Forgotten Voices

by Jane A. Adams

Overview

Retired actress Rina Martin gets tangled up in the brutal murder of a seemingly innocent widow

Who would want to kill widowed mother of two Ellen Tailor, a seemingly innocent, inoffensive woman, and leave her body for her children to find? Rina Martin’s policeman friend Mac can’t find anything that looks like a motive and not much more in terms of suspects. While it is true Ellen didn’t get on with her mother in law, it seems hard to believe their arguments escalated into a brutal killing. A former abusive partner seems a more likely suspect, but unfortunately for Mac he seems to have a watertight alibi.

But just as the case goes cold, there is a second killing. Are the two linked? Rina thinks so – and Mac has long since learnt that, unfortunately, Rina is often right . . .

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781847516190
Publisher:	Severn House
Publication date:	06/01/2016
Series:	Rina Martin Series , #7
Edition description:	Reprint
Pages:	224
Product dimensions:	5.40(w) x 8.40(h) x 0.70(d)

About the Author

Jane Adams was born in Leicestershire, where she still lives. She has a degree in Sociology, and has held a variety of jobs including lead vocalist in a folk rock band. She enjoys pen and ink drawing, martial arts and her ambition is to travel the length of the Silk Road by motorbike. She is married with two children. Her first book, The Greenway, was shortlisted for the CWA John Creasey Award in 1995 and for the Author's Club Best First Novel Award.

Read an Excerpt

Forgotten Voices

A Rina Martin Novel

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By Jane A. Adams

Severn House Publishers Limited

Copyright © 2015 Jane A. Adams
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-84751-619-0

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CHAPTER 1

September

He could not have said how many times he had sat on the ridge and looked down on the farm. It was a view he had known all his life and a house he had been into many times. From where he sat he could see a little of the track and the corner of the fence that he knew defined the vegetable garden and the orchard. Beyond that a mix of arable and rare breed stock filled the forty or so acres that remained of what had once been a considerable holding.

Manageable, she had told him. It was manageable now and he'd been forced to agree that selling off the remainder had been a sensible option.

He could see directly into the farmhouse from his vantage point. Not deeply, but a bit of the kitchen through the big window, a little of the range and the corner of the table. She had stood at the sink for a while now, her gaze mostly down and he guessed she was washing pots or perhaps peeling vegetables. Her blonde hair was tied back. He was too far away to see the grey strands that he knew were annoying her so much. She kept threatening to dye it and he had always told her that he liked it. And asking why she thought it mattered.

'Oh, there's a man speaking,' she would say, as she shook her head fondly.

From time to time she glanced up from her task, looking out of the window at the sunlight and flowers in the yard. She'd have the radio on; she usually did when working in the kitchen, especially when the house was empty. She liked the sense of being in company and she loved her music.

Occasionally when she glanced up he got the feeling that she was staring straight out at him, but he knew that she wasn't. Not really. That she was unlikely to have seen him. The grass was long and the leaves of the beech tree against which he sat swept down, obscuring him from view.

He loved this spot. He loved the woman he watched now.

But that was hardly the point, was it. That was not important now.

As the afternoon crept on he knew that she'd be finished with her tasks soon, would move away from the window, would get ready for the children coming home from school. He wondered if he should meet them off the bus, so that they didn't go up to the house alone.

Perhaps he would.

But he could delay things no longer. He left the ridge and followed the winding rabbit path down, climbed the low fence that separated the yard from the field and crossed towards the house.

Looking up, she saw him then. She smiled, her eyes lighting with genuine pleasure and welcome, filling him with so much happiness that he could hardly bear it.

Then, slowly, reluctantly, he raised the shotgun. He could see her clearly, even glimpse the strands of grey in her soft blonde hair.

He fired both barrels.

Glass shattered. The woman fell.

CHAPTER 2

It was, Mac thought, always slightly odd to see Sergeant Baker out in the field, as it were. His usual habitat was the front office, dealing with the locals of Frantham and fielding queries and problems from the tourists that still flocked to the little seaside town at this time of the year. Sergeant Baker, exuding a teddy bear quality of comfort and care topped off with a good dollop of common sense was ideally suited to the task. He epitomized the notion of 'community policeman', being hardly able to get from one end of the promenade to the other in less than an hour because everyone had to have a word.

It took a shift of perception, therefore, to see him at a crime scene. Further, to see him taking charge of a crime scene. It was easy to forget that Sergeant Baker was an experienced and very able investigator.

Mac paused just inside the farm gate – he'd parked a little way up the narrow lane, so that he didn't block the exit for the mortuary ambulance and the two cars already on scene. The afternoon was warm and the trees on the ridge had only just begun to turn. The day still had an almost summer feel to it, enhanced by the low hum of bees as they buzzed among the tubs of flowers close by the entrance gate. A more peaceful epitome of English countryside would have been hard to imagine, Mac thought, an illusion broken as he rounded the end of the farmhouse and the shattered window came into view.

Frank Baker saw him and waved. 'I'll be right out,' he said, and disappeared.

Mac stood quietly in the yard, his back to the house, looking up at the trees on the ridge and enjoying the illusion of peace for just a moment or two longer. It was wrong that violent death should happen anywhere but it especially assaulted his sense of decency that it should happen in a spot as lovely as this.

Frank Baker joined him and Mac turned his attention back towards the house.

'The shooter probably stood about there.' Frank indicated a small area that had been cordoned off and a pathway that had been protected leading back towards the fence. 'The grass is flattened on the field edge over there. No footprints that we could see. It's been dry for days.'

'They came down off the ridge and climbed over the fence?'

'Such as it is. A toddler could get over it. But that's the thinking so far. Then shot her through the window.'

'Who found the body?'

Frank Baker, already pale and grave shook his head as though disbelieving. He looked grey, Mac thought.

'Her kids found her,' he said. 'Just home from school. The bus drops them at the end of the lane then goes on into the village.'

'Jesus,' Mac said. 'How old?'

'Eleven and thirteen. There's no mobile signal at the farmhouse, so they ran to the neighbours half a mile down the road and raised the alarm.'

'No landline here?'

'I think they just wanted to get away from the place as fast as they could. The landline is in the kitchen. They'd have had to stay where there mother was lying.'

'I see,' Mac said, nodding. 'Where are they now?'

'The Richardses, the neighbours, they kept them there. Toby Richards called me. I came up, found this.'

'He called you?'

'I've known Toby since we were both at school.' Frank Baker shrugged. 'It occurred to him that the kids might have got it wrong, that they might have seen something that scared seven shades out of them, but not understood what —'

'He thought they might have made it up?'

Frank shook his head emphatically. 'No, you take one look at the poor little buggers and you can see they're telling the truth. But he thought it was better to get a pair of familiar eyes on the problem, assess what was what before they called the full cavalry.'

'So you came up here and found her.'

'And then I called the cavalry, yes.'

'This friend of yours, he didn't come up here to check things out? I mean, I'm glad if he didn't, he'd have to be eliminated from the crime scene —'

Frank was shaking his head. 'Toby's been in a wheelchair these past three or four years. Tractor rolled with him, broke his back. He was in hospital for months. There's just him and Hilly at the cottage. He was a tenant on the Breed Estate, just across that way. Been a farmer all his life. The cottage they're in now belongs to the Breeds too, they adapted it for Toby and Hil.'

Mac raised an eyebrow. 'Guilty conscience?'

Frank snorted laughter. 'Accidents happen, Mac, and this was just one of those things. Anyway, Carrie Butler, who runs the Breed Estate now her dad's gone, she's one of the good ones. So was her dad. Her brother wasn't worth spit, but there you go.'

Mac decided he'd ask more later. He was still on a steep learning curve when it came to the local population. 'And did you know the dead woman?'

'Ellen Tailor. She was a blow-in, married a local farmer, Jebediah Tailor, about fifteen years ago. Tailor's family had farmed this place for generations. When he died it was hard for her to carry on. She sold a parcel of it off about five years ago. She couldn't farm it on her own, couldn't afford to hire help, so she kept just enough for a market garden, chickens and a few hobby sheep.'

'Hobby sheep?'

'Some rare breed things. Toby would be able to tell you about them. She and the kids show them at the local agricultural events. It keeps them involved with the local community but she doesn't have the problems of the big herds of cattle her husband used to run.'

'And you say she was a blow-in. An outsider. How did the locals like her?'

'Well, apart from whoever blasted her face off with a shotgun, I'd say she got along fine,' Frank said bitterly.

Mac nodded and took that as his cue to go and view the body.

Rina Martin closed the front door and dropped her bags on to the tiled floor.

'And, relax,' she said softly and took a deep breath of home.

The Peters sisters must have been baking; the scent of cake still hung in the air and there were fresh flowers in the vase on the hall table. Pink roses and old-fashioned sweet peas picked from Rina's bit of a garden. There'll be a second vase somewhere, Rina thought, similarly pretty and delightfully traditional; Eliza and Bethany, the two ever-youthful lady performers who resided with Rina literally never did things by halves and Rina would be expected to guess who had arranged which vase and to praise them equally.

But for now, the house was quiet and empty. Rina had timed her return precisely so. The Montmorencys – a former double act of very dissimilar 'twins' – spent Thursday afternoons at the new Marina in Frantham Old Town. They met for a so-called 'lunch club' which Rina knew from experience usually extended until tea time.

The Peters sisters, Bethany and Eliza, had recently discovered a tea dance which also took up their Thursday afternoons. Rina calculated that she had perhaps a couple of hours of quiet before the noise and chaos arrived and by that time, she thought, she would be ready for it.

Leaving her bags where they lay she went through to the large kitchen that occupied most of the space at the rear of the house. Before Rina took over, Peverill Lodge had been a genuine B&B – hence the good-sized kitchen – rather than just the home it had become since. Officially the Montmorencys and the Peters sisters were just paying guests, and to an extent they did pay their way, but Rina was under no illusions as to them ever leaving.

Not that she minded.

This was home and they were now her family.

The fifth guest, out at work on his second job, Rina guessed, was likely to be departing soon and Rina would miss him. Tim Brandon, much the youngest member of the household, would be moving in with his girlfriend, Joy. Joy's mother had helped them find and afford a little cottage nearby. A tiny little place – fortunately with an outbuilding big enough to turn into an office-cum-store for Tim's belongings – but with a very large garden. Rina had no doubt that Tim and Joy would be happy there and was incredibly grateful that they were still close by. She had grown so used to Tim's enthusiasm and support since he'd moved in a few years before and she would miss him terribly. But Rina also loved Joy, Tim's fiancée, and was just glad that he had found someone who understood him so well.

Rina filled the kettle and found the chocolate cake in the blue tin. A Victoria sponge sat cooling on a rack covered by what looked like a gauze umbrella to protect it from flies. The clock ticked softly on the kitchen wall and Rina let her gaze travel about the room. Beside the door was a large, framed poster of Rina in what had become her most famous and profitable role as Lydia Marchant in the television show Lydia Marchant Investigates. Lydia Marchant had paid for this house, and the ongoing fees from the popular series – it was estimated that Lydia Marchant investigated at least once every couple of hours somewhere in the world, dubbed into more than a dozen languages – still helped to pay the bills.

And now it had been revived. Rina still couldn't quite believe it. Nine years after the last series had been aired, Rina had just finished the filming of a new one.

And, frankly, she was exhausted.

They had done the Christmas special the previous year, just to test the water, and that had been hard if pleasurable work, but the pre-sell had been so good that a first series had been commissioned even before the taster aired. Now twelve new, hour-long episodes had been completed and Rina was relieved and tired and very, very happy.

She made tea and settled down to enjoy her cake in peace.

Life is good, Rina thought. Fred, I just wish you were here to share it with me. She smiled a little sadly. She and Fred had enjoyed just five years of marriage before his death and there had been no one else to take his place in Rina's life. But here, in her quiet kitchen in her beloved home, she could almost feel his arm around her shoulders and his gentle kiss as he welcomed her back.

CHAPTER 3

'Is this her?' Mac asked, picking up a photograph from the dresser. It showed a smiling, blonde woman of, he guessed, about thirty-five and two children, a boy and a slightly younger girl. The girl wore a striped dress and a school cardigan with a stitched-on badge.

Frank looked at the picture and nodded. 'That would have been taken about a year ago I think. The kids look a little bit older now and in that photo Megan's still wearing her old school uniform. She joined Jeb at big school this term.'

'Jeb? Same name as his father?'

'Jebediah, yes. His dad and grandad were both Jebediahs. Some traditions just hang on round here.'

Mac nodded. He looked towards the body of Ellen Tailor. She had fallen backwards, away from the window, then hit what was left of her head on the edge of the kitchen table as she dropped.

She would not have felt that last injury, Mac thought.

'Her killer let her have both barrels at short range,' Frank said quietly.

The woman's face was unrecognizable. Glass from the window had blasted into her alongside the shotgun pellets and the face and neck were just a mess of pulp and blood.

'The kids?'

'Saw everything,' Frank confirmed. 'Jeb thought she might have fainted or fallen so they both ran over to her.'

Poor little sods, Mac thought. 'Any particular reason for them thinking that? I mean had she fainted before?'

'Jeb said she'd had a really bad inner ear problem a few months back. Very bad vertigo. She fell over a couple of times.'

'And no signs of robbery or' – Or what?

Frank shook his head. 'No, whoever killed her seems to have just fired the shots and then walked away.'

Rina's family had descended en masse just after five. She had busied herself getting the evening meal ready – a job the Montmorencys usually undertook but one which felt pleasant to be doing after so long away.

'Rina, Rina darling. It's so good to have you home.' Bethany and Eliza embraced her excitedly.

'Happy to see you, my dear.' Matthew Montmorency kissed her cheek, his long grey mane of hair brushing her neck as he bent his head. Stephen Montmorency, the shorter of the two and, unlike his supposed brother now getting a little bald on top, grasped her hand and kissed her other cheek. 'Have you enjoyed yourself, Rina, dear?'

'I have, Stephen, but I'm very glad to be home.'

The front door opened and closed again and two pairs of footsteps could be heard in the hall.

'Ah,' Matthew said. 'Here they are. Give me that spoon, Rina darling. I'll take over with the cooking. Girls, will you lay the table for me and Stephen, perhaps you'll get the kettle on.'

Tim Brandon stalked into the kitchen, dressed in his usual black, his fiancée Joy at his side. Joy let Tim get his hug in first and then grabbed Rina. 'It's so good to have you home. You've got to come and see what we've done to the cottage and Mum says she'll come for a visit next week and she's looking forward to seeing everyone.'

She turned to the Montmorencys. 'Anything I can do, boys?'

Rina shook her head in amusement and joined Tim at the kitchen table. 'You look well,' she said. 'Now what do you have to tell me? How are the jobs? And have any of you seen Mac?'

Mac reckoned that his reversing had been honed almost to perfection since moving down to the south coast, but backing all the way down the narrow lane leading to the farmhouse and on to what Frank ironically called the main road tested even his skills. Avoiding the hedge, the ditch and the randomly parked police vehicles and the newly arrived mortuary ambulance did not add up to a whole lot of fun and he knew that the memory of the dead woman, seemingly burned on to his retinas, was not helping.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Forgotten Voices by Jane A. Adams. Copyright © 2015 Jane A. Adams. Excerpted by permission of Severn House Publishers Limited.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Editorial Reviews

Told from multiple points of view, the novel offers an engaging mix of police-procedural and amateur-sleuth subgenres, with quirky, likable characters

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