Wycliffe And The Redhead

by W.J. Burley

Genres: Mystery; Cozy Mystery; Hard-Boiled; Police Procedurals; Traditional Mysteries; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

The discovery of a body in a quarry creates a baffling case for Detective Superintendent Wycliffe Simon Meagor was a lonely middle-aged man. With a broken marriage behind him, his life was centred on his antiquarian bookshop. In his past was the memory of a murder trial where his evidence had resulted in the conviction of a man who had subsequently killed himself. Now, to his horror, the daughter of that man was applying for a job in his shop and, almost mesmerised by her, Simon found he was agreeing to her employment. Cleverly, over a period of time, Morwenna manipulated herself into his work, his life, and finally into his flat above the shop. And then she disappeared. When her body was discovered in a flooded quarry, at first suicide was considered. Morwenna was suffering from a fatal disease. But everything pointed to murder and, inevitably, suspicion fell on Simon Meagor. Wycliffe became increasingly disturbed by a case which grew more and more complicated as he explored many dark and murky secrets from the past. Why readers love W.J. Burley: 'First-class, old-time, hyper-ingenious whodunit.' Observer 'You can always count on Wycliffe ... he inevitably guarantees a good story, convincing characters and appealing landscape ' Financial Times 'Wycliffe teases out the truth with delicate skill that leaves the reader intrigued and convinced.' Mail on Sunday 'Gripping.' The Times Fans of Ruth Rendell, Val McDermid and Peter Robinson will love W.J. Burley: 1. Wycliffe and the Three-Toed Pussy 2. Wycliffe and How to Kill a Cat 3. Wycliffe and the Guilt Edged Alibi 4. Wycliffe and Death in a Salubrious Place 5. Wycliffe and Death in Stanley Street 6. Wycliffe and the Pea-Green Boat 7. Wycliffe and the School Bullies 8. Wycliffe and the Scapegoat 9. Wycliffe in Paul's Court 10. Wycliffe's Wild Goose Chase 11. Wycliffe and the Beales 12. Wycliffe and the Four Jacks 13. Wycliffe and the Quiet Virgin 14. Wycliffe and the Winsor Blue 15. Wycliffe and the Tangled Web 16. Wycliffe and the Cycle of Death 17. Wycliffe and the Dead Flautist 18. Wycliffe and the Last Rites 19. Wycliffe and the Dunes Mystery 20. Wycliffe and the House of Fear 21. Wycliffe and the Redhead 22. Wycliffe and the Guild of Nine * Each Inspector Wycliffe novel can be read as part of a series or as a standalone*

Release date: December 16, 2010

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 255

Sample

A winter’s morning. Simon opened his eyes and saw the dim outline of his dormer window against the dawn. He sat up in bed, pushed aside the grey blankets and put his feet over the side, feeling for his slippers.

A day like any other.

He slouched across to the window. His attic room was higher than the pub opposite and looking across a landscape of roofs he could glimpse in the far distance a ribbon of sea.

Half-past seven. A cold raw day and he was late.

The little attic was cheerless, the furniture eclectic and basic: a single iron bedstead, a chest, a table, a few rickety bookshelves, an armchair losing its stuffing and a gas fire fitted into a cast iron mantelpiece, painted brown.

Simon Meagor, antiquarian bookseller.

Simon, carrying his clothes, clopped down steep stairs to the floor below and into a different world. The corridor was carpeted; white-painted doors opened off on either side and each door had a little enamelled label with a flowery motif: Rebecca, Jonathan, Bathroom, Toilet, Mum and Dad, Living Room, Kitchen.

All this from the time when Judith believed that with enthusiasm, organization and an uncharacteristic touch of whimsy she could domesticate her husband and make the marriage work. It was now ten years since she left, taking the children with her, and only this material evidence remained as testimony to her efforts.

Simon went into the bathroom. He washed, shaved and brushed his teeth. His movements were heavy and slow; he was a big man, with bone, muscle and sinew to match.

With a slightly bemused expression he studied himself in the mirror. His features were large, his forehead broad, and his grey eyes were set wide apart. Yet there was a softness, a vagueness of expression, out of keeping with the rest. His thick, curly, greying hair fitted like a cap.

For as long as he could remember, mirrors had held for Simon a disturbing fascination. He distrusted that looking-glass world and he would sometimes ask himself, Is that man in the glass really Simon Meagor? Is that man who looks so solid and predictable, me?

For Simon’s life was slipping by, and he was drifting. He would continue in a state of mild anaesthesia for days at a time, and though his occasional encounters with reality were rarely pleasant, it troubled him.

In the little kitchen, where the gas cooker, in common with the rest, could have done with a good clean, he fed his cat, Lady Lu, and prepared his own breakfast. A boiled egg and two pieces of toast were followed by three cups of coffee. As he ate, he read from a volume of André Gide’s journal, but it could have been from almost any diary, journal or biography taken at random from the shelves downstairs.

Simon’s routine was fixed, and he found it hard to believe that he had once been a married man. Those years when he had shared the flat with a woman and their children were unreal; they had the quality of a dream. The children were grown-up: Rebecca was twenty-two, Jonathan, nineteen. They lived with their mother in the town, and from time to time one or other of them would drop in to see him; amiable, neutral.

At five minutes to nine, followed by Lady Lu, Simon went downstairs to his office, a small space at the back of the shop. It looked out on his yard and on the blank wall of the market house. He opened the door for Lady Lu to go out.

His shop was one of a pair in narrow, crooked Moor Street. Each had well-worn granite steps to its door and a bulging Dickensian window of small panes.

Simon’s neighbour dealt in old china and glass. Between the two shops an alley led to a covered market of fifty stalls, selling everything from vegetables to videos.

Simon switched on the lights, bringing to dusty life the rows of bookshelves which ran the length of the shop to the window on the street. Unhurried, he made his way along one of the aisles, pausing now and then to restore a stray book to its proper place or merely to touch, almost to caress, a particular favourite.

Simon sold second-hand books which, for the most part, were of the up-market kind, classed as antiquarian. But at heart he was a collector, and too often he was faced with the decision whether to sell or to keep.

He unlocked the shop door, changed the notice from ‘Closed’ to ‘Open’ and collected his mail from the wire basket. Outside it was drizzling rain and there was condensation inside the shop window.

On the other side of the market entrance Jeremy Scott of the china shop went through the same ritual. Jerry was short and stout with a high colour and a wispy moustache; a widower, looked after by his daughter. They exchanged greetings by gesture.

Because of the damaging effects of sunlight there were no books in Simon’s window, but there was a printed card which read: ‘Assistant wanted. Apply within.’

There had been no suitable applicants and the sign had been there for so long he had almost forgotten about it.

Simon set about sorting through a parcel of books, the result of his telephone bids at a recent auction. People wandered in and out of the shop and he made the occasional sale, but for the most part they were browsers. Some needed watching. Rarely, a book was stolen; the greater risk was defacement by the removal of an eye-catching print.

He regarded these auction parcels as lucky dips. He examined each book, assessing it for condition and quality, deciding on the appropriate mark-up, and came at the last to a mid-nineteenth-century travel book, part of a random lot. He turned the pages idly: several good maps, some passable illustrations; nothing to make a fuss about, but the book was saleable. The fly leaf had stuck lightly to the cover and it was only when he separated them that he found the inscription:To Dear Baby, Her Royal Highness Princess Beatrice, on her sixteenth birthday, from Mother. Osborne. April 16th 1873.

Somebody had slipped up, and he felt like a punter who has brought off a modest double.

At half-past ten he went to join a small group of familiars in the market café, but not until he had displayed the usual notice inside the glass of his shop door: ‘Back in fifteen minutes’.

The café tables were set out at the very hub of the market, under the glass roof, and people milled around, moving slowly along the aisles or lingering at the stalls.

Three regulars beside himself shared a table: Jeremy Scott from next door; little Colin Simms, bald-headed and monkey-faced, from costume jewellery and Korean watches; and Eddie Burrows from fruit and vegetables, making this routine escape from his wife.

Burrows was tall, cadaverous and rheumy-eyed, with a morose disposition. His sole pleasure in life seemed to lie in being first with bad news.

As soon as the fat woman had served Simon with his mug of coffee and chocolate biscuit, Burrows fixed him with a stare that was almost accusing. ‘I suppose you’ve heard that Nicky Barker’s back in town? … Saw him in the Queen’s last night. They say he’s shacked up with the Pardon boy and a girl, sharing a squat in Carver’s Ope.’

Jeremy Scott sipped his coffee, apparently unaware that it was dripping on to his woolly cardigan. He wiped his moustache and ruminated. ‘Nicky Barker. That sister of his must still be around somewhere – Morwenna, that’s what they called her. Funny sort of name, but she was a fine-looking young piece. I’ve always fancied redheads. Hard to believe she and Nicky were peas out of the same pod.’

Burrows, ever ready for contention, said, ‘They weren’t. You’ve got it wrong, Jerry. Morwenna was Nicky’s cousin. Her father took Nicky in when he was orphaned in that car crash, but the boy was a layabout and it didn’t last.’ He turned to Meagor. ‘Isn’t that right, Simon?’

Simon, looking down at his half-eaten biscuit, muttered inaudibly.

Burrows put on a show of puzzlement. ‘Why get so uptight, Simon, when anybody mentions the Barkers? I mean, everybody knows it was you who put their old man away, but you was only doing your duty. You just stood up in court and told ’em what you saw an’ what you heard. Isn’t that right?’

Simon said nothing. In his mind’s eye he was seeing a man, prone on a tiled floor, his head in a pool of blood.

Colin Simms, the little jeweller, changed the subject, but Simon’s day, which had started well, was already spoiled.

That night, in a students hostel on the outskirts of Camborne, Morwenna Barker was asleep and dreaming, a nightmare dream. She was lying on her back, unable to move, and a man was bending over her. She could just see him in the dim light. His face was very thin and white, and he was quite bald except for a white fringe above the ears. He reminded her of her neurologist, but there was a satanic twist to his features, and he spoke in a harsh whisper.

‘I think you know, Miss … ah … Barker, that the news is not good. You have multiple sclerosis – mul-ti-ple scler-os-is – and that means you are dying, dy-ing …’ His whispers seemed to echo through cavernous gloom. ‘You are slow-ly dy-ing.’

Morwenna woke, trembling, her heart pounding, unsure whether or not she had let out a cry.

The curtains were undrawn and the window framed a starlit sky. The pale light reflected dimly from the mirror over her dressing table. The luminous dial of her little clock showed a quarter-past two. Nothing had changed. The world was indifferent.

The pain was behind her right eye and there was a slight numbness in her right hand.

Morwenna twisted violently on to her side, taking the bedclothes with her, and muttered, ‘I’ll think about nothing. I’ll concentrate on a large empty space.’

But vivid little cameos presented themselves to her mind, like images flashed on a screen, then snatched away.

Her father, being cross-examined by counsel, bewildered, and allowing himself to be tied in knots.

Her father in prison, thinner, grey-faced, adrift, striving to summon up some semblance of warmth; trying to smile …

Her father, having joined them as a tolerated guest of her aunt, trying his best to appear relaxed and normal, but behaving like a man lost.

Her father, in the bath, fully clothed, blood everywhere.

Her mother …

And above all, Simon Meagor in the witness box – lying!

She slept at last, and woke in the first grey light of dawn. Half-past seven by her little clock. Drizzling rain blew fitfully against her window.

Brushing her hair, she too studied her reflection in the mirror. She saw red hair cascading to bare shoulders; a pale face, lightly freckled; and blue eyes that were brooding and intent.

It seems not so very long ago that I used to wonder what I would do with my life. I tried to imagine what it would be like to live with a man, to sleep with him on a regular basis, perhaps to have his child and be a mother. I also considered going to university and making a career. In fact, there seemed no reason why I shouldn’t do both.

But that was when I had a future. Or thought I had.

Now in my mirror I see grubby sheets on a tumbled bed, yellowing wallpaper that has lost its pattern, a framed print of some anonymous beach and a few books on an improvised shelf.

That is my room in this place. But do I want to put myself to the trouble of changing it – or anything?

A rat-tat on her door. ‘It’s half-eight, Wenna, love! … Bathroom’s free, if you’re quick.’ Debbie, her landlady.

Morwenna lodged in a hostel with students from the college where she worked as a librarian. Downstairs a dozen girls, all several years younger than she, chattered over their coffee, cornflakes and toast.

A few years earlier she could have been one of them.

She drank a cup of coffee and hurried out of the house, to drive off in her little buttercup-yellow Mini to the college library.

Debbie, motherly, saw her off. ‘You’re heading for trouble if you go on like this, love.’

Morwenna murmured, ‘I don’t have to head for it; I’m in it.’

As she drove she thought, Friday. Saturday tomorrow. The interminable weekend. I shall read and brood in my room. I shall go for walks to kill time. I shall go to bed early, and not sleep. I shall lie awake wondering if the numbness is coming back, whether there is really a pain behind my eye or if it’s only my imagination. At worst, Matthew will come and it will start all over again.

She arrived at the college and parked between the white lines in a section reserved for the staff.

Saturday. A morning of leaden skies and unremitting rain, but business was brisk in the bookshop. Simon had a reputation among specialists and on Saturday mornings a sprinkling of bibliophiles browsed in the aisles between the rows of shelves. Simon circulated discreetly. He knew most of them; a word of greeting here, a suggestion there, a question answered.

It was in one of the aisles that he came across Nicky Barker standing, hands in pockets, looking like a predatory, cat amongst unwary pigeons.

An exaggerated stage whisper: ‘Hi, Simon! Long time no see. Business pretty good, eh?’

‘You want to talk to me?’

‘That was the idea.’

Simon led the way down the shop to his office.

Barker sat down without being invited. ‘Things are a bit tight with me at the moment, Simon; so I thought it was time to get back home, like. Renew old acquaintances.’

Barker had changed, though not beyond recognition. His straight black hair, hanging limply to his shoulders, accentuated his long, thin, pale face. He was dressed wholly in black, with a frilly shirt and skin-tight jeans. He looked like the villainous doctor from some sci-fi epic.

Simon was nervous and showed it. ‘What do you want?’

Barker’s manner was relaxed, conversational, ‘Well, first, I wondered if you’d seen anything of Morwenna. I’d like to make contact. After all, she’s my cousin and blood’s thicker than water. That’s what they say, anyway.’

‘No, I haven’t seen Morwenna and I have no idea where she is.’

‘Pity! Well, there was another thing. Seeing what happened to Uncle and all that, I thought a few quid now and then could be reasonable. Until I get on my feet.’

‘As far as your uncle is concerned, I did only what I believed to be right at the time. I owe you nothing.’

‘Who said anything about owing? The old man and I didn’t get on but he was the nearest thing I had to a father and he would have helped me out of a hole when I needed it. Thanks to you, he’s no longer with us, so I thought you might act in loco parentis so to speak.’ A broad grin.

‘You’ll get nothing out of me.’

Barker looked hurt. ‘That’s a pity!’ He moved his hand across the desk, sweeping three or four books to the floor. ‘Sorry! I’ll pick ’em up. I’m real sorry about that, but I get clumsy when I’m upset. And it’s funny, but I’ve got friends who are just like me.’

Barker got up to go. Simon, trembling with anger, but scared, followed him, and saw him off at the shop door. A few yards down the street Barker turned to say, ‘See you around, Simon!’

On that same Saturday morning, shortly after returning to her room from breakfast, Morwenna heard a tap on her door. ‘Who is it?’

‘Me.’ The door opened and a young man came in; late teens, early twenties.

‘Matthew!’

‘I knew you wouldn’t have gone out in this weather, so I came here. I thought we could talk.’

Matthew was tall and thin; blond with blue eyes, and an air of troubled innocence.

Morwenna was irritated, as much by his meekness as anything else. ‘I told you I didn’t want to see you any more. I meant it, Matthew. I don’t want to talk to you here or anywhere. Do you understand?’

‘You wanted me before you were ill, Wenna, and I wanted you. As far as I’m concerned nothing has changed.’

‘No? I’m glad!’ Morwenna was acid. ‘Well, let me tell you, things have changed a hell of a lot for me.’

The boy flushed. ‘I didn’t mean that, Wenna. It was a stupid thing to say. What I meant was that we can face things together. I want to, and we must. After all, there’s our baby—’

‘What baby?’

‘You told me—’

Morwenna snapped. ‘That’s all over. Did you think that with what I’ve got in front of me I was going to saddle myself with a kid? I’ve had an abortion, a termination. Our baby, as you call it, has gone down the pan.’

She had chosen her words with the deliberate intention of shocking, more accurately perhaps, of alienating him.

Matthew sat on the bed, his lips trembling, close to tears. For a moment he could not speak, then in a low pleading voice he said, ‘Don’t talk like that, Wenna! … don’t, please!’

She realized that she had gone further than she had meant to do. She allowed the silence to build; then in her more normal voice, her manner apparently relaxed, she asked, ‘How are they?’

Matthew gathered his wits. ‘Much the same. They’re both worried about you—’

‘You haven’t told them that I’ve got MS?’

‘No, but I think you should. Mother would come and see you but she can’t leave your aunt for long. They want you to come home, Wenna.’

‘Yes, well, they don’t know what they would be letting themselves in for, and neither do you.’

He went at last. She allowed him a peck on her cheek and he stood in the doorway looking back, doe-eyed, before closing the door.

She heard him going down the stairs and she heard Debbie quizzing him in the hall, then the front door slammed.

She threw herself on the bed and wept.

But on Sunday morning the sun was shining and there was a promise of spring. At rare intervals during the past six years Morwenna had sought to recover something of her childhood by revisiting the places she had known, and the house where she was born and broug. . .