The Crooked Shore Read online

  ‘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, h
is 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.’