forty-seven

My drive to Devon after an uneventful Friday at work was a flash photography montage of roads and lights and jumbled thoughts. The only upside was that, with Gavin’s intervention, Monica no longer needed to accompany me on the trip.

Nicholas—or Nick, as the Masons called him—had a perfect motive for leaving: a deep desire to find a father who, in the brief time it had taken Nick to discover the truth about his parentage, no doubt had gained mythical if not god-like status. Be careful what you wish for. My own quest to find commonality with a woman I called Monica, in reality my mother, confounded me. And what had Nick’s reaction been to his biological mother’s alleged abuse? Bad enough men beating their children, but when mothers lose control, they are doubly demonised. Like mothers who abandon their families, a shrill little voice inside my head screeched.

But why the secrecy? Why the lie?

According to the script, Nick had vanished without visible means. No phone. No draw down on funds. Paris had either spirited her son away for his own protection or for reasons nobody knew about. I needed to know what that was.

And then there was Troy. He’d argued his twelve-month slog to locate Nicholas Vellender had turned up little, yet he’d failed to carry out the most basic search. What had got him killed? Did Nick’s ghost-like status provide cover for a murderer, or was I travelling too far in the wrong direction?

By the time I reached Cormorant’s Reach I was tired, with a first-class headache. Recently fitted security lights flooded the drive, illuminating the house and lighting me up like a Christmas tree. I couldn’t say that it was good to be back. It was different, that was all. For four years the cottage represented a time in my life when I’d been loved and cherished. Part of me still expected the door to open with Chris standing there. Here I’d been part of a couple, and now I was single. It stung. It hurt. Maybe it always would.

Flexing my legs after the long drive, I let myself into the house so empty of people and so choc full of memories. I set down my bag, walked my box of instant goodies through to the cosy kitchen with its original pig slats intact, switched on the heating, fired up the oil-fuelled Rayburn, and went straight upstairs to make the bed with fresh linen. Job done, I popped open a bottle of fizzy organic apple juice and put a pre-prepared beef in red wine sauce for one in the oven, alongside a dish of creamy mash. Green beans from the freezer took starring role as vegetable of the day.

I ate without pleasure, drank little, cleared away, checked my phone, and found I’d two missed messages from Otto. I deleted them, called Stannard, and spilled my news. Stannard’s reaction was immediate and startling.

“That’s it.”

“What?”

“Nicholas.”

“Can you be less cryptic?”

“It’s blatantly obvious. He’s your murderer.”

Reluctantly, I was leaning heavily towards that view. It made me deeply uneasy, as if I were in some way betraying Mimi’s fond memories of her brother. “Your reasoning?”

“He faked his disappearance—”

“Aided and abetted by his mother?”

“Yep, and Martell found out.”

“Found out what, that Nicholas was on a quest to find his own dad? It’s not a hanging offence.”

“Wasting police time is.”

“Your stay in hospital has softened your brain. It doesn’t provide a strong motive for murder.”

“Unlike you to be snippy.”

“Unlike you to be dim.”

He went quiet on me, feelings bruised. I started again. “I’m going to check out the cottage tomorrow. In a small community, it shouldn’t take me long to find out which one and ask a few questions. You can’t get away with anything here without someone noticing.”

“Anything else tucked up your sleeve, Miss Marple?”

Yes, but it was unconnected to Nicholas Vellender and wholly connected to Monica. “Nothing other than enjoying the sea air.”

As if Stannard read my thoughts, he said, “How’s it going with your mother? You two gals spending quality time together?”

“Wonderful, thanks.”

“Which is why you’re in Devon and she’s parked in Cheltenham.”

“When did you say you were getting back?” I said, deftly changing the subject.

“Flying into Heathrow on Monday, back home Tuesday. Think you can wait that long?”

“I can wait.”