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

“Look who it’s from,” Andi said impatiently.

“Holy shit.” Jim looked at Andi.

“Yes,” she said, “Pierre Mason.”

“Something else you should mention at that police interview—” Jim looked at her seriously — “otherwise, you’ll end up as the prime suspect.”

“Funny,” Andi said. “There’s an attachment to this email, but no message.”

Andi printed off the picture. “It looks like Mason scanned an old photo,” she said, peering at it. “Looks like a bunch of boats fishing.”

Jim studied the photo.

“That looks like a packer,” he said, “and that one there is a seiner. It’s not very clear.”

“OK,” Andi said, “explain.”

“Oh, a packer is a boat that doesn’t fish, it literally goes out to pick up fish, to pack them. That way, the boats can carry on fishing and they don’t have to spend valuable time running back to the dock. They can sell their load right away. A seiner is a ‘purse-seiner’. The boat makes a big circle with its net around the fish, and then pulls it in, so that the net tightens up . . . like a purse. Hey, give me that picture again.”

Jim looked closely.

“I wouldn’t swear to it,” he said, “but that boat looks like the Pipe Dream.”

“Harry’s boat?” Andi said, surprised.

“Yes, I’m fairly certain. Now why would Pierre Mason send you a picture of Harry’s boat?”

* * *

It was just getting dark as Jim and Andi walked down to the dock. The fish plant was flooded with light. Huge lamps, positioned so that the police investigators could work into the night, threw long shadows over the boardwalk. A press conference was scheduled for the next day. A TV crew had already arrived. Andi knew that by the time all the reporters were assembled, the body would be long gone, and the forensics team would be focusing on the painstaking lab work that would reveal at least part of Pierre Mason’s story.

Andi knew that she could add to those facts. The email had a time and date, so assuming that Pierre sent the message himself, the police could narrow down the time of death. Brian McIntosh had dropped the cell phone. Did he find it? Steal it? Or (and Andi shuddered at this thought) did he take it off the dead body? And was any of this related to Sarah’s death or was it a horrible coincidence? She intended to find out.

Andi didn’t believe in coincidences, and wanted to hear from Harry what he thought about Mason having a picture of his boat. Or at least what he was willing to tell them. She didn’t share Jim’s confidence that Harry could or would tell them anything.

The Pipe Dream wasn’t tied up in its usual place.

Odd, Andi thought.

“Does he often go out fishing at night?” she asked. “Seems weird — just about the whole town is heading to the Fat Chicken to find out the gossip.” They had seen cars parked in the street and people walking to the pub, a distinct excitement in the air.

People enjoyed death, Andi thought, as long as it didn’t involve them directly. She had experienced this before, people contacting her, wanting to be interviewed about their third-hand knowledge of the crime or about some small snippet of unrelated information, to make them seem relevant to the story.

The pub would be humming with conspiracy theories. She wondered if Sue and Joe knew that the main suspect in their daughter’s death was now lying in a morgue.

Jim shrugged.

“Harry could be anywhere,” he said. “We’ll catch up with him.”

Chapter Sixteen

Brian McIntosh was cold. He had been hiding in the undergrowth on the road out of Coffin Cove since running from Hephzibah’s, crouched out of sight until the day faded into night. The vodka he had grabbed as he left the fish plant sustained him for a few hours, before he drifted into a disturbed sleep. Then he woke up, panicking. He knew it wouldn’t be long before the police were looking for him. He thought a few fishermen at least knew he camped at the fish plant. Then all those people at Hephzibah’s saw him run when the sirens came. He knew he should have stayed and acted casual, but he couldn’t help it.

And he always got blamed for everything.

He cursed as he remembered the phone. He still had the cash from his client, but that wouldn’t go far. He was going to sell the phone to a kid he knew who could reprogramme it somehow and sell it on.

But what to do now? Where could he go? He thought briefly about Joe and dismissed that almost immediately. He hadn’t seen Joe for years, and the last time he showed up, that bitch Tara called the police. Keeping me away from my own brother. A wave of self-pity and anger overcame him for a moment.

Brian wasn’t stupid. He knew it was no coincidence that he was paid a wad of banknotes for stealing a gun, and a few days later, somebody was shot.

“I was fuckin’ set up,” he whined, out loud, “fuckin’ set right up. I’m a fuckin’ innocent man, I’m innocent,” he went on, conveniently forgetting his pride at a perfectly executed theft.

Then he remembered something else.

He hadn’t worn gloves.

“FUCK!” He pounded his forehead with his palm.

He hadn’t bothered, assuming that the gun would be far away from Coffin Cove by now. He had been so excited about the money that he didn’t think—

Wait a minute . . . Had his client worn gloves? He couldn’t remember and it had been dark when he handed over the gun. Maybe not? So more sets of prints. That was reasonable doubt, right? Maybe the shooter took the gun. Maybe he wasn’t set up after all. His prints couldn’t be the only ones on the gun, the owner’s were on