Death on the Isle Read online

  DEATH ON THE ISLE

  ALSO BY M.H. ECCLESTON

  The Trust

  DEATH ON THE ISLE

  M.H. ECCLESTON

  www.headofzeus.com

  First published in the UK in 2022 by Head of Zeus Ltd,

  part of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  Copyright © M.H. Eccleston, 2022

  The moral right of M.H. Eccleston to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN (HB): 9781803287058

  ISBN (E): 9781803280370

  Head of Zeus Ltd

  First Floor East

  5–8 Hardwick Street

  London EC1R 4RG

  WWW.HEADOFZEUS.COM

  For Mum and Dad

  Contents

  Also by M.H. Eccleston

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  The End

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one

  About the Author

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  The End

  Astrid stumbled back, felt a sharp stab of pain as her head hit the wooden seat of the dinghy, and she rolled over the side.

  The coldness clamped around her.

  Swim.

  Her limbs didn’t respond.

  Swim.

  Please.

  Swim…

  The weight of her clothes was pulling her down. One last breath. Drag in as much air as she could.

  Then the water sealed around her. She was on her back, looking up at the surface. A hazy glow through the fog. The dinghy to her right. How long did she have?

  Thirty seconds.

  Someone her age. Her fitness. That’s what Jane had said. Then the air in her lungs would rush out. The saltwater rush in. Suffocating her.

  Twenty-five.

  Was this it? Here?

  Your life was supposed to flash before your eyes. All those moments that mattered crushed into a hyper-speed video. But there was only sadness, as burning as the cold water.

  Twenty.

  For the whole of her life, she’d only truly loved one person. And they’d loved her. Not her husband. Or boyfriends. Or friends. It was her father – just her father.

  She saw him now. A single image. Was that what you were given?

  He was holding her hand. The first day at primary school. She walked ahead to the classroom door, then turned and ran back to him. His arms folded around her. He kissed her forehead – told her it was going to be alright. He’d always be there.

  Now she’d never see him again.

  Ten.

  The pain gripped her chest.

  Her head pounded.

  The dinghy drifted over the light.

  Swim. NOW!

  Her legs jerked. Then kicked. Arms swept down by her sides. Working together. Finally… climbing up through the water. Her head about to explode.

  One

  last

  surge…

  And she broke the surface. Ssssucked in air like an inward scream. Gasped. Again and again, until her lungs stopped hurting.

  Treading water, she slowly spun round. The fog was still hanging over the water. She could only see only ten feet ahead of her. The dinghy was now to her left. She made a few slow, strong kicks towards it. The Isle of Wight was less than a mile away, somewhere out there in the mist. Too far to swim.

  She’d have to get back onto the yacht… and deal with both of them there.

  One

  It was nearly the end of July, over three months since she’d moved down to Hanbury. The summer had been – everyone seemed to agree – one of the best for years. Long cloudless days. Gentle breezes. No rain. Only Dolly had complained, about having to keep watering the window boxes outside the Angler’s Arms. For everyone else, it had been the dream British summer.

  Astrid sat in a foldaway chair on the boardwalk, a late-morning coffee tucked into the armrest. There was more shade here, up against the high rushes. The water out in the estuary was glassy. Smooth and mirror-like – Force 0 on the Beaufort wind scale. She’d read it in one of books in the cabin. There were lines that sounded like poetry.

  ‘Wind felt on face.’

  ‘Vanes begin to move.’

  ‘Whistling in wires.’

  Whistling in wires? How beautiful.

  Over the summer, Cobb had taught her how to sail. He’d shown her how all the navigation equipment worked. How to read the weather and currents. To tie knots and fish. It felt good to know these things. The secrets and jargon that made her know she was a real sailor. Speed across the water is measured in ‘knots’. Ropes are known as ‘lines’. Unless they’re attached to the sails, then they’re ‘sheets’. Even if sails look more like sheets than ropes do. Well, who said it had to make sense?

  Then there was the Shipping Forecast on BBC Radio 4. After the news bulletins, the announcer would read out the weather reports for stretches of water around Britain. Before she had the boat, it made no sense. She’d only listened because she liked the soothing names.

  Malin. Bailey. FitzRoy. Rockall.

  They used to sound like names celebrities might give their kids. Now she knew where most of these regions of sea were.

  Then she had her own tips for living on a boat. The wind is free – so don’t use the engine unless you have to. A wine box is more useful than a bottle. Wine boxes sit squarely on the table. Bottles clank around on the shelves or fall over when the waves get up. Eating cereal at any time of the day is acceptable. Did that make her a sailor, or a slob? She couldn’t remember and wasn’t bothered either way. Curlew’s Rest was the best place she’d ever lived. It was all hers and together they owned the sea beneath them.

  She had her dear Uncle Henry to thank for that. He’d left her the boat in his will and a chance to find a new life. At times she wondered if she should even thank her ex-husband, Simon, for cheating on her. A strange thought maybe. But it had spurred her to leave London and her old job and discover a whole new life and friends in the country. Nah, she thought again, he was still a weasel. Her new life was all down to her.

  She finished her coffee and got up. It was time to take the boat out. From the clouds out
over the bay, she could tell a breeze was picking up. Just as she untied the last line, a man stepped out from the rushes and sauntered towards the jetty. He was wearing jeans and a shiny blue jacket that might have been half of a suit. In his hand was a brown leather briefcase.

  ‘Astrid Swift?’ he shouted over.

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Andy Marriot. H M R C.’

  He’d spelt out the initials slowly, as if to make sure she knew how serious his mission was today. Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs. A tax inspector. Not someone you wanted a visit from. Especially on a Sunday.

  She threw the line back onto the jetty. Without asking, he put down his briefcase, strode over to the rope, his cowboy boots clacking on the planks, and tied the rope to the post. A good double clove hitch too.

  She invited him on board and he hopped up on deck, unfolded a chair and sat down. A bead of sweat had gathered on his sizeable brow. He wiped it away with the back of his hand. ‘Niiice…’ he drawled, looking around the boat. His hair was silver grey and thinning. What little there was on the top of his head was scraped back into a short ponytail.

  ‘Can I get you a drink, Mr Marriot?’

  ‘No, thanks. I had a couple of Pinot Grigios down at the harbour.’

  ‘I meant tea or coffee. But hey, good for you.’

  He was too busy studying the boat. ‘Like it – a classic,’ he said under his breath.

  ‘Do you sail yourself?’ She sat down opposite him.

  ‘Used to as a kid. Had a Laser. Would love to get back into it. Maybe not a sailboat though.’ He talked in quick bursts. Bouncing between sentences as if he didn’t know how to end them. ‘A Sunseeker. That would be the dream. Right? Jacuzzi on the top deck. Ooh…’ He wiggled his shoulders at the thought.

  ‘So, Andy, how can I help?’ Astrid thought it was probably best to get this over with. Since she stopped being staff at the National Gallery, she hadn’t given much thought to how you paid tax. Was being too busy an excuse?

  ‘Well, Astrid,’ he said gravely, ‘I’ve recently been through your financial affairs and it’s not good.’

  ‘Really?’ She sighed.

  ‘I’m kidding.’ He burst out laughing, shaking his head at his own joke. ‘Just a little ice-breaker there, Astrid.’

  ‘Niiice,’ she said.

  He crossed his legs, so his jeans rode up, revealing most of his tan cowboy boots. Then he unbuttoned his suit jacket. It had a fuchsia-pink lining. She stared at him.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking.’

  ‘Bet you don’t.’

  ‘You’re thinking, what’s a guy like me doing in the tax business? Right?’

  Wrong. She was thinking two things. One – he probably pulled that ‘you’re in trouble with your taxes’ joke every time. Two – what was his outfit all about? And his hair? It was like a roadkill squirrel, slowly sliding down the back of his head.

  ‘I’ve done loads of crazy things in my life, Astrid,’ he continued. ‘Been a DJ in Ibiza… tick. Set up a Mexican street-food restaurant in Cheltenham… tick. Went bankrupt… double tick.’

  ‘Then you got into tax?’

  ‘Yeah, I needed to settle down for my own sake. Although, investigating tax can get you into some pretty crazy situations. Like recently, I’ve been working on a few big UWOs.’

  ‘UWOs?’

  ‘Unexplained wealth orders. It’s the super-rich trying to hide their money. Yachts, supercars, golf courses. They can’t explain where they got it, we’re gonna take it. That’s why I was headhunted to be an inheritance tax assessor.’

  ‘And is that why you’re here? To go over my recent inheritance?’ Astrid flinched. She couldn’t bear to have her beautiful boat taken from her.

  Andy picked up her anxiousness. ‘Hey, sorry… not your inheritance. You’re golden.’ He uncrossed his legs again. ‘Come on – focus, Andy,’ he told himself off. ‘Okay, I’ve been asked to assess the inheritance tax on a big estate on the Isle of Wight. There’s a house, a couple of boats, funds and shares. An art collection. That’s why I’m here.’

  ‘What kind of art?’

  ‘Maritime art. Nothing after 1900.’

  ‘My expertise is in restoring art. Not valuing it.’

  ‘I know.’ He reached down for his briefcase, unzipped it and pulled out a sheet of paper, which he passed over to her. It was a list of artists – some of the most famous painters in their field. Luny, Minderhout, Carmichael. This could be exciting, she thought. Better play it cool. ‘Impressive,’ she said flatly.

  He carried on talking as Astrid studied the list. Someone else would be doing the valuation. Her job, if she took it, would be to work out the cost of the restoration needed to get the paintings to auction in the best condition. This was called the ‘hope value’. And HMRC were hoping it was going to be a lot of cash.

  Astrid turned the page. There was another dozen or so paintings on there too. Around forty in all. As she wasn’t doing the restoration work it would take around two weeks. Which was perfect. The Sherborne Hall money would run out soon enough and her divorce settlement was a long way off. ‘Okay… I might be interested.’

  ‘Splendid.’ He then explained the whole story, and the part she would play in it. The bulk of the inheritance was a big seafront property called The Needles’ Eye. That’s where the art collection was. Both had been owned by a businessman and keen sailor called David Wade. He’d been long divorced when he died in his late seventies. Everything he owned had been left to his only daughter, Celeste, a socialite and environmentalist in her mid-twenties.

  Astrid flashed through the maths. There was a much younger mother then, which pointed to serious money. No judgement. That’s just how it usually went.

  The consultancy fee was excellent. Triple her usual rate to reflect, as Andy said, the urgency of the job. ‘We need to get this done ASAP Rocky.’

  ‘ASAP Rocky?’

  ‘You know… like the rapper.’

  ‘If you say so,’ said Astrid.

  He opened his jacket out straight to one side. Like old-fashioned spivs do when they sell stolen watches in black-and-white movies. He took a fountain pen from a pocket in the pink lining and handed it to her. Then he pulled out two copies of a contract from his briefcase. She signed them quickly, because it was another chance to spend time with some amazing art. And if she gave herself time to mull it over, she’d back out for all the wrong reasons. Because she liked it here on the boat, with Cobb.

  Astrid made a note of the contact details. She was to call Celeste, who’d arrange to let her into the house.

  Andy took his copy of the contract and said, ‘You’re working for the Queen now. Nobody can stop you in your duties. If they try, then show them this.’ He handed her a letter that had HMRC at the top, with a gold-embossed crown. ‘It’s the kind of headed notepaper that says, “Back off, Buster”.’ He got up and made a little kung fu chopping move with his hands.

  ‘Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.’ She folded up the letter into a neat square and slipped it into the pocket of her hiking trousers. Then she followed him off the boat to the lane. He’d taken off his jacket and slung it over his shoulder, hooking it with one finger. ‘Do you have any more questions?’

  ‘Why did you choose me?’

  ‘Ah, yeah. I was at the press event at Sherborne Hall. I went to see how much that Constable was worth. For the record.’ He winked. ‘Then you exposed it as a fake in front of your husband. And I said to myself – hey, Andy. That’s ballsy. Someone we can trust. So, when this job came up, I thought of you.’

  ‘I’m flattered.’

  ‘And you probably need the money.’

  He half-smiled. As if to say there was a good Andy and a bad one. That’s how she read it. ‘And how would you know?’

  ‘I checked your files. Noticed that you’ve hopped over from PAYE to self-employment. It’s a steep drop in income.’

  ‘That’s considerate of you, Andy. But I’ll be taking th
is job because of the art, not my finances, thanks.’

  ‘That’s the spirit.’ He kicked the heel of his boot on the path, scuffing up a puff of dust. ‘Right, well, I better skedaddle. Good luck on the Isle.’ And off he went down the lane, as pleased as any tax officer could possibly be. To be fair, he should be pleased. He’d won her over. An investigator for the Queen – that had a certain air of authority.

  Two

  Over the next day and a half, Astrid got ready for her trip to the Isle of Wight. She made sure the boat’s water tanks were topped up and the batteries were fully charged. Lashed the mountain bike on the deck. Bought plenty of supplies – lots of tins of chopped tomatoes and pulses, dried pasta, good-quality dark chocolate, biscuits (mostly shortbread fingers), long-life milk and spare batteries for torches. Just in case there wasn’t a decent shop near Yarmouth Harbour, the nearest marina to The Needles’ Eye.

  She also bought a hiking map of the Isle of Wight and a sailing chart for the waters around it. The island was a rough diamond shape. Slightly flattened, as if it were a square of fudge that had been pinched and squashed down between a forefinger and thumb.

  The largest coastal town was Cowes. It was on the northernmost point of the island, facing out over a wide strait between the island and the mainland called The Solent. Yarmouth was much smaller, out on the western point at the mouth of the River Yar. Another mile and the headland tapered away in the sea, ending with a string of broken crags known as The Needles. Maybe, wondered Astrid, that was why the house was called The Needles’ Eye? Because it had a view out to these rocks. It wouldn’t be inspired by the biblical saying. After all, a rich man wasn’t going to remind themselves how hard it was to get into the kingdom of heaven.

  Astrid spent an hour or so planning the sailing route across to Yarmouth from Hanbury. It would take half a day. She rang her best friend Kath to tell her she was going to be away for a while, and they arranged to meet in the Angler’s Arms. A few early evening drinks to send her off.

  A few weeks back, Astrid had offered Kath all her designer dresses, seeing as she was only wearing sailing and hiking gear these days. Kath hadn’t taken any of them because, she said, she never went anywhere that ‘fancy’. So, Astrid had dropped them in at the animal charity shop in town instead. They both agreed that an old donkey’s needs were greater than Kath’s. But ‘only just’, Astrid had said. Which was followed by beer spray and hoots of laughter.