Read Online The Funeral Boat by Kate Ellis - Free Book Online
Authors: Kate Ellis
Tags: Mystery
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them to it.
The room was indeed preternaturally tidy, and Wesley observed with disbelief the clinical precision with which Ingeborg Larsen’s possessions were arranged. In the drawers sweaters and T-shirts, even underwear - sporty rather than lacy - were folded, shop-style, in colour-coded rows. The neat, tailored clothes in the wardrobe hung in order of length. A white jacket hanging at the end of the row was still swathed in the thin, clinging polythene used by dry-cleaning firms, a pink ticket pinned to the label.
‘Obsessive,’ was Rachel’s only comment on the matter. ‘I always thought I was fairly tidy but … ‘
‘Not really natural, is it?’ said Wesley, grinning. ‘At least it’ll make our job easier,’ he added with sincerity. There was nothing worse than having to search through a jumbled mess of belongings.
It didn’t take long to search the room. Although Ingeborg hadn’t necessarily travelled light, she had certainly travelled in an orderly fashion. There was a bottle of pills in the drawer of the bedside table, and beside them was a bulky paperback book. Beneath the book Wesley found a photograph. A blonde woman, slender and lovely, standing framed in the porch of a white-painted wooden house. Next to her stood a tall, fair-haired man. Wesley picked the photograph up and studied it. The woman was Ingeborg Larsen - he recognised her from her passport photograph. But this image, unlike the official one, showed her true beauty.
He turned his attention to the book. Although he couldn’t llnderstand the Danish title, the cover told him that it was a steamy
41
historical saga set in the age when bodices were ripped with monotonous regularity. Ingeborg’s reading taste didn’t appear to match the cool order of the rest of her life: perhaps a desire for romantic, uncontrolled chaos simmered somewhere beneath the smooth surface.
But was Ingeborg Larsen really so cool, so precise? He went over what they knew about her: she was thirty-eight, had a taste for neatness, lived in Copenhagen and taught English. But why was she holidaying in Devon alone? Her passport had listed her next of kin as a Sven Larsen. Was he her husband? Brother? Father? Was he the man in the photograph with her? Had she come to Devon to meet somebody? The unanswered questions irritated Wesley.
There was a shy knock on the door and a large man stepped into the room. ‘I’m Ralph Questid. My wife sent me up with some tea. Is that all right?’ The man looked at Wesley and Rachel appraisingly. He had a mane of steel-grey hair which he wore tied back in a neat ponytail. Well built rather than fat, he wore a colourful waistcoat and exuded the laid-back air of a semi-retired hippie. Wesley and Rachel exchanged a glance. They had imagined Barbara’s partner to be a small, balding, henpecked man. This apparition was quite unexpected.
After Wesley had introduced himself and Rachel, he thought a plea for cooperation might be in order. ‘Mr Questid, we’re sorry if we’re inconveniencing you but we are rather worried about Ms Larsen and … ‘
‘Actually … ‘ Ralph put the teacups down and looked round conspiratorially. ‘I did want a word with you. Ingeborg … er, Ms Larsen … asked me to do her a favour. She was, er, a very attractive woman, you understand.’ He winked at Wesley, man to man. ‘And I didn’t tell my wife at the time so I’d be grateful if you wouldn’t mention it … avoid misunderstanding and all that.’
Rachel was growing impatient. ‘What exactly did you want to tell us, sir?’ she demanded with disapproval in her voice.
‘Well, I offered to help Ingeborg out. She was a foreigner…’
‘Was?’ Rachel seized on the word like a terrier.
‘Sorry … is a foreigner, alone in a strange country. She had a little prang in her car. No damage to hers luckily, but she was backing out of a parking space in Tradmouth on Saturday - the day after she arrived - and she just touched
The room was indeed preternaturally tidy, and Wesley observed with disbelief the clinical precision with which Ingeborg Larsen’s possessions were arranged. In the drawers sweaters and T-shirts, even underwear - sporty rather than lacy - were folded, shop-style, in colour-coded rows. The neat, tailored clothes in the wardrobe hung in order of length. A white jacket hanging at the end of the row was still swathed in the thin, clinging polythene used by dry-cleaning firms, a pink ticket pinned to the label.
‘Obsessive,’ was Rachel’s only comment on the matter. ‘I always thought I was fairly tidy but … ‘
‘Not really natural, is it?’ said Wesley, grinning. ‘At least it’ll make our job easier,’ he added with sincerity. There was nothing worse than having to search through a jumbled mess of belongings.
It didn’t take long to search the room. Although Ingeborg hadn’t necessarily travelled light, she had certainly travelled in an orderly fashion. There was a bottle of pills in the drawer of the bedside table, and beside them was a bulky paperback book. Beneath the book Wesley found a photograph. A blonde woman, slender and lovely, standing framed in the porch of a white-painted wooden house. Next to her stood a tall, fair-haired man. Wesley picked the photograph up and studied it. The woman was Ingeborg Larsen - he recognised her from her passport photograph. But this image, unlike the official one, showed her true beauty.
He turned his attention to the book. Although he couldn’t llnderstand the Danish title, the cover told him that it was a steamy
41
historical saga set in the age when bodices were ripped with monotonous regularity. Ingeborg’s reading taste didn’t appear to match the cool order of the rest of her life: perhaps a desire for romantic, uncontrolled chaos simmered somewhere beneath the smooth surface.
But was Ingeborg Larsen really so cool, so precise? He went over what they knew about her: she was thirty-eight, had a taste for neatness, lived in Copenhagen and taught English. But why was she holidaying in Devon alone? Her passport had listed her next of kin as a Sven Larsen. Was he her husband? Brother? Father? Was he the man in the photograph with her? Had she come to Devon to meet somebody? The unanswered questions irritated Wesley.
There was a shy knock on the door and a large man stepped into the room. ‘I’m Ralph Questid. My wife sent me up with some tea. Is that all right?’ The man looked at Wesley and Rachel appraisingly. He had a mane of steel-grey hair which he wore tied back in a neat ponytail. Well built rather than fat, he wore a colourful waistcoat and exuded the laid-back air of a semi-retired hippie. Wesley and Rachel exchanged a glance. They had imagined Barbara’s partner to be a small, balding, henpecked man. This apparition was quite unexpected.
After Wesley had introduced himself and Rachel, he thought a plea for cooperation might be in order. ‘Mr Questid, we’re sorry if we’re inconveniencing you but we are rather worried about Ms Larsen and … ‘
‘Actually … ‘ Ralph put the teacups down and looked round conspiratorially. ‘I did want a word with you. Ingeborg … er, Ms Larsen … asked me to do her a favour. She was, er, a very attractive woman, you understand.’ He winked at Wesley, man to man. ‘And I didn’t tell my wife at the time so I’d be grateful if you wouldn’t mention it … avoid misunderstanding and all that.’
Rachel was growing impatient. ‘What exactly did you want to tell us, sir?’ she demanded with disapproval in her voice.
‘Well, I offered to help Ingeborg out. She was a foreigner…’
‘Was?’ Rachel seized on the word like a terrier.
‘Sorry … is a foreigner, alone in a strange country. She had a little prang in her car. No damage to hers luckily, but she was backing out of a parking space in Tradmouth on Saturday - the day after she arrived - and she just touched
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