Part 9 (1/2)

'So where are we off to now?' Sam asked.

'Tradington mare's been in labour for a while and it doesn't seem to be going well. All good experience for you.' Simon was taking his responsibility for training up the new boy seriously. Not that Sam was objecting he was willing to learn. And besides, Simon was an amiable companion ... when he got off the subject of house hunting.

'So how do you like large animal work?'

'Great,' Sam replied. 'It's what I've always wanted to do.' He tried to sound suitably enthusiastic.

'You're living back at home, aren't you?'

'Yeah. With my dad. He's a widower so I reckon he's glad of the company and buying my own place is out of the question for a while houses are so expensive round here.' As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he knew he'd said the wrong thing. Any mention of the property market would set Simon off on the subject of his recent TV appearance on House Hunters. Sam decided a quick change of subject was called for.

'I don't suppose the police have got anyone for that break-in at the surgery?'

'Not yet. Maybe you could have a word with your dad ... chivvy them along a bit.'

'I've not seen much of my dad for a few days. He's busy with this case the murder in Rhode. Have you heard about it?'

He glanced at Simon and saw that he had turned quite pale. For a while he fell uncharacteristically silent but by the time they reached the farm he seemed to be back to his old, cheerful self.

Sam couldn't help wondering what was bothering him the break-in at the surgery ... or the murder in Rhode. But new boys can't really ask questions.

Rachel Tracey found herself a free bench on the esplanade and ate the smoked salmon and cream cheese sandwich she'd just bought from Burton's b.u.t.ties. She gazed out over the river, watching the yachts glide by and the pa.s.senger ferry chug to and fro over the water, and when she closed her eyes for a few moments Wesley Peterson popped unbidden into her mind. But she was strict with herself and banished him from her thoughts. She'd been down that road before and it had led nowhere. Not only was Wesley married but he was probably the faithful type, brought up by strict Christian parents from Trinidad his only sister had even married a vicar. She should find someone who was available. The trouble was, decent available men were in short supply and even when she'd thought she'd hit the jackpot with a man called Tim from Scientific Support, he'd turned out to be married. Perhaps she would follow her mother's advice and start attending Young Farmers' socials again. She'd done so up till a couple of years ago and she considered it a backwards step. But beggars can't be choosers, she told herself.

When she'd finished her lunch, she stood up and the crumbs she had unwittingly scattered on the ground were swooped up by a hungry sea gull who brushed her legs with its soft wing. Trish, who had gone off to do some emergency shopping at Winterlea's, was walking towards her and she raised a hand in greeting.

When Rachel had looked up the address in her notebook, just to make sure she'd got it right, the two women made their way up to Celia Dawn's cottage on one of the steep, narrow streets that meandered upwards, away from the river.

Celia's house was pristine pink with fresh white paintwork. There were sheer white Roman blinds at the windows, pulled down for privacy and window boxes overflowing with primulas and pansies. The place had a prosperous look, well cared for. But if she was a friend of Annette Marrick's who went in for charity dinners, Rachel was hardly surprised. When Rachel had been a child, most of these cottages had been occupied by locals fishermen, boatyard workers, shop staff, teachers, firemen, the occasional impoverished artist or writer an eclectic and lively social mix. But now many were either second homes or belonged to city people who'd retired or downsized to what they hoped were more peaceful surroundings.

A teenage girl answered the door. Dark, sulky and painfully thin. She said her mother was on the yacht the Daisy Lady moored at the Marina. Rachel couldn't miss it, she was a.s.sured. Rachel unlike Gerry Heffernan who would have spent every waking moment aboard his yacht, the Rosie May, given half a chance was a little nervous of boats as they seemed so insubstantial and so vulnerable to the whims of nature. But she walked back through Tradmouth with Trish until they arrived at the Marina.

The thin daughter had been right the Daisy Lady was easy to find. She was the largest yacht in that particular part of the Marina, bobbing above her neighbours like a mother duck amongst her ducklings. Rachel, unsure of the etiquette involved, wondered how they were going to get aboard. But as they walked down the wooden jetty they saw a woman on the deck, slumped on a sunlounger, sipping a drink with a slice of lemon floating on its surface that looked suspiciously like gin or vodka. Rachel called to her, asking her if she could have a word reluctant to mention the word police because there were people in life jackets busy on one of the neighbouring boats and the woman motioned her aboard with a lazy arm gesture.

Rachel took a deep breath and walked up the gangway, clutching the rails to steady herself, Trish following behind.

The woman wore dark gla.s.ses even though the sun was behind a cloud. It wasn't really the sort of day for sunbathing but this didn't seem to bother Celia Dawn. Like Betina she was bottle blonde but Celia Dawn's hair was curly and she was a little on the plump side. She wore an orange vest top and a pair of shorts brief enough to reveal a glimpse of cellulite. She must have given birth to the sullen teenager very early in life because she was considerably younger than Annette and Betina perhaps close to Rachel's own age although smoking and too much sun had just begun to ravage her face. She sat up when the two women approached and took off the sungla.s.ses. Rachel was surprised to see the remnants of a black eye now fading to a sickly yellow. She invited them to sit.

'I need to ask you a few questions about Charles Marrick's death,' Rachel said, coming right to the point.

The woman nodded meekly and took another sip from her gla.s.s.

'How well did you know Mr Marrick?'

Celia looked her straight in the eye. 'I was s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g him,' she said bluntly. She sounded sober. And a little angry.

Rachel was rather taken aback. She'd expected evasion friends covering up for each other. But she hadn't expected this.

'Tell me about him.' She had a feeling that the woman wanted to talk.

Celia took another sip from her gla.s.s. 'He could be very charming ... but basically he was a b.a.s.t.a.r.d.'

'Was he violent?' Rachel indicated the eye.

'He liked it rough if you know what I mean. But he didn't do this.' She pointed to her eye and glanced at Trish nervously. 'This was an accident. Cupboard door.'

'Did Annette know what was going on?'

'G.o.d, I hope not. We were very discreet. And she never gave me any indication that ...' Her lips turned upwards in a knowing smile. 'Not that Annette was as pure as the driven snow. What's sauce for goose and all that ...'

'What do you mean? Was Annette having an affair?'

The woman shook her head and said nothing.

'Considering Charles Marrick was your lover, you don't seem too upset by his death,' Trish observed, watching the woman's reaction.

Celia stretched out her tanned legs. 'Look, Charlie Marrick was exciting in bed. Our relations.h.i.+p was purely physical, can you understand that?'

Rachel glanced at Trish and nodded, a.s.suming a 'woman of the world' expression. But, being a bit of a romantic beneath her sensible exterior, she didn't really understand the appeal of men like Charlie Marrick.

'Look, I'm a single parent and I need a bit of male company from time to time. Charlie was ready, willing and very able so ...' She shrugged. 'But that doesn't mean I liked him.'

'Have you spoken to Betina today?' Rachel asked innocently.

Celia shook her head. 'No. Why do you ask?'

'I'm trying to establish everyone's movements on the day of Charles Marrick's murder. Where were you on Wednesday afternoon?'

Celia thought for a few moments. 'Wednesday? I usually work on Wednesdays but ...'

'What do you do?' asked Trish, curious. Celia didn't look the working type.

'Market research interviewing people. But last Wednesday I was with Annette and Betina. We were here on the Daisy Lady. We're organising a charity dinner and we had a lot to discuss.'

'What time did Annette and Betina leave?'

She shrugged. 'I left to go to an appointment at three thirty. They were still here then but they'd gone when I got back at five.

'What sort of appointment?'

'Hairdresser's. Snippers and Curls.' She looked at Rachel and smiled a mirthless smile, challenging her to prove she was lying.

Rachel knew she wasn't going to learn any more. She handed Celia her card. 'If you remember anything else, ring me,' she said.

But she wasn't holding her breath.

When you're ten years old Sat.u.r.day is a day of freedom from the tyranny of school and the pointless nagging of grownups.