HELL'S HALF ACRE a gripping murder mystery full of twists (Coffin Cove Mysteries Book 2) by JACKIE ELLIOTT (classic literature books .txt) 📗

all evening. Not really surprising, given the news of Ricky, but I saw Nadine keep checking her phone. I thought she might be waiting for him and she could have been texting Dennis when I left, I don’t know.”

“We can find that out,” Vega said, making a note to see if the forensic search team had found Nadine’s cell phone. “Who else was missing who you thought should have been there?”

Andi shrugged. “Jade Thompson. She’s mayor. It’s the start of her festival. She wasn’t very enthusiastic about belly dancing when I interviewed her — we had a bit of a giggle about it, actually — but she’s been pushing this festival and attracting tourists since she got elected, so I was surprised she didn’t at least drop in.” Andi added, “And I made a point of looking for her throughout the evening.”

Vega nodded. He agreed with Andi. It made little sense, and he couldn’t see how Jade could be connected with Nadine’s death, but he had to keep an open mind.

“Anything else?” Vega asked. He intended to get Andi to give a written statement at the detachment, but he knew how vital it was to get as much information from Andi when it was fresh in her mind. Memory was a weird thing.

Andi opened her mouth to reply, but there was a loud rap on the door.

“Inspector? Andi? It’s only me.” Walter walked in with a mug of tea in his hand.

Vega couldn’t hide his irritation.

“We really need some privacy . . .” he started to say, as Andi took the mug.

“Plenty of sugar for the shock,” Walter said, ignoring Vega. “Hey, would you look at that! Now I know who that guy reminds me of.”

Walter was pointing to Terri South’s photos of the bikers in the gravel pit. But he wasn’t pointing to a biker.

Andi got off the bed and went over to Walter. “Who do you recognize?”

“Oh, it can’t be the same person. Must just look like him. This guy’s been dead for years,” Walter said, jabbing at the picture with his finger. “Art Whilley. Used to live in Dagg’s place, years ago.”

Vega cursed under his breath. “Walter, thanks for the tea.”

“Oh, sorry, Inspector, did you want one?”

“No, Walter, I don’t—”

Before Vega could finish, Sergeant Fowler walked in.

“Inspector, could I have a word?” she asked.

“Sergeant, can it wait? I’m in the middle . . . Walter, please could you leave us?”

“No, sir, I need to speak to you now. Right now,” Diane Fowler said emphatically.

“OK.” Vega could see from Diane’s face it was serious.

“Walter, go back to the bar and wait for an officer to take a statement. And please don’t chat with Andi here or Cheryl, it’s imperative we get your own recollection of events. And Andi, same for you. We’ll talk again later.” He gave Andi a brief smile and then ushered Walter out of the apartment.

“What is it, Sergeant?”

“Sir, that lady over there,” Diane Fowler nodded to a grey-haired, thick-set woman who was talking to a uniformed officer. She was clearly distressed, Vega could see. She had red eyes and was clutching the arm of the officer, as if she had difficulty standing up.

“I see her, what’s happened?”

“Sir, she’s the Haverses’ housekeeper, Joanna Campbell. When she got to the house this morning, she found Dennis Havers dead in his study, blood everywhere and a gun beside him — and, sir, I’m afraid Sandra Havers is dead too. She was shot while sleeping in her bed.”

“Shit,” Vega said, running a hand through his hair. “Shit.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The Haverses’ house seemed untouched. There was no sign of forced entry. The only sign anything was wrong, Joanna explained, her voice cracking with emotion, was that the French doors to the patio were wide open.

“I closed them,” she said in a whisper. “And then I put coffee on. I was going upstairs to knock and ask if Mrs Havers wanted some breakfast. She hasn’t been eating since . . . since Ricky, and I was trying to get her to eat some eggs. I saw the study door was open and thought Mr Havers might like coffee. I pushed it open . . . and . . . and . . .”

“It’s OK,” Inspector Vega said, “take your time.”

Joanna’s voice was a whisper as she told him how she’d seen Dennis Havers and the pool of blood. She knew he was dead, so she ran upstairs shouting for Sandra.

Then she described how she’d found Sandra Havers curled up under the covers, the blood-soaked duvet the only sign anything was wrong.

“Did you touch Mrs Havers?” Vega asked.

Joanna nodded. “I hoped she was still alive. But she wasn’t.” The woman broke down in tears.

Vega called for an officer to escort Joanna away, and Sergeant Fowler directed officers to tape off the entire house as a designated crime scene.

Vega stood at the door of the study, careful not to touch anything. The metallic smell of blood filled the room, with something else. Vega sniffed. Booze? An empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s sat on the desk beside Dennis Havers’ head, which was resting on one side, with his arm stretched across the desk.

There’s the answer, Vega thought, as he took in the gory scene. Splatter and congealed pieces of brain tissue obscured the view from the large picture window, while a pool of blood was turning brown as it soaked into a rug beneath the desk.

Suicide? Vega thought. Some kind of suicide pact? Was that why Dennis Havers didn’t want to see him yesterday? Because he knew he was going to kill himself? But something was off, and Vega scanned the room again.

A crime scene technician stood beside him and must have been thinking the same thing. But he answered out loud.

“Not suicide, sir,” he said, and pointed to the gun on the desk. “The gun would have fallen if he shot