The Temptation

Book 2: The Anglian Detective Agency Series

by Vera Morris

Genres: Traditional Mysteries; Female Sleuths; Thrillers

Synopsis

Someone knows what happened . . . Vera Morris brings us the second thrilling instalment in her much-loved Anglian Detective Agency Series.

Someone knows what happened . . .

1971. David was thirteen when he went missing two years ago. It's now up to Laurel Bowman and Frank Diamond, partners in the newly formed Anglian Detective Agency, to find him.

But how do you solve a cold case with no leads? Could it have anything to do with the brutal deaths of three local residents?

As their first big case unravels, they uncover a circle of temptations, destruction and deceit. But the closer they get to solving the case, the more exposed they are to danger. And now both Laurel and Frank's lives are at risk . . .

Readers LOVE Vera Morris's Anglian Detective Agency series:

'I sat up to past midnight reading this book' *****

'Full of twists and turns' *****

'A book you just know you are going to like from the 1st page' *****

'A perfect detective novel' *****

'I started it early one morning and had finished it by bed-time that same day!' *****

'A super read' *****

'This book stands head and shoulders above the rest in this overcrowded genre' *****

'Absolute must read' *****

(P)2022 Headline Publishing Group Limited

Release date: May 17, 2018

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 384

Sample

Chapter 1

Monday, March 8, 1971

Frank Diamond stopped the Avenger GT at the entrance to the Pemberton’s house. He shouldn’t consider taking this case on. Were they ready for this? Laurel hadn’t said no, but anything to do with children, well, it was too soon after the terrible revelations at Blackfriars School.

He looked round; it seemed a prosperous area of Aldeburgh, as he’d been expecting; a quiet road above the High Street; houses set back from the road with tall hedges giving privacy, pavements clean of debris and the only person he could see, a woman pushing a well-sprung pram.

He drove onto a gravelled drive which curved towards a three-storied, brick house, built in the 1900s, he guessed, definitely pre-First World War. Several twisted mock-Tudor chimneys pointed to the cloudy sky like the arthritic fingers of a doom-laden prophet. It was strange, sometimes when you first saw a house you sensed the house was saying something to you. His first glimpse of his cottage, a few miles from Dunwich, braving the North Sea on top of Minsmere cliffs, said welcome. The Pemberton’s house presented a cold unfriendly face; it said go away.

He slid out of the car, picked up his briefcase, and locked the door. He glanced at the Avenger and sighed, as an ex-lover might sigh when he looked at his present girlfriend and thought of the one who’d gone before. He’d sacrificed the blue Mustang: it was too conspicuous for a private detective.

The oak front door was opened almost as soon as he’d released the bell-pull.

‘Mr Diamond?’ asked a woman, neatly dressed in a white blouse and navy skirt. She was tall, about five feet seven, with dark, permed hair and thick brows.

‘I am. Mrs Pemberton?’ Frank asked.

The woman smiled and shook her head. ‘No. I’m Ann Fenner, Miss Ann Fenner, housekeeper.’

This huge pile and servants as well? He didn’t know solicitors earned that kind of money. No need to worry about non-payment of fees.

Miss Fenner led him into a spacious hall; there was a wide staircase leading to a double minstrels’ gallery. ‘Please take a seat, Mr Diamond. I’ll let Mr and Mrs Pemberton know you’re here.’ She seemed very composed and efficient.

The upright hall chair was uncomfortable. He sighed, not looking forward to this interview. The case was nearly two years’ old, two years’ cold. Was there anything more he, Laurel and Stuart could do? Go through the motions, take the money – a very generous sum – and then, after a suitable period, give their sincere regrets they’d made no headway? He didn’t want to do that. He should have refused the case after he’d looked into the background, but the mother’s tearful pleading over the phone made refusal impossible

Miss Fenner reappeared. ‘Mr and Mrs Pemberton are in the library. Can I take your, er … coat?’ she asked, eyeing his leather jacket.

He wondered if Stuart was right, perhaps he should buy some clothes more suitable for meeting clients. If he did, he’d have to get a short back and sides as well, and he wasn’t having that.

‘No, thank you.’

Miss Fenner, showing the first signs of any emotion, looked relieved. She opened a door on the left of the hall. ‘Mr Diamond,’ she announced, remaining in the room.

A tall, lean, moustachioed man rose from a leather chair and offered his hand. ‘Thank you for coming, Mr Diamond. I’m Adam Pemberton.’ He was dressed in a well-cut tweed suit, with a green tie that looked like a badly knitted piece of string.

He led him towards a woman who’d remained seated. ‘Carol, this is Mr Diamond.’

He judged Carol Pemberton to be in her early or mid-thirties, at least ten years younger than her husband. She was one of the most beautiful women he’d met. Like a refined Elizabeth Taylor. She was tall, not as tall as Laurel, and certainly not Laurel’s build, she was as slender as a poplar tree. Her oval face, with perfectly symmetrical features and deep blue eyes, was framed by black hair swept back in a chignon. He knew he was staring. ‘Mrs Pemberton.’ As he shook hands he tried not to look at her too intently.

Her husband sighed. Probably fed up with the effect his wife had on men. ‘Can I offer you some coffee?’ he asked.

He nodded. ‘Thank you. Coffee’s always welcome.’

Adam Pemberton turned to Miss Fenner. ‘Ann, please see to that.’

‘Thank you for agreeing to look for David. I’m sorry if I over-reacted on the phone. I’ll never give up hope he’ll be found. We’ve heard such good things about you. I just know you’ll succeed,’ Mrs Pemberton said.

Her voice was soft and low, but now he was closer he saw lines were etched at the corners of her eyes.

‘You don’t look like a detective,’ she said, smiling as though she didn’t mind his long hair and leather jacket.

‘Forgive my wife,’ Adam said. ‘She always speaks her mind.’ He indicated a seat.

‘Sometimes it’s useful not to look like a detective.’

Carol nodded, smoothing down the black skirt over her thighs.

Miss Fenner returned with a tray of cups, saucers, coffee, milk and sugar. Mrs Pemberton poured and Frank drank his quickly. He wasn’t in the mood for small talk. Adam Pemberton certainly wasn’t, he was fidgety and impatient. Frank opened his briefcase. ‘I’ve studied the police case notes of your son’s disappearance and also those of the detective agency you employed. As you know I was unwilling to take on the case: they both did a thorough job. If my partners agree we take the case, I must have your agreement that if, after a suitable period of time, say a month, no progress has been made, we’ll unfortunately be unable to continue. However, I want to assure you I’ll do everything I can to open up new lines of enquiry, and even if a lead is slight, I’ll follow it up.’

Carol placed her cup on a table and leant forward, eyes shining, clutching her hands together. ‘I do hope they’ll agree. I know you’ll find him; I’m sure if it.’

Adam frowned. ‘Carol, my dear, you mustn’t place such a burden on Mr Diamond.’ His lugubrious face, mouth turned down at the corners, didn’t reflect his wife’s certainty. ‘I must tell you, Mr Diamond, I have given up hope of seeing David alive. I just want to know what happened to him, to find him, and to bury him, so he lies at peace.’

Why is he so sure David’s dead? Most parents never give up hope until they see the lifeless body of their child.

Carol put her hands over ears, closed her eyes and shook her head repeatedly. ‘No, Adam, you mustn’t say that. It’s too cruel.’

Adam shrugged.

Frank waited until she’d regained her composure, then took a notebook and Biro from his briefcase. ‘I know you’ve been asked the same questions many times, but I do need to know about David. I’d like to find out what kind of child he is, and I’d like to see his room and spend some time in it alone. Is that agreeable?’ He looked at them.

Carol nodded her head vigorously, but Adam pulled down the corners of his mouth. He stood up. ‘I haven’t got anything new to say. We’ve been over this so many times, all my answers and thoughts are in the case notes. You say you’ve seen those? I’m sure Carol can answer your questions. I must do some paperwork, I’ve a client to see this afternoon.’

Didn’t he want to find his son? Frank decided it would be more productive to talk to Carol alone; Adam’s taciturn mood might inhibit her words and thoughts. The fact she was extremely attractive had nothing to do with his decision. Who was he kidding?

‘If that’s what you prefer, Mr Pemberton, and Mrs Pemberton is agreeable …?’ He raised an eyebrow.

She nodded eagerly. ‘Shall we go to David’s room? We can talk there.’

‘No. As I said, I’d prefer to spend some time alone in David’s room.’

She looked puzzled, hurt. ‘Very well. We’ll go to the sitting room.’ She looked at Adam, who nodded and she kissed him on the cheek. ‘I’ll see you at lunch, dear. Will you stay for lunch, Mr Diamond?’

‘Thanks, very kind of you, but I need to get back to the office. If we take the case. I’ll make arrangements to come back and talk to you, Mr Pemberton, at a later date.’ Not a likeable man. Why had a beautiful, kind woman married such a grump? Money? Some hidden attraction?

Adam nodded and turned towards a large desk under a window.

Carol led him to an over-furnished room; there were several settees, many small tables and Turkish rugs scattered over the polished wooden floor. She pointed to a Knole settee upholstered in green satin.

He balanced on the edge and hoped he didn’t humiliate himself by sliding to the floor.

Carol sat on an armchair opposite to him. She looked beautiful and eager to please. ‘What can I tell you?’

He wasn’t sure how to approach the subject, it could be tricky and he didn’t want to upset her. ‘I need to know everything about David. I’m sure the answer to his disappearance will lie in his own personality. I noticed in the police case notes he has difficulties with reading and writing. Could you tell me more about that?’

She frowned. ‘Why is that important? It can’t have any bearing on why he disappeared. Yes, he isn’t very good with his words, and he’s a great disappointment to Adam, but he’s a very special boy.’

He nodded sympathetically. ‘He looks like you. A beautiful child.’ She blushed, looking downwards. The photographs in the files showed a tall, slender boy with his mother’s colouring, oval–shaped face and dark blue eyes. But the face, although worthy of a portrait by Caravaggio, was not feminine: the chin was strong and the mouth determined. ‘I know this is difficult but I need to build a picture of David. I need to understand him. Tell me about him. When did you discover he had problems?’

She sighed and rubbed her hands over the pencil skirt. ‘He was a beautiful baby, as you can imagine. Adam was so proud. A son and so handsome. He was a quiet baby, everyone said I was lucky; he hardly cried and seemed to sleep most of the time. But as he grew I noticed he didn’t seem to see me, when I smiled at him and made those stupid noises mother’s make, he didn’t react. It was as though he lived in his own world and wouldn’t come out.’ Her fingers were scrunching the fabric of her skirt. ‘We thought he might be deaf, but tests showed his hearing was normal.’

‘When did he start talking?

‘He was almost three before he said his first word. He doesn’t talk very much now. He doesn’t like talking; but when he does talk he makes sense.’ She leant towards him. ‘But he has another way of communicating. David makes up for all his faults by his special gift. He draws and paints. The art teacher at his new school says he’s never seen such a gifted child. I think he’s a genius.’ Her eyes were shining. ‘Look, I had one of his drawings framed for this room.’ She pointed to the wall to his right.

He rose and walked towards it. She followed. It was a pencil drawing of a stone bridge. The execution was excellent, the proportions, the shading, the light glinting off the river flowing between shrubbed banks, spoke of maturity and expertise. ‘David did this?’

Her face glowed at his obvious disbelief. ‘He did. I took him for a drive one day, then we walked along a river bank. We stopped to look at the bridge, but only for a few minutes; when we came home he went straight to his room. When I came up with milk and biscuits he was doing this drawing. He didn’t stop until it was finished. As you see it now.’

‘From memory?

‘Entirely.’

This gift was not mentioned in any case notes. Could it be important? ‘Have you any more of his drawings?’

‘Hundreds. I’ll show you. Most are in his room.’

‘This drawing is architectural. Did he always draw buildings?’

She frowned. ‘Usually, but sometimes he’d sketch people.’ The corners of her mouth turned down, as though she’d a bad taste in her mouth.

He wanted to ask her why she didn’t like these drawings, then decided to see for himself. ‘What about schooling? It must have been difficult to find a suitable school for David.’

She leant back, her shoulders slumped, her eyes briefly closed, as though reliving past difficulties. ‘We couldn’t send him to school at five. Later, Adam wanted him to go to his old boarding school. He has contacts there, he said he’d talked to the headmaster and he thought with one-to-one tuition they’d be able to help him, but …’ She opened her hands, palms upwards, shrugging her shoulders.

‘You didn’t want him to go?’

‘Adam has very strong views. Usually that’s a comfort and a help as I’m afraid I sometimes find it difficult to reach a decision. This situation caused a major rift between us. I knew going to a school at that age, he was only eleven, wasn’t right for him. I don’t completely understand my son, but I love him. I believe he’s a very special boy, with a special gift. In the end, Adam agreed David would be taught at home by tutors who understood his difficulties and his special talent. In return I agreed when he was thirteen David would go to a boarding school, but only if we could find one which suited his special requirements.’

‘And you did?’

‘Yes, we were lucky, there’s a school about twenty miles from here: Chillingworth. It specialises in taking boys from eleven to eighteen who have difficulty in fitting into the normal educational system.’ Frown lines appeared between her eyebrows.

‘You were happy for David to go there?’

Her mouth twisted. ‘I would have kept him at home, but I could see Adam’s reasoning: David had to learn to mix with boys of his own age. I must admit I fretted after he’d gone. At first it seemed to be working. I wouldn’t say he was happy at the school, but he didn’t complain, and he loved the art lessons; the teacher praised his work and we’d arranged for him to have extra tuition. He uses mostly pen and pencil, and he does like water colours, but he’s not keen on oils. He started pottery and the teacher said he could try sculpture the next year.’

‘He started in the September?’

‘Yes. The first term seemed to go well and he made a few friends. One boy he was especially fond of was Peter.’ She shook her head and frowned, as though she couldn’t understand the friendship.

‘And the next term?’

‘He went back after Christmas without any fuss. But at half-term when he came back something had changed. He clung to me like a limpet and wouldn’t let me out of his sight. Adam was angry at his behaviour.’ She bit her lip and her cheeks flushed. ‘He even wet his bed a few times, which he hadn’t done since he was nine.’

Poor little bugger, he thought. Both the police and the detective agency had made enquiries at the school, but it hadn’t led anywhere. ‘But he went back?’

‘Yes. But when he came home for the Easter holidays he said he was never going back there. There were terrible scenes. When I tried to find out why he didn’t want to go back he would run to his room and wouldn’t speak to me. The day before he was due to go back to school he ran away.’

As she talked a tear slid from each eye. Liquid pearls over alabaster cheeks. She was getting under his skin.

‘Did he take anything with him?’

‘He has a knapsack, he took that, art paper, pencils, some money, a pullover, spare socks, food he’d taken from the kitchen, and a pocket knife that belonged to Adam. Quiet a fierce thing. He was wearing his favourite jacket, a cagoule I bought him for a Christmas. Adam didn’t like it as it had a hood.’

This kid was no fool. ‘That’s a list of a boy who knows what he’s doing.’

She unselfconsciously wiped away her tears with a handkerchief. ‘I though it showed he’d carefully planned his escape; it showed maturity.’

‘There was no thought he’d been abducted?’

‘No, certainly not. The police were sure he’d come home when his food and money ran out and he was cold and hungry. They only began to take his disappearance seriously when this didn’t happen and there were no sightings of him.’

Anything could have happened to him: taken by a complete stranger; he was a beautiful lad and there were more than enough perverts who, if they saw him looking lonely or lost, wouldn’t turn up the chance to abuse him. And afterwards? Bodies lie undiscovered for years and sometimes are never found. Could he have made his way to Ipswich and then to London? Twenty odd miles from Aldeburgh to Ipswich and then another seventy-five to London. He wouldn’t be able to walk that far. Could he have hitched a lift? Made a life for himself on the streets of London and still be alive? Frank didn’t think this was likely. Or could he have become despondent, felt life was too difficult, and taken his own life? Then his body would have been discovered, unless he’d jumped into a deep river or lake, somehow weighing his body with stones. Two years. Something should have turned up by now. Could he have been abducted and then sold on? Possibly abroad?

He turned to Carol. ‘Would you show me David’s room? I’d like some time alone, if you don’t mind.’

She stared at him, frowning, then nodded.

He followed her up the wide staircase to the minstrels’ gallery. Her legs were slim, the high heels emphasising her slender ankles. There was more than one reason he shouldn’t take the case.

Chapter 2

Laurel ran down the staircase of Dorothy’s house, now her home; the smell of coffee met her. Time for a break, thank goodness. Something to distract her from depressing thoughts. She hoped they wouldn’t agree to taking on the case of the missing boy. Why hadn’t she spoken out? Why hadn’t she expressed her fears? Was she afraid of looking weak? After the discovery of the murders of young girls by Philip Nicholson at Blackfriars School last September, she didn’t want the agony of finding another dead child. On the other hand, if they found him alive, and returned him to his parents, that would be wonderful. She squared her shoulders. Get real, theirs was a new business, they couldn’t afford to be picky.

She pushed open the kitchen door. Dorothy, frowning, was plonking cups and saucers on the table. She wasn’t the only one in a bad mood.

‘Smells good.’

Dorothy snorted, took a percolator from the stove and poured coffee, some into cups and some on the pine table. ‘Bloody hell.’

‘Something wrong, Dorothy?’

Dorothy sat down on a chair, her back ram-rod straight. She pushed back her grey hair from her forehead ‘Sorry, Laurel, this postal strike has driven me mad.’

‘It’s over now. You won’t need to drive to Ipswich with the post.’

‘What we’d have done without the private mail service I don’t know. Well! Seven weeks, and still they’ll only take first-class mail – I’d shoot the lot of them.’

Laurel sipped her coffee. ‘Then we’d never get our postal service back.’

Dorothy’s shoulders slumped. ‘I’ve been a grump, sorry. It was the last thing we needed just as we were starting up the agency.’

‘Despite the strike, we’ve done well. We’re breaking even.’

Dorothy smiled. ‘I’ve enjoyed working with everyone, being part of the team and listening to you, Frank and Stuart talk about the cases we’ve had. Much more exciting than being a school secretary. I know Frank is satisfied, but are you? You’ve seemed a bit down lately. Is it the missing boy case?’

‘It is, but I’ve given myself a stiff talking to. Just a bit close to everything that happened at Blackfriars School.’

Dorothy stood up and smoothed her blue jumper down over a navy tweed skirt. ‘I thought as much. It’s still raw, but we can’t afford to give in to morbid thoughts, although every time I go to Emily’s grave I shed tears. Philip Nicholson got what he deserved. Thank goodness he went to trial; I couldn’t have stomached it if he’d had a cushy time in some mental hospital.’

Dorothy’s twin sister, Emily, had been strangled by Nicholson, one in a series of horrific murders by the former headmaster of Blackfriars School.

‘Laurel, I’m going to ask you a favour.’

‘Go ahead; I’ll help if I can.’

Dorothy leant across the table. ‘Do you know Nancy Wintle? She lives in Aldeburgh, lived there all her life.’

‘No, I don’t think so, but I’ve heard you mention her. She’s a widow, isn’t she?’

‘She is; married James Wintle, nice man and a good doctor. I’m very fond of Nancy, she’s older than me, must be seventy, but there’s no side to her, not like some of the Aldeburgh folk.’

‘What’s the problem? Can’t you help her? Hasn’t she any children?’

‘Yes, a son, he’s a doctor in Carlisle; she doesn’t see him very often. She’s confided in me to some extent, but she wants to talk to you or Frank. She didn’t want Stuart, being as he’s local. She’d prefer a woman.’

‘And I’m the nearest thing.’

Dorothy laughed, her usual good humour restored. ‘You may be built like a blonde Amazon, but there’s no doubt you’re a woman.’

‘What did she tell you?’

‘Not very much. It’s to do with her brother, she’s worried about him.’

She frowned. ‘This doesn’t sound our kind of case; we can’t interfere in family relationships.’

Dorothy sighed. ‘I know, but Nancy seems … it’s out of character … she’s frightened. I’m not sure what she’s frightened of, but it’s not like her. I’d take it as a special favour to me if you’d talk to her.’

Laurel reached across the table and took Dorothy’s hand. ‘Of course I will. I could see her this afternoon, I’ve nothing on.’

‘Thank you, Laurel. I’ll phone her now.’ She bustled out of the room.

It’s better to have something to do and it was a sunny day. She could do some shopping in Aldeburgh; perhaps the fisherman might have an early lobster.

‘That’s fine, she’ll expect you at two-thirty.’

‘What can you tell me about her brother? Is he younger or older than Nancy? Hold on, I’ll get a notebook.’ This could be a waste of time professionally, but every new case must be taken seriously, and she’d do anything for Dorothy.

She settled at the kitchen table, biro poised as Dorothy lit a cigarette and took a deep breath of Players Navy Cut.

‘He’s her younger brother, by about four or five years; Samuel Harrop, a retired Harley Street surgeon. He left Aldeburgh when he went to university in London and never returned, except to visit Nancy and her husband; they all got on well together. When he retired he and his wife, Clara, came back to Aldeburgh to live. As well as being close to Nancy, it was the music which attracted him: Sam loves classical music and he’s especially fond of Benjamin Britten; can’t stand his music myself, not a bit tuneful. Nancy was overjoyed, she’s always been so proud of Sam, and being an older sister she’s always treated him like a little boy, much to his wife’s displeasure. Can’t say I care for Clara. She’s made quite a name for herself since they moved here. Big noise in the church, the WI, and any other society she thinks is good enough for her.’

Laurel looked up from her notebook and stared at Dorothy. ‘Dorothy Piff, you aren’t normally bitchy.’

Dorothy sniggered and took another puff of her cigarette. ‘Don’t care. I’ve seen the way she treats Nancy.’

‘I won’t be going into this case with an unbiased mind if you keep on like this.’

Dorothy shrugged. ‘Don’t you trust my judgement?’

‘More than mine. Although both of us were fooled by Nicholson.’

‘As was everyone else, apart from Frank.’

‘Don’t keep reminding him.’

She put her coffee cup on the draining board. ‘Do you want anything from Aldeburgh?’

Dorothy raised the forefinger of her right hand. ‘Could you take the post in? Would you believe it? The post office will be closed for several days for decimalisation training! Good Lord, it’s been nearly a month since the changeover – they should have grasped it by now. I need to do two more invoices, won’t take me long.’ She retreated to the dining room which served as a communal office and boardroom.

Laurel looked out of the kitchen window. Two blue tits were examining a nest box, some dwarf daffodils, heads folded, were showing streaks of yellow, and scudding clouds cast racing shadows over the lawn. A good day for a little light detective work.

Laurel parked near Aldeburgh’s Moot Hall, opposite the fishermen’s huts. She was glad she’d put on a warm coat, it was dry and sunny, but there was a nippy breeze. High waves were rushing in, falling on the beach, sending pebbles dancing, and seagulls, either perched on the nearest hut, or wheeling overhead, were raucously crying for food. She looked at her watch: just gone two, plenty of time to check on the day’s catch, though by this time most of the good stuff would have been sold.

She climbed the concrete steps to the wooden hut; the display on trays outside looked meagre: two rockfish, some undersized Dover Soles and a few mackerel. The gelatinous smell of dead fish was stronger inside. ‘Afternoon, Mr Fryer. Is that all you’ve got?’

‘What had you in mind?’ Mr Fryer was a lean, middle-aged man, skipper of his own boat and the first choice for fish by the residents of Aldeburgh.

‘What have you got hidden in your fridge?’

He grinned. ‘Can’t fool a detective, can I?’

After some friendly banter, she bought several medium-sized Dover soles,

He handed her the change. ‘Better check it, Miss Bowman. I’m still struggling with them 5ps and 10ps. Give me the old sixpences and shillings any day.’

Laurel asked him about Nancy.

‘Nancy’s all right, despite her funny hair-do. Well liked is Nancy.’

‘What about her brother, Sam Harrop and his wife. Do they ever come in here?’

Mr Fryer nodded as he ripped off the skin from a Dover sole and stepped outside to chuck it to the screeching seagulls. ‘He’s a quiet chap, doesn’t say much when they come to buy fish, but she’s a snob, treats me like dirt, and barters over lobsters as though she’s dealing with a bloody Egyptian carpet seller. Acts as though she’s doing me a favour buying the bloody lobsters, she pokes at ’em and says they don’t look fresh to her.’

She put the fish in the boot of her car. So Dorothy wasn’t the only one who didn’t like Clara Harrop. As she walked past The Jubilee Hall the music of a string quartet poured into the street. Soon be time for the music festival, then the town would be throbbing.

Nancy’s cottage was one of the terraced houses on the right side of the High Street as you went towards the main car park. It was part of a group of five houses placed between a restaurant and a greengrocer’s shop. All the cottages doors were brightly painted, pots of bulbs and herbs on the pavement, and window boxes contai. . .