Stone Cold Dead Read online

  Stone Cold Dead

  A Richard and Amelia Patton Investigation

  Roger Ormerod

  © Roger Ormerod 1995

  Roger Ormerod has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 2001, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in the U.K. in 1995 by Constable

  This edition published in 2014 by Endeavour Press Ltd

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Extract from A Death to Remember by Roger Ormerod

  Chapter One

  What had been sleet, driving directly at the windscreen, became an agitated lace curtain of ice particles as we motored, more and more slowly, along the valley. The wind howled and buffeted around the car, and visibility was rapidly becoming impossible. The particles were hissing against the screen, trickling down the glass without aid from the wipers, and I reckoned we were lost.

  ‘Nonsense, Richard,’ claimed Amelia. ‘We can’t be more than a mile away.’

  ‘We could drive right past the place, and not see it. What’re we looking for, anyway?’

  ‘It’s called Flight House.’

  ‘What I meant was: is it built right on the roadway, set back, or at the end of a long drive? The visibility’s down to about ten yards. We could drive right past it, and not know.’

  Amelia had been navigating for us, the map on her knees and a torch in her hand. She seemed quite confident that we were on the correct stretch of tarmac, and heading directly to our objective.

  ‘Ruby said we can’t miss it,’ she assured me.

  ‘Didn’t you ever visit her, when you were at school together?’

  ‘Not here. Richard, do use your imagination. She didn’t live here at that time. But I’m sure we’re about there now, so don’t worry.’

  Allowing the car to drift to a halt, I pulled over, feeling the nearside tyres run on to roadside grass. Clearly, we were in a country lane, and my impression was that nothing but fields and forested hills flanked us on both sides. With the car halted I sat and thought about it. Main beams on full did little more than throw the storm back at us as a white blanket. I could see nothing. I tried the foglights. The penetration was better, but too low to help.

  ‘I think that’s a signpost ahead,’ I told her. ‘I’ll just walk along and check.’

  Reaching back over the seat for my anorak and hat, I felt Amelia stir uneasily.

  ‘Don’t for heaven’s sake get lost,’ she said. My wife sometimes sees problems that don’t exist.

  ‘How could I? Leave the foglights on, and I can’t miss it. And don’t turn the engine off. I shan’t be a minute. Oh—and I’d better take your torch.’

  She put it into my hand. It was impossible to climb into my anorak in the car, so I had to get out to do it. The hat, yes. I managed to put it on, and a lot of good that did me! I stood out on the tarmac, and my hat was whipped away in a second. Turning quickly, I caught a glimpse of it in the torchlight in the fraction of a second before it was kited over the nearside hedge.

  ‘Hell!’ I said, struggling into the anorak. The ice particles threatened to peel the skin from my face, a thousand needles prodding me. The torchlight did little but dazzle. Cautiously, I trod forward, left foot on grass, right on tarmac. In that way only could I navigate towards what I had thought to be a signpost.

  Thus, head down and with my scalp already aching in the penetrating cold, I moved forward, and almost walked into the back of what I took to be a car. A quick upward flick of the torch from the immediate front of my feet confirmed this. It was red. It could have been a Ford Fiesta, or a similar small hatchback. And yet...here?

  Was it, I thought, someone else who was lost and marooned? Yet the engine wasn’t running—an essential if the heating was to be maintained. Or...a courting couple? Surely not. It was far too bleak and unencouraging to provoke a stop for a bit of canoodling. Or was I getting old? In any event, the flick of the torch seemed to have indicated an emptiness.

  Now, standing beside the driver’s door, I could see, quite clearly with the torch, that the car had been abandoned. A breakdown? How appalling that would be on a night such as this and out in the wilds! And my sweep of the torch indicated that the keys were hanging from the ignition lock. That was strange. One did not, except in very unusual circumstances, leave a car abandoned and with the keys available. And, of course, the keys being inside, with the door unlocked. I tried the driver’s door, and yes, it opened.

  One of my weaknesses (and my wife can quote a considerable list) is that I can’t, as she puts it, keep my nose out of other people’s affairs. I feel uneasy in situations that, on face value, do not have a valid explanation. This didn’t. I reached in and turned the key. The dash lights came on. The fuel gauge indicated half a tankful. I turned it another notch and the engine fired at once. The temperature gauge showed at least half its marked norm. I looked round. Somebody caught short, and nipped behind the high hedge just the other side of the car? Surely not. On such a night, it would be needless to nip behind anywhere.

  Faintly, I heard my name called, the sound whipped away into the night.

  ‘It’s all right,’ I shouted, and emphasized it with a swing of the torch. Then I switched off the car’s engine, slammed the door, and left everything as I had found it. Head down, with my right arm round it for protection from the wind, now blowing from my right, I moved onwards as I had been doing before, one foot on grass and one on tarmac. And there it was, just as I had thought from no more than a vague impression: a signpost.

  Here, there was a crossing of two lanes. The ancient, painted indications were barely decipherable, partly obscured by a layer of ice particles. But I caught sight of the word: FLIGHT. The word following that seemed to be: HOUSE. That cheered me up considerably. A quarter of a mile, it informed me.

  I turned to trudge back. This necessitated recrossing the lane that led to left and right. In those few yards I lost my sense of direction, this partly caused by a sudden and energetic gust of wind, which sent me staggering forward until brought up abruptly by a hard stone surface that thumped into my thighs. The torch indicated the curved top of a low wall, which led away to my right. As I knew I hadn’t seen it on the way there, I left it behind me and plunged hopefully forward, blessing the abandoned car as it floated redly into the beam of the torch.

  Now I was leaning sideways against the bitter wind, or it would have had me on my face. I skirted the car, and had Amelia’s Granada in view as two low foglights stabbing at my ankles. I whipped open the door, fell inside, and slammed the door with relief. My anorak could stay on now. A quarter of a mile. We ought to be able to do that in no time at all.

  ‘You were right,’ I said. ‘We’re not lost. It’s straight ahead. A quarter of a mile. Flight House, it’s sign-posted. It must have the lane all to itself.’

  ‘What was that you stopped for?’ Amelia asked. ‘It looked like another car to me.’

  ‘That’s right. It was.’

  ‘So why did you waste time peering into it? Richard...it could have been a young couple, and how embarrassing that would have been. For you, too.’

  ‘Nobody in it. Nothing wrong with the car, unless it’s mechanical.’

  ‘How very strange, Richard. Now watch yourself along here.’

  ‘I’m looking for light
ed windows. We don’t want to drive right past it.’

  ‘From what Ruby said on the phone, you can’t do that. Not—she told me—without getting wet. I wonder what she meant, Richard.’

  ‘A river, perhaps?’

  ‘Oh no. There’s no river shown on the map.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘we’ll know in a minute. I can see lights ahead.’

  I realized that this indicated an ease in the storm. The wipers were leaving a clear windscreen, and nothing in the way of ice particles or snow was now obscuring it.

  ‘Yes. It’s a floodlight or something like that.’

  The first thing that emerged from the darkness, and facing us, was a blank and windowless end of a large house, mounted high on it a floodlight, throwing an orange glow on to a flat patch of hard earth and gravel. This was clearly used as a car park, because two vehicles were already parked there, nose-in to the blank wall. Or rather, I now saw beyond one of the vehicles, a blank end wall but with its surface broken by a single, narrow doorway. There was plenty of room for the Granada.

  The dashboard clock indicated 5.30. Not bad, really, though the whole trip had been in the dark and in appallingly deteriorating weather. I hadn’t wanted to stay over for the night, although Amelia’s friend, Ruby Fulton, had well-nigh insisted on it. Now I was glad of it, certainly not wishing to drive the forty miles home in the sort of weather we had encountered on the way here. But here we were. Flight House. And frankly I would be glad of a hot drink, preferably laced with a shot of whisky.

  We had gone there for a party. Not my line at all, parties, but Amelia would have driven here alone if I had resisted, and I couldn’t have had that. But...a party! That very day was the eighteenth birthday of Amelia’s god-child, more correctly, I suppose, her god-daughter, name: Amelia Ruby Fulton. I had been informed that, in order to avoid confusion, she was called Mellie. And this day, too, was the day on which she was going to become formally engaged to be married. So it was to be a combined birthday and engagement party.

  It did appear to me that formal engagement parties were rather old-fashioned. These days people seem to say, ‘Let’s get married, shall we?’ And, ‘Suits me.’ And that’s that. But no—not at Flight House, apparently. For here, I was soon to learn, they were all firmly and delightfully living in the past. The very situation of the house—at the end of its own lane rather than its own drive—seemed to have cut them off from life as it is lived today, and the party itself would no doubt be sedate and very proper. Dignity and probity would reign supreme, and ears would not be blasted inside-out by continuous outpourings of rock and pop. Ah well—that would suit me fine.

  Amelia had found a bell button, which must have been working because the door was flung open and the two women were in each other’s arms. I stood and waited until they had attention to spare for me.

  ‘And this, Ruby, is my husband, Richard.’ I always loved this phrase of Amelia’s, because she usually managed to insert a modicum of pride. You need that little boost, from time to time.

  ‘Richard! I’ve heard so much about you.’

  This phrase is rather disconcerting, as it leaves you wondering just what was said. I smiled. ‘And I of you,’ I countered. I found my face wasn’t as stiff as it felt, because I managed some sort of a grin. She pouted, then raised herself on her toes and lifted her cheek to be kissed. She was a neat little package with a slim, tidy figure, and barely a sign on her pert and roguish face of the passage of time since her own eighteenth birthday. Blue-grey eyes twinkled at me. I could have sworn she winked. So I reached my hands forward and beneath her armpits and picked her from the floor to my own level, then kissed her on the lips.

  ‘Richard! You’re like ice,’ she cried.

  And Amelia added, ‘Seems rather too warm to me.’

  I put down our hostess and she pouted. ‘Just pleased to see you,’ I apologized. ‘I was beginning to wonder whether we’d ever get here.’

  ‘Oh...has it been so terrible?’ Ruby asked. ‘We’re very exposed here. Now—I’ll show you to your room later, and you can get nice and warm in a hot bath. Let me take your anorak, Richard. No hat?’

  ‘It blew away.’

  ‘Oh dear. Never mind.’

  ‘I’ll nip out and get our things,’ I said, ‘while I’ve got the anorak on.’

  ‘Oh yes. You do that. You’ll find us in the lounge. Second on the left, along this hallway, Richard.’

  We were, I realized, in their main hall, although it seemed so narrow. The floor was tiled, and a staircase clung to the righthand wall, mounting into the shadows. So what I had taken to be a side door was probably their front and main door. It was a strange house. At this time I was somewhat disorientated, and all I could do was retrieve our two suitcases, lock up the car, and return inside. Then, I would do as I’d been told and find them in what she had called their lounge.

  This I did satisfactorily. The storm had quite blown itself out, but had left a deadly cold behind it. Where puddles had lain on the gravelled surface I felt thin ice crackle beneath my feet. But the orange light was very helpful, and I was able to carry both suitcases in without any trouble. These I left at the foot of the staircase, and tossed my anorak on top of them.

  Second on the left, Ruby Fulton had said. It was dim along that narrow hallway, but I found the door, opened it, and walked into a public house bar. I stopped. The blasted house was confusing me. Yet, there they were, waiting for me, waiting to enjoy my surprise. And laughing.

  There was a long, slightly curved mahogany counter all along the right-hand wall, and behind it, wearing an apron now, was Ruby. Behind her was the original bank of mirrors and shelves, and on the shelves a display of bottles, these empty and obviously for display only.

  Round tables with intricate cast-iron frames were scattered here and there, each with four chairs, and a long bench seat ran around three of the walls. Facing the counter, on the opposite wall, there was a row of half-frosted windows. Double swing doors, also with frosted glass windows, faced the centre of the counter. I looked about me in confusion.

  Amelia was standing at the counter, a glass in her hand. I knew its contents would be her favourite long drink—Dubonnet and lemonade.

  ‘What’ll you have?’ asked a man’s voice from behind my shoulder. I turned. He was tall, slim, his general demeanour one of confidence, his expression grave, as though too many concerns rested on his shoulders. I stood aside for him to pass, and thus be in a position to welcome me. He offered his hand. This, I realised, had to be Ruby’s husband. He withdrew his hand and used it in an embracing gesture, taking in the whole room.

  ‘Whatever you like,’ he said. ‘It’s on the house.’ Which was a strange thing for a host to say. And he laughed. ‘It’s always on the house.’ This was still more strange. ‘You’ll be Richard, yes? I’m Gerald Fulton, Mellie’s long-suffering father.’

  I had the impression that his joviality was slightly forced, and that his normal self would be somewhat dour. It was there in his deep-set eyes, and in the stubborn set of his jaw.

  ‘Now that’s not fair, dad,’ called out a young woman I hadn’t noticed. I was having to assimilate too much, too quickly.

  ‘Then come and tell us why, lass,’ he suggested. No, I realized abruptly, it had been an order. In this house, I felt, Gerald Fulton was in charge, and though his request to his daughter had been pleasant enough, it had nevertheless been an instruction.

  This was a man, I decided, with a Position to maintain, and mentally he would spell it with a capital P. He was almost complacent in his dignity, and had offered his hand as though bestowing an honour. Head back now, eyes glowing, he smiled at his daughter. With obvious pride. She was his daughter, and the pride was self-congratulatory.

  She approached. Clearly, she was a reincarnation of her mother, though Mellie was a little taller, her figure more generous and full. But the eyes were the same, and they glimmered at me with the same mischief as I’d recognized in Ruby’s. Yet the line
of her lips hinted at a frustration, something she resented. Perhaps she hadn’t noticed the fondness with which her father regarded her, and had seen as too authoritative his doubtless anxious concern for her welfare and happiness. And there was just a hint in Gerald Fulton’s expression, as he watched her approach, of a possessiveness that demanded only the very best for her in life, and a sure knowledge that only he could judge what was and what was not in her best interest.

  With a sudden chill of understanding I realized that this forthcoming event—the actual engagement, as signalized by the slipping of a ring on her finger—was not at all what he had wished for her. No doubt nothing could be good enough for her in his eyes, and he completely failed to realize that he could be alienating her to such an extent that she might run from his overpowering influence, and thereby plunge herself into a much worse situation than her father could have visualized. And from midnight onwards she would be legally free to do as she wished.

  But my mind was running beyond control, building too much on too little. These thoughts had taken only seconds, as she was still approaching, and then she was holding out her hand, her left hand, palm downwards, so that I took it in my right, and found this to be remarkably more personal than the more normal greeting.

  ‘I’ve so much wanted to meet you,’ she said, a little breathlessly, though I couldn’t see why. ‘Aunt Amelia tells me you were a policeman.’

  I smiled at her, still holding her hand. There was something, now, rather beseeching in this contact, something strange, as though she feared to release me, as though I mattered in her life. I found this to be embarrassing—and rather pleasurable.

  ‘A detective inspector,’ I told her. ‘But retired now, a long while ago.’

  ‘I have no great affection for the police,’ said her father. He nodded, almost as though underlining it.

  ‘Now...dad...’

  ‘Young Ray Torrance is a policeman,’ he observed, as though airing a grievance. ‘The man to whom she’s to become engaged,’ he explained to me.