Murder On The Back Burner

By ANTHONY NASH

SYNOPSIS – MURDER ON THE BACK BURNER

Jeremy Martyne has thoroughly enjoyed his millionaire's holiday in Rhodes and reluctantly heads back to his mundane existence at home in Norfolk, already looking forward to the next time he can go back to his other hidden life on the Greek island, happily unaware that it will never be.

When his house explodes from an apparent gas leak his death is at first taken to be an unfortunate accident, even by the fire investigators, but is actually the first in a series of apparently motiveless murders of ex-Metropolitan police officers, made to look like accidents or suicide. Martyne's death is not believed to be sinister until his Aunt Violet's pensioners' brigade alerts DCI Tony Dyce to the possibility of murder. It still appears to be a one-off, but when other deaths begin to occur among Martyne's old colleagues, with some of whom Tony Dyce, ex-Metropolitan police himself, had a passing acquaintance twenty years earlier, the heat is on to find the talented, well-funded killer.

The forensic science is deep, dirty and diligent, and Jane Keller is right there with her husband in the search for a motive, which they find lies way back in the past.

SYNOPSIS – MURDER ON THE BACK BURNER

Jeremy Martyne has thoroughly enjoyed his millionaire's holiday in Rhodes and reluctantly heads back to his mundane existence at home in Norfolk, already looking forward to the next time he can go back to his other hidden life on the Greek island, happily unaware that it will never be.

When his house explodes from an apparent gas leak his death is at first taken to be an unfortunate accident, even by the fire investigators, but is actually the first in a series of apparently motiveless murders of ex-Metropolitan police officers, made to look like accidents or suicide. Martyne's death is not believed to be sinister until his Aunt Violet's pensioners' brigade alerts DCI Tony Dyce to the possibility of murder. It still appears to be a one-off, but when other deaths begin to occur among Martyne's old colleagues, with some of whom Tony Dyce, ex-Metropolitan police himself, had a passing acquaintance twenty years earlier, the heat is on to find the talented, well-funded killer.

The forensic science is deep, dirty and diligent, and Jane Keller is right there with her husband in the search for a motive, which they find lies way back in the past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: TONY NASH
• Release date: Jul 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201904128

Book preview

Other works by this author:

THE TONY DYCE/NORFOLK THRILLERS:

Murder on Tiptoes

Murder by Proxy

Murder on the Back Burner

Murder on the Chess Board

Murder on the High ‘C’

Bled and Breakfast

THE JOHN HUNTER THRILLERS:

Carve Up

Single to Infinity

The Most Unkindest Cut

The Iago Factor

Blockbuster

Bloodlines

Beyond Another Curtain

HISTORICAL/WWI NOVELS:

A Handful of Destiny

A Handful of Salt

A Handful of Courage

WWII EPIC:

No Tears For Tomorrow

THE HARRY PAGE THRILLERS:

Tripled Exposure

Unseemly Exposure

So Dark, The Spiral

THE NORWEGIAN SERIES – author Stig Larssen:

CNUT – The Isiaih Prophesies

CNUT – Paid in Spades

CNUT – The Sin Debt

CNUT – They Tumble Headlong

CNUT – Night Prowler

CNUT – Past Present

CNUT – Cry Wolf

CNUT -  Mind Games

CNUT -  When The Pie Was Opened

LOOT – (A Viking tale)

OTHER NOVELS:

The Last Laugh

The Sinister Side of the Moon

Hell and High Water

The Thursday Syndrome

ESPIONAGE:

‘Y’ OH ‘Y;

Copyright © Tony Nash October 2020

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

What’s past and what’s to come is strewed with husks and formless ruin of oblivion

Shakespeare: Troilus and Cressida. Act 4 – 1602

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CHAPTER ONE

Jeremy Martyne, or John Mann, as he was known on Rhodes, netted the fish and lifted it over the rail of his gleaming Arvor 250 fishing boat. After removing the hook carefully from the mouth of the beautiful smagrida, a hard fish to find; only the sixth one he had ever caught, and the biggest, he pulled the scales out of the locker at the stern and weighed it carefully. At thirteen and a quarter kilos it was close to the upper limit for the species, a fish hugely sought after by gourmets and one that would fetch well over a hundred euros if sold in the town market. He sighed heavily, murmured, "You are one very lucky psári", and dropped the fish gently back into the sea. Ten years before he would have hurried to take a photograph of the monster, but he’d long ago realised it was no use taking snaps if he couldn’t show them off.

His normal quarry were the smaller bream-type fish: the fangri, the melanouri and the tsipoura, much easier to catch, and still good eating, but on this last day of his winter stay, as he had always done, he’d gone fishing just for the big fish. All or nothing, ‘shit or bust’, as they used to say in the Met; the story of his life.

For the last four months, the beautiful fish would have been on the plate for his evening meal, and, as always at this point in his year, he considered extending the pleasures, if only for a couple of days. Damn it, he was sixty-eight, and it had been a good life. So what if they killed him now? He had no regrets.

He would have moved to the island permanently eleven years ago, just after Lucy died, if it had been that simple. Feeling at a low ebb, he broke protocol, by telephoning one old friend, who slammed the phone down as soon as he spoke. The next day he found the dead cat on his doorstep and got the message: he would be put down, like the cat, if he ever dreamt of breaking ranks.

The problem was the same as it had always been: they had all agreed the terms of the plan, and so far no one had broken them.

He glanced back to where Poppy’s well-endowed, stark naked figure lay sleeping in the afternoon sun, her long blond hair flowing out over the edge of the sun mattress onto the deck planks, her legs apart in her favourite position. As he looked into the dark cleft between her thighs he sighed again. That was something else he would miss. She was always true to him while he was here, but she was a girl who liked to spend at least an hour or two a day playing the two-backed beast, or any one of a couple of dozen variations on the theme; she was certainly catholic in her tastes. Though he hated to admit it, it was getting to the stage where he had a hell of a problem keeping up with her, even with liberal amounts of Viagra, and it was not just the twenty-five milligrams he’d started with. Now he was using the Indian-made, hundred milligram generics. He knew that if Lucy still lived, his love life would have been over years ago. At least, Poppy knew enough tricks to keep him going for a bit longer. He would miss her like hell for the next four months. He didn’t doubt that she would be in the sack with a local lothario before his plane touched down at Palma, but as long as she didn’t pass on something nasty when he next came back he couldn’t grudge her the passions of youth, and jealousy was a luxury he could not allow to enter his life.

He pressed the starter for the big six-cylinder Cummins Mercruiser engine he loved to open out when he was in open water, to watch the front of the Arvor lift into a first-degree plane and see the huge wake behind. It made him feel fully alive, almost as if the power of the engine was in himself and he was part of the vessel.

His good friend Janni, the sun-blackened, tall and skinny, bald-headed Greek ex-bouncer, had seen them coming in and was waiting to take the rope as Jeremy eased the engine down, shoved the gear lever into reverse and edged the stern gently in towards the wall of the quay.

He knew it would be a waste of time telling the Greek not to let anyone else use the boat while he was away. He hated other people using his things, and only wanted them maintained and kept ready for his sole use. What a hope with Greek thinking!

The first time he came back he knew others had used his house, even though Katrina, his housekeeper, had sworn black and blue that only she and her brother had been in the property, and the boat, he knew instantly, had been used by more than Janni, even though it had been cleaned spotlessly. He had blown his top, but the couldn’t-care-less shrugs told him he might as well save his breath; even if he sacked them and took on others in their place the same thing would happen.

They just could not understand the mentality of a man, however rich he might be, who would let a perfectly good villa, and an equally perfect fishing boat lay idle, when there were so many tourists wanting accommodation and good fishing. The villa and the boat would pay for themselves, but the stupid Englishman didn’t seem to care. Janni often wondered why. The old man seemed normal enough, and maybe he’d inherited money, but he only seemed to enjoy it here.

Katrina had seen him each time he arrived, and the clothes he wore were like any worn by tourists.

As soon as he’d bathed he changed into the much more expensive apparel that he kept locked in his walk-in wardrobes and changed his watch When he left he was again in the clothes he was wearing on arrival. Something didn’t add up, but Janni was a simple soul and loyal, as long as money was not involved, so had never followed up on his observations.

Jeremy helped a now partly dressed Poppy up onto the quayside, then jumped up himself. He handed the ignition key to Janni, and told him, Look after her for me, and no other users!

Walking off hand-in-hand with the beautiful Greek girl, he thought, as he often did, ‘Beauty and the beast go walking’. He had never been beautiful. He had the height, just a quarter of an inch off six feet tall, and still wavy and very dark brown hair, now with a bit of grey in it, but a rugby boot had not only smashed his nose, but had torn out a lump of flesh from his right cheek, during a grudge match between his school and the other comprehensive from the same town, and the scarring had dragged down a corner of the eye on that side. It didn’t help that his wire-like dark facial hair grew at an alarming rate, so that he had needed to shave twice a day for all of his working life. He was amazed that Poppy seemed to think the world of him. Love, of course, did not come into the equation, except for the physical side, but she accepted him as he was, got angry if he tried to buy her anything, and just seemed to like his company.

She squeezed his hand, We go home to eat, Jay? She was the only one of his Greek friends who did not use the surname, and even she only used his initial.

No. We’ll go to Nicco’s.

She pouted, But we won’t have time for bed!

He had to grin, Just a quick salad, then.

Her smile was like an April sunrise, Okay. Let’s go. He opened the passenger door of his new 7-series Beamer, and handed her in. At least, he thought, they hadn’t yet worked out the code on the six-digit lock he’d had fitted to the garage, so the car would be safe from other users until his return.

He parked the BMW, and they walked hand-in-hand to the restaurant.

Nicco’s was something else he would miss. Just a hundred yards down the hill from his villa, and food out of this world. He had grown so fond of the Greek cuisine that he kept most of the ingredients at home, and tried to emulate Nicco’s efforts, with more than a little success.

Coming out of the restaurant Poppy started to run, still holding his hand. He ran with her, glad that he kept himself fit, and they were sweating already when they tore off their clothes and dived onto the bed, laughing.

She knew he had little time to spare, and brought him to climax quickly. He had at first thought that she was pretending to come whenever he did, but eventually had to concede that she was able to climax almost at will, and would never pretend.

Still breathing heavily, he asked, Are you going to stay pure until I come back?

"Ne, ne! Of course, Jay!

He even thought at that precise moment that she actually meant it.

Good. Can I give you some money? For clothes or whatever?

Ochee! Ochee! Jay, you wanna make me mad? You give me too much already.

He held both hands up in surrender. Just a thought, sweetheart. He kissed her and slid off the bed.

After a quick shower he came back into the bedroom, where she still lay naked on the bed.

She said quietly, Jay, no men, I promise. I will do this... She began to masturbate slowly.

He laughed, wondering if she meant it. Great, you do that.

Poppy watched him as he went towards the safe. How could a man be so unaware? True, she did not love him, but she worshipped the ground he walked on and would never betray him. She would never tell him of her earlier life on the streets of Athens, after her father, who had repeatedly raped and sodomised her from the age of five, had sold her to a street pimp when she was twelve, to feed his heroin habit.

She had serviced hundreds of dirty, smelly old men, with no chance of escape, until the pimp was killed in a brawl with Andreas, who took her for his own, and brought her back here.

She had never dreamt of being able to live a normal life like other girls, and it had taken a long time to realise that it was now a fact. Jay was her god, and she hoped he would live forever.

He opened the safe, slid the gold Rolex Oyster off his wrist and replaced it with a stainless steel Lorus automatic, re-locked the safe and then walked into the wardrobe and pulled on the nondescript beige linen trousers and the country-style shirt and blazer in which he’d arrived.

The battered old suitcase had been packed the day before, and he picked it up and walked back into the bedroom, after double locking the wardrobe. The tourists would not gain access to his clothes.

Poppy was still lying on the bed and began to get up, but he insisted, You stay there, sweetheart. I want to think of you like that when I get to the airport.

She had been the reason he had just once stepped out of character in the eleven years he had been coming to the Greek island.

Coming in from fishing one day he had found Katrina crying in the kitchen.

Come on now, Katie, he said, putting his arm round the old lady’s shoulders, it can’t be that bad. Who’s been upsetting you, girl?

My friend, Poppy, she sobbed, he has nearly killed her.

Whoa. Slow down. Who’s this Poppy, and who’s nearly killed her?

Poppy Paprandoupoulous. Her...man, Andreas. He beats her bad, Sir.

Over the years, he had seen it all in London. Probably a prostitute and her pimp, but whatever else he might be, and he was the first to admit his faults, Martyne was a man who hated men who attacked women.

Where can I find this Andreas?

The Kazoukis Rakis Bar, on Kalarami Street.

And Poppy?

Here. She wrote down an address.

The bartender greeted him with his well practised ‘Hello, tourist’ smile and asked what he would like, in English.

Andreas, the woman beater? he asked in the vernacular.

He heard a chair scrape back behind him, and turned.

A huge lout of a man in his early thirties, his own height, but almost double his weight, with a huge, flowing mane of hair and beard, both of which badly needed a shampoo, stood sizing him up. The Greek saw an insignificant old man in front of him, and did not notice how fit he looked. He growled, Who wants him?

I believe you have hurt Poppy.

The Greek curled his lip disdainfully, She is mine! I do what I want with her. I kill her if I want.

Jeremy said, quite calmly, hands at his sides, You will never hurt her again, and, after today, you will never try to see her.

The big man grabbed the lapel of his jacket, as expected.

Martyne had put on a pair of shoes specially made for him many years before. Both the toes and heels were rimmed with steel bands.

With an effortless movement, he slammed the heel of his right shoe onto the man’s instep.  As his opponent began to double up, he did the same to the other foot.

He did not want the man unconscious, so he did not follow up with the rabbit punch he would normally have used. Instead, he grabbed a handful of hair, forced the man’s head up, and smashed his forehead into the nose, crushing the bone. He repeated the blow four times, then let go of the hair. As the man fell, Martyne used the flexed fingers of his pointed hand to deliver a vicious blow to the kidneys. The Greek fell as if pole-axed to the floor.

The Brit knelt down beside the groaning body, took a vicious, twisting hold on the Greek’s left ear and pulled his head up until his own mouth was only an inch away from the ear. He bellowed, If you touch her again, I will kill you!

He stood up, brushed himself down, and looked around.

The other drinkers and diners, who had been watching with amazement how the apparently frail old man utterly defeated the young gorilla they had all been afraid of, suddenly found that the items in front of them held a great fascination.

To his surprise, the barman held his hand out for him to shake.

Thank you, sir. He said, He is a bad man.

For several weeks Martyne expected some reaction. He had publicly displayed abilities that he had carefully hidden from view for a dozen years, and the ungodly, who had ears everywhere, must have heard of it. He had upped his surveillance, but had seen no followers or unwanted interest. It seemed that they had seen it merely as a one-off, by an extremely lucky old man. It had been a very foolish action to take, and against all the ‘keep your head under the parapet’ principles the team had agreed on, but he did not regret it.

Poppy was in a dreadful state. She had two black eyes, a broken nose, bruises all over her body, and a fractured tibia. Katrina had helped him get her onto the back seat of his car, and they had taken her home with them.

He had arranged a doctor and then a private nurse, and very gradually Poppy had come back to life.

At first she was totally bewildered by finding herself in such pampered luxury, but Katrina explained to her what her employer had done to Andreas.

She naturally assumed that Martyne was her new owner, and offered him sex the first time he came in to see her, still in her battered state, astonished when he told her that she would never have to do that for him, unless she herself really wanted to.

They had made love on one of his last days.

That was eight years ago.

Martyne was thinking of that as his bags were weighed at the Rhodes check-in for his flight to Palma.

A lot of wonderful water had flowed under that bridge during those eight years.

He sighed heavily, and began looking forward to the next time.

He was blissfully unaware that the next time would never come.

CHAPTER TWO

After landing in Palma at five-thirty in the morning he took a taxi to the small flat he paid for by the year in the Calle sant Meti, just two hundred yards from the sea, used the key on his key ring to let himself in and looked around, satisfied with the way the janitor had kept the place. It smelt fresh and aired. He felt tired, not having slept on the short haul from his Greek island second home, and lay down in his clothes and slept for three hours. As was his habit, he woke with the dawn and walked to the local bar, which catered for the early returning fishermen, for a snack and a cerveza.  He had almost two and a half hours to kill before going to catch his flight, but decided to get to the airport early and drink enough coffee to keep him awake