A Death in the Family Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Cherringham — A Cosy Crime Series

  About the Book

  The Authors

  Main Characters

  A Death in the Family

  Copyright

  1. A Step in the Dark

  2. Coffee with Tony

  3. The Suspects

  4. Peggy

  5. A Nasty Tumble

  6. Delicate Questions

  7. Sons and Daughters

  8. A Trip to Chipping Norton

  9. Comparing Notes

  10. The Good Neighbour

  11. Puzzling Pieces

  12. For Want of a Nail

  13. The Trouble with Harry

  14. Family Secrets

  15. A Surprise

  Cherringham — A Cosy Crime Series

  “Cherringham — A Cosy Crime Series” is a series made up of self-contained stories. A new episode is released each month. The series is published in English as well as in German, and is only available in e-book form.

  About the Book

  When a doddering Harry Platt tumbles from the top of his stairs in a deadly fall, it looks like an unfortunate accident. But solicitor Tony Standish’s suspicions are aroused when he meets the beneficiaries and discovers the immense size of the estate.

  Jack and Sarah investigate and find that nothing is what it seems when it comes to families — not when money and secrets are involved.

  The Authors

  Matthew Costello (US-based) is the author of a number of successful novels, including Vacation (2011), Home (2014) and Beneath Still Waters (1989), which was adapted by Lionsgate as a major motion picture. He has written for The Disney Channel, BBC, SyFy and has also designed dozens of bestselling games including the critically acclaimed The 7th Guest, Doom 3, Rage and Pirates of the Caribbean.

  Neil Richards has worked as a producer and writer in TV and film, creating scripts for BBC, Disney, and Channel 4, and earning numerous Bafta nominations along the way. He’s also written script and story for over 20 video games including The Da Vinci Code and Starship Titanic, co-written with Douglas Adams, and consults around the world on digital storytelling.

  His writing partnership with NYC-based Matt Costello goes back to the late 90’s and the two have written many hours of TV together. Cherringham is their first crime fiction as co-writers.

  Main Characters

  Jack Brennan is a former NYPD homicide detective who lost his wife a year ago. Being retired, all he wants is peace and quiet. Which is what he hopes to find in the quiet town of Cherringham, UK. Living on a canal boat, he enjoys his solitude. But soon enough he discovers that something is missing — the challenge of solving crimes. Surprisingly, Cherringham can help him with that.

  Sarah Edwards is a web designer who was living in London with her husband and two kids. Two years ago, he ran off with his sexy American boss, and Sarah’s world fell apart. With her children she moved back to her home town, laid-back Cherringham. But the small town atmosphere is killing her all over again — nothing ever happens. At least, that’s what she thinks until Jack enters her life and changes it for good or worse …

  Matthew Costello

  Neil Richards

  CHERRINGHAM

  A COSY CRIME SERIES

  A Death in the Family

  BASTEI ENTERTAINMENT

  Digital original edition

  Bastei Entertainment is an imprint of Bastei Lübbe AG

  Copyright © 2016 by Bastei Lübbe AG, Schanzenstraße 6-20, 51063 Cologne, Germany

  Written by Matthew Costello and Neil Richards

  Edited by Sean Sinico

  Project editor: Kathrin Kummer

  Cover illustrations © shutterstock: Buslik | LesPalenik | Peter Raymond Llewellyn

  Cover design: Jeannine Schmelzer

  E-book production: Urban SatzKonzept, Düsseldorf

  ISBN 978-3-7325-0856-3

  www.bastei-entertainment.com

  1. A Step in the Dark

  Harry Platt woke suddenly, thinking for a second that he was under fire, looking for a muzzle–flash, reaching for his tin hat, heart racing, mouth open, gasping for air.

  Then he realised he was at home. On the sofa.

  Safe.

  The war was over.

  He breathed a sigh of relief and sank back against the sofa cushions.

  Click, click, click … the things he knew settled gently into place like dominoes being stacked: one — the war finished long ago, two — he was alive (still), three — his name was Harry Platt, four — he lived in … Cherringham, yes the village of Cherringham.

  He looked around the sitting room.

  He knew it was the sitting room — that was good. It was good that he knew this room, that he could name it. Always easy that one — it was the room he was sitting in and it was called the sitting room.

  Ha! Ask me another!

  No flies on Harry Platt!

  I am in the sitting room. This is the house I live in. It is called Bramble Cottage. I am ninety-two years old. I live on my own.

  No, that last bit wasn’t right. He lived with someone. He was married.

  But who to?

  “Peggy!!”

  He heard his own voice shouting out the name of his wife. And wasn’t that the damnedest thing — as if his voice knew more about him than he did!

  My wife’s name is Peggy. I have children. Two? Or is it three? Their names are …

  But he couldn’t remember the names of his children, and anyway what the hell did that matter?

  Buggers never came round to see him, so who cared what their bloody names were? They could go hang.

  Anyway, there was more important stuff to think about. For example …

  It’s too dark and I’m hungry and what the hell is going on around here?

  “Peggy! Where the hell are you?” he called into the darkness.

  He fumbled at the side of the sofa and found the switch for the special reading light. He clicked it on and the white light dazzled his face. He looked away — the damned thing was so bright! You could pick out a bomber in the night sky with that!

  “Peggy! I’m hungry!” he shouted again in the general direction of the door.

  He peered at the clock on the mantelpiece — nine o’clock, it said. No wonder he was hungry — he hadn’t had his supper. Or had he? He looked over at the little plastic table that the carer put on his lap.

  The carer.

  Hmm. That foreign woman. Spy probably. Careless talk costs lives. He didn’t say much to her.

  The plastic table seemed clean enough. And there was no left–over mug of tea.

  But who was to know? Maybe he had already had his supper and they’d cleared it all away.

  Hmm … the place smelt of fish.

  Whatever. Didn’t matter. Didn’t matter how many times he ate. If he was hungry he could damn well have supper again! He could have as many suppers as he wanted.

  It was his bloody house — wasn’t it?

  And he had to put up with enough crap from everybody. People wiping his face, his hands, his … everywhere.

  Need something to eat — now!

  He waited for someone to come. But nobody did. Maybe Peggy had gone to bed. Maybe she’d died! Popped her clogs! Ha! That’d teach her to leave him sitting on his own in the dark!

  Hmm, if that was the case, he was going to have to get his own supper. He fumbled around the sofa for his walking stick, then levered himself up into a standing position and got steady.

  His toes hurt, his feet hurt, his knees hurt, his hips hurt.

  It was like taking a roll call. Easier to ask what didn’t bloody hurt.

  Slowly he edged away from the sofa, an
d making sure to take small steps, headed out of the sitting room into the hall.

  Well, he guessed it was the hall — because the lights were off here too and he couldn’t see anything.

  Damned strange, this. Nobody about. No lights on anywhere.

  He shuffled over to the light switch on the wall, flicked it on, and looked around.

  Yes, this was the hall.

  It was empty — just the phone table and chair and a rug on the wooden floor. The hall had smooth banisters and broad stairs that curved and went up. Harry remembered sliding down those banisters when he was a boy.

  He’d come off once and banged his head right there against that wall …

  Ooh, that had hurt.

  To his left there were three doors that led off the hallway — and each one was closed.

  For the life of him, he couldn’t remember what lay beyond each door. He had a feeling one of them was his bedroom — though it seemed odd to have a bedroom downstairs.

  Grown-ups have bedrooms upstairs, don’t they? And I’m a grown-up so that’ll be where I sleep.

  He heard a noise from one of the rooms above. Was that a voice?

  He went to the foot of the stairs, peered up into the darkness and called again.

  “Peggy! What are you playing at? I’m hungry!”

  Nothing. His stomach growled.

  There was a light switch on the wall. He flicked it on — immediately the upstairs landing lit up. He couldn’t see any movement up there — and when he held his breath to listen, there wasn’t a sound.

  Must be imagining things.

  He turned and saw a door that opened into another room with no lights on — aha, yes that was the kitchen, he remembered now.

  Bingo!

  He crossed the hall, clicked on the light by the doorway and went into the kitchen.

  *

  Harry picked at his teeth trying to get a piece of ham out. It shouldn’t be that difficult; he only had a few teeth left, how could food get jammed in there?

  He counted his teeth with his tongue. Eight. Hmm.

  Got it!

  Nice piece of ham that was, all sliced and ready on a plate, sitting in the fridge. Shame there wasn’t any pickle. Who was doing the shopping these days? Should get ’em on charges!

  He looked around the kitchen, so bright from the big long bulbs on the ceiling. All the worktops were bare. Everything clean and tidy, ship–shape.

  Except the table in front of him, all smeared with margarine. He must have dropped his sandwich, but he didn’t remember doing that.

  His plate … empty — so he must have finished it.

  He looked up at the big clock on the wall.

  Nine–thirty it said.

  Well, this was a pretty kettle of fish.

  Was somebody going to come and put him to bed?

  He had a vague memory that was what normally happened, though he didn’t know what time it was supposed to happen.

  Maybe they’d all decided he was well enough to do it himself now? Well, that would be a good thing, now wouldn’t it?

  And why not? He’d just made himself a ham sandwich. He didn’t need these bloody carers anymore — Madame Sharkski or whatever the hell her name was …

  He heard a voice in the hall.

  Definitely somebody there!

  He listened, aware of his own breath rattling through his chest.

  Harry …

  Yes, there it was again!

  He picked up his stick, pulled himself up from the kitchen chair, walked towards the hall, and paused at the foot of the stairs.

  What was he doing here? He concentrated hard. It was dark outside. It was late. He must be going to bed.

  But …

  Now he’d forgotten where his bedroom was again. And it seemed a bit strange to be going upstairs. But all houses had the bedrooms upstairs — obviously.

  Like I said, that’s where the grown-ups sleep.

  He looked around again for any sign of Peggy, then spotted a telephone on a small table.

  Aha!

  Maybe before he went to bed he could phone somebody and tell them that Peggy wasn’t there. Why then they would go and look for her. They’d find her and bring her back, and then she could make him a nice cup of tea and cook his breakfast in the morning.

  Hmm, bacon and egg. Tomatoes, fried bread …

  He fancied that now.

  There was a small chair by the telephone. He walked over to it and sat heavily, nearly tipping over as he half fell into it–

  Whoa! Careful soldier!!

  Then he picked up the phone.

  But who to ring? Who did he know?

  He couldn’t think of anyone. Surely he had some friends? He used to have lots of mates, back in the day.

  Yes! His old mate Bill! Bill Sides. He would know what to do!

  It had been a while since they were de–mobilised. War over and home at last!

  But come to think of it, it had been a few years since he’d seen Bill at all. No matter — he knew Bill wouldn’t let him down.

  He wasn’t sure of the number, but he took a guess anyway and started to dial …

  *

  Harry put down the phone.

  Fat lot of bloody good they were, he thought. And manners — what had happened to people’s manners?

  He hadn’t managed to get through to Bill on the damned phone.

  So he’d tried a few other numbers. But the other people he talked to didn’t seem to understand what the problem was. Some of them had even got nasty, so he’d damn well got nasty back with them.

  Ten years in the army, he knew how to give people a piece of his mind.

  Put paid to them all right!

  So the long and the short of it was — nobody knew who Peggy was, nobody seemed that bothered. And nobody was going to put him to bed or make him bacon and eggs in the morning.

  You’re on your own matey, he thought.

  So he picked up his stick, stood up, and shuffled to the stairs.

  *

  Half way up the stairs, Harry stopped, exhausted. His breath was coming in rough pants, his legs felt like they were on fire, and suddenly it had become so hard to keep his balance.

  This is worse than basic training, he thought.

  Did he do this every night? He couldn’t remember.

  He looked up. Still another ten steps to go.

  “Peggy? You up there? Where are you?” he called.

  But nobody answered.

  He put a hand on the banister and started again to haul himself up.

  At last he reached the top and leant against the wall of the landing, swaying.

  After a few seconds he looked around. The landing was broad and carpeted — with a corridor at one end. Down there though, he couldn’t see much — the light wasn’t on.

  Closer to, he could see four doors — all of them closed.

  He saw a big portrait on the wall. He stared at it while he got his breath back.

  A pretty woman in a velvet dress sat on some mossy rocks with a little puppy. Behind her, what looked like a castle.

  Harry knew the picture.

  His mum had told him that the castle used to belong to her family and that once upon a time they had been very, very rich.

  He suddenly felt very tired. All he wanted to do was lie down and go to sleep.

  One of these doors must be his bedroom. He leaned on his stick and set off across the landing.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a light go out somewhere — not enough to make the landing dark, but just enough to catch his attention.

  He stopped and turned — it must have been the light downstairs. Why, yes … somebody must have come home!

  “Peggy! Peggy! I’m up here!” he called.

  He turned and walked as fast as he could towards the stairs.

  Blimey, he thought. This is going to be even trickier than coming up!

  Then the landing light went out too. He stopped.

&n
bsp; “Hey! What’s happening?” he called. “I can’t bloody see!”

  He was completely in the dark. No light anywhere.

  Blackness.

  He started to sway slightly — he couldn’t help it.

  “Peggy? Is that you? Turn the bloody light on, woman, will you?”

  But there was no answer from downstairs.

  And as he swayed more, he reached out with his hand for the wall, feeling that he was falling …

  He felt the banister.

  But then it wasn’t there anymore.

  Oh bugger, he thought. This is going to hurt.

  Like when he’d come off those banisters when he was little.

  And now he really was falling, falling down the stairs, spinning through the air, through the darkness …

  …like that moment you step out of a plane on a night jump, leap into the dark, your parachute heavy on your back.

  But Harry Platt had no parachute on his back and when he hit the ground everything did indeed go black, blacker than night.

  2. Coffee with Tony

  Jack turned off Cherringham Bridge Road and drove through the little estate of 70s homes that led to Sarah’s house.

  With the top down on his Healey Sprite, the sun shining warm and the clear blue sky above, he had a feeling this was going to be a lovely weekend — maybe the last of the summer.

  And he planned on enjoying it.

  First, a big hike up Mabbs Hill for a picnic lunch, then an afternoon snooze, followed by a few evening pints at the Ploughman’s.

  The new guy in the kitchen there was becoming a dab hand at cooking steaks on a barbecue; he could almost imagine being in a friend’s backyard in Brooklyn, charcoal glowing, ice–cold beers in a tub …

  A thought of home …

  Then Sunday — breakfast sitting out on the deck of the Grey Goose, maybe a little jaunt upriver with the fishing rods and then a stroll across the water meadows with Riley, rabbits permitting.

  In short — the perfect Cherringham weekend.

  He parked outside Sarah’s little house and walked up to the front door — just as her son Daniel emerged, followed by a bunch of other teenagers all in t’s and shorts.