A Game of Minds Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Also by Priscilla Masters

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Also by Priscilla Masters

  The Martha Gunn mysteries

  RIVER DEEP

  SLIP KNOT

  FROZEN CHARLOTTE *

  SMOKE ALARM *

  THE DEVIL’S CHAIR *

  RECALLED TO DEATH *

  BRIDGE OF SIGHS *

  The Joanna Piercy mysteries

  WINDING UP THE SERPENT

  CATCH THE FALLEN SPARROW

  A WREATH FOR MY SISTER

  AND NONE SHALL SLEEP

  SCARING CROWS

  EMBROIDERING SHROUDS

  ENDANGERING INNOCENTS

  WINGS OVER THE WATCHER

  GRAVE STONES

  A VELVET SCREAM *

  THE FINAL CURTAIN *

  GUILTY WATERS *

  CROOKED STREET *

  BLOOD ON THE ROCKS *

  The Claire Roget mysteries

  DANGEROUS MINDS *

  THE DECEIVER *

  * available from Severn House

  A GAME OF MINDS

  Priscilla Masters

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First world edition published 2020

  in Great Britain and 2021 in the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY.

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2021 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

  eBook edition first published in 2020 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2020 by Priscilla Masters.

  All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The right of Priscilla Masters to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

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

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-9082-5 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-723-1 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0444-8 (e-book)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents

  are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described

  for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are

  fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,

  Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  ONE

  Thursday 12 September, 11 a.m.

  Claire didn’t know what she was doing here. She hadn’t known Grant’s sister, had never even spoken to her. Maisie was, after all, the reason that they had split up, using her illness to manipulate her brother back to her side. But Claire had promised Grant she would be here and she wasn’t one to break a promise. So here she was, wearing the only black dress she possessed, sitting at the back, alone.

  Looking around at the packed crematorium, Claire realized Maisie had had lots of friends. She had been sick for all of her life but plenty of people must have loved and admired her. Grant was, of course, right at the front, feet from the coffin, at his mother’s side. Pale, but resolute, in a dark suit and black tie, unruly black hair temporarily tamed, eyes focused ahead. She had watched him follow the coffin as it had been wheeled in on its bier, holding his mother’s hand tightly, comfort seeping almost palpably from one to the other. He looked unfamiliar and she realized, almost with a smile, that she had never seen him in a suit before. He was normally a casual dresser which suited his dark features and hint of a beard. Her pirate, she thought, with another smile. As though he’d sensed her presence as he passed, his eyes had flicked along the row to find her. He’d given her a small, jerky nod of recognition, the merest hint of a smile. And he’d mouthed a ‘thank you’ as he’d drawn level. His mother did not look her way but kept her gaze on her daughter’s coffin, her hand tightly gripping her son’s.

  There was a waft of air as the people sat down and the service started.

  There were numerous readings, mostly passages from pop songs, joined by Kipling’s ‘If’ and Robbie Williams’ ‘Angels’. There were tears, some silently mopped by handkerchiefs, others noisy with sniffs, and as Claire noted the small size of the coffin, she too felt sad. Maisie had not chosen to be born with cystic fibrosis. God knows she had gone through some pain and suffering. Just twenty-three years old, she’d been dealt a shit hand. Luckily she’d had a brother who had stayed by her side, to the cost of his own relationship with Claire. She watched the back of his head, bending towards his mother, at one point putting his arm around her and drawing her head towards his shoulder; all of which led Claire to make her own conclusion. Now it was his mother who needed him.

  Grant’s eulogy was touching and unbearably sad. He spoke about his sister’s terror of the illness, of her apprehension and sadness that the future her friends looked forward to – relationships, marriage, children – would be denied to her. His mouth twisted with grief. He allowed one hand to brush his own tears away.

  His v
oice shook as he spoke. ‘I admired Maisie for her bravery, felt honoured to be her brother and glad that I could be there for her when she needed me.’ His eyes flickered in Claire’s direction. Was he seeking absolution for his abandonment? She focused on his words. ‘The illness that she was born with was a curse, but we never gave up hope of a cure or genetic engineering.’ His smile was twisted. ‘Some new antibiotic, stem cells, a miracle. We devoured each new piece of research voraciously. As a family we found it hard to deal with, but at least we were there for each other.’ He looked up again, this time towards the heavens. ‘But it didn’t come in time.’ It was his admonishment to Him above. ‘I shall never forget my sister’s courage or the love and gratitude she expressed whenever I spent time with her … We both knew that one day her luck would run out.’ He wiped a tear from his cheek and scraped his throat noisily before continuing.

  ‘Maisie could generally find something funny to say even in the bleakest of times. She had a dry wit as well as a positive outlook. She’d often say that we wouldn’t have been so close had she not been ill.’ He looked up, pain making his face strained and unhappy, his skin tone deathly pale.

  ‘The odd thing is I can’t imagine what life would have been like had Maisie not been ill.’ He stood still, blinking away tears which reached everyone in the room. ‘We would have lived our lives differently. She would have had boyfriends, gone to university. We would have had our separate lives, gone our own way. But as it was, we were bound together.’ He looked uncertain, as though he wasn’t sure what to do or say next. Then he moved away, the curtain threaded around and the coffin was gone.

  For a moment the people simply stood, as though they couldn’t believe what they had just seen. And then they started to file out to Ed Sheeran’s Perfect. A quick check of the front row confirmed something which Claire had vaguely registered. Of Maisie’s and Grant’s father there was no sign. His abandonment of them was complete.

  Grant met her eyes again as they filed past. He managed a smile and she responded with a nod, her emotions too mixed up to analyse.

  Like guests at a wedding there was a line-up outside. Grant’s mother treated her to a frosty look before giving her a grudging nod and holding out her hand. Claire held it for a moment, muttering her condolences. Grant grasped her hand. ‘Thank you for being here, Claire.’ He kissed her lightly on the cheek. It was a polite, social kiss. She moved on.

  Outside a slight breeze stirred the air, wafting the scent of flowers and newly mown grass towards them. Floral tributes were laid across immaculate lawns peppered with memorial stones. An oasis on the edge of the city, the view beyond rows of houses interspersed with green walkways, the sound of traffic distant and otherworldly. But the sun beamed down, insensitive as ever, to the funeral of such a young woman.

  Claire stood on the edge of the clusters of people, some in black, others in bright colours they possibly imagined Maisie Steadman would have appreciated. She scanned the faces. Apart from Grant and his mother she knew no one. Grant and his mother were still dealing with the line-up. There would be no opportunity to speak to him privately so, intending to slip away unseen, she moved a distance off, switched her phone on and picked up a message.

  ‘Hi, Claire.’ She didn’t recognize the voice. Not until he introduced himself.

  ‘It’s DS Zed Willard here. I don’t know if you remember me, but I could really do with your advice, maybe help. Is it possible we could meet up? Soon if possible. Anyway, give me a ring back on this number and I’ll … erm, explain.’

  She stared at her phone. What the heck could he want? He sounded agitated. She moved further away, stood under a tree and redialled. DS Willard picked up at once. ‘Claire.’

  ‘Hi.’ Her greeting sounded listless. Her ‘What can I do for you?’ was unenthusiastic.

  ‘I have a problem,’ he said, speaking quickly. ‘And I think you might be able to help.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, give me some idea what this problem is?’ She hoped he hadn’t picked up on the flatness in her tone.

  ‘It’s better if I meet up with you. It’s a bit complicated. Hard to explain over the phone. Where are you now?’

  ‘At a funeral.’

  ‘Sorry. No one close to you, I hope?’ Mere politeness. He was anxious to spill out his own problem, not absorb hers.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can you get to the station?’

  ‘Hanley?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘OK.’ She was curious now. What could be so urgent and complicated? ‘It’ll take me nearly an hour.’

  ‘Thank you.’ His voice was sounding more relaxed now he’d handed over ‘the problem’.

  ‘I owe you one.’

  She ended the call, put her phone back in her bag and glanced across to the clusters of people still standing around Grant and his mother. Grant had his arm around his mother’s shoulders and her head rested against him. Her shoulders were heaving.

  Then he looked across, spotted her, said something to his mother and walked towards her.

  Her heart went out to him. Closer, he looked wrecked. There were lines around his eyes as though he hadn’t slept for a month.

  And now she felt awkward, with nothing to say, so hid behind a banality.

  ‘That went as well as …’ Her voice died away as she met his eyes. They were lifeless. ‘God, Grant,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry.’ And without working anything out or really thinking about what she was doing, she put her arms around him and kissed the stubbly cheek.

  He dropped his head and spoke against her shoulder. ‘I’ve always looked after her,’ he said, broken. ‘I’ve always been there for her. Beck and call, you might say.’ Then, in an outburst, he said, ‘I feel like shit. I think I should get roaring drunk. You’re coming to the wake?’

  ‘I can’t.’ She knew she was letting him down. ‘I can’t.’

  His eyes misted over. ‘Work?’

  She nodded.

  He grabbed her arm. ‘When am I going to see you? Properly? For a real talk?’

  She avoided looking too deeply into the dark eyes. They had a habit of robbing her of free will. ‘I don’t know. Things are complicated.’

  He reacted angrily. ‘How do you mean complicated? What’s complicated about us?’

  She glanced past him towards his mother, standing, watching them. And this time hid behind an irrelevant truth. ‘I have a lodger these days.’

  His head jerked up. ‘You mean you’ve moved someone else in?’

  ‘No. It’s not like that. He’s a colleague …’

  ‘He?’ He’d picked up on it straightaway.

  ‘An Aussie over here on an exchange.’

  He could not have looked more shocked had she slapped his face. His features crumpled. He looked like a disappointed little boy.

  ‘It’s not like that,’ she said quickly. ‘He’s married. He’s just over here on a short-term contract. And …’ She tried to lighten his mood. ‘You know what rental properties in Hanley are like.’

  But Grant looked puzzled. He put his head on one side and regarded her, his expression unconvinced, his dark eyes suspicious.

  ‘OK,’ he said finally, and walked away leaving Claire wondering. Why hadn’t she made a date with him? Just dinner wouldn’t have hurt. Why couldn’t she have said he looked nice in a suit? Why hadn’t she at least kissed him more warmly? Given him something more? She watched him as he was swallowed up by people, and then she left.

  TWO

  Claire had met Zed Willard over a previous case and while they hadn’t exactly hit it off, they had found a détente and a mutual respect. Though what on earth possessed him to ask for her help now she couldn’t begin to imagine. Curiosity propelled her forward.

  It was a shit journey to the Hanley police station battling through traffic hindered by road closures caused by water mains leaks and apologized for by Severn Trent. The Hanley station was the hub of Stoke-on-Trent’s law
enforcement – modern, huge and ugly – but Claire couldn’t find a parking space. After a few minutes driving round and round she parked on the road straddling double yellow lines and decided if DS Willard wanted her here he could bloody well pay the parking fine.

  She approached the front desk and spoke to a bored-looking officer who could barely lift his eyelids.

  In response to her request he gave her a lopsided grin and picked up the phone. ‘You want to take a seat?’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘I’m fine. I’d rather stand.’

  But he hadn’t finished his hospitality spiel. ‘Cup of tea?’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, suddenly thirsty. She’d had nothing since breakfast, which had been hours and hours ago.

  ‘Milk and sugar?’

  ‘Milk. No sugar.’

  He was back in a suspiciously short time and handed her a cup of weak, milky tea. But it tasted good, made with fresh milk rather than the synthetic stuff. And, in a nod to the city’s nickname, the Potteries, it was in a china cup.

  Two sips in DS Zed Willard was standing in front of her. She hadn’t seen him since the summer. He was still stocky but had lost a bit of weight, fat turned into muscle – maybe a few evenings at the gym? But his hair was still unruly, thick and dark, his blue eyes very bright in contrast and his grin was as warm as if he was greeting an old friend rather than a passing work colleague. She stood up, balancing her cup of tea. Their eyes were level as his grin broadened. ‘Good to see you, Claire. Thanks for coming. I really appreciate it. Sorry to drag you away from your funeral.’