The Beatrice Stubbs Boxset Two

  The Beatrice Stubbs Series

  Boxset Two

  Cold Pressed

  Human Rites

  Bad Apples

  JJ MARSH

  Get your free copy of Black Dogs, Yellow Butterflies when you sign up for the mailing list.

  See back of book for details.

  The Beatrice Stubbs Series Box Set Two

  Copyright © 2017 by JJ Marsh

  The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the email address below.

  Cover design: JD Smith

  Published by Prewett Publishing.

  All enquiries to admin@jjmarshauthor.com

  First printing, 2014

  Kindle Edition

  ISBN: 978-3-9524796-1-2

  Other Retailers’ Edition

  ISBN: 978-3-9524796-2-9

  Contents

  Cold Pressed

  Human Rites

  Bad Apples

  Message from JJ Marsh

  Also by Triskele Books

  Cold Pressed

  Chapter 1

  That’s funny.

  Eva’s guiding hand on the front door usually resulted in a gentle click, but tonight it slammed shut with far more force than she’d intended. A draught caught the back of her neck as she put down the carrier bag with a reassuring clink of bottles.

  She locked the door behind her and stopped to listen. Rain beat on the roof, like fingers on drumskins, and a hollow dripping echoed from the guttering outside. The occasional hiss of wet tyres on tarmac. The hushed rush of the gas fire and the tink-tink of its ceramic surround from the living room. Her antique clock on the hall table echoing its woody tock with the regularity of a dripping tap. Maybe I just don’t know my own strength.

  Coat on the hook, boots off and slippers back on, she shuffled through to the kitchen, then remembered the carrier bag and shuffled back. The plastic was still wet. I had an umbrella when I left, I know I did. Must have left it in the shop. A foul night into which only a fool would venture. But when only a quarter of a bottle remains, it calls for desperate measures. She laughed out loud. Desperate measures!

  Eva hummed to herself as she put two slices in the toaster and got the butter out to warm. A fresh highball from the cabinet, some ice cubes from the freezer compartment and a healthy slug, a good third of the glass, topped up with tonic. A slice of lemon would be nice, but she only had a couple of oranges and one of them had a covering of blue fur. A cold breeze brushed the back of her neck and she put down her glass with a slam. All the windows were closed. The draught came from the back door. Ajar by no more than an inch, with its peeling paint and rusted lock, the garden door allowed cool evening air and the smell of soggy grass to creep into her warm, cosy kitchen.

  With a dismissive tut, she struggled with the ancient lock, but finally secured it. Very important, safety, for a woman living alone. She took a long sip of her drink, half-attempting to recall the last time she’d been out the garden door, but found she couldn’t care less. Her memory wasn’t the best, and anyway it was a peaceful neighbourhood.

  Peaceful. Only the tiny chinking of ice cubes as she replaced her glass on the pine table disturbed the thick silence of the evening. Time to put the telly on; she was beginning to get the willies. The toaster ejected its contents with a jack-in-the-box metallic clatter, making Eva jump. She looked out at the darkness and made herself a promise, not for the first time, to get some curtains for the kitchen windows. The vodka was just beginning to work. Her cheeks warmed, her head lightened and a tune danced through her head.

  She opened the fridge for the butter and remembered it was already on the table. The overhead fluorescent flattened everything but the light from the fridge door glinted on the lino. Water.

  That’s funny.

  Two patches of water. No, four, five. Footprints. She stared at the pattern reaching from the back door to the hallway and laughed at herself. Spooked by her own wellies! She looked down at her feet, in dry sheepskin slippers. Her wellies were still in the hallway. She’d put them on to go up the shop and took them off when she came back. She hadn’t made those prints.

  Her head was muddled. That toast was going cold, so she closed the fridge and rubbed her arms against the chill. Time for a top up and her Saturday night entertainment. She scraped butter across the cooling toast and grabbed a quick slurp of Prussian magic. A slice of lemon would be nice.

  A song. A singer. Tonight she’d try to vote, and fingers crossed she’d get through this time. She hummed to herself as she fetched a tray and ripped a piece of kitchen roll as a substitute for a doily. A movement in the hallway. She squinted into the dimness, wondering if she’d left the front door open as well. Darkness expanded and blocked out the hall light.

  A man stepped into the kitchen doorway. Eva dropped her glass onto her toast and gasped so hard her bottom lip caught on her teeth. She tasted blood.

  He entered the room, the light behind him, his face in shadow. Leather jacket, sunglasses, big chunky boots, black gloves and slick wet hair. He looked like the Terminator. She shrank backwards and his lips split into a grin, showing his teeth. Vodka and tonic trickled across the table and dripped onto the floor.

  “Hello Eva,” he said.

  He didn’t sound like Schwarzenegger. Strange accent. She swallowed some bitter saliva and tried to focus her thoughts.

  “Who are you?” she asked, her voice trying for authoritative but missing it by a country mile.

  He showed his teeth again. “That’s what I’ve come to find out. I have a few questions for you.”

  She shook her head. “How did you get in here? I’m not answering questions from a total stranger. You come back tomorrow and we’ll see.”

  “Sorry, Eva. Tomorrow’s no good. You’re not going to be here tomorrow.” He took off his dark glasses. “So in the words of the King, it’s now or never.”

  Eva’s jaw slackened and her mouth gaped. She recognised those eyes.

  Chapter 2

  "I said to you, I distinctly remember, not to forget a screw of salt. I told you they wouldn't think of it."

  "It's not the end of the world, Maggie. Eat your egg and stop fussing. Enjoy the view and the silence."

  Maggie stared out at the Aegean Sea, an expanse of peacock shades, punctuated by white sails and wakes, the cliffs stretching away to their right and the harbour barely visible to their left. Distant misty calderas lay on the horizon like hump-backed whales. Sunlight sparkled from every angle, an omnipresent sprite banishing ill-will. Vast sky, endless sea and more shades of blue than she knew words for.

  "It's a beautiful spot, I'll give you that. Just hidden away enough so we won't cross paths with any tourists. But I have never in my life eaten a hard-boiled egg without salt, Rose Mason, and have no plans to start now."

  Rose selected a stick of celery and scooped up some hummus. "Just as I have always said, you’re inflexible to the point of fossilisation. Have another look in the picnic basket. I'm sure I asked for salt."

  Maggie adjusted her sunhat and returned to the hamper, placed in the shade of the chunky little moped. She pushed aside the empty wrappers and found something that looked like a pencil sharpener. In one end she could see ground black pepper, in the other...

 
"Salt!"

  "What did I tell you? Now, is there anything else you want to grumble about, or can we enjoy our first civilised meal in a week?"

  Clutching her condiments, Maggie arranged herself on the blanket and tucked her skirt under her knees. She inhaled and closed her eyes, savouring the warm citrus and herbal notes wafting from the hillside. A butterfly, freckled and rust-coloured, flitted from shrub to shrub on its own balletic mission. Rose poured two glasses of iced tea and handed one to Maggie.

  "Thank you. I'll have my boiled egg now, if you'd be so kind. And to say this is the first civilised meal in a week is a wee bit harsh. I won't deny the conversation has bordered on the tedious at times, but I've no complaints about the food."

  They gazed out at the beauty of the sea, its constantly shifting contours, accented by the graceful arcs of gulls.

  "The food, I grant you, has been of superior quality.” Rose sipped her tea and Maggie peeled her egg, bracing herself. She knew Rose was building up for an almighty moan. “But the deadly boring company gives me indigestion. I resent being told with whom and when I must eat. It feels like boarding school all over again. There is no reason on earth why we can't dine alone at a table for two and enjoy our meals rather than suffer more tales of unfortunate operations, dead or divorced husbands and overachieving offspring. Oh God, would you listen to me? We came up here to escape all that and what do I do? Bring it with us. Ignore me. Are you going to have some taramasalata?"

  Maggie eyed the pinkish gloopy substance, the consistency of tapioca. "I might when I’ve finished my egg. Not all the other passengers are that bad. Mr and Mrs Emerson are pleasant enough. And that language fella, when he pokes his head out of his shell, can be entertaining on occasion."

  She bit into her egg and absorbed the panorama, assessing photographic compositions with professional enthusiasm and an amateur eye. Rose's cornflower-print dress seemed to complement the colours, but looked incongruous amongst the scrubby flora of a Greek hillside. Her straw hat shaded her eyes and the 1950s sunglasses hid her expression. But Maggie could tell perfectly well Rose’s eyes were smiling.

  "Mrs Make-The-Best-Of-It is at it again.” Despite her best efforts, Rose couldn’t quite manage to make her voice sound stern. “You and I both know that a cruise is not our sort of holiday. We're trapped on a tub with people we'd actively avoid in everyday circumstances, fed at regular intervals and provided with something laughably called entertainment. On reaching dry land, we're dragged around a historic site in an air-conditioned coach, often sitting directly behind an incontinent nonagenarian and only let out for a three-minute photo opportunity. Maggie, I'm not being ungrateful and I'm happy to try anything once, but can we agree that despite our advancing years, we are still women of independent minds?"

  Maggie wiped her fingers and picked up the camera as she considered her response. She caught several shots of the bay, zoomed in on a yacht then turned to her left to see what compositions the harbour might yield. Low white houses tumbled in Lego formation towards the sea, but the ridge hid all the port activity from view. In the distance, impossible to overlook, lay the Empress Louise, docked at the distant ferry port. She shook her head at the breathtaking scale of the thing. How something so vast could float around the world, operating with unfailing efficiency, still awed her.

  She rounded on Rose with more theatre than passion. “How many years have we been holidaying together? Don’t answer that, I can’t remember either. How many of those holidays would have been anywhere but Brittany, Cornwall and Ireland, had it been left to you?”

  Rose sniffed. “I have one word to say to you – Tenerife.”

  “Agreed.” Maggie swallowed some iced tea. “A mistake you’ll never let me forget. Neither will I let you forget the time we sailed along the Dalmatian Coast. Or the whales we saw in the Azores. Or that funny little place at the top of Capri.”

  “Yes, yes, I can see what you’re doing. Sea, boats, adventures and some exceptional memories. This is not the same. In Croatia, we went off the beaten track. We made our own discoveries. Took our own stupid risks. A cruise ship offers no opportunity for... well, no opportunity for individuality. Yes, I admit I’m too old for camel-trekking, but holidays are supposed to make me feel younger than I am. This cruise makes me feel decrepit.”

  "You're being a snob, Rose. I'm sorry, but you are. As soon as I mentioned the C-word, you got all superior and made your mind up you would hate it. Well, I'm enjoying myself. I find the other passengers a curiosity and the only thing spoiling my fun is your moaning. So stick that in your pipe and smoke it."

  Rose made a point of swivelling her entire torso towards Maggie. A hard stare, no doubt. Maggie kept her eye glued to the lens. She retracted the zoom from the ship to the sliver of bay visible below.

  "And you're not being precisely the opposite? Dazzled by a 1920s mirage of charming bejewelled society folk doing the Charleston in the ballroom. Whereas the reality is bingo, aquarobics, whatever they are, dubious tribute bands and a desperate crowd of blue-rinsers colluding in the myth that... what are you looking at?"

  Maggie didn't answer, twisting the magnification so she could pick out more detail in the middle distance. The vantage point, halfway up the cliff and beloved of coach parties, was empty. All the tourists had left, heading for the town's many restaurants for lunch. But one had come adrift.

  An elderly lady wandered along the cliff path towards the car park. Her movements were irregular and she seemed disorientated or suffering from the heat. Maggie sat up straighter. They could scramble down there in minutes and help the poor old dear.

  "Maggie? What is it? You look like a meerkat. Maggie Campbell, I’m talking to you!"

  "There's someone down there. An old lady. I can't be sure at this distance, but it looks like one of the Hirondelles."

  "I doubt it. Their coach passed us on our way up, so by now they've been herded into a local taverna to be force-fed moussaka. Why do you say it’s one of them?"

  "Same outfit. Blue blazer, white skirt, you know. Whoever it is, she looks distressed. We should help."

  "Let me see. Where are the binoculars?"

  Below, a second figure appeared and strode across the car park, heading towards the pensioner. He wore the classic white and blue-trimmed uniform of the ship's crew and reached out a hand to the woman.

  "It's all right. One of the crew has found her. You'd think they'd do a head count before driving off. She shouldn't be wandering around alone at her age. He needs to get her out of the sun."

  The pair were walking slowly back in the direction of the car park.

  "Are you done, Maggie? Only I'll cover this lot up, I think."

  Maggie took her attention from the camera to see Rose wave a hand at the abandoned tomato salad, shooing away flies which immediately resettled elsewhere on the picnic.

  "Yes, best had." Maggie returned her attention to the couple in the distance, who had stopped to look out over the cliff.

  The man was pointing along the coast, in the direction of the Empress Louise. While the little woman faced the ocean, he turned, apparently scanning the path in both directions.

  "He should take her back and stop messing about; you can see she's had too much sun. Very irresponsible."

  "Enough of your rubber-necking and help me put this lot away. Then I suggest a ten-minute snooze to aid the digestion." Plastic lids snapped and greaseproof paper rustled, but Maggie's gaze was fixed on the brilliantly white path and the mismatched pair facing the sea. As she watched, the man lifted the woman, scooping one arm under her knees and bringing the other up to catch her shoulders. A gesture almost playful in its gallantry. He stood that way for several seconds, holding her in his arms as he glanced behind him once again. Then he swung her backwards and with all his force forwards, releasing her frail form out over the cliff.

  The woman fell in silence, with a few jerky movements like a puppet. The man remained at the cliff edge. Then, as if hearing some inaudible starter gun,
he ran towards the car park and disappeared from sight.

  Maggie sat frozen, her mind an uncomprehending loop. I just saw... I couldn’t have seen... he didn’t... he did... A sound like a chainsaw ripped through the silence and broke her petrifaction. Too late, she pressed the shutter and burst into tears.

  Chapter 3

  Nikos Stephanakis had wet trousers. The police speedboat had made a sharp turn as they approached the port of Athinos, hitting a wave broadside and spraying the solitary passenger down his left leg. Nikos gritted his teeth and pulled out his handkerchief. The irony was that if he'd still been in uniform, it wouldn't have shown. Wet black trousers look the same as dry black trousers. But his casual chinos were now beige on one leg and brown on the other. Could have been worse. At least it wasn't his crotch.

  He got to his feet, hoping the sun and wind would hasten the drying process, but the boat had already begun to slow as they entered the harbour. And there, dwarfing every other vessel, loomed the Empress Louise. His eyes ranged across the expanse of white, drawn up and up towards the bridge. He squinted into the brightness, despite his police sunglasses. The speedboat drew closer and Nikos couldn't help but be impressed by the scale of the thing. A floating skyscraper. As the police boat nosed up to the quay, the liner's shadow fell over them. Nikos couldn't even see the top deck without craning his neck back as far as it would go.

  In all the time he'd been with the Hellenic Police, he'd never actually set foot on one of these. He saw them every day, moored out in the bay, or like this one, a leviathan docked at the quayside. Like everyone else, he disguised his curiosity as contempt. Now, for his first assignment, he was entitled to board this sparkling, bustling world and ask all the questions he'd ever wanted.

  A uniformed crew member checked his ID and motioned him up the gangway, with the assurance that someone would meet him at the top. A group of older women passed him on his way up. Some smiled, some greeted him with a quavering 'Good morning'. He responded in kind and for the first time, his enthusiasm for the case and his new role faltered. English. Ninety percent of the passengers were from the UK, and with an international crew the lingua franca could only be English. After two years living with a native speaker, his English was fluent and comfortable in the bar or when advising victims of petty crime. But at murder enquiry level? He sent a quick prayer to the Virgin – please let none of them be from Scotland.