Murder on the Downs

Book 7: Whitstable Pearl Mysteries

by Julie Wassmer

Genres: International Crime & Mystery; Mystery

Synopsis

'While Oxford had Morse, Whitstable, famous for its oysters, has Pearl' Daily Mail

Murder on the Downs is the seventh book in Julie Wassmer's popular crime series - now a major Acorn TV drama, Whitstable Pearl, starring Kerry Godliman as private detective and restaurateur, Pearl Nolan.

A controversial new property development is planned in Whitstable which will encroach upon the green open space of the downs, to the dismay of Whitstable residents who view this as the thin end of the wedge with regard to local wildlife conservation.

A campaign springs into life, spearheaded by a friend of Pearl's family, Martha Laker. A committed environmentalist, Martha is no stranger to controversy herself. She has also managed to divide opinion across town, with the locals viewing her as their fearless champion while establishment figures seeing only an interfering agitator.

Tensions escalate between the developers and Whitstable residents, straining Pearl's close relationship with London-born police officer, DCI Mike McGuire, who harbours concerns that the local campaign will spiral out of control. Pearl's loyalties are torn, but the protest duly goes ahead - and newspaper headlines claim a moral victory for the residents in this David and Goliath battle.

But the victory is short lived when Pearl discovers a dead body on the downs...

Praise for Julie Wassmer's Whitstable Pearl Mysteries...

'While Oxford had Morse, Whitstable, famous for its oysters, has Pearl . . . True to the tradition of classic crime, [Julie Wassmer] weaves a strong story into a setting that has more to offer than murder and mayhem' Daily Mail

'As light as a Mary Berry Victoria sponge, this Middle-England romp is packed with vivid characters' Myles McWeeney, Irish Independent

'All of the thrills without any of the gore' The Sun

'This is a quality title...a very entertaining read' The Puzzle Doctor

'My new favourite author in the genre' George Galloway

'A wonderful way to explore Whitstable . . . if you love cosy mysteries, then get acquainted with Pearl (and her mum and her cats!) and enjoy a trip to Whitstable through the eyes of this very convincing author' Trip Fiction

'Proves she's mistress of her craft' John McGhie, author of White Highlands

'Thoroughly enjoyable with a host of wonderful characters - I adore Dolly! - and evocative descriptions of Whitstable. Perfect for foodies too. Pearl is great and the ongoing will they/won't they love story with McGuire is compelling. Comforting, cosy and entertaining with excellent Agatha Christie-style reveals. I love these books!' Jane Wenham-Jones, author of Mum in the Middle

'If you enjoy cosy crime fiction and you still haven't picked this series, then you are missing out' Alba in Bookland

'Julie Wassmer really knows how to tell a story' Victoria Best, Shiny New Books

'Good, solid whodunits, without gruesome details or gratuitous violence, Murder on Sea may be just your cup of tea' Bec Stafford

'Come to Whitstable without actually coming to Whitstable. A good read!' Anthony Jemmett

Praise for the TV series

'Scandi noir meets the English seaside in Whitstable Pearl, a murder mystery series based on Julie Wassmer's novels...'

Release date: May 7, 2020

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 320

Sample

Whitstable, June

It was early morning at Seaspray Cottage and Detective Chief Inspector Mike McGuire was standing behind Pearl Nolan, the palms of his strong hands shielding her eyes. He leaned forward and gently whispered: ‘Keep them closed …’ Then his voice trailed off as he moved towards the kitchen. Pearl resisted all temptation to take a glimpse of whatever lay in front of her until, moments later, McGuire returned. ‘Okay!’

Pearl opened her eyes to see her dining table laid for breakfast. As McGuire set a plate down before her, and a second one for himself, she glanced at him, astonished. ‘But you said you were going to rustle up some bacon and eggs.’

‘And I did.’ He smiled proudly, indicating Pearl’s plate on which a poached egg sat on top of a toasted muffin, smothered in a buttery sauce and latticed with two rashers of Pearl’s finest pancetta. He handed her some cutlery. ‘You said you were hungry? Tuck in.’ He nodded for Pearl to begin, waiting expectantly for her verdict.

Taking her first bite, Pearl’s eyes closed once more, this time to appreciate fully the silky consistency of a rich Hollandaise sauce, enlivened by a hint of citrus – just sufficient to lighten without producing any over-acidity or curdling. The English muffin base was suitably firm and the crisp pancetta offered an exquisite scorched contrast to a perfectly poached yolk. As the sum of all parts melted in Pearl’s mouth, a sigh of satisfaction, coupled with the look on her face, told McGuire all he needed to know.

Pearl’s eyes narrowed with suspicion as she now asked: ‘How long have you known how to make perfect Eggs Benedict?’

McGuire checked his watch. ‘Since around eight fifteen this morning.’ The Canterbury police detective tapped his smartphone. ‘There’s a recipe for everything on here and I knew you’d have all the ingredients.’

He nodded towards Pearl’s well-stocked kitchen then began to enjoy his own breakfast while Pearl considered how conscientiously he must have obeyed the instructions of a cookery website to have achieved such a result. But that was McGuire all over – he was a man who liked to follow a well-trodden path and always put his faith in procedure.

Pearl, by contrast, trusted her instincts – especially when it came to cooking. Having long ago learned the basics of good cuisine, she now preferred to improvise and experiment rather than to follow doggedly any recipes – other than her own, that is. It was a tactic that had paid off well, because Pearl’s restaurant had become one of the most popular eateries in her native north Kent town of Whitstable. Although there were some swanky establishments near the beach, The Whitstable Pearl remained a popular and precious gem – full of charm – and with a reputation for providing some of the best seafood in town, for locals and visitors alike. Fresh oysters and tapas were always available at the bar, but the restaurant also offered a selection of signature dishes, ranging from marinated sashimi of tuna, mackerel and wild salmon in summer to a year-round menu of squid encased in a light chilli tempura batter and sautéed scallop dotted with ginger and breadcrumb.

Pearl’s reputation was built on simple dishes created with the finest ingredients, each course having been perfected over time. Now, with a new and very able chef in place, her presence wasn’t always needed at the restaurant, but the quality of her food remained constant – guaranteeing a steady if not growing trade.

The business had supported Pearl while she had brought up her son as a single parent but old ambitions had reawoken once Charlie had disappeared off to university in nearby Canterbury, convincing Pearl that it was high time for a new challenge. Starting up Nolan’s Detective Agency had offered her the chance to use the police training she had abandoned on discovering she was pregnant at the tender age of nineteen, and to test the detective skills she felt sure she still possessed twenty years later. It was true that she had put her life on hold for her son, eschewing opportunities, even for romance, but she had never given up on the idea of, one day, finding the right partner. She had simply found nothing among the sparks of a few short-lived liaisons to match the white heat of her first love for Charlie’s father, Carl, not until she had found herself pitted in a murder investigation against a Canterbury police detective by the name of DCI Mike McGuire …

At that very moment, McGuire was sipping his coffee and enjoying not only the satisfaction of having prepared a perfect chef-y breakfast – but also the sight of Pearl there beside him, dressed only in a vintage red silk dressing gown, as she tucked into her Eggs Benedict. Not long awake, her beautiful features were devoid of make-up and her long dark curls still glistened wet from the shower. McGuire noted that her moonstone-grey eyes were the very same shade as the sea beyond her window on this fine summer morning.

Sensing his gaze upon her, she turned to him, leaned in close and whispered, ‘Thank you.’

‘For breakfast?’

‘For everything.’

Her eyes lingered on McGuire’s handsome features, her gaze tracing the lines of his strong chiselled jaw and fine cheekbones. She smiled at his tousled ‘bed-head’ blond hair then lost herself in his ice-blue eyes as he gently framed her face with his hands – and kissed her …

They had returned the night before from Bruges, late enough to allow themselves to believe they might still be there, lost among the winding lanes and cobbled squares of a romantic medieval city. McGuire had booked a 5-star hotel – a sixteenth-century landmark building, just 200 metres from the Burg Square and the Markt, the main market, but close enough to the canals to enjoy the sight of white swans gliding past their window. A carriage ride had taken them through the city’s fabled streets and on to Minnewater Park. There they had discovered the Lake of Love and heard from an old couple who had been crossing a bridge that spanned it the story of a girl named Minna, who, in love with a warrior of a neighbouring tribe, had run away rather than marry the man of her father’s choice. Escaping into the forest, the girl had finally died of exhaustion just as her lover had found her, so the area and bridge had been named in Minna’s honour. ‘If you walk across this bridge and kiss your loved one,’ the old couple had explained, ‘that love will last.’ Pearl and McGuire had waited until the couple had disappeared before doing just that, each considering they might have entered the pages of a fairy tale – somewhere, at least, far from the stress of their hectic working lives.

Three nights only – an all-too-short break – but long enough to enjoy an unfamiliar landscape, when, in spite of Pearl’s fear of heights, they had climbed over three hundred steps in the Belfry of Bruges for a panoramic view of the city. The building had once acted as an observation post for identifying fires and other dangers but now it served as the location for Pearl and McGuire to recognise that in spite of all their differences, their relationship might finally be given a chance to develop into something more …

Breaking away from McGuire’s kiss, Pearl glanced back at the breakfast table noting that, with characteristic attention to detail, the detective hadn’t forgotten a thing. There was a cafetière filled with rich French coffee, sugar bowl, milk jug, napkins and even a small glass vase containing a sprig of honeysuckle blossom – the fragrance of which now flooded the warm room. Glancing towards the window, Pearl realised that McGuire had cut the shoot from a plant that climbed the walls of the lilac-painted beach hut in the garden, which she now used as an office for her detective agency. After savouring her last mouthful, she looked down at the empty plate before her and smiled teasingly at him. ‘I can see I’ve got some competition. You’ll be opening a restaurant next.’

McGuire shook his head. ‘’Fraid not,’ he replied. ‘I’ve never much liked the idea of us being in competition.’ He winked, but then held her gaze and Pearl’s smile faded as she looked away, as though in need of a distraction. Her thoughts drifted back again to the short break they had just spent together while she considered how easy life had seemed when they weren’t at loggerheads over one of McGuire’s cases. For three days they had left behind The Whitstable Pearl, McGuire’s police work at Canterbury CID and Pearl’s own cases at Nolan’s Detective Agency – not that there had been much in her in-tray recently, apart from a few credit checks, a hunt for a stolen bicycle and an appeal to find a lost Russian Blue cat by the name of Sergei.

‘It was wonderful,’ she whispered, leaving McGuire unsure if she was referring to their recent trip, his breakfast or perhaps even the agreement they had reached not to allow work to come between them again. He felt a need to clarify but the urge to kiss her was far greater. He leaned closer, but before their lips could meet, the sound of his smartphone broke the silence between them.

Checking the caller ID, he seemed to struggle with himself before answering the call. Terse, he gave only his surname, and as he did so, Pearl remembered that in spite of their close relationship, she still referred to him in just the same way – McGuire – which was how he was mostly known to his colleagues. He listened carefully to the voice at the end of the line, then gave a cursory nod and checked his watch before offering a brief reply. ‘Okay. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’ Ending the call, he paused for a moment as though finally aware that he was no longer in a fairy-tale city but back on police duty.

Pearl reached out to him and rested her hand on his strong forearm. Her look was questioning and McGuire seemed torn before responding. ‘Sorry, Pearl. I have to go.’

At this, she gave a resigned smile. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘It’s begun already.’ McGuire looked back at her and she offered a stark reply: ‘Work.’

‘Life,’ said McGuire.

Pearl knew that as far as McGuire was concerned, they were one and the same, but before she could voice this, her own phone sounded with an incoming text. Glancing quickly down at it, she saw that it was from her mother, Dolly.

Hope you had a nice time. You can tell me all about it at the restaurant. PS Charlie’s done quite a few shifts in your absence. He’s got a favour to ask. Bye. Mum x

Pearl continued to stare at the message as McGuire asked: ‘Everything all right?’

Pearl nodded and quickly pressed a napkin against her lips before checking the time on her own phone. ‘I’d better get ready for the restaurant. Call me when you get a chance?’

‘Of course, but …’ He hesitated for a moment as he got up from his chair. ‘How about I come back later – take you out for dinner?’

She looked up in surprise. ‘But it’s your first day back. You probably won’t get time.’

McGuire was snatching his jacket from the back of his chair. As he slipped into it, Pearl got up and eased the collar of his shirt over his jacket lapel, before gently raking her fingers through his blond hair. Caught suddenly in her gaze, he leaned in to her, kissing her hard before he reminded her: ‘We said we’d make time, remember?’

Pearl nodded. Returning his smile, she watched him head towards the front door, where he grabbed his suitcase from the small pile of luggage that had been dumped there the night before. He looked back at her, gave a wink and said: ‘Tonight.’

As the door closed after McGuire, Pearl’s tabby cats, Pilchard and Sprat, stared up at their owner, as if for an answer. Pearl had none. Instead, she turned back to the breakfast table and decided to clear away the plates, wondering what kind of favour Charlie needed to ask of her, and whether he might be in some kind of trouble – with his grandmother covering for him, as Dolly was apt to do. She looked again at her phone lying on the table, and was just considering calling her mother when a sound began echoing from the beach: a man’s strident voice distorted through a loudhailer.

Pearl was unable to make any sense of what was being said but after opening a window, she could see people hurrying along the promenade as though summoned by a clarion call. It was the kind of racket that was frequently heard by residents during the town’s annual oyster festival in July – advertising events on the beach like the epic tug-of-war that took place on the muddy flats of the shore or the blessing of the first catch of the new season’s oysters – but the festival wasn’t due to take place for another six weeks. Pearl’s curiosity was piqued. As the volume grew louder, she hurried to her kitchen ready to head out through her sea-facing garden to join the crowds on the beach … until she suddenly remembered she was wearing only her red silk dressing gown. Pulling it tightly around her slim waist, she rushed back inside to get dressed, keen to discover what all the commotion was about.

A short while later, Pearl closed the wooden gate behind her that led from the foot of her garden on to Whitstable’s promenade. To the west lay the Old Neptune – the white clapboard pub that stood on the beach itself, audaciously some would say, because several times throughout the centuries the right, or maybe wrong, conditions of wind and wave had created seas to threaten ‘the Neppy’s’ existence. Instead, Pearl headed east, following a warm sea breeze and the sound of the man’s voice that was still booming through a loudhailer. It wasn’t long before she caught sight of figures milling around a familiar landmark.

The Peace Bench, as it was known locally, had been placed on the beach in memory of Brian Haw, a campaigner who had spent some of his childhood in Whitstable before conducting a highly conspicuous protest against the Iraq War in a Peace Camp based in London’s Parliament Square. Made by a local craftsman, and carved with slogans, the bench was used as a location for various events, as well as serving as a structure on which children climbed or lovers sat staring out to sea, especially on a clear day like this.

But today was different because as Pearl approached, she saw that the bench was in fact surrounded by a great number of people. DFLs – the town’s acronym for Down From Londoners – were easily identifiable by the selfies they were taking, while the local people in the crowd were giving their full attention to the speaker, a slightly built middle-aged man who was standing on top of the bench itself, addressing them in a well-spoken voice through the loudhailer. Pearl inched her way forward, recognising some familiar faces: a few fishermen from the harbour and some shopkeepers from the nearby High Street, all listening carefully to what the man had to say.

‘We have never suggested that local people have opposed these plans just for the sake of it,’ the man said. ‘What we have always maintained is that this particular development deserves special attention. It must be better situated – and proportionate to the environment. As to the houses that are planned for this site, there needs to be adequate infrastructure and reasonable access to services – to nurseries, schools and GPs’ surgeries – or the whole development will be nothing more than a white elephant.’

Heads nodded and Pearl turned to the woman beside her, recognising her as the owner of a new pet store in the High Street. She leaned in to ask: ‘What’s going on, Gloria?’

Gloria Greenwood, an attractive woman in her early forties, tugged the dog’s lead in her hand to prevent her Jack Russell terrier from jumping up at Pearl, before tilting her head towards her as she explained. ‘Seems they’ve just lost their case – the campaign group fighting that new development near the downs?’ With this, she gave a disgruntled shake of her head and returned her gaze to the man on the bench who Pearl now recognised as Frederick Clark, chairman of an organisation called the Whitstable Preservation Society. He had just come to the end of his speech and was lending a hand to a woman who joined him up on the Peace Bench.

In contrast to Clark, she was dressed casually in a loose bright batik shirt over faded blue jeans and trainers, and appeared a striking figure, with a shock of thick, dark, shoulder-length hair streaked white at a deep widow’s peak. Lean and spry, the woman’s age had been disclosed in numerous local press stories as somewhere in her midfifties, but to Pearl she now seemed at least ten years younger. The loudhailer was passed to her but she refused it, clearing her throat before she continued without it – more than adequately, since her voice was as powerful as her tone was authoritative.

‘My name is Martha Laker,’ she announced. At this, a trickle of applause sounded, together with a few whistles of support. Martha put up her hand for silence before continuing. ‘I’d like to give thanks to Frederick here, and to everyone at the Whitstable Preservation Society, for their support in helping the Save Our Downs campaign with our legal challenge. As you know, the judgement has gone against us, but that doesn’t mean to say we are beaten.’ A murmur spread among the crowd. ‘Far from it,’ Martha went on. ‘We now believe we have even more reason to continue our fight.’ Vigorous nodding of heads expressed support for this. ‘The developer, Invicta Land, and our own local council will no doubt issue a statement that building work can now begin. But any such statement would be highly premature. Not a single brick has been laid since planning permission for this scheme was granted two years ago and the council has yet to issue the required formal approval notice.’

She paused as she noticed some were looking confused by the planning jargon she was using, so she took a deep breath, and some time to reorganise her thoughts, before continuing with a far simpler message. ‘We are not protestors but protectors,’ she said. ‘Protectors of clean air and green space for residents; protectors of our right to cross that land freely and to use it for traditional purposes and customs – as has been our right for centuries. We may well decide to take an appeal to the Supreme Court and we can also challenge the planning approval notice when it is released. We’ve campaigned, so far, and on your behalf with a fighting fund backed not only by you but by a legal team sympathetic to our cause. And with your help we have raised tens of thousands – while Invicta Land claims the delay has cost them millions.’

A cheer went up at this but Martha raised her hand for silence. ‘I don’t believe that’s true. It’s simply crying wolf on their part. What they’re referring to are the millions they stand to lose in profits – the money they will never receive unless the project goes ahead as planned. That is an entirely different matter. So we will continue to fight for all the reasons we’ve set out during our campaign. We’ll delay this development further and if the company does go out of business—’

‘Good riddance!’ yelled an old fisherman, his comment followed by a loud murmur of approval.

‘Yes!’ called out Gloria suddenly. ‘Let them go to the wall!’ Gloria’s Jack Russell terrier, Teddy, barked his own agreement.

But as the crowd began to applaud, another voice suddenly shouted: ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Heads turned as a man stepped forward. Casually dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, he wore a sun visor, which he tilted back off his forehead before raising his arm in the air. ‘And what about the people who work for that company?’ he asked. ‘Are you happy to see them all lose their jobs?’

Gloria Greenwood frowned. The crowd fell silent until the man went on: ‘We need homes to live in, don’t we? Houses that local people can afford to buy? That’s what this development is all about.’

He now looked directly at Martha Laker but before she could respond, another wo. . .