Death on the Lake, Jo Allen [e reader TXT] 📗

hadn’t really liked Ryan that much, but he was family, and if he hadn’t been he was still a human being. A tear gathered in her eye and rolled down her cheek. She ignored it and appreciated Doddsy pretending not to see it. ‘Thanks for letting me know.’

‘I think Jude would probably have come to tell you himself. If he—’

‘If he wasn’t busy. Yes, I know.’ she paused. ‘Good of you to come.’ And then, as she thought once more about Ryan she hurried the conversation on before she could shed any more tears. She was anything but heartless, but on balance she preferred to grieve alone. ‘You don’t happen to know if anything came of my…um… complaint, do you?’

He shook his head. ‘I expect it’ll go through the system. I’m not in the loop, and Jude hasn’t mentioned it to me.’

‘It’s just that I asked them to withdraw it.’ Though quite why she hadn’t named and blamed Adam she didn’t know. Perhaps she was just too cowardly to make an enemy of him the way Jude had done.

‘Then it’ll be fine.’ Doddsy hesitated, but only for a second. ‘I’ll be off, then. Tyrone will be wondering where the hell I’ve got to.’

‘I’ll see you.’ She closed the door and heard his car engine start up, rev and then die away. In all the sadness, she managed to find a smile. It was about time Doddsy enjoyed a little happiness.

Essentially and unshakeably practical, Becca went back to the living room to repair relations with Holmes and think about what to do next. Move on, of course. She wasn’t on shift until twelve, so she’d take the chance to do what she’d promised her mother she’d do, and go down to Martindale next morning to begin sorting through George’s belongings.

Twenty-Six

The post-mortem was scheduled for eight o’clock in Carlisle and Jude was in the office to catch up before he headed out. Someone had been up before him, though, because as he headed past the security desk just after six, his phone rang. He answered it walking down the corridor to the incident room, not recognising the number. ‘Jude Satterthwaite.’ He stopped at the coffee machine in the empty corridor and threw a selection of coins down into the slot.

‘Jude. It’s Kelly McKay over in Adelaide. Wondered if you’d be up.’

‘Hi.’ Jude stifled a yawn. It was hard enough to function at this time of the morning anyway, but even harder without coffee. The last thing he needed was mockery from colleagues on the other side of the world. ‘It’s six am. Isn’t everyone at work?’

Kelly laughed at him, in a manner far too jolly for someone used to dabbling in deceit and death. ‘Sorry to call you so early, mate. But there’s been a misunderstanding.’

‘What sort of misunderstanding?’ Jude picked the coffee out of the machine and carried it towards the incident room. Jamming the phone between his shoulder and his ear, he swiped his security card and opened the door.

‘Mate.’ Kelly laughed. ‘He isn’t dead.’

Jude put the coffee on the table and rolled his eyes. It was way too early for a joke and he was already too tired to appreciate it. ‘Sorry?’

‘What I say. He isn’t dead. There’s a case of mistaken identity at your end.’

‘I saw him with my own eyes.’ More than that, he’d brushed the dry soil from Ryan Goodman’s face with his own fingers.

‘Nope. Because when I went to confirm his whereabouts with his parents they said he wasn’t in England, and never planned to go there. He’d never expressed any interest in his family over there. As far as they knew he was with his unit. I’ve spent all morning verifying his identity, and I’m happy with it. He’s sitting in the office with me this very minute.’

The clock on the wall ticked through ten seconds. ‘Okay,’ Jude said, ‘Thanks for that. I’d better get on and stop his relatives here doing the official ID, then, hadn’t I?’ And he rang off and called Faye.

Holmes woke Becca early, as he too often did in the summer. He was no respecter of a day off or a lie-in and the only authority he acknowledged was that of the weather and the seasons. After ten minutes she gave up trying to ignore him, got up, made a cup of tea and then headed down towards Martindale.

The police were still swarming over the churchyard. Seeing the white tent over George’s grave made her feel vaguely queasy, though she knew they’d have to treat the old man’s coffin with appropriate respect. She parked at a respectable distance and walked along the dale. George had left the house to Becca and her sister, and she knew Kirsty would want to sell it, but she herself wasn’t so sure. It needed a little bit of work, but it could easily be made liveable. Perhaps she could sell her cottage in Wasby and buy her sister out, and then she could settle in splendid isolation and enjoy looking at the world going past, just as he’d done.

It was a ridiculous fantasy. For one thing, it was inconveniently far from work, and while that might not be a problem on a glorious day like today’s, the winter would be a different matter entirely.

She strolled up to it. The patch of green around it had begun to run wild in the ten days or so since George had died, and she stooped and pulled a young and enthusiastic dandelion from the ground. The rosette of leaves snapped off, the root stayed in the ground and Becca was left with damp soil beneath her fingernails, like a metaphor for her life.

She had a key but she was accustomed to walking in and calling out George’s name, and so she fumbled with the lock. The key wouldn’t turn, but when she twisted the handle it opened easily. Her mother, in her flying visit to empty the fridge after George’s death and to