‘What time was that?’
‘Midnight. I remember looking at the time before I got into bed. You know how spooky it is when the clock says 00.00.’
‘The witching hour,’ says Irene. Clara shivers.
‘When you drove up to the house,’ says Nelson, ‘did you see anyone hanging around? Notice anything suspicious?’
‘No.’ A smile fleetingly curves her pale lips. ‘We were too busy to notice anything.’
‘Too busy spooning,’ explains Irene helpfully.
‘What about you, Mr Hastings?’ asks Nelson. ‘Did you notice anyone hanging about outside the house?’
‘No. I took the dogs out for their last run at ten-ish. They would have barked if there was anyone they didn’t know.’
‘Do you suspect that he was… murdered?’ asks Stella, almost in a whisper.
‘I’m keeping an open mind,’ says Nelson. ‘Now I’ll leave you in peace. I’ll have a WPC contact you about making a statement, Miss Hastings. Take care of yourself now.’
Before he goes back to the station, Nelson asks Hastings to show him round the back of the house. Beyond the French windows and the terrace there are just a few metres of land before the broken fence and the sheer drop to the sea. Nelson goes as close as he dares and peers down. Far below, the sea is breaking against the rocks, jagged murderous-looking debris left by numerous cliff falls. For the first time, Nelson realises how close to destruction the house actually is.
‘Is this where you walked the dogs?’ he asks.
‘No. Too dangerous for them here. They can easily go over the edge of the cliff, I’ve seen it happen. Dog chases a seagull and – wham. No, I always take them to the front garden at night.’
Nelson looks back at the house. There is really nowhere for a potential assassin to hide, no bushes, no trees, no outhouses. Just sheer grey walls and shuttered windows. He walks back around the side of the house, where the steep path leads down to the beach. He stops in front of a small green door.
‘What’s in there?’
‘Gardening room. It’s where we kept all our patio stuff, when we had a patio.’
Nelson tries the door; it’s locked.
‘Is it always kept locked?’ he asks.
‘Yes. No-one really uses it now.’
The front garden has some trees, though they are bent double by the constant wind that comes from the sea. It would be just possible, though, for a man to hide behind them in the dark.
‘And you saw nothing when you went out last night?’
‘No. As I say, the dogs would have barked if there’d been anyone lurking around.’
‘Anyone they didn’t know, that is.’
Hastings looks at him sharply but says nothing. As Nelson drives away, he sees Jack Hastings still standing in the front garden, frowning up at the house.
Nelson drives quickly, overtaking the myriad Sunday drivers out for a toddle along the coast. Dieter Eckhart was murdered, no doubt about that. Whether the killer was someone he knew remained to be seen. It usually is, Nelson knows that. Nine murders out of ten are committed by someone close to the victim. The dogs that didn’t bark: isn’t that a Sherlock Holmes story? Archie Whitcliffe would have known. Was there someone hiding in the garden that night? Or did the killer come from inside the house? Nelson would give a lot to know who Dieter Eckhart had been texting as he sat in his car outside Sea’s End House.
Does Nelson really suspect Jack Hastings, a highly respectable politician, of killing three people just to preserve his father’s reputation? On the face of it the thing is unlikely, but Nelson knows to look beyond the face of things. Buster Hastings is certainly revered in Sea’s End House and Dieter Eckhart would have had no compunction in denouncing him as a war criminal if he could find the evidence. In Hastings’ eyes, Eckhart had even corrupted his daughter. Nelson had noticed his face when Irene mentioned ‘spooning’. Jack Hastings had not been happy that his daughter was dating a German, not happy at all.
Back at the station, a grey-faced Judy is sitting at her desk. All officers have been called in to work. Whitcliffe, horrified at the autopsy report on Archie, is throwing everything at the case.
‘How are you feeling?’ asks Nelson.
‘Like death.’
‘Well, there’s a lot of it about. Good night last night?’’
‘Brilliant. I can’t remember anything after midnight.’
‘Did Ruth enjoy herself?’
‘Ruth? I think she left early. Tatjana stayed the night at my place though. She was up at eight for a run. The woman’s a marvel.’
‘Any luck on Dieter Eckhart’s next of kin?’ says Nelson.
‘Yes.’ Judy looks at him sideways. ‘I rang his university. Apparently he’s got a wife and two children.’
CHAPTER 19
‘So he was married all along?’ says Ruth.
‘Apparently so,’ says Nelson, who is finding it hard to drag his eyes away from Kate. ‘His wife’s due in England tomorrow. She’s going to fly his body back home.’
‘Did Clara know? That he was married, I mean?’
‘I don’t know,’ says Nelson, who is building a tower of red and yellow bricks. Kate watches him narrowly.
Clara Hastings had been in that morning to make her statement. Nelson had asked Judy to drop Eckhart’s wife casually into the conversation. Clara hadn’t flickered. Towards the end of the session, though, she had grown tearful.
‘It must be so hard for you,’ Judy had said sympathetically. She is good at this sort of thing.
‘I’m just thinking about his kids,’ Clara had sniffed.
So she had known about the children.
Nelson adds another brick and then knocks over the tower. Kate laughs delightedly. She loves destruction. Ruth is beginning to regret letting Nelson come at a time when Kate would be in the house. It makes her uneasy to see them together. Whilst, on one hand, she wants Nelson to love his daughter (and, by extension, her?), she knows that the more attached Nelson gets, the more complicated their situation becomes.
‘What did the post mortem say?’ she asks, to bring him back to earth.
‘Eckhart was stabbed with a sharp metal object. They think it was scissors.’
‘Scissors?’
‘Heavy-duty scissors. The sort used for dressmaking or cutting back plants. They were honed to a point apparently.’
‘Honed. So someone had planned this? It wasn’t spur of the moment?’
‘No,’ says Nelson soberly. ‘Someone sharpened those scissors and waited.’
‘Have you any idea who?’
‘I’ve got lots of ideas,’ says Nelson. ‘Each more ridiculous than the last.’
‘Do you think the same person killed Archie Whitcliffe and Dieter Eckhart?’ Nelson has told her about the autopsy report on Archie. Death by asphyxiation was the verdict, probably with a pillow.
‘Yes I do,’ says Nelson, still looking at Kate as she thoughtfully sucks the building bricks. ‘The method was different but I’m convinced the link was the murder of the six Germans. Someone is prepared to kill to stop that story getting out. There’s Hugh Anselm too, the old chap in the stairlift. I’m sure he was murdered too.’
‘It’s so far-fetched though,’ complains Ruth. ‘Like something out a murder mystery.’
‘Archie Whitcliffe was a big fan of murder mysteries,’ says Nelson. ‘Left a pile of them to his carer.’
‘Really?’ Ruth looks interested. ‘What sort of books?’
‘Nothing special. I hoped they might be worth something. She hasn’t got two pennies to rub together, the carer, but they were just a load of old paperbacks. Second hand, most of them.’
‘Do you have the list of the titles?’