COFFIN COVE a gripping murder mystery full of twists (Coffin Cove Mysteries Book 1), JACKIE ELLIOTT [most recommended books txt] 📗

Mason looked as though he wanted to lean across and grab Andi round the throat.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he practically spat at Andi. “But I’m warning you—”

“Warning me? Or threatening me?” Andi could see that Mason was finally rattled by her questions.

“Everything OK, Andi?” Walter appeared beside the booth.

Andi nodded. “Yes, thanks, all good.” Walter, not convinced, retreated behind the bar and set about polishing beer glasses, not taking his eyes off the booth.

Mason had regained his composure.

“You’re not really bothered about a dead teenager from twenty years ago, are you, Andi? What you want is a good story. A way to redeem yourself — professionally speaking, of course.”

Andi, with difficulty, kept eye contact.

“Maybe that makes two of us, Mr Mason.”

Mason rested his hands on the table. He was silent, but clasped and unclasped his fingers.

Andi felt her heart beat a little quicker, sensing that he was on the brink of divulging some information.

But then the door to the pub swung open, and she heard Walter greet customers at the bar. The moment passed.

Mason smiled at her. “Time for me to leave, Andi. I’m sure we’ll chat again.”

Mason slid out of the booth and turned to leave. He hesitated for a moment.

“Just a reminder though, Andi. You’ll be hearing from my lawyer if you print anything libellous about me.” He strode towards to door.

“The truth is never libellous, Mr Mason,” Andi called after him, but he didn’t look back.

Andi looked down and saw her hands were shaking. The encounter had unnerved her.

“Walter, can I have a glass of wine, please?”

Walter obliged, and Andi sipped it, letting the alcohol dull her heightened senses.

She sat there processing the conversation in her mind. Was Mason really a victim? The locals despised him and his environmental causes — were they blinded by their prejudices?

Then, knowing that she needed to document the new information before she forgot any details, she drained her glass.

She hesitated before she left the bar, fighting a familiar impulse for a moment. Then she purchased a bottle of wine. Forgetting her laundry, she headed back to her apartment.

Chapter Ten

The man was feeling very pleased with himself. This had been a good week. In fact, he reasoned, this could be the start of a new career. He was a natural fixer, he thought. Solving problems for a price.

“A high price,” he laughed to himself. “You get what you pay for.” He acted out a new scene in his head, where people — important people — begged for his services, willing to pay him hundreds . . . no, thousands for his special talents! He savoured his imagined adulation for a moment and took a swig out of a bottle of vodka that he had paid for proudly with his wages.

He’d been disrespected, he thought. Nobody had ever taken him seriously. But all of that would change, he’d show them. He had skills that people needed, people would pay for . . .

He got agitated as another real memory intruded on his fantasies.

“Where’d you get the money?” Walter had asked him suspiciously at the Fat Chicken, where he went to buy his vodka.

The man had paid with a crisp fifty-dollar bill. Walter had held it up to the light and made the man wait.

“I earned it.” The man had tried to sound outraged, but it had come out as a whine.

Walter hadn’t believed him, the man could tell. That fucker. But Walter had sold him the vodka anyway, ushering him out, wanting the stench out of the pub.

“I’ll fuckin’ show ’em all,” he shouted out loud, startling a seagull that was perched on the window of the man’s home.

His living quarters were the old offices on the mezzanine floor of the disused fish plant. He’d been here for a year or so, he reckoned. It was dry, and being up high, the rats didn’t bother him much. There were two entrances — one through the main door and the other upstairs, which was obscured from the view of any casual observer in the back corner of the warehouse. Piles of old packing boxes and fish totes blocked most people from poking around too much. From one office, there was a door to an old metal fire escape that led down to the rotting pier where the fish boats used to tie up and deliver their load. It was dangerous, missing a few rungs, and the man had to be especially careful if he had been drinking, but it was useful if the police came looking for him.

He was blamed unfairly for all the shit that went on, he thought, familiar waves of self-pity engulfing him, which could only be subdued by more vodka.

The man was dirty. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a wash. In the summer, the showers and laundry were open for tourists, and he would occasionally sneak in, until he got caught stealing the change out of the detergent dispenser. He hadn’t bothered since then. His matted hair was scraped back into a straggly ponytail, and a greasy baseball cap hid a bald spot. He’d lost track of the years, but he figured he must be sixty.

Sometimes, he got free coffee from Hephzibah if he told her it was his birthday.

But most people avoided or didn’t notice him.

He didn’t mind.

Easier to do my work, he thought, and he took another shot of vodka. His work was stealing what he could from the boats and the dock. Most of his theft was wallets and cash left lying on galley tables. He was too well-known in Coffin Cove to sell stolen goods, but he couldn’t help himself sometimes. Stealing was a compulsion. Laptops and electronic devices he mostly tossed in the ocean, but he managed to acquire