THE HOUSE AT SEA’S END

Hastings to show him round the back of the house. Beyond the Frenchwindows and the terrace there are just a few metres of land before the broken fence and the sheer drop to the sea. Nelson goes as close as he dares and peers down. Far below, the sea is breaking against the rocks, jagged murderous-looking debris left by numerous cliff falls. For the first time, Nelson realises how close to destruction the house actually is.
    ‘Is this where you walked the dogs?’ he asks.
    ‘No. Too dangerous for them here. They can easily go over the edge of the cliff, I’ve seen it happen. Dog chases a seagull and – wham. No, I always take them to the front garden at night.’
    Nelson looks back at the house. There is really nowhere for a potential assassin to hide, no bushes, no trees, no outhouses. Just sheer grey walls and shuttered windows. He walks back around the side of the house, where the steep path leads down to the beach. He stops in front of a small green door.
    ‘What’s in there?’
    ‘Gardening room. It’s where we kept all our patio stuff, when we had a patio.’
    Nelson tries the door; it’s locked.
    ‘Is it always kept locked?’ he asks.
    ‘Yes. No-one really uses it now.’
    The front garden has some trees, though they are bent double by the constant wind that comes from the sea. It would be just possible, though, for a man to hide behind them in the dark.
    ‘And you saw nothing when you went out last night?’
    ‘No. As I say, the dogs would have barked if there’d been anyone lurking around.’
    ‘Anyone they didn’t know, that is.’
    Hastings looks at him sharply but says nothing. As Nelson drives away, he sees Jack Hastings still standing in the front garden, frowning up at the house.
    Nelson drives quickly, overtaking the myriad Sunday drivers out for a toddle along the coast. Dieter Eckhart was murdered, no doubt about that. Whether the killer was someone he knew remained to be seen. It usually is, Nelson knows that. Nine murders out of ten are committed by someone close to the victim. The dogs that didn’t bark: isn’t that a Sherlock Holmes story? Archie Whitcliffe would have known. Was there someone hiding in the garden that night? Or did the killer come from inside the house? Nelson would give a lot to know who Dieter Eckhart had been texting as he sat in his car outside Sea’s End House.
    Does Nelson really suspect Jack Hastings, a highly respectable politician, of killing three people just to preserve his father’s reputation? On the face of it the thing is unlikely, but Nelson knows to look beyond the face of things. Buster Hastings is certainly revered in Sea’s End House and Dieter Eckhart would have had no compunction in denouncing him as a war criminal if he could find the evidence. In Hastings’ eyes, Eckhart had even corrupted his daughter. Nelson had noticed his face when Irene mentioned ‘spooning’. Jack Hastings had not been happy that his daughter was dating a German, not happy at all.
    Back at the station, a grey-faced Judy is sitting at her desk. All officers have been called in to work. Whitcliffe, horrified at the autopsy report on Archie, is throwing everything at the case.
    ‘How are you feeling?’ asks Nelson.
    ‘Like death.’
    ‘Well, there’s a lot of it about. Good night last night?’’
    ‘Brilliant. I can’t remember anything after midnight.’
    ‘Did Ruth enjoy herself?’
    ‘Ruth? I think she left early. Tatjana stayed the night at my place though. She was up at eight for a run. The woman’s a marvel.’
    ‘Any luck on Dieter Eckhart’s next of kin?’ says Nelson.
    ‘Yes.’ Judy looks at him sideways. ‘I rang his university. Apparently he’s got a wife and two children.’

CHAPTER 19
     
    ‘So he was married all along?’ says Ruth.
    ‘Apparently so,’ says Nelson, who is finding it hard to drag his eyes away from Kate. ‘His wife’s due in England tomorrow. She’s going to fly his body back home.’
    ‘Did Clara know? That he was married, I mean?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ says Nelson, who is building a tower of red and yellow bricks. Kate watches him narrowly.
    Clara Hastings had been in that morning to make her statement. Nelson had asked Judy to drop Eckhart’s wife casually into the conversation. Clara hadn’t flickered. Towards the end of the session, though, she had grown tearful.
    ‘It must be so hard for you,’ Judy had said sympathetically. She is good at this sort of thing.
    ‘I’m just thinking about his