Cold Pressed
Authors: JJ Marsh
Also by JJ Marsh
Behind
Closed Doors
“Beatrice Stubbs is a fascinating character, and a
welcome addition to crime literature, in a literary and thought-provoking
novel. I heartily recommend this as an exciting and intelligent read for fans
of crime fiction.”
– Sarah Richardson, of Judging Covers
“Behind Closed Doors crackles with human interest,
intrigue and atmosphere. Beatrice and her team go all out to see justice is
done. And author JJ Marsh does more than justice to the intelligent heroine who
leads this exciting and absorbing chase.”
– Libris Reviews
“Hooked from the start and couldn't put this down.
Superb, accomplished and intelligent writing. Ingenious plotting paying as much
attention to detail as the killer must. Beatrice and her team are well-drawn,
all individuals, involving and credible.”
– Book Reviews Plus
Raw Material
“I loved JJ Marsh's debut novel Behind Closed
Doors, but her second, Raw Material, is even better. While Beatrice is fully
occupied with the London crime, Matthew, and Beatrice's neighbour, Adrian,
decide to investigate in Wales and what starts out as a light-hearted caper
turns into something horribly grim. The truth is more terrible than Matthew,
Adrian, or even Beatrice, could ever have imagined and the final chapters are heart-stoppingly
moving and exciting.”
Chris Curran, Amazon reviewer.
“Some rather realistic – if not particularly
laudable – human exchanges reveal honest personal struggles concerning life’s
bigger questions; the abstruse clues resonate with the covert detective in me;
and the suspense is enough to cause me to miss my stop.”
– Vince Rockston,
author
Tread Softly
“The novel oozes atmosphere and JJ Marsh captures
the sights, sounds and richness of Spain in all its glory. I literally
salivated as I read the descriptions of food and wine.
JJ Marsh is an extremely talented author and this
is a wonderful novel.” –
Sheila Bugler, author of
Hunting Shadows
“There are moments of farce and irony, there are
scenes of friendship, tenderness and total exasperation - and underlying it all
a story of corruption, brutality, manipulation and oppression with all the
elements you'd expect to find in a good thriller, including a truly chilling
villain. Highly recommended”. –
Lorna Fergusson
, FictionFire
Cold Pressed
by JJ Marsh
Copyright © 2014 by JJ Marsh
The moral rights of the author
have been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of
this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or
by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or
mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher,
except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain
other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests,
write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the
email address below.
Cover design: JD Smith
Published by Prewett
Publishing.
Amazon Kindle version
All enquiries to
[email protected]
First publication, 2014
978-3-9524258-4-8
For Julie Lewis
and Tracy Austin, whose glasses are always half full
Contents
Thank you for reading a Triskele Books
Chapter 1
That’s funny.
Eva’s guiding hand on the front door usually resulted in a
gentle click, but tonight it slammed shut with far more force than she’d
intended. A draught caught the back of her neck as she put down the carrier bag
with a reassuring clink of bottles.
She locked the door behind her and stopped to listen. Rain
beat on the roof, like fingers on drumskins, and a hollow dripping echoed from
the guttering outside. The occasional hiss of wet tyres on tarmac. The hushed
rush of the gas fire and the tink-tink of its ceramic surround from the living
room. Her antique clock on the hall table echoing its woody tock with the
regularity of a dripping tap.
Maybe I just don’t know my own strength.
Coat on the hook, boots off and slippers back on, she
shuffled through to the kitchen, then remembered the carrier bag and shuffled
back. The plastic was still wet.
I had an umbrella when I left, I know I
did. Must have left it in the shop.
A foul night into which only a fool
would venture. But when only a quarter of a bottle remains, it calls for
desperate measures. She laughed out loud.
Desperate measures!
Eva hummed to herself as she put two slices in the toaster
and got the butter out to warm. A fresh highball from the cabinet, some ice
cubes from the freezer compartment and a healthy slug, a good third of the
glass, topped up with tonic. A slice of lemon would be nice, but she only had a
couple of oranges and one of them had a covering of blue fur. A cold breeze
brushed the back of her neck and she put down her glass with a slam. All the
windows were closed. The draught came from the back door. Ajar by no more than
an inch, with its peeling paint and rusted lock, the garden door allowed cool
evening air and the smell of soggy grass to creep into her warm, cosy kitchen.
With a dismissive tut, she struggled with the ancient lock,
but finally secured it. Very important, safety, for a woman living alone. She
took a long sip of her drink, half-attempting to recall the last time she’d
been out the garden door, but found she couldn’t care less. Her memory wasn’t
the best, and anyway it was a peaceful neighbourhood.
Peaceful. Only the tiny chinking of ice cubes as she
replaced her glass on the pine table disturbed the thick silence of the
evening. Time to put the telly on; she was beginning to get the willies. The
toaster ejected its contents with a jack-in-the-box metallic clatter, making
Eva jump. She looked out at the darkness and made herself a promise, not for
the first time, to get some curtains for the kitchen windows. The vodka was
just beginning to work. Her cheeks warmed, her head lightened and a tune danced
through her head.
She opened the fridge for the butter and remembered it was
already on the table. The overhead fluorescent flattened everything but the
light from the fridge door glinted on the lino. Water.
That’s funny
.
Two patches of water. No, four, five. Footprints. She stared
at the pattern reaching from the back door to the hallway and laughed at
herself. Spooked by her own wellies! She looked down at her feet, in dry
sheepskin slippers. Her wellies were still in the hallway. She’d put them on to
go up the shop and took them off when she came back. She hadn’t made those
prints.
Her head was muddled. That toast was going cold, so she
closed the fridge and rubbed her arms against the chill. Time for a top up and
her Saturday night entertainment. She scraped butter across the cooling toast
and grabbed a quick slurp of Prussian magic. A slice of lemon would be nice.
A song. A singer. Tonight she’d try to vote, and fingers
crossed she’d get through this time. She hummed to herself as she fetched a
tray and ripped a piece of kitchen roll as a substitute for a doily. A movement
in the hallway. She squinted into the dimness, wondering if she’d left the
front door open as well. Darkness expanded and blocked out the hall light.
A man stepped into the kitchen doorway. Eva dropped her
glass onto her toast and gasped so hard her bottom lip caught on her teeth. She
tasted blood.
He entered the room, the light behind him, his face in
shadow. Leather jacket, sunglasses, big chunky boots, black gloves and slick
wet hair. He looked like the Terminator. She shrank backwards and his lips
split into a grin, showing his teeth. Vodka and tonic trickled across the table
and dripped onto the floor.
“Hello Eva,” he said.
He didn’t sound like Schwarzenegger. Strange accent. She
swallowed some bitter saliva and tried to focus her thoughts.
“Who are you?” she asked, her voice trying for authoritative
but missing it by a country mile.
He showed his teeth again. “That’s what I’ve come to find
out. I have a few questions for you.”
She shook her head. “How did you get in here? I’m not
answering questions from a total stranger. You come back tomorrow and we’ll
see.”
“Sorry, Eva. Tomorrow’s no good. You’re not going to be here
tomorrow.” He took off his dark glasses. “So in the words of the King, it’s now
or never.”
Eva’s jaw slackened and her mouth gaped. She recognised
those eyes.
Chapter 2
"I said to you, I distinctly remember, not to
forget a screw of salt. I told you they wouldn't think of it."
"It's not the end of the world, Maggie. Eat your egg
and stop fussing. Enjoy the view and the silence."
Maggie stared out at the Aegean Sea, an expanse of peacock
shades, punctuated by white sails and wakes, the cliffs stretching away to
their right and the harbour barely visible to their left. Distant misty
calderas lay on the horizon like hump-backed whales. Sunlight sparkled from
every angle, an omnipresent sprite banishing ill-will. Vast sky, endless sea
and more shades of blue than she knew words for.
"It's a beautiful spot, I'll give you that. Just hidden
away enough so we won't cross paths with any tourists. But I have never in my
life eaten a hard-boiled egg without salt, Rose Mason, and have no plans to
start now."
Rose selected a stick of celery and scooped up some hummus.
"Just as I have always said, you’re inflexible to the point of
fossilisation. Have another look in the picnic basket. I'm sure I asked for
salt."
Maggie adjusted her sunhat and returned to the hamper,
placed in the shade of the chunky little moped. She pushed aside the empty wrappers
and found something that looked like a pencil sharpener. In one end she could
see ground black pepper, in the other...
"Salt!"
"What did I tell you? Now, is there anything else you
want to grumble about, or can we enjoy our first civilised meal in a
week?"
Clutching her condiments, Maggie arranged herself on the
blanket and tucked her skirt under her knees. She inhaled and closed her eyes,
savouring the warm citrus and herbal notes wafting from the hillside. A
butterfly, freckled and rust-coloured, flitted from shrub to shrub on its own
balletic mission. Rose poured two glasses of iced tea and handed one to Maggie.
"Thank you. I'll have my boiled egg now, if you'd be so
kind. And to say this is the first civilised meal in a week is a wee bit harsh.
I won't deny the conversation has bordered on the tedious at times, but I've no
complaints about the food."
They gazed out at the beauty of the sea, its constantly
shifting contours, accented by the graceful arcs of gulls.
"The food, I grant you, has been of superior quality.”
Rose sipped her tea and Maggie peeled her egg, bracing herself. She knew Rose
was building up for an almighty moan. “But the deadly boring company gives me
indigestion. I resent being told with whom and when I must eat. It feels like
boarding school all over again. There is no reason on earth why we can't dine
alone at a table for two and enjoy our meals rather than suffer more tales of
unfortunate operations, dead or divorced husbands and overachieving offspring.
Oh God, would you listen to me? We came up here to escape all that and what do
I do? Bring it with us. Ignore me. Are you going to have some
taramasalata?"
