Links View: The Characters Compilation, #6

By Graham Hamer

After the death of his aunt, Alex Palmer finds himself to be the main beneficiary of her estate – much to the displeasure of his cousin, Carson. But one of the properties left to Alex in the will is being used illegally by sisters, Anna and Lucy Campbell and Alex makes more new enemies as he takes steps to evict them.

While Alex finds himself getting close to Charlie Townsend – a good-looking girl who works in one of Cromer's hotels - Carson Palmer is murdered and his older sister, Michelle White, extracts revenge. Shortly after, another stranger steps into Alex's life in the form of Russell Smith, a London lawyer who's running from the mob.

 

Meanwhile, teenage girls in the town are being murdered and Detective Inspector Tony Andrews is under pressure to find the killer. Unfortunately, he doesn't even know what the motive may be. Suspicion falls on Alex, but Russell's legal knowledge keeps DI Andrews at bay... for the moment. Yet DI Andrews has his own dark secrets that are possibly holding back the enquiry.

 

To complicate matters, the confession box in the local Catholic church is being used for purposes for which it was never intended. Father David McManus has more on his conscience than his struggle with his faith and it may cost him dear.

 

Links View is perfect for you if you enjoy a gripping plot, thrilling action, and characters you can feel. You just won't know how it will end until you get there.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Graham Hamer
• Release date: Nov 23, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201001841

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Alex Palmer pulled up the collar of his dark grey overcoat to stop the water from dripping down his neck. The workmen had excavated the grave close to a yew tree whose bare branches shook off the rain each time a new gust of wind swept through the cemetery. Each savage blast tore through the small group of mourners. Those with hats clung tight to them to save the gale from launching their headgear across the graveyard. A single black umbrella had sprouted up earlier, but the owner had soon given up when it turned itself inside-out. In summer, the North Norfolk coast could be quite passable, but in winter it was never the most hospitable of places. On a day like today, the wind would career across the town direct from the North Pole, pushing freezing rain before it.

The ageing priest intoned the prayers as fast as convention and decorum allowed. He wanted to get out of the weather and back in time for a nap in front of the muted television, which he would leave turned on to keep him company. His small, round glasses were rain-smeared, but Father Corrigan didn’t need to read from the good book. He had committed so many people to the ground that he could recite the words in his sleep – which he often did.

Earlier, in the church, he had spoken at a slow deliberate pace, recommended for funerals. His dark eyes had wandered over the assembled mourners with the sort of compassion and commiseration that comes from years of practice. I am the resurrection and the life, says the Lord. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die. Then he had quoted from the Book of John. We meet in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, who died and was raised to the glory of God the Father. Grace and mercy be with you. We have come here today to remember June Margaret Quayle, to give thanks for her life, and to commend her soul unto the Lord. Let us pray.

Now, exposed to the elements on this darkening winter afternoon, protected only by his black cassock and three-peaked biretta, Father Corrigan wasted no further time. He skimmed through the Catholic Rite of Committal, made sure he included the ‘ashes to ashes, dust to dust’ bit, which everybody expected, and ended by inviting the shuffling mourners to throw a handful of dirt into the grave. Unfortunately, death and rain had mingled together and the dirt was now wet mud, so only a few accepted the invitation. The men tipped their caps, the women clasped their hands together in a short prayer, and the small group melted away as fast as they could into the deepening gloom.

As Alex stared down at his aunt’s coffin one last time, the gravediggers pulled their yellow waterproof jackets round them and tapped their fingers on their digging tools, waiting until they could shovel the earth back in the hole. One smoked a cigarette behind a funerary statue of Mary Magdalene supported by a granite cross. The only other person left was Alex’s cousin, Carson Palmer. Carson was three years younger than Alex. Their fathers had been brothers and had died together while off the coast of Cromer, catching crabs from their ageing boat, the Lucky Lady. Not so lucky for either of them on that dark day eighteen years ago.

Within a year, Carson’s mother, Sophie, had taken up with another man and dumped him onto her unmarried sister June, whose body now lay in a hole in a corner of Cromer Town Cemetery. Alex had been luckier and his mother, Emily, had done her best by her two sons. Despite having no father, nothing bad had happened in their lives, unless you counted a grazed knee or chicken pox. Now, as a young adult, Alex was doing his best by her.

As he edged away from the grave, his mind flicked towards the coffin holding the aunt he would never see again. In his mind, he saw her high cheekbones, luxuriant ash-blonde hair, intelligent penetrating eyes, and her warm smile. When he’d visited her in the hospice two weeks ago, her eyes had sunken like thumb prints in putty. Her hair had all but disappeared, and she wore a colourful head scarf to cover her scalp. But somehow, she had managed to maintain the smile - God knows how. It was a terrible end for a fifty-two-year-old.

Alex nodded across the grave to Carson. You fancy a beer or something?

Can’t be arsed, Carson said. I’m off down Paradise House.

What’s Paradise House?

You’ve never heard of Paradise House? Carson said. I thought everyone round here knew about Paradise House. Finest entertainment in town.

You forget, Carson, I live in Fakenham. That’s over twenty miles away. So I’ve never picked up on any of the local places in Cromer.

His cousin sneered. Yeah, right. I forgot that, even at twenty-six, you’re still a mummy’s boy.

Alex ignored the jibe. The pair had never hit it off, so why would it be different now that Aunt June was dead? He nodded and turned to leave, calling over his shoulder. I’ll see you at the reading of the will tomorrow.

Carson smirked. He knew just what was in the will, and cousin Alex was in for a shock if he expected anything much from the estate.

CHAPTER TWO

The next day, the storm had blown itself out and a weak, winter sun smiled on the town. Alex managed to park close to the offices of Berry and Radford, next to a small bakery in Bond Street. The appointment for the reading of Aunt June’s will was at 3:00pm but the road from Fakenham had been clear of traffic, so he was almost twenty minutes early. He strolled the one hundred metres to the Catholic Church of Our Lady of Refuge. Once inside, he looked around for Father Corrigan, but there was no sign of him. A younger priest was arranging some religious leaflets in one of the side aisles. Alex approached and asked if Father Corrigan was available.

Not at the moment, the priest said. He’s in the confessional, so he may be a little while. Can I help you? I’m Father David McManus.

I just wanted to thank him for officiating at my aunt’s funeral in yesterday’s atrocious weather.

I’m sure he’ll be pleased to know of your thanks Mr...?

Palmer. Alex Palmer. My aunt was June Quayle.

I’ll pass on your thanks, Mr Palmer. Meanwhile, if you’d like to help the parish, there’s an offertory box near the door.

Alex had a feeling he had been dismissed and that the gift was a demand that required nothing less than a positive response. As he left to make his way back to the solicitor’s offices, he dropped a ten-pound note into the box. He caught sight of Father McManus watching him, so nodded and stepped out into the weak sunlight. He didn’t know why, but he preferred old Father Corrigan’s bumbling style to the sharp demeanour of David McManus. He shook the feeling off and made his way back to the solicitor’s offices.

As three o’clock approached, Carson strode into the waiting room and dumped himself into the nearest chair. He nodded to Alex then grinned. It was the sort of grin that belonged on the mouth of a hungry shark. It’s pay-day, Cousin. What do you reckon you’re going to get?

Alex shrugged. I have no idea, Carson, and if I’m honest, I don’t care much. If Aunt June has seen fit to leave me a few nick-nacks to remember her by, that will be enough.

Ha - a few nick-nacks indeed. I bet you think you’re in for a shit load of cash, but I know otherwise. Anyway, I meant to ask, what happened to your mother? Why wasn’t she there yesterday? It was, after all, her sister’s funeral.

Mum’s just come out of hospital. She had a small operation on her knee, so she won’t be very mobile for the next week or two.

Too bad, Carson said as the secretary indicated for them to follow her.

A casual observer watching the two men stand up from their seats and move into the solicitor’s office, would not have thought of them as being related. Alex was tall and upright, with a powerful build. He moved with a certain grace despite his size. His face had the clean-cut, craggy, tanned appearance of somebody who spent a lot of their time outdoors. With thick brown hair given to flopping down, it was easy to form a good first opinion of him. Carson, on the other hand, though having a stocky build, walked with a stooped posture as if old before his time. He had a domed forehead, and the face underneath was florid and unshaven. Already, at the age of twenty-three, he was showing signs of broken veins, and his teeth would need several intensive sessions of oral hygiene to look anywhere near normal. He had fair hair cut short and his eyes never seemed to settle on anything for more than a few seconds.

The two made their way into the solicitor’s office and the secretary closed the door behind them. The room was compact and functional - a desk with an open laptop to one side and a jumble of papers on the other side. Three high-backed dark blue chairs awaited the visitors on the near side of the desk. The air smelt clean and fresh, with a trace of coffee. On the walls were a few certificates attesting to Walter Radford’s legal qualifications, one of them hanging a little on the skew. It was unlikely that Berry and Radford was a firm with a reputation for dynamism, presence and attitude. On the other hand it must be capable and trustworthy, otherwise Alex’s aunt would not have chosen it. Walter Radford waved at the chairs as an invitation to sit. As Alex and Carson did so, he asked Alex, No sign of your brother, Gerald?

Alex shook his head. I left a message on his phone, but got no acknowledgement. We don’t communicate too much as a rule and, though he has a property here in Cromer, he doesn’t show up often. He works on the oil rigs off the coast at Yarmouth, so has two weeks on and two weeks off. But I think he sometimes stays in Yarmouth with a friend when he’s not out on the rig.

Hmm, no matter. Your aunt had some considerable assets but his inclusion in the will is relatively minor, so we can proceed without him.

Alex had spotted Walter Radford at the funeral the day before. The solicitor was tall with greying hair that had once been jet black. Alex guessed his age to be somewhere mid-fifties - about the same as his aunt. He possessed an angular face with a dimple in his chin. Radford’s eyebrows met on the bridge of his nose, making it seem that he had a permanent frown, though his lively eyes said something quite different. He turned back the cover on a ribbon-bound document on his desk and smoothed his hand over it. This is your aunt’s last will and testament.

Carson patted the breast of his jacket as if to check on something.

So, unless either of you have any questions, are you content that I proceed to read what it says?

Both of them nodded.

Walter Radford slipped on a pair of rimless spectacles and began to read. This is the last will and testament of me, June Margaret Quayle, of Links View, Overstrand Road, Cromer, Norfolk. He took a breath before continuing, then read out the normal conditions of a will - that June Quayle was an investment analyst, that her permanent place of abode was in the United Kingdom, that she revoked all wills and testamentary dispositions made before, and that she appointed the partners of Berry and Radford as her sole executors. After he had dealt with a few more regular legal matters, Radford slipped off his glasses and polished them with a clean handkerchief. Now we come to the meat of the will, he said, sliding them back on his nose and glancing at Alex and Carson.

First of all, he read a few minor bequests. The cleaning lady, the gardener, the Royal National Lifeboat Institution, and Macmillan nurses - in all, totalling less than twenty thousand pounds. Carson looked puzzled. Then the solicitor said, Paragraph nine. I give to my nephew, Gerald James Palmer, the sum of twenty-five thousand pounds. Since his father’s death, I have seen little of Gerald, so this nominal sum is just to acknowledge that he is my sister’s son. Gerry was Alex’s twin brother who hadn’t come to the reading of the will.

Radford then looked up at Carson, and read with slow precision. To my nephew, Carson Andrew Palmer, I also bequeath twenty-five thousand pounds. He has lived under my roof and in my care for sixteen years, during which time I have never heard a word of thanks, and he has stolen from me whenever the opportunity presented itself. I require my executors to ensure that he leaves my house within one week of the reading of this will. In addition to the twenty-five thousand pounds, I authorise them to pay no more than one month’s rent in advance on suitable accommodation elsewhere.

The silence in the office was like the moment just before a lion bursts from the undergrowth to grab the zebra, grazing nearby, unaware of the danger. Carson broke the calm with a shout of, That’s complete bollocks. You’re making that up.

Walter Radford spoke in even and quiet tones. I can assure you, Mister Palmer, that it is exactly what your aunt’s will says. He pushed the papers across the desk. You may verify it yourself if you wish. It’s marked paragraph ten.

Carson snatched the will and scanned its contents. It’s a fucking fake, he snarled, after reading the section referring to him. And what about him? he jerked a thumb in Alex’s direction. And where’s my sister. How come she’s not mentioned?

Miss Quayle, your aunt, made no mention of your sister, so she is not included. My understanding is that she never once made contact with your aunt, neither in person nor by means of a birthday or Christmas card, so you aunt assumed she would have no interest in her legacy either.

But my sister’s got this Asperger's thing. She hardly talks to anyone.

The solicitor made no comment. Walter Radford knew that Carson’s sister was a curious and erratic individual, but he doubted it was Asperger's Syndrome that she suffered from.

And what does he get? Carson asked, once more indicating Alex with his thumb.

Paragraph eleven.

Carson read it aloud. I give all of my other worldly goods not previously accounted for in this will and testament to my nephew, Alex Graham Palmer of The Hawthorns, Lynn Road, Fakenham, Norfolk. There was another heavy silence as Carson scowled at Alex and the solicitor, glancing from one to the other like a startled deer. He had the look of someone who had drunk a cup of coffee and found a dead cockroach at the bottom. You two are in this together, aren’t you? he snarled. I know what you’re up to. You’re trying to screw me out of my inheritance.

This is the first I knew of anything, Alex said.

Carson scrunched up the will and threw it over his shoulder. He laughed. Well I’ve got news for you two suckers, he reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out some papers stapled together in one corner. I have Aunt June’s real will here. It’s signed and witnessed and it leaves everything to me. No bloody cleaners or gardeners or lifeboats. Nothing for my cousins. I get every last sodding penny.

Walter Radford smiled. You aunt was aware that you had a habit of going through her affairs, so we drew up that fake will about a year ago and planted it amongst her papers for you to find. It has no legal validity whatsoever.

Of course it bloody does. I have a mate who works for a proper firm of solicitors and he looked it over for me. He said it’s kosher.

Your friend is far from being an expert in his field then, Mister Palmer. First of all, is that will dated?

Of course it is.

Are you sure about that? Please feel free to check. The date comes at the end, just before the witnesses signatures.

Carson scrabbled to the last page of three. It says, ‘Witness my name hereunto subscribed’, then it’s signed by my aunt.

And the date?

Carson ran his finger down the page. Well, it’s bound to be here somewhere. Anyway, what does it matter? She signed it and it was witnessed.

Actually, she didn’t sign it - I did. It’s a pretty miserable imitation, to be honest. And who are the two witnesses? Their names are in print just below their signatures.

Carson looked down. Stephen Grover Cleveland is one and Walter Howard Taft is the other.

Alex shook his head. That sounds more like two dead American presidents to me.

Radford smiled at Alex. June was sure that Carson wouldn’t look closely enough to spot the joke. In fact, the so-called signatures don’t even match the names printed below them. She had a bit of a wicked sense of humour, your aunt.

It’s no fucking joke, Carson shouted. He stood, recovered the real will off the floor, and tore it in shreds. So now what are you going to do? I have a will and you don’t.

I’m going to take another copy of the will out of my drawer, Walter Radford said, and continue to read the genuine last will and testament of your aunt, June Quayle, as dated and signed in this office in front of two respected independent witnesses. The original is secure in our office safe. I can make as many copies as necessary, though it does seem like a dreadful waste of good copy paper.

Carson kicked over his chair and made for the door. Well you can read it as much as you fucking want because I shall contest every bloody word in there. You haven’t heard the end of this - not by a long chalk. Battle lines have just been drawn, you thieving bastards.

Then I hope you can find someone to help you who is more efficient than your friend, Mister Palmer. But the door had slammed before Walter Radford arrived at the end of the sentence.

Alex shook his head. Is this for real? he asked. It’s not just a wind up, is it?

Radford chuckled. It’s a wind-up alright, but it was done to wind up your cousin. Your aunt was a very astute lady, Mister Palmer. She never married, and she invested with great acumen during her life. Along with that financial shrewdness, she was also an excellent judge of character. She had accepted to take care of Carson when he was just six or seven. He’s now twenty-three, and well capable of taking care of himself if he chooses to do so. Your aunt had already determined more than a year ago, to turn your cousin out of the house. But before she had time to act on her decision, she was faced with the diagnosis of stage four cancer after which, his petty theft seemed irrelevant. She was battling for her life.

What sort of petty theft are you talking about?

Cash was his preferred target. It seems that, if ever she left any money lying around and not under lock and key, it would disappear. As you might imagine, Carson always claimed he knew nothing about it, but it had been going on for years. Some quality jewellery also went missing once. That was when your aunt had a wall safe installed. The solicitor slid a small sealed envelope across his desk. This contains the access code, by the way.

Alex took the envelope but shook his head. I don’t get it. Why leave everything to me? I was no closer to her than anybody else?

From what your aunt told me, that’s actually not true. It seems you often turned up at her house for a chat and a cup of tea, or a glass of her favourite sherry. You would sometimes bring a bunch of flowers or a box of chocolates, she told me. And you were often accompanied by your mother to give the two sisters chance to catch up.

True. I’d go for a walk and leave them to it. I love the trails along the cliff top. It used to give me an escape from the business for a few hours and a chance to think through any problems. But how is it that Aunt June doesn’t mention my mother in her will?

Radford smiled. Because your mother was never particularly good with money, it seems. Your aunt felt that if she left it all to you, you would be sure to use some of it to look after her.

Alex smiled and nodded. She’s right there.

Also, the solicitor added, by leaving her estate to you, it avoids any further death duties when your mother dies.

And just how much was my aunt worth?" Alex asked.

She invested a lot in property and, as you know, property values tend to fluctuate. However, for the purposes of inheritance tax, we made an approximate valuation a few weeks ago, just before your aunt went into the hospice. At a conservative estimate, in round figures, your aunt was worth about eighty-seven million pounds.

Alex’s palm hit the desk like a whip crack. What? Eighty-seven million? Are you sure you have that right? Should it not be eighty-seven thousand?

Walter Radford laughed. Her house is worth more than ten times that.

But eighty-seven million?

I knew you’d be surprised, Alex. May I call you Alex, by the way? As your aunt’s executors, I think we’re destined to spend some time together before this matter is put to rest.

Alex nodded. Of course.

And I’m comfortable with Walter, the solicitor added. So like I say, your aunt was a very shrewd lady. For example, she bought quite a few Bitcoins when they were first launched. About twenty dollars each, I believe. The last I heard, their value was well into the tens of thousands each - not that I know anything about them. She invested in Microsoft and Amazon in their early days. She bought Apple shares when they hit rock bottom. Alternatively, she sold her shares in Comet, the electronics retail chain, a few years before they were obliged to enter administration. A price battle with other large electronics stores like Curry’s and online e-commerce retailers like Amazon was the undoing of Comet and June saw it coming. She sold all her banking shares a few months before the big crash in 2007. June Quayle had a nose for a great deal. She also had a nose for what lay ahead. She told me that she had lost a few gambles, but that she had won all the big ones. The ones that mattered.

So it seems.

Be aware, of course, that inheritance tax is running at 40%, but your aunt also made some clever offshore arrangements including setting up an investment company on the Isle of Man where taxes are low. She considered domiciling herself there once, because there are no death duties there either. But she had lived in Cromer all her adult life and didn’t want to move. It’s going to take some sharp accountants to sort it all out and minimise the tax liability, but June employed only the best, and I think you’ll find that everything is in good hands. He paused and added, It is my opinion that your biggest threat is the man who just stormed out of here. It’s a good job that he will have no idea of the true value of your aunt’s estate, otherwise I think we might find ourselves in a state of war with him. Though we went to great lengths to ensure that this will was watertight, a legal challenge could drag on for years. Mind you, even your cousin’s not-to-bright legal friend should, after examining the fake will with a bit more care, advise him that he has a document that’s not worth the paper it’s written on, and that this genuine will is immune to any challenge. But, if Carson knew the amount of money involved, he would stop at nothing to grab what he believes is his. From what your aunt told me before she died, he is not a very nice person. You’ll need to be very careful, Alex.

And what’s with Carson’s sister? I don’t think I’ve ever met her.

Walter sat back in his chair for a moment, steepled his fingers under his chin, and pursed his lips. Ah, Michelle White. Sixteen or seventeen years older than him. A somewhat disturbed lady, I’m told. Once married, but now divorced. Lives just on the outskirts of the town.

So she wasn’t dumped on my aunt like Carson was?

No, she’d already fled the nest when her father and your father drowned. Within a year of their deaths, your mother’s other sister, Sophie - that’s Carson and Michelle’s mother - ran off with her new lover and dumped Carson on your Aunt June.

Jeez, what a family. So now I have to try and evict Carson from the house, I guess.

"It won’t be necessary. Your aunt suspected that it might be difficult