Corpse in Waiting Read online

  Previous titles in this series by Margaret Duffy

  A HANGING MATTER

  DEAD TROUBLE

  SO HORRIBLE A PLACE

  TAINTED GROUND *

  COBWEB *

  BLOOD SUBSTITUTE *

  SOUVENIRS OF MURDER *

  * available from Severn House

  CORPSE IN WAITING

  Margaret Duffy

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First world edition published 2010

  in Great Britain and in the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  Copyright © 2010 by Margaret Duffy.

  All rights reserved.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Duffy, Margaret.

  Corpse in waiting. – (A Patrick Gillard and Ingrid Langley mystery)

  1. Gillard, Patrick (Fictitious character) – Fiction.

  2. Langley, Ingrid (Fictitious character) – Fiction.

  3. Vacations – England – Bath – Fiction. 4. House buying –

  England – Bath – Fiction. 5. Murder – Investigation –

  England – Bath – Fiction. 6. Detective and mystery stories.

  I. Title II. Series

  823.9'14-dc22

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-097-5 (ePub)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6922-7 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-259-8 (trade paper)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  CONTENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  No nightingale singeth too sweetly not to grace a king’s table.

  Anon. 16th Century

  ONE

  It was waiting. For us. But not, obviously, in any sense that it could do anything for us: to us perhaps, the discovery of bodies not being an everyday occurrence, even for members of the Serious Organized Crime Agency. And because of the circumstances I came to feel that the responsibility was ours, to help find out who had killed her.

  If the above seems fanciful it is because words are my business: I am a writer by trade. Patrick, my husband, a very pragmatic soul, is sometimes exasperated by my flights of fancy, especially when I apply them to my other job as ‘consultant’ to his position of ‘adviser’ to SOCA. The inverted commas are deliberate as he usually goes to work armed to the teeth. My role is usually confined to that of being prepared to provide a sympathetic ear together with, hopefully, creative suggestions to help solve problems. But sometimes I slip into my bag the Smith and Wesson that he has never quite returned to MI5 when he left and we work closely together. Not that I hand over the gun should his ammo run out, I’m a pretty good shot.

  To decide to holiday in Bath when you live not ten miles down the road might be regarded as eccentric but after Patrick was fairly seriously ill, the after-effects of having been drugged during our previous case, and I was getting over having a baby at a time of life that could not be described as ‘spring chicken’, we both badly needed a break. Long flights, protracted car journeys, the whole business of actually getting somewhere else did not appeal to either of us.

  ‘No, to hell with it,’ Patrick had said suddenly. ‘We’ve only just moved to this neck of the woods. I’ve another week left of my leave so let’s make like tourists and stay at the best hotel in Bath. Have you ever been to the Roman Baths?’

  ‘Years ago,’ I had replied. ‘When I was a child.’

  Patrick had stretched back in his chair. ‘I quite fancy feasts and orgies, slave girls and that kind of thing.’

  ‘The theatre, museums, art galleries, meals out and shopping,’ I had amended.

  ‘Not one smallest orgy?’

  ‘Not a chance.’

  He had chuckled and gone back to the book he was reading.

  ‘You could seduce me quite a lot instead.’

  A dirty chuckle this time.

  The weather could not have been better, a surprise after weeks of cold winds, sleet and snow. So, several days later we were on an open-top bus taking a tour of Bath, our guide with a strong American accent, those around us talking excitedly in Japanese, French and German, to name but three languages that I could recognize. With the hot sun beating down on us and the city’s famous flower displays in every direction it was exactly like being abroad.

  ‘You know, this is actually rather pleasant,’ Patrick commented, gazing in admiration at Royal Crescent. ‘We must walk the route afterwards to give us a good appetite for dinner.’

  I took a deep breath of the scents of spring blossoms and said, ‘Have you told James what we’re doing? I haven’t.’

  This was Detective Chief Inspector James Carrick of Bath CID, who is a friend of ours.

  ‘No, I thought it best not to. He always says that trouble follows us around and I should hate it if he lost any sleep over it. If we bump into him it can’t be helped.’

  Over the following couple of days we went on a boat trip on the River Avon, visited several museums, had tea in the Pump Room, having toured the Roman Baths, sampled the spring waters and wandered around the Assembly Rooms. Tonight after we had eaten there was a concert in Parade Gardens and the following evening I was vaguely thinking we could go to the theatre.

  It was obvious though that the man in my life was getting a little restless.

  ‘You’re bored?’ I enquired gently, realizing that Lady Windermere’s Fan might not be quite Patrick’s thing.

  We were in Sally Lunn’s on the fourth day of our break, sharing one of the large brioche-style buns with morning coffee.

  ‘Not ex–act–ly,’ he said slowly. ‘I suppose it’s just that I’m used to doing – what Katie would call “stuff” most of the time.’

  ‘You mean you’d far rather be engaged in shoot-’em-up sessions at that SOCA training place in Hammersmith,’ I remarked, straight-faced.

  He merely smiled. Ye gods, he would.

  We had talked of taking our two eldest children out of school for part of the week to give them what would be an educational as well as a fun experience but had decided against it as they were both sitting exams soon and had been away for a few days in London with us at half term. Matthew and Katie are actually Patrick’s brother Larry’s children whom we adopted when he was killed a while ago. Justin, Victoria and baby Mark are ours and that is quite enough, thank you. I often marvel at our family: after serious injuries in his army days Patrick was told it was unlikely, nay almost impossible, that he would ever be able to father children. At that time we were actually divorced,
oddly, one of the things we had profoundly disagreed upon having been my reluctance to start a family.

  I daydreamed, thinking back to when he had returned to my life; maimed, mentally iffy because of it and desperate to make a new career for himself, to be useful, with a job offer from D12, a department of MI5. Still a serving army officer, a major in those days, he had been ordered to find a working partner, female, as socializing would be required and official opinion held that lone men, especially somewhat saturnine, if not downright dangerous-looking ones, were conspicuous. He had arrived on the doorstep of the only woman on the planet, or so he had thought, who would not want to go to bed with him, self-confidence in that direction not so much being low as having crashed. I supposed I had dreamed of this arrogant, self-satisfied, frankly insufferable, man my husband had become turning up, and briskly sending him away without a qualm, but suffering had stripped all that from him. I am one of those people who can never walk past a lost kitten, or a dog with a thorn in its paw, and rejecting him in the state he was in would have been unbearable. There was also the matter of my guilty conscience.

  For some amazing reason the old magic had worked again and we had discovered that we both still loved and now also badly needed one another. Looking back with the benefit of hindsight I suppose that if we had had a period of separation we might never have divorced in the first place. After a short time we had remarried. I can still vividly remember that ceremony in a stiflingly hot registry office but not exactly where it was – just some god-awful part of London – the hapless plants on the window ledges bracing themselves for another day of suffocation from fumes from the gas fire and the Registrar’s pipe. Both witnesses had coughed so horribly I had wondered if they would survive to the end of the ceremony without oxygen.

  ‘Would you rather go home tomorrow then?’ I asked.

  Patrick refilled our coffee cups. ‘No, not at all. Have you planned anything special?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘We haven’t been to the Industrial Heritage Centre. That would be interesting.’ Here he shot me a mischievous look. ‘And in the evening the Roman Baths is holding something called a Roman Experience, togas provided. A feast, wine and a wallow in the waters. I asked and there are still tickets available.’

  It transpired that there was a tour of the Roman Baths first, which we had already done, of course, but this was after normal opening hours with the promise of being able to look into nooks, crannies and crypts not usually seen by the public. Then we would decamp to the nearby modern spa complex where we would indulge in our wallowing and feasting. Later we would return to the ancient baths where we could lounge around in togas, if we wished, sampling Roman-style wine – which turned out to be Prosecco – and listening to the kind of music that might have been played at the time.

  Not quite sure why I had a sense of despondency about the plan I nevertheless went along with it. I did not want to be a wet blanket, or rather towel. Hot baths and jacuzzis have never been my idea of fun and I could see the whole evening turning into some kind of alcohol-fuelled soggy riot because of the presence of teenagers who had wealthy parents – for this was by no means a cheap exercise – ruining it for everyone else.

  If Patrick noticed my long face he had said nothing and I have to confess that I was pleasantly surprised when, after the tour and a very short walk, my head still stuffed full of details of hypocausts, the apodyterium, calderium and tepidarium, we found ourselves floating gently, amid gorgeous surroundings, in a circular pool filled with the famed hot waters and wearing the swimsuits we had brought with us. There were only just over a dozen people present and plenty of room for all. A live string quartet quietly played Mozart.

  ‘You’re staying with SOCA I take it?’ I enquired lightly after a short while had elapsed during which we had wallowed in silence, relaxing.

  ‘Do you want me to?’ he asked. ‘It’s your job, on and off, as well.’

  ‘But it’s not the same for me. It’s your decision and if you want to carry on then I’m there if you need me. I have my writing; SOCA’s not my number one thing.’

  ‘The last assignment was pretty bloody.’

  ‘In every way.’

  ‘You were hinting recently that I had lost my edge a bit, from the MI5 days.’

  ‘You weren’t well.’

  ‘Now you’re being kind. Please be honest.’

  ‘You weren’t well and I think what made me say it was that you were relying on me rather a lot. That’s probably my fault. But, on reflection you’re not the professionally hard man you once were. I don’t know if that’s good or bad now you’re with SOCA.’

  ‘It’s bad. Really bad. I know Mike’s got something fairly ordinary and desk-driven for me when I go back. He’s insisting I stick to something quiet and not too demanding for a bit. I probably need something with a bit more of a personal challenge.’

  Commander Michael Greenway is Patrick’s boss.

  ‘And I can’t keep swapping jobs,’ Patrick went on. ‘Not with the sprogs to feed.’

  ‘Katie asked me if it would help if she got a weekend job and Matthew had a newspaper round,’ I said. ‘She wondered if it would save you from having to undertake such dangerous work.’

  ‘That’s amazingly thoughtful for someone of her age even though she’s far too young to have a job.’

  ‘When you’re hurt we can’t hide it from the family.’

  ‘And she and Matthew have both lost one Dad already.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘We must discuss it again later.’

  This pool was not designed for strenuous exercise being only five feet deep but Patrick is a good swimmer despite the lower part of his right leg now being of man-made construction. He doesn’t get it wet if he can help it though and jokes that if he wants to attain around fifteen knots he straps on the lid of the laundry basket instead. Not tonight, however. At thr time I had not noticed any odd looks from our companions when he had lowered himself into the water, no diving allowed. But now . . .

  She had bright blue eyes like the beam from some kind of alien weapon in a sci-fi movie, the simile jumping into my mind with an alacrity that was startling given that she was looking at us from the other side of the pool. Or rather she was looking at Patrick. I had not noticed her on the tour of the Roman Baths so could only assume that she had been late.

  She was now making her way over to us.

  ‘It’s not Patrick Gillard, is it?’ she called when still a little way off, her voice mellifluous, like that of an actress.

  He turned and I saw the shock of recognition.

  ‘It is you,’ she trilled. ‘Darling, how are you after all this time?’

  I felt she was avoiding making eye contact with me although her gaze had swept fleetingly in my direction on her approach.

  The two came face to face and gazed at one another.

  ‘Such a long time,’ the woman said softly. ‘Well? You haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Patrick told her.

  ‘But such ghastly injuries, darling. I never thought . . .’ She broke off and gave me her full attention. ‘You are with this lovely man here?’ And before either of us could speak, swept on with, ‘But there are always sweet souls in this world who have the time to cherish and nurture.’ A girlish giggle escaped her. ‘Unlike me – always dashing off somewhere or the other.’

  ‘This is my wife, Ingrid,’ Patrick said to her. ‘Ingrid, meet Alexandra Nightingale. We met up when I came back from being blown up in the South Atlantic.’

  Did one shake her hand or merely dunk her perfect blonde hair, swept up into what I could only call Roman goddess style – which unlike mine she had kept dry – beneath the waves?

  We shook hands and bared our teeth at one another.

  ‘Your parents lived in such a charming rectory in Somerset,’ Alexandra recalled, frowning in exaggerated fashion. ‘I shall always remember that weekend. The weather was boiling hot and your mother
had made some wonderful ice cream. I’m not a country girl, you know,’ she said in an aside to me. ‘Hate all the bugs and creepy-crawlies. And the cow poo everywhere – you simply can’t wear anything nice.’

  I was about to say that we now lived at the rectory with Patrick’s parents and sometimes managed to change out of dungarees and wellies when there was an announcement over the public address system that our feast – a buffet – would soon be served. It was time to dry off and get dressed.

  ‘Such a tragedy,’ Alexandra said in a loud whisper that Patrick probably heard as he sprang up to sit on the side of the pool, using his arms, as anyone might have done, to lift himself. ‘Oh, he did finally have to lose his leg below the knee then, poor man. How on earth does he manage?’

  ‘Well, as you can see,’ I snapped. ‘Perfectly.’

  I left the pool and hurried away from her, hoping that she would leave us alone from now on.

  Fat chance.

  An excellent spread was laid out for us in a room with a bar off to the side of the pool and therapy rooms. Patrick had struck up a conversation with an elderly man whom he later told me was ex-Royal Engineers. This meant that when Alexandra appeared, wearing a floaty black and cream full-length dress and sparkly sandals, I had her all to myself.

  ‘On your own then?’ I asked, aware that my hair looked a real bird’s nest after a gale-force blow from one of the establishment’s dryers as I had forgotten to bring a hair brush.

  She pulled a face, piling her plate high from the buffet. ‘As of last week, yes. The rat went and found someone else.’ She turned to me with wide-eyed interest. ‘Tell me, how long have you known Patrick?’

  ‘We were at school together.’

  ‘How romantic,’ she crooned. ‘And you’re married?’ She made it sound as though this had surmounted all the odds.

  I was determined not to lose my cool. ‘Where did you meet him?’

  ‘He was with someone else, some girl or other who’d dragged him off to a fashion show I was in. He was convalescing then, on crutches. I spotted him straight away but not because of that. So good looking. I have to say he never mentioned you.’