put in
the brochures already. I don't know what Dave's going to do. Looks like he'll
be homeless if something doesn't turn up.'
'He's not the only one. Our next-door
neighbours are having their house repossessed.'
Rachel's mind was fixed firmly on
her own problem. 'How's Dave going to afford summer season prices? He helps my
dad on the farm and Dad lets him have the flat for peanuts."
'He'll just have to marry the farmer's
daughter. Sounds like he's got his feet well under the table already."
Wesley was unable to resist a bit of mischief.
'Get lost, Sergeant.'
'Not on the cards, then?'
'Definitely not... I'm going to be
Chief Constable by the time I'm forty. 'She laughed.
They reached the ferry. Wesley drove
the car slowly on to the floating platform which would chug across the
glistening expanse of the River Trad to the hill-hung town of Queenswear, Tradmouth's
smaller twin on the opposite bank. The ferry journey took five minutes and they
drove off, past the station which served the quaint steam railway, towards the
outskirts of the town. Rachel navigated; being local she knew the area well.
Marion's home turned out to be a
neat whitewashed bungalow with a spectacular view over the river to the town of
Tradmouth. It was on its own at the end of a track, almost the last dwelling in
Queenswear before the open countryside took over.
They left the car and turned to lake
in the view. The water reflected blue in the March sunshine, and the steel
masts of the boats glinted as they moved on the gentle swell of the river.
Tradmouth stood out. pastel-coloured, against the dark green hills behind the
town, an important port since the days of the Crusades; the hills and its
inaccessibility had ensured the survival of its picturesque character.
Tradmouth had not suffered the fate of
other ports and become the victim of ugly expansion.
Somehow they had imagined Marion to
be a gentle old lady who still possessed the last vestiges of faded beauty; a
sad, elfin figure awaiting the return of her handsome American sweetheart... a
sort of West Country Madam Butterfly.
The capable creature who answered
the door was no romantic heroine but a well-rounded, elderly woman with
straight grey hair, styled without any pretension to vanity, and a wary smile
which disappeared when Wesley and Rachel showed their warrant cards.
She invited them into her sitting room, which was conventionally furnished and
immaculately tidy, and sat down on the edge of the tapestry sofa with nervous
expectation.
Wesley spoke first.' Am I right in
thinking your name is Marion?'
'That's right... Marion Potter. Why?
What's happened? Is it our Carole?'
'Carole?'
'My daughter.'
'Oh no, Mrs Potter. Don't worry.
It's nothing to do with your daughter. Do you know a man called Norman
Openheim? We found a letter from you amongst his belongings.'
Marion extracted a well-washed
embroidered cotton handkerchief from her
sleeve and twisted it in her hands. 'Yes.' she stated quietly. 'I knew him
during the war.' She looked up. 'Is he all right? What's happened?'
Rachel spoke sympathetically. 'I'm
sorry, Mrs Potter ... he's been killed. That's why we're here. I'm sorry to
have to bring you such bad news.'
But I only saw him on Sunday ... was
it an accident?" Her voice trailed off to nothing.
'No. he was murdered ... I'm sorry.'
Marion sank back on to the sofa
cushions, her face shocked.
'Would you like a cup of tea, Mrs
Potter?' Rachel nodded to Wesley, who went out to put the kettle on. Pam had
trained him well domestically, and Rachel was very good with elderly ladies. Marion
would be telling her life story before the tea was in the cups.
'He came on Sunday ... he rang me
first. I didn't recognise him, do you know that?" She smiled, trying hard
to fight back tears. This woman showed more grief for Norman Openheim than his
wife had, Rachel thought. 'I don't know what he must
the brochures already. I don't know what Dave's going to do. Looks like he'll
be homeless if something doesn't turn up.'
'He's not the only one. Our next-door
neighbours are having their house repossessed.'
Rachel's mind was fixed firmly on
her own problem. 'How's Dave going to afford summer season prices? He helps my
dad on the farm and Dad lets him have the flat for peanuts."
'He'll just have to marry the farmer's
daughter. Sounds like he's got his feet well under the table already."
Wesley was unable to resist a bit of mischief.
'Get lost, Sergeant.'
'Not on the cards, then?'
'Definitely not... I'm going to be
Chief Constable by the time I'm forty. 'She laughed.
They reached the ferry. Wesley drove
the car slowly on to the floating platform which would chug across the
glistening expanse of the River Trad to the hill-hung town of Queenswear, Tradmouth's
smaller twin on the opposite bank. The ferry journey took five minutes and they
drove off, past the station which served the quaint steam railway, towards the
outskirts of the town. Rachel navigated; being local she knew the area well.
Marion's home turned out to be a
neat whitewashed bungalow with a spectacular view over the river to the town of
Tradmouth. It was on its own at the end of a track, almost the last dwelling in
Queenswear before the open countryside took over.
They left the car and turned to lake
in the view. The water reflected blue in the March sunshine, and the steel
masts of the boats glinted as they moved on the gentle swell of the river.
Tradmouth stood out. pastel-coloured, against the dark green hills behind the
town, an important port since the days of the Crusades; the hills and its
inaccessibility had ensured the survival of its picturesque character.
Tradmouth had not suffered the fate of
other ports and become the victim of ugly expansion.
Somehow they had imagined Marion to
be a gentle old lady who still possessed the last vestiges of faded beauty; a
sad, elfin figure awaiting the return of her handsome American sweetheart... a
sort of West Country Madam Butterfly.
The capable creature who answered
the door was no romantic heroine but a well-rounded, elderly woman with
straight grey hair, styled without any pretension to vanity, and a wary smile
which disappeared when Wesley and Rachel showed their warrant cards.
She invited them into her sitting room, which was conventionally furnished and
immaculately tidy, and sat down on the edge of the tapestry sofa with nervous
expectation.
Wesley spoke first.' Am I right in
thinking your name is Marion?'
'That's right... Marion Potter. Why?
What's happened? Is it our Carole?'
'Carole?'
'My daughter.'
'Oh no, Mrs Potter. Don't worry.
It's nothing to do with your daughter. Do you know a man called Norman
Openheim? We found a letter from you amongst his belongings.'
Marion extracted a well-washed
embroidered cotton handkerchief from her
sleeve and twisted it in her hands. 'Yes.' she stated quietly. 'I knew him
during the war.' She looked up. 'Is he all right? What's happened?'
Rachel spoke sympathetically. 'I'm
sorry, Mrs Potter ... he's been killed. That's why we're here. I'm sorry to
have to bring you such bad news.'
But I only saw him on Sunday ... was
it an accident?" Her voice trailed off to nothing.
'No. he was murdered ... I'm sorry.'
Marion sank back on to the sofa
cushions, her face shocked.
'Would you like a cup of tea, Mrs
Potter?' Rachel nodded to Wesley, who went out to put the kettle on. Pam had
trained him well domestically, and Rachel was very good with elderly ladies. Marion
would be telling her life story before the tea was in the cups.
'He came on Sunday ... he rang me
first. I didn't recognise him, do you know that?" She smiled, trying hard
to fight back tears. This woman showed more grief for Norman Openheim than his
wife had, Rachel thought. 'I don't know what he must
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