Murder in the Mansion by Faith Martin

Author:Faith Martin [MARTIN, FAITH]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Joffe Books crime, thriller and mystery
Published: 2018-01-27T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER NINE

Saturday morning, Hillary woke slowly. At first she felt a rocking motion, then a soft, low drone, and realised a boat was passing by, its gentle wake shifting the Mollern at her moorings. She rubbed her face and yawned, reaching out for her watch which she kept on the bottom of the narrow rim surrounding the round porthole of her bedroom window. It was just gone seven.

She sighed and rolled over, wondering if she should have brought Rachel Miller in last night. She’d sensed that Gemma Fordham had been surprised by her decision to wait until the next morning. But she’d been tired, as had her team, and sometimes it paid to be cautious. She didn’t think Rachel Miller was going to go anywhere, and, at this point, didn’t think speed was particularly of the essence. Of course, if Barry Jones’s secretary-cum-lover had done a runner in the night, she’d be shuffling files in Records until her retirement.

That particular thought chased all possibilities of going back to sleep out of her mind, so she sighed and rolled up and over into a sitting position on the edge of the narrow bed. She knew Mike Regis had always hated her bed. No room to manoeuvre, he’d complained, his green gaze shimmering, the crow’s feet appearing attractively at the corners of his eyes. She sighed once more and got up, took a quick shower and changed into a pair of tailored beige trousers and a bright amber blouse.

Padding along the narrow corridor to the tiny galley, she put the kettle on and popped two pieces of bread into the toaster. Tomorrow, it being Sunday and officially her day off, she’d have to take the boat to get the toilet tank pumped out, and fill the water tank. And she needed to recharge the generator. So much for a day of rest.

Perhaps Mike had a point. Perhaps it was time to get off the boat. After all, she’d only started living on the Mollern as a last resort, when she’d left Ronnie, and he’d been such a pain about selling the house. But now her old marital home had been long sold, and the semi-fortune it had sold for was doing nothing but accumulating interest in her bank account. She could easily afford to sell the boat and find herself a small bungalow somewhere. Or a two-up two-down cottage that needed a bit of TLC.

Then the toast popped up, and she reached for the Oxford marmalade. Her breakfast made, she took it and her mug of coffee to the tiny table beside the large rectangular window and sat down. Outside, the pretty pink rosebay willowherb flowers stirred on a late-summer breeze; gossamer of seed heads and spiderwebs floated out across the water, and in the field opposite, a combine harvester was kicking up a layer of dust as it gathered the barley and attracted an ever-growing flock of seagulls. Underneath her window, Barney, an Aylesbury duck, a white diamond amid a flotilla

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