A Cornish Revenge (The Loveday Ross Cornish Mysteries Book 1) Read online

  A Cornish Revenge

  The Loveday Ross Mysteries

  (Book One)

  By Rena George

  *New Revised Edition

  Book Description

  A bleak Cornish cliff top strewn with the derelict remains of old tin mines.

  It seems, to magazine editor, Loveday Ross, an odd place for an art class, but then her artist friend, Lawrence Kemp, has been acting strangely recently.

  As her camera clicks taking pictures for the article she’s planning to write, a grim sight emerges from the receding tide below.

  It’s the body of a man! He’d been staked hand and foot into the shingle cove.

  But why has the discovery made Lawrence so edgy?

  And why are his students, Kit Armitage, and Abbie Grainger, so affected by the killing?

  Detective Inspector Sam Kitto doesn’t appreciate finding a journalist at the murder scene...but Loveday isn't happy being a suspect.

  Kindle Edition Copyright 2013 Rena George

  All rights reserved.

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are entirely the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is completely coincidental.

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  http://www.renageorge.com

  PROLOGUE

  He stood between the fluted pillars of the big granite villa, a small dapper man in a dark silk shirt and matching needle cord trousers. His grey eyes narrowed as he watched his wife’s red MG disappear down the drive. Magdalene was off to meet her lover! She’d thought he hadn’t known about them. How stupid was that? Paul Bentine knew everything about the people in his life. That was where his power lay. Well his smart little wife was in no doubt now that she’s been caught out.

  He grimaced after the retreating car, listening until the purr of its engine faded before turning back to his study. He pulled the crumpled paper from his pocket and smoothed it out on his desk. The letters had been clipped from a newspaper. It was a tabloid. He flicked the grubby sheet across the desk and narrowed his eyes. It was shoddy, incompetent, amateurish rubbish - and bloody insulting if anybody actually believed he could be intimidated by it.

  Reaching for his brandy glass he swirled the amber liquid before raising it to his lips. ‘Your Time Has Come!’ the note had said. He threw back the contents of the glass in one gulp and smirked. It was some pathetic attempt to rattle him, but it wasn’t working. Lawyers got threatened all the time, it was the nature of the job…and with his little sideline…

  But this was the third note. The first had arrived in the mail eight days earlier. ‘I Know What You’ve Been Doing!’ It was followed four days later by the second stark message. ‘I’m Watching You!’

  Taking them to the police was not an option. He didn’t want any flat-footed coppers ferreting about in his business. But he hadn’t destroyed them either. The vile thing on his desk now would join the others, locked away in his safe box on the boat. He’d pondered the sense of keeping them at first, but his legal mind had persuaded him not to destroy potentially valuable evidence. Besides…they might even come in useful, once he had discovered who sent them – and he would. Discovering things about people - things he could use to his advantage - was what Paul Bentine did best.

  Did his beautiful, rich wife really believe he would not find out about her little liaisons with the amorous vicar? They were the mice and he was the cat…and what fun he would have with them. The thought made him smile. How righteous would the Rev Martin Foley appear in the eyes of his flock then? Bentine poured himself another brandy and savoured the thought of how much he would enjoy tormenting them, teasing out their misery until it suited him to end their affair.

  He went to the wall safe, took out the small black laptop and booted it up. They were all here, all the supreme mugs, the ones who had it all - until he made it his business to discover their seedy little secrets. He scrolled down the list. The names were impressive - a banker, the principal of a well known public school, a barrister, an artist, and two prominent company directors…all of them with something to hide.

  The brandy bottle was empty now and he went in search of another. The computer was still open on his desk when he returned. He didn’t hear the catch slide on the French windows behind him, or notice the soft footfall on the thick green carpet.

  … But he felt the sharp pain as his arms were grabbed from behind, his wrists trussed together with a coarse twine, and a chloroform soaked rag forced over his nose.

  When he came round he was in total darkness, and for a moment he wondered if he was dead….But there was a noise…something familiar…he concentrated on it. It was the roar of car tyres on a tarmac road. He was moving. He was in a car…in the boot of a car. Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe. He felt the panic rising. When he moved, there was a stab of pain across his shoulders and he realised that his hands were still tied behind him. His head throbbed. Pain was good. He could focus on pain.

  The car stopped. There were muffled voices, then feet crunching gravel. What the hell was happening to him? The boot opened, but no light came in, only a rush of cold, damp air. Paul filled his lungs. He had no idea what time it was, not that it mattered, not if they were going to release him. He wondered if he was still in Cornwall? How easy would it be find his way home?

  Somewhere in the distance he could hear the sea…waves pounding rocks…he could taste the salt. A torch beam shone in his face.

  ‘So, you’re back with us?’

  He’d heard the voice before…but when…where? He tried to think, to clear his mind, but everything was muddled. How did he know that voice?

  ‘We’re going for a little boat trip,’ it said.

  Rough hands grabbed him and yanked his body to a standing position. He swayed and the torch beam swung round – and Paul Bentine was looking into the eyes of his abductor.

  ‘You! It’s bloody you, isn’t it?’ he stared open mouthed at the face he recognised. ‘Why are you doing this? No, don’t tell me.’ Now that he knew the identity of his abductor it gave him power. ‘Ok, so you’ve got your own back. But your little joke has gone far enough. Now untie me!’

  His gag was removed and the harsh twin lashing his arms was sliced through. His hands were suddenly free. His wrists felt raw and he knew they were bleeding. He looked around and saw only blackness. ‘You’re not going to leave me out here in the middle of nowhere?’ He tried to sound threatening, but the relief that filled his veins when he assumed he was being set free, turned to chill when he saw the barrel of the gun.

  ‘No Paul.’ The voice was cold. ‘You haven’t yet served your purpose.’

  He felt hands on his back and staggered as he was propelled along the sand. Was there more than one of them? He wasn’t sure.

  They stopped. And in the watery light of a half moon he made out the shape of a dinghy.

  ‘Push the boat.’ The order came with a sharp jab in the kidneys from the gun.

  ‘Have you lost your mind?’

  ‘I told you…we are going for a little trip, now do as you’re told.’

  Another jab.

  Paul was long past arguing. He pushed, and felt the icy water flow around his ankles.

  ‘Now get in and start the engine.’

  He hated water…had an uncontrollable fear of it. He did, sometimes, secretly board Magdalene’s boat in Falmouth marina, but even she knew better than to suggest that he should go sailing in it.

  He was betting
his captors knew that. Was this to be his punishment?

  He stumbled on board, aware of the dark sea all around. Waves of nausea swept over him and he swiped at the beads of sweat on his forehead with a shaky hand. He was pushed into a corner and the engine sparked into life as they chugged away from shore into the blackness of the sea. He could see pinpoints of lights along the coast but they were too far out now to hope for help from that direction. He toyed with the idea of making a grab for the gun, but it might go off in his face. He wasn’t that brave. Paul had no idea how far they had travelled before the order came to turn in to land. He got the impression of cliffs, then a patch of beach. The torch beam flashed again.

  ‘Over there,’ the voice commanded. ‘Make for over there.’

  It was a shingle cove, protected all around by the sheer black face of the cliffs. They beached the boat and climbed out. Then the order came.

  ‘Strip off!’

  ‘Are you mad? It’s freezing. I’ve had enough of – ‘

  But the moon slid from behind a cloud, and its silvery light picked out the glint of the gun barrel. It was pointing at him.

  ‘Clothes off!’ His kidnapper was getting agitated now.

  Paul undressed, shivering, to his boxer shorts.

  ‘Now down on your back’

  Paul’s eyes were wide with terror. He made one last desperate bid for mercy. ‘If you want me to beg, then I’ll beg. I’m sorry. Is that what you want to hear?’ He was trembling. ‘Look… I made a mistake. I’ve admitted it…And I’ll keep my mouth shut about what’s happened here tonight. I know you’re only trying to frighten me – and I deserve it.’ He waited for a response, but none came. ‘Please,’ he pleaded into the darkness. ‘Please let me go.’

  He felt the cold steel of a gun barrel against his temple.

  ‘Do as I say or it’s a bullet in the head…and at this range, I won’t miss.’

  He dropped to his knees and winced in pain as a push sent him splaying across the sharp shingle. His body tensed as a rope went round his wrist and was pegged into the grit. He screamed and tried to break free, then heard the cocking mechanism of the gun.

  ‘OK. I’ll do whatever you want…just don’t shoot me.’

  He allowed his tormentor to peg down his other wrist and do the same with his ankles. He was now spread-eagle in this sinister cove. He could see the stars…a whole heaven of stars so close above him. There was a crunch of feet on the shingle…then the sound of an outboard springing to life. The dinghy was pulling away, chugging into the night.

  At any moment he would see the flash of a camera…the giggle of those hiding amongst the rocks. Humiliation…that’s what this was all about. He waited, but no sound came save for the noise of the waves. He could hear them lapping close now, feel the first sting of the icy sea as it reached the soles of his feet.

  No one heard his screams. The water crept higher, moving up his legs… his torso…covering his chest. His eyes were wide with terror when it reached his neck. He fought frantically to free himself, but the pegs that held him down had been forced deep. He opened his mouth to scream again, but no sound came.

  A tight pain flashed across Paul Bentine’s chest before the darkness came down. The stars had gone!

  CHAPTER ONE

  Loveday Ross frowned at the glistening ribbon of wet road twisting ahead and tried to work out what was wrong with Lawrence.

  The previous evening’s exhibition in St Ives had been a triumph. At least five of his paintings had sold, which was wonderful because he’d made a point of inviting the county's most knowledgeable and discerning art critics and buyers. So why had he seemed so distracted?

  She sighed, forcing her concentration back to the morning’s picture shoot. Loveday was on her way to the old tin mine workings at Borlase, near Lands End. It was a bizarre place to hold an art class, particularly on a damp, grey Saturday in September. Images of pretty coves and villages, old harbours and standing stones, flitted through her mind. Any of these would have made a better picture spread for the magazine than the bleak landscape of brick chimney stacks and mine relics, but she trusted Lawrence. He knew what he was doing.

  As she turned into the parking area, she glanced down at her green canvas satchel and went through a mental checklist – notebook, pens, digital recorder, camera. Her mobile phone was in her pocket. She got out, striding across the rough terrain, forcing the worry about her friend temporarily from her thoughts as she raised her camera and zoomed in on the old engine houses that clung precariously to the cliff-edge. They were an iconic Cornish image and she would be remiss not to include them in the article.

  It had stopped raining, but the sea still looked hostile under the iron-grey sky. In spring and early summer these cliffs would be alive with nesting seabirds, and Loveday had been told that the secret coves and caves far below were favourite basking sites for Atlantic grey seals. But on this damp autumn morning, the kind her Scottish father would have described as ‘dreight’, it all looked very different.

  She picked her way along the rough track, stopping to watch the black crows, or were they ravens? She could never tell which was which. Her neck cricked as she gazed up, smiling as they squabbled for the best vantage points on the high brick stack.

  The bleakness of the place made her shudder and she wondered again why Lawrence had chosen it. The wind whipped long strands of dark hair across her eyes and she pushed them back, hooking them behind her ear. She stopped to listen. It was easy to imagine the tappings of miners, long since gone, echoing along the labyrinth of the shafts and tunnels beneath her feet.

  She’d been watching for the old Land Rover and looked up when she saw it bouncing along the rough track. It was being followed by another vehicle she didn’t recognise. Lawrence waved as he drove past, and his two passengers gave friendly nods as the little convoy reached the parking area and pulled alongside Loveday’s car.

  They all scrambled out, laden with an assortment of bags, painting easels and sketchpads. Released from the captivity of the vehicle, Flossie, whose one brown and one blue eye endeared her to everyone, bounded across the grass to lavish a frantic welcome on Loveday. She laughed, ruffling the dog’s neck and feeling a handful of silky fur between her fingers. ‘Oh, I know Flossie…And I love you too,’ she said, screwing up her face to receive the slap of a wet pink tongue.

  ‘Sorry, Loveday,’ Lawrence grimaced, striding towards her, ‘I’ll get around to training her, one day.’

  His jeans were threadbare about the knees and he wore his usual shabby safari-style jacket over what appeared to be a clean blue checked shirt. But it was a very different image from the previous evening when he’d made a special effort to dress smartly for his exhibition. He’d been the centre of attention then, with praise lavished on him from all directions. But Loveday sensed something was not right. She’d known Lawrence Kemp for a year and although they were not romantically involved, they were good friends, hence the invitation to be his special guest at the event.

  She studied him as he turned to introduce his little art group, and decided he looked tired.

  His eyes narrowed against the sharp wind. ‘Meet Jacob and Netta Vincent, from Manchester.’ he said.

  Loveday held out her hand and the man, short and stocky with a complexion the colour of ripe rhubarb, grasped it in a pumping action. ‘You’ll be the journalist lady. Just you say where you would like to photograph us.’ He nodded across to Netta. ‘You’ll find the wife and I will be very accommodating.’

  Loveday shot Lawrence a glance, but managed to keep a straight face. His wife coloured and offered her hand before scowling at her husband.

  The younger of the two women who had driven up in the second car came forward. ‘I’m Abbie Grainger,’ she said. ‘And this is my friend, Kit Armitage.’

  They all shook hands, and as Lawrence took his students aside for a briefing, Loveday moved away to take some casual shots. She studied the group from a distance. It was difficult to imagine t
he two women as close friends. They seemed like complete opposites. Abbie was tall, with long black hair and a tan that Loveday suspected had come from a bottle. She wore an expensive grey fleece over white tee shirt and jeans.

  Kit’s bright pink anorak looked too flimsy to keep the chill of the wild Cornish cliffs at bay. Her pale hair had been scraped back into a ponytail that pulled her skin so tightly it gave her a startled expression. She lacked her companion’s robust, healthy appearance.

  The group had circled around Lawrence, listening to his instructions for the morning’s painting session, when his head suddenly jerked up. ‘Did you hear that?’ Everybody stopped talking and strained to listen.

  ‘It’s only the wind,’ Abbie Grainger said.

  ‘No, there’s something else.’ Lawrence insisted.

  Loveday looked round for Flossie. A few minutes ago the dog had been nosing around the bumps and bushes, her feathery plume of a tail waving excitedly when she’d sniffed out something that might be a rabbit burrow.

  Then the sound came again, and this time they all heard it…a definite whine.

  Lawrence cursed. ‘It's Flossie. She’s got herself stuck somewhere.’

  Jacob clicked his tongue, eager to get on with the business of painting. ‘I thought she was a sheep dog. Aren’t they supposed to be smart?’

  His remark earned him a poke in the ribs from his wife.

  ‘I’m sorry folks. I’ll have to look for her,’ Lawrence said, taking off in the direction of the whine.

  ‘I’m coming with you,’ Loveday shouted, running to keep up with his long stride. They followed the winding path down to the cliff edge. The cliffs here were high and Loveday’s fingers were crossed that Flossie hadn’t gone over and landed on some inaccessible ledge. Then there were the mineshafts…if she had tumbled down one of these then any rescue might be out of the question.