Mark Pearson - The Killing Season

‘You guys crack me up,’ said Laura, closing the door behind her as she left.

I took a sip of the coffee. It was good. Better than the poor excuse for it from the filter machine back in my temporary office that I had been drinking earlier. Top of my agenda: buy a proper espresso machine. Get the coffee right and everything else falls into place. Law of detecting number one. Start with the java.

‘I’ll be with you in a minute,’ said Amy and took a large bite of her croissant.

She was single, which surprised me. Maybe the way she ate a croissant put men off. Me. . I like women with appetites. Probably got me into a lot of trouble in the past. The good thing was that I couldn’t remember much of it, which was a bit of a mixed blessing. Maybe it was the wisest move to let Kate and Siobhan drag me out of London after all. I looked at the rain that had started up in earnest again, hammering down onto Lifeboat Plain below us, and smiled a little to myself. At least it was clean rain here.

Amy had nearly finished her croissant so I took another sip of coffee and waited for her to tell me what she wanted.

She was a good-looking woman, five foot five or so in her bare feet, dark honey-blonde hair to her shoulders styled with a casual indifference that she managed to bring off. She was lively, charismatic, had twinkling blue eyes and an intellect sharper than the teeth of those reptiles that Saint Patrick reportedly kicked out of the blessed Isle. She was dressed in jeans, trainers and an ‘Old Guys Rule’ jumper. I didn’t ask. Most of the work she did was legal aid or pro bono-based. Her uncle was a big shot, an old-money lawyer in the city. And the city round here meant Norwich. I’d heard rumours — well, Laura had told me — that Amy’s Uncle Warbucks had been trying to recruit her ever since she had left law school with offers of fine offices, a car worth two salaries, money, title, et cetera. The whole heir-apparent-to-the-great-legal-empire thing and she had turned him down on each occasion. She was happier working out on the edge of the known world for people who needed help but couldn’t afford it. She was my kind of solicitor.

‘Sorry for the casual outfit, Jack,’ Amy said. ‘Supposed to be a paperwork day.’

I looked down at my own jeans, RM Williams boots that needed a polish, a sweatshirt and a thermal T-shirt under my battered old-and-going-nowhere black leather jacket and flashed her a smile.

‘And here’s me in my Sunday best. So what can I do for you, doll face?’

‘Doll face?’

‘I’ve gone private. Isn’t that the way we’re supposed to speak?’

‘Not in Sheringham.’ She laughed. ‘Anyway, got another little job for you.’

‘What’s in it for me?’

‘You’re drinking it. And there’s a croissant in it, too.’ She pushed the bag forward.

‘You’ve put my rates up and I paid for them!’

Amy shrugged. ‘Inflation — what’s a girl going to do?’

‘What do you want?’

‘I need you to frighten someone.’

‘This someone you reference. He or she easily frightened?’

‘He. And about as easily frightened as an angry Rottweiler.’

I nodded. ‘I guess I’ll take that croissant.’

At least the rain had stopped.

The sky was a ragged patchwork of crimson-streaked clouds and pale, watery blue sky. I love this time of year when it’s cold but bright and the skies stretch miles and miles into the distance, when there’s a crunch of frost under your feet and your cheeks glow. Maybe it’s the melancholic Irishman in me that makes me prefer late autumn and winter to spring. But I do hate the rain!

I was on the coast road heading west. Out of Sheringham and through Weybourne, progressing around the bump of north Norfolk. The sea was to my right and on the left were the foothills of a ridge that soared several hundred feet or so and was dense with pine trees. Sheringham, as the sign on the shore front promenade proudly proclaims, lies ‘Twixt sea and pine’. The coast road is a twisting, narrow old-fashioned one that was not built for the size or the power of modern cars and I had to concentrate. It wasn’t my driving I was worried about, or the condition and road-handling capabilities of my old Saab. It was the condition of the brains of some of the other drivers on the roads. It was way out of season now so I couldn’t put it down to tourists not familiar with the dangers. But the behaviour of some of them made me think they had some kind of death wish. Seeing as some of them were octogenarians who could barely see over the tops of the steering wheels of their huge 4×4s, it was surprising that they seemed in such a hurry to meet your man upstairs, the fellow with the long white beard and the key to the Pearly Gates. But they certainly drove that way, overtaking on bends and blind hills with the kind of bravura usually seen at Silverstone. This was a long, bleak stretch of road in the dark days of October and luckily there were few other cars on it that day.

The man I had been commissioned to ‘frighten’ was a builder called Bill Collier who was based in Thornage, a small village just outside Holt, though he covered, seemingly, a pretty wide area. He sounded a particularly nasty piece of work, and none too competent so I guess he had to spread himself further afield to find new custom. I had phoned and arranged to meet him a bit later but first I had set up a meeting with the woman he had, so to speak, diddled. In no way was that a euphemism.

I was just outside Kelling heading towards Cley, by the salt marshes that spread in a rare bit of flatland out to the sea. The sea was darkening again and was flecked with white horses in the near distance as the wind started to pick up. I was keeping my eye on the sky — it didn’t look like rain just yet — and suddenly I had to hit the brakes hard and lean on my horn yet again. The old woman who was halfway across my side of the road before she straightened up coming out of the bend didn’t even register my presence.

I turned left down a bumpy side road where there was some serious real estate lining both sides. Mostly old, but brick-built and ivy-clad. Definitely never been fishermen’s cottages. The Saab bucked and bounced on the rough road and its old shock absorbers creaked and groaned in complaint. I didn’t know why the road hadn’t been repaired and levelled — the people who lived here could afford a bit of upkeep. I guess they wanted to discourage visitors. No riff-raff welcome. I also reckoned their 4×4s at forty grand apiece, and more, didn’t feel the pain as much as my ancient Swedish vehicle did. Kate had been pestering me for weeks to change it, saying it wasn’t suitable for country living. She’d traded in her car for a fairly new Golf Estate, which we tended to use when we were out and about ‘en famille’, as she would say. But I liked my old Saab: we had been through a lot together. And the more Kate insisted, the more I dug my toes in. I had told her, paraphrasing a little from the Bible, that women are born to nag ‘just as sparks fly upwards’. She wasn’t amused. Maybe my roguish Irish charm was beginning to lose its effect on her. Nah. Never going to happen, I had had to license it as a deadly weapon when I set up in private practice.

I turned left into a drive that ran alongside the immaculately maintained front garden of a small but very pretty clapboard-fronted bungalow that was painted in white with a seaside blue trim. It had been built, by the looks of it, in the 1930s and it made a change from all the pebble-and-flint buildings that were strung along the coast, pretty as they were.

I parked my car behind an old but spotless Morris Minor and rang the doorbell. The door was answered by a sprightly woman who also looked like she’d been built in the 1930s. Helen Middleton. A widow. Five foot six, platinum-white hair, a smart two-piece black suit and facial bone structure that had probably launched a thousand ships back in her day. Her eyes were bright and intelligent and she looked like she weighed about six stone in the pouring rain.