Ashes to Ashes

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Previous Titles in This Series by Margaret Duffy

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  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 *

  CORPSE IN WAITING *

  RAT POISON *

  STEALTH *

  DARK SIDE *

  * available from Severn House

  ASHES TO ASHES

  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.

  This first world edition published 2015

  in Great Britain and the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  Trade paperback edition first published 2015 in Great

  Britain and the USA by SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

  eBook edition first published in 2015 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2015 by Margaret Duffy.

  The right of Margaret Duffy to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Duffy, Margaret author.

  Ashes to ashes. – (A Patrick Gillard and Ingrid Langley mystery)

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

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

  3. Organized crime–Fiction. 4. Detective and mystery stories.

  I. Title II. Series

  823.9’14-dc23

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8482-4 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-586-5 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-635-9 (e-book)

  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.

  ONE

  The man; husband, father, retired lieutenant colonel, ex-operative of MI5, policeman, one-time cold-eyed killer, sat sprawled in an armchair, head back, his thoughts to anyone observing him a mystery. He – my husband Patrick – was taking a respite from the fifth of these past and present roles, having asked for six months unpaid leave from the National Crime Agency. The Serious Organized Crime Agency, for which he used to work, has now been absorbed into it. They had offered him three months; he had haggled stubbornly and got four, which was what he had wanted in the first place.

  In my view, the break was vital as recent assignments had taken their toll on him. There was also a need to clear his head, take deep breaths and reassess his life. Should he carry on with such a hazardous occupation even though his role was officially, and merely, that of ‘adviser’? There were the children to think of. Was this the time to find an equally well-paid but safer job? Or even to retire?

  Patrick’s first month at home had engendered a lighthearted holiday mood among all those in the household. The children had broken up from school for the summer and we took the two eldest, Matthew and Katie, whom we adopted after Patrick’s brother Larry was killed, for a week to Scotland and then a few days in London. Carrie, our nannie, then went on leave and Patrick’s parents, John and Elspeth – John is rector of the village of Hinton Littlemore in Somerset where we live – departed to stay with friends who had retired to Sark, their usual holiday destination.

  This observer had rejoiced as Patrick put on weight and no longer appeared as though he had been recently ill. He was free to do those things that up until recently had been severely rationed: playing with the children, riding his horse, George, firing off emails to old comrades in arms and general loafing. He bought a ride-on lawn mower – I asked John to offer up a small prayer with regard to the maiden voyage of that – after attending to a greater part of the list of jobs that needed doing around the house and garden. The stress lines had disappeared from his face. He now looked younger by at least five years.

  Now, though, at three weeks into his second month at home, there was a slight sense of ennui. Everything household-wise was tidy and mostly fixed. As far as the children went, Matthew had gone to spend a week with his friend Benedict, the son of Patrick’s boss, Commander Michael Greenway; Katie and her Exmoor pony, Fudge, had been packed off to a pony club camp; and Justin, bizarrely, was on his best behaviour, probably because his father had him in his sights, and was spending a lot of time playing with his toy racing cars, which was right now his all-consuming passion. Vicky, bless her lovely little soul, likes nothing better than being in the company of baby brother Mark, who seems to idolize her plus, it must be said, her collection of dolls.

  Was the man in my life bored?

  ‘Shall have to go and have a shower,’ Patrick yawned, starting to unbutton his shirt, an old check one he uses for gardening. Then: ‘D’you fancy a meal out tonight?’

  ‘Carrie’s not back until tomorrow,’ I reminded him.

  ‘Can’t we take the sprogs with us?’

  Had I needed glasses to read I would have peered steadily at him over the top of them.

  ‘No, s’pose not.’ He got to his feet and sort of drifted from the room.

  Yes, bored.

  Although I am also employed by the NCA as a ‘consultant’, mostly to Patrick, I am a writer for most of the time. Nearing the end of a novel and, unusually for me, having a clear idea of exactly where it was going, I could not give too much attention to my other half’s ennui. During the next few days I buried myself in the novel whenever possible, emerging only to attend to domestic matters, shop and cook, the latter of which I really enjoy, perhaps because it is also creative.

  Patrick is not a man to sit around at a loose end and, having cut the grass in the churchyard with his new toy – the part as yet unused for graves, that is – he then discovered that the village green, which due to some ancient writ is the responsibility of the Parochial Church Council, was only partly shorn as the machine had broken down. He spent a whole morning attending to that. The next thing I knew, he had hired himself out to anyone in the village who needed his services, the money paying for fuel, any surplus ‘beer tokens’.

  This might run and run, I thought one morning, switching on the Mac, the two younger children in the room with me while Carrie went to the village shop for something and Justin was out in th
e hall with his cars, spittily making all the sound effects.

  We now live in the rectory next to St Michael’s Church in Hinton Littlemore, which is not far from Bath. The previous year, and while we were still leading a rather cramped existence in my cottage in Devon, the diocese had decided to sell the rectory and rehouse the rector and his wife in a small bungalow on a new estate at the bottom end of the village that has since been christened Micky Mouse Town by the locals. This having been the site of sidings at the one-time railway station and known to be liable to flooding, Patrick had declared he’d be hanged if his parents were going to end up there and promptly, after some hard bargaining – the rectory needed work doing to it, including a new roof – bought it. Building work had been completed, including an annexe for John and Elspeth created out of a stable, harness room and garage. There is a new floor above it consisting of two bedrooms and a bathroom connected to the first floor of the house. Finally, we had moved in.

  The fact that other clergy in the benefice were sharing taking the services at St Michael’s while John was away was the reason why, the following week, I wasn’t too surprised to receive a call from the new curate at Wellow, the neighbouring village. He had forgotten when John and Elspeth were due back. I told him: in two days’ time.

  ‘Only I have a rather distressed lady who came to me with a problem I feel should be handled by someone far more senior than myself,’ explained the young man, whose name I knew was Kenneth Watson. ‘This isn’t a spiritual matter, you understand,’ he went on to add. ‘In fact, she’s wondering whether she ought to go to the police.’

  I reasoned that this was for John to decide and promised to ask him to phone her when he returned. Kenneth gave me her number, which I wrote down in John’s ‘work’ diary, as I had been requested to do in connection with anything that might need his attention. I then promptly forgot all about it.

  A few days later I finished the novel, printed it and took it into the village to post off to my agent. Then, and only then, I’m afraid, did I take proper notice of my husband.

  ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Welcome back.’ Actually, he is used to this state of affairs.

  I dropped into an armchair and muttered, ‘Sorry.’ I always feel a bit odd when I’ve finished a book; it’s like a small bereavement. There was something now missing from my life.

  ‘Dinner for two at the pub tonight, courtesy of my wages?’ Patrick offered with a grin. ‘Together with a bottle of something rather good?’

  ‘You mean bangers and mash with a can of Diet Coke, don’t you?’ I enquired, grumpy and only half joking.

  For answer, he took out his wallet, removed the wad of cash within and placed it triumphantly on the coffee table between us.

  I think I gaped at him. ‘That much?’

  ‘Woman, you’ve been off the planet for ages.’ Then, ‘Yes, that’s well over a hundred quid. The folk at the grange next door have sacked their gardener after he was spotted loading some of their stainless-steel tools into his car. Apparently other stuff had gone missing before that but they don’t want to get the police involved. There’s over half an acre of lawns there and I said I’d fill in until they got someone. They wouldn’t hear of me working for nothing. And then there was Miss Lawson, with another broken-down mower. She insisted on paying me too – “All those little kiddies to feed” – and new people have just moved into The Poplars; the place that’s been empty for ages with grass like a hayfield. The bloke, Jim, and I had to tackle it with strimmers before the mower would look at it.’

  With a pang I realized that this was the happiest I had seen him for ages. ‘Patrick …’ I began, but there was a light tap on the door and, after I had called ‘Come in!’, John put his head around it.

  ‘Dad, you don’t have to knock!’ Patrick protested.

  ‘Never know what you two might be up to,’ he said with a twinkle in his eyes. ‘Can you spare a minute? You too, Ingrid, if you like. I know you’re interested in what Patrick does.’

  Although Elspeth is aware that I too work for the NCA, John appears not to. I say ‘appears’ as the man has a priest’s discretion and, if he has guessed otherwise – there have been some fairly hefty hints in connection with various assignments over the years – he gives nothing away.

  We followed him into the rear of the house, through the new conservatory – my very own Eden Project – and into the annexe, waving to Elspeth in her kitchen in passing. Their spare bedroom has been fitted out as John’s study. The only item not now under his direct gaze is the safe where the church silver and parish records are kept, which remains where it was, far too heavy to move, in the older part of the house, and in the room where I now write. Other than that, his surroundings are exactly the same as before – the loaded book shelves, his pictures, even the colour of the walls, a sombre, pale grey.

  ‘This is Mrs Anne Peters,’ said John, introducing the pair of us. He added: ‘I thought I’d ask Ingrid to come in so you don’t feel too surrounded by men.’

  For some reason known only to herself, the woman gave me a thin smile that told me she would far rather I had stayed right where I was. My skin is very thick – most authors are thus armoured. It comes from the early years of publishers’ rejection slips.

  ‘Please tell Patrick what you’ve just told me,’ John said. And to him, added: ‘I’ve mentioned to Mrs Peters that you’re connected with the police as she’s come to me for advice.’

  I was prepared for anything: dodgy neighbours, unwanted advances from a member of the clergy, a ghastly scandal involving crime within her own family – anything. No, on second thoughts I reckoned I could cross out one of those on the grounds that any man making advances to this middle-aged lady either needed new glasses or had taken leave of his senses. To put it bluntly, and discounting the somewhat pointy nose and thin lips, she didn’t look all that clean. Nor did the clothes she was wearing: an old navy-blue suit of a fashion that suggested it had belonged to her mother and an off-white blouse, the whole outfit incongruously topped with a feathered hat that looked as though a litter of kittens had tried to kill it for quite some time.

  ‘My Archie died last month,’ said Mrs Peters in nasal tones, looking at Patrick, not me, with her rather penetrating dark eyes.

  He made suitable noises.

  ‘Oh, it was all right really,’ she went on, surprisingly even a little gaily. ‘He’d been in a right old mess for years. Loads of things wrong with him. He was almost twenty years older than me, you see, in his seventies. And complain? He never stopped. Drove me mad, he did. Well, he had to go into hospital in the end and that was that. I have to say it was a real weight off my mind. The cremation was three weeks ago. No church service – he didn’t hold with that. He was a horrible old pagan really.’

  John hid a smile behind his hand.

  Mrs Peters continued, ‘But there’s a problem – the cremation.’

  ‘Something went wrong?’ Patrick earnestly enquired.

  ‘That’s just it. I don’t know what happened.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Before it happens they now ask you if you want any of the bits that are left over. You know, things that don’t … well, burn, like hip replacements, or if there are any other metal pins or plates. Up until recently apparently things like that were buried all together on-site in a pit somewhere if relations didn’t want them, but now they’re being recycled – sold off to be made into road signs and things like that. I think it’s terrible. How many people want bits of their relations ending up as Keep Left signs? Or even in one of those signs you get before farm entrances – a picture of a cow?’

  I bit the tip of my tongue hard, a large giggle hatching. Had the late not-very-lamented Archie ever called her that? I wondered.

  ‘So you told them you didn’t want that to happen,’ Patrick said, his face as long as a French fiddle.

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘I said that he didn’t have any replacement things. Everything else under the sun had been wro
ng with him, you name it: cancer, his heart, lungs, innards. But no problems with any of his joints. Probably because he’d never done anything strenuous – nothing wore out.’ Shrilly, she added: ‘It’s the wives of men like that what get worn out, you know!’

  John said, ‘And then, a week later, after her husband’s ashes had been placed in the Garden of Remembrance, Mrs Peters was given several … items.’ He indicated a black fabric bag that I had not noticed before on his desk.

  ‘According to my doctor, it’s two hip replacements and a piece of metal that he said was probably a repair to someone’s skull after they’d had terrible head injuries,’ Mrs Peters elaborated, beginning to look a bit distressed.

  ‘Shall I make some tea?’ I asked John.

  ‘No, please don’t bother,’ the widow said. ‘I can’t stay. I just don’t know what to do now, that’s all.’

  Gently, John said, ‘But as the curate at your church, Kenneth, said, don’t you think this is just an administrative error?’

  ‘I don’t know what to think. The people at the crem are insisting it’s absolutely right and everything’s in order. I’ve been there several times and spoken to the manager or his secretary but they won’t budge. Everything’s labelled, they say. And double-checked. No mistakes possible. The coffin had my Archie’s name on it; all the paperwork from the funeral directors was in order, full stop. And they also put the name on the door, or whatever, of the … oven … thing. Their attitude is that I must have forgotten what he’d had done and all I had to do was say whether I wanted them or not. How on earth can you forget things like that? They treated me as though I was suffering from dementia. That was when I got a bit angry, and when they offered to dispose of them for me I said no and that I was thinking of going to the police.’

  I was sure that Patrick and his father are fully conversant with these practical details and had both come to the conclusion that this matter was no more than a terrible error on someone’s part.