Death of a High Flyer (eBook)

D.P. Hart-Davis (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2019 | 1. Auflage
256 Seiten
Merlin Unwin Books (Verlag)
978-1-913159-06-1 (ISBN)

Infos

International multi-millionaire trader Hansi Hartzog has bought Dunmorse Hall, jewel in the crown of the Starcliffe valley, and he's improved the shoot, brought in new money and generally shaken things up. But not all the locals approve of the changes. They can't walk in the woods, dead vermin adorn the fences and there are grumbles about over-production of game birds. There are boundary disputes, rumours of affairs and unsettling co-incidences. Here is a community in flux: eastern european farm workers, poachers, badger culls, TB testing, in-comers and old-school locals, financial and emotional tensions. Hansi organises an ambitious charity High Flyers Day raffle for which the winner can invite seven guests to shoot on donated drives at four different local shoots. But on the day, a shocking death rocks the village. Can DCI Robb, recently widowed and recovering from injury, solve the crime before more damage is done?

After a career in magazines and journalism, D.P. Hart-Davis was fiction-buyer for the Mirror Group. She has had 16 novels published and was a columnist for the Daily Telegraph and Daily Mail, as well as for several country magazines. Death of a Dealer is the latest in Hart-Davis' highly-acclaimed sporting thrillers, following the success of Death of a Selkie, The Stalking Party and Death of a High Flyer. Married to author and journalist Duff Hart-Davis, she lives on a small farm in Gloucestershire.

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CHAPTER ONE

The Draw

Supporting his paunch on the edge of the central table, and using both hands to heave his eighteen stone upright, Arthur Longwood OBE, Chairman of the Gamebird Preservation Trust, rose ponderously from his seat and surveyed the crowded room. He clinked sharply with his knife on a water-glass, waiting for the clatter and chatter to die away as all faces turned to him.

He cleared his throat. ‘Now we come to the moment you have all been waiting for,’ he announced in his deep, gravelly bass. ‘The moment which – dare I say it? – may well be the reason we are enjoying your company here tonight.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, I have the great pleasure of asking Mr Hans Hartzog to draw the winning ticket for the Starcliffe Highflyers’ raffle, which he has so generously organised to raise funds for this very good cause, entitling the winner and his team to a day’s shooting over the five best drives in the glorious Starcliffe valley next December.’ He raised a beckoning hand. ‘Hansi: over to you.’

Hans Hartzog, tall, thickset, and heavily handsome, rose from Table No 1 and swaggered to the dais with the assurance of one whose financial wizardry had made him a millionaire in his teens and a billionaire before he was forty. His smoothly-tanned face seemed set in a permanent smile as he acknowledged the scattered round of applause: it was no secret that his nickname ‘Mr Merger’ had been earned at the expense of many small businesses which Hartzog Holdings had gobbled up in the past decade, and though widely respected he was not greatly loved.

He clasped the chairman’s hand in both his own before turning his attention to the open game-bag filled with coloured raffle-tickets that had been placed on a baize-topped card table.

‘Take a look at those!’ he exclaimed. ‘Better make sure they’re well mixed. We don’t want the ones on top to have an advantage.’ Only the faintest flattening of vowels proclaimed his South African origins, but it was enough to grate on the ears of Jericho Oak, sitting stony-faced at Table 2. Look at them all, he thought disgustedly, glancing round the room. Eating out of that shyster’s hand because he’s set up this silly stunt, and bulldozed me into taking part in it.

‘Now, are you ready? Here goes…’ Hartzog stirred the papers vigorously, then fastened on a single ticket.

In expectant silence, he unfolded and read it. ‘The winner is…’ – long pause for effect – ‘number 467, blue. Can anyone here produce the counterfoil to ticket number 467, blue?’

There was a rustle and stir at the far end of the room, where a party of City boys were scrutinising their tickets, then they began laughing, shouting, and pushing one of their friends to his feet. ‘Go on, Rods! It’s yours. You’ve won! Go and show him.’

Propelled towards the dais, ticket in hand, young Rodney Owen appeared completely overwhelmed. His face was scarlet and his throat moved convulsively as he tried to speak. ‘It’s… This is …’

He thrust the counterfoil at Hartzog, who looked at it carefully and nodded. ‘This is indeed it,’ he announced. ‘Well done and congratulations. And your name is?’

Rodney’s response was drowned by the cheers and hoots from his table and an outburst of clapping from the rest of the room. Above the hubbub, the chairman tapped his glass again.

‘Ladies and gentlemen: we have a winner. Mr Rodney Owen from Berkhamstead – a very worthy winner. Now, Mr Owen –’

‘Rodney, please,’ mumbled the boy.

‘Very well. Rodney, let me tell you exactly what you have won and who has donated each of these drives as a contribution to a very special day. First and foremost, let’s show our appreciation to Mr Hans Hartzog, owner of Dunmorse Estate, whose world-famous Stubbles will be your first drive.’

‘World-famous! What rot,’ muttered Jericho.

‘And whose very testing drive known as Skyscraper – for obvious reasons – will sort the men from the boys after lunch.’

A ripple of laughter.

‘Your second drive has been given by Messrs Marcus and Paul Bellton, of Castle Farm, known to many of us as prizewinning breeders of the noble Devon Red cattle. Marcus, do you have a name for this drive of yours?’

With his rubicund face glowing beneath a thick grey thatch of hair and side-whiskers, beefy Marcus Bellton lurched to his feet, grinning broadly. ‘Can’t say as we do,’ he rumbled.

‘Call it The Splash, dad,’ shouted his copper-haired son from across the room. ‘That’s ’cos half the birds we shoot fall in the river.’

‘Very good,’ the chairman beamed. ‘That gives you an idea what to expect, Mr Owen – er – Rodney. And your third drive, kindly donated by Mr and Mrs Jericho Oak of Grange Farm – where are you, Jericho?’

‘Stand up,’ hissed Marina to her husband. ‘Try to look as if you’re enjoying yourself.’

But I’m not, he thought, rising reluctantly and forcing a smile that was more of a grimace. I’m not a performing monkey and I never wanted to take part in this wretched circus of Hartzog’s, damn his eyes.

‘Ah, there you are,’ exclaimed the chairman heartily. ‘Good to see you and Marina here tonight. As I was saying, your very challenging Maiden’s Leap will be the last drive before lunch, which Mr Hartzog has kindly offered to provide in the Dunmorse Barn; with Skyscraper to follow and then, as a final treat, Mr Locksley Maude of Eastmarsh Country Sports has offered to wrap up an outstanding day with an evening flight over his oxbow lakes. Thank you, Locksley. That should provide a memorable finale.’

And put your fledgling shooting-school on the map. Just what the doctor ordered, thought Jericho, watching Maude bowing and saluting towards the dais, an excited flush on his high-cheekbones and tanned face beneath a thatch of strongly-waved dark hair. He’s a first-class instructor, thought Jericho, watching him, even if he was lucky to keep his licence after that trouble in Afghanistan. Only escaped prison by a whisker. Oh, God, here comes Hansi to make my day…

But Hartzog was heading for Marina, bending to whisper in her ear in his damned proprietorial way. Rage bubbled up in Jericho as he watched. With her fair hair drawn smoothly back and coiled in a classic chignon, emphasising the lovely line of her neck, and her gentle enigmatic smile, she was by far the most beautiful woman in the room, and to see Hartzog placing one of his pudgy paws on her bare shoulder made her husband feel sick.

What was he asking her? What delightful cultural treat had he planned – something that he knew would bore Jericho to tears but draw Marina into Hansi’s company, if not into his bed? A first night at Covent Garden with supper in his box? A recitation of works by post-War German poets? A quick flip to Bayreuth for the new production of Parsifal? Anything that would reinforce the perception that the brilliant and beautiful pianist Marina, who had played in many of Europe’s greatest concert halls, would have been better suited by marriage to Renaissance Man Hansi Hartzog, rich, sport-loving, clever and cultured, than that lumpen proletariat hick with earth beneath his fingernails, Jeremy Richard Oak.

Then she shook her head, making her emerald drop earrings flash green fire, and Jericho, who had been unconsciously holding his breath, let it out with a sigh. Whatever it was, she had turned it down, and all was well with the world.

He sat down and picked up his wineglass, but now Hansi was edging round the table, pushing between the chairbacks with smiling apologies, in order to give him a politician’s greeting, left hand clasping forearm while right did the shaking, pulling Jericho forward into such uncomfortable proximity that he feared a man-hug might follow.

‘Jerry, old boy!’ Jericho winced, and then cursed himself for wincing. How could Hartzog know that ‘Jerry’ was his pet hate? The loud, harsh-edged voice boomed on: ‘Great that you could make it tonight. Well, we’ve got our winner: Owen seems a nice lad, even if he is still wet behind the ears. His uncle gave him the ticket as a birthday present – which is just the sort of story the press will love – and he’s going to pick a team of friends and let me have their names asap. Couldn’t be better. A Highflyers’ Day will be a real treat for them rather than having the prize go to some old blimp who shoots three days a week all winter.’

Jericho said stiffly, ‘You must let us help with the costs, Hartzog. Fair do’s. We’ll all kick in – be glad to.’

‘Balls, old boy. My idea – I’ll pay for it. Can’t have Maude and old Bellton feeling they have to fork out their hard-earned cash for something I dreamed up. They’re doing their bit as it is by letting us shoot over their ground, and so are you.’

Across the table, Marina was listening. Hartzog glanced at her and said, ‘On quite another tack, I’ve been trying to persuade your lovely wife to come to a Benefit Concert at the O2 next Thursday. It’s being given by an old friend of mine, Klaus Leprovitch, and it should be pretty special. I know he’d love to meet her and they’d find a lot of friends in common. Won’t you try to talk her into it?’

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Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 15.11.2019
• Verlagsort: London
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Krimi / Thriller / Horror ► Krimi / Thriller
• Themenwelt: Sachbuch/Ratgeber ► Freizeit / Hobby ► Angeln / Jagd
• Themenwelt: Sachbuch/Ratgeber ► Sport
• Schlagworte: field sports thriller • Inspector Robb • Mystery • pheasant • pheasant shoot • shooting thriller • Thriller • Whodunnit
• ISBN-10: 1-913159-06-X / 191315906X
• ISBN-13: 978-1-913159-06-1 / 9781913159061