MURDER AT ABBEY HEAD an addictive crime mystery full of twists by LEWIS ROY

Author:LEWIS, ROY
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Joffe Books crime thriller mystery and suspense
Published: 2022-04-20T00:00:00+00:00

3

Culpeper always felt uneasy in grand houses. He was an old-fashioned copper, one who’d been brought up as a child in a terrace house on the outskirts of Chester le Street, and who had been proud to put on the uniform that gave him responsibility for dealing with tearaways in Shields, along the banks of the Tyne, and eventually working in the pit villages of Northumberland. The odd fracas at the harbour in Amble, a pub brawl in Ashington, a bit of breaking and entering at Warkworth, these were all matters he took in his stride. They were his people and he could understand them, talk to them, bully them if needs be. But stepping into big country houses was another thing.

He’d had to do it from time to time, of course: hunt saboteurs sometimes made it necessary for him to get involved with the hunting fraternity. There had been stately home robberies by gangs coming in from Wearside, Manchester and Liverpool; and there were many occasions when he had been called upon as a young copper to patrol grounds when some politician or other flew in from London to take part in discussions with wealthy supporters. They weren’t bad times either: a bottle of whisky was often slipped out to warm the lads on duty.

But he’d never got over the feeling of being in the wrong place, when he entered a country mansion.

Abbey Manor certainly was that. Culpeper didn’t know too much about such places, but he could appreciate grandeur when he saw it. And it made him feel smaller, in some way he was unable to define. When a visit to Abbey Manor had been called for, he had even considered sending Farnsby to deal with the matter.

Farnsby had come into his office with a file in his hand. ‘I’ve now managed to get the information you were calling for, from Bristol.’

‘Yes?’

Farnsby had bridled a little at the dismissiveness in Culpeper’s tone. ‘You said it had to be given priority, sir.’

‘So tell me.’

‘Alex Isaacson. It seems he went to Bristol to talk to an old man who used to live up here at one time — went down to Bristol in the eighties, to die. He’s still alive, just. In a nursing home. In his nineties now, failing a bit physically as you’d imagine, but still pretty sharp.’

‘What’s his connection with Isaacson?’ Culpeper asked vaguely.

Farnsby was patient. ‘No connection with Isaacson, as such. You’ll recall sir,’ he went on with heavy emphasis, ‘that Isaacson seems to have been intent on tracing someone called Otto Wenschoff. So Professor Davidson told me at the university.’

‘Ah, yes,’ Culpeper said, wrinkling his nose. ‘Saul Davidson . . . I wish I could remember . . .’

Farnsby paused, portentously. ‘Do you want me to go on, sir?’

Culpeper’s already piggy eyes narrowed further at the veiled insolence in Farnsby’s tone. ‘Otto Wenschoff,’ he rumbled.

‘That’s right. Apparently, a guard at Auschwitz.’

‘And this man in Bristol?’

‘Gave Isaacson a lead.’ Farnsby leaned forward and placed the folder gently upon the desk in front of Culpeper.

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