember that was years before Tom came back here.'

‘Agreed, but nevertheless there are interesting possibilities. I've been looking into it. Firstly, let's assume John Silver, the leader, was nicknamed Quicksilver for his powers of vanishing off the scene whenever he chose. The gang disappeared abruptly as a unit about 1969.'

‘And the point for us?' she asked patiently.

‘It's believed that each member disappeared into a different hole, but there would still be a price on their heads, whether offered by the police, or by those with old scores to settle, or by those ensuring they never challenged the new kids on the block.'

‘If you're suggesting they wiped Tom Watson out for that reason, then why wait for years to do so?'

‘I don't
know
. Maybe Tom hadn't been a threat when he met him in the restaurant, but he was by 1975.'

‘But that was in London, not Broadstairs.'

‘He could have been living there.' Peter stared at her as the idea took hold. ‘
Yes
. It has to be that, surely. Oh
yes
. Not the smuggling ring, the Quicksilver gang.'

Georgia tried to think logically. It was her job to question, and question she must. ‘What threat could Tom have posed?'

‘Plenty, if on his trip to see Pamela he recognized someone who was trying to live down a past as a member of the Silver Gang.'

‘He met Mrs Wetherby, Micky and Pamela herself. No scope there.'

Peter looked smug. ‘Matthew. Pamela rang
Matthew
.'

Caution needed. ‘He fits the profile a lot better than Micky,' she agreed. ‘He's a respected man now, but he's had a long time to polish his image. In the late sixties he would have been a young man in his twenties. Oh.'

Peter groaned. ‘A hitch?'

‘Matthew
didn't
meet Tom in 1975. Pamela told him by phone. Even if Tom had seen him in the Blue Parrot, he would hardly have recognized him from Broadstairs days, as he would have been only about ten or so when Tom left Broadstairs in 1953.'

Peter glared at her. ‘Any more bricks you'd like to throw?'

‘Yes. If Tom came back because he knew his wife's real killer, then again Matthew Trent is ruled out on age.'

Peter was about to retort when the phone rang. His expression changed as he listened for a moment or two. His voice was definitely cool as he said, ‘Thank you. I'll pass on your condolences to my daughter, although of course it was her husband's office that was set on fire. Deliberately.'

‘Who was that?' she asked curiously as he put down the phone.

‘Our friend Harold Staines. So sorry to hear the news on the radio. At least, he
says
it was on the radio.'

‘We shouldn't jump to conclusions that he was responsible. The fire could have been coincidence. He wouldn't have done it himself or even arranged it, surely.' Even as she spoke, the thought of Greg Dale came into her mind. Greg –
and the Trents
.

‘Wouldn't he?' Peter shot back at her. ‘Harold's last words were: “It seems my letter wasn't quite forceful enough. I do beg you all to take care.”'

Cleaning up after the fire was a dreary process, despite Georgia's best efforts at keeping positive. Luke had relented and enlisted her help – not altogether to her pleasure. Sorting out damaged stock from mint, not to mention the files that were singed or burnt, was depressing. So was the sight of the charred beams and blackened bricks; they had been made safe but awaited restoration work. She and Luke were here alone, as it was Saturday morning, and somehow that made the problem all the starker.