Death Dues

Prologue

Prologue

This novel is written in British English. If there is a word or phrase you don’t understand, there is a handy list in the back of the book.

DI JOE RAFFERTY RIFFLED through the pages of quotations for caterers and photographers, florists and all the rest, and thought—why do weddings have to cost so much?

He muttered, ‘I can feel my credit cards wincing from here, and they’re all the way across the hall.’ And he hadn’t even looked at the honeymoon holiday brochures yet.

He’d proposed to Abra just before Christmas the previous year. Much to his astonishment, she’d said yes. Then, it had been all hearts and roses and romance. But now the cold reality of modern weddings and their expense hit him in the face with all the force of a frozen kipper. Why they had to go through all this rigmarole...

From the other side of the table, Abra, his fiancée, complained, ‘Don’t be such a tightwad, Joe. I don’t want a hole in the corner wedding. People will say we’ve something to hide.’

‘And if we fork out for what this lot are charging—’ He picked up a stack of quotations, and let them drop back to the table amongst the breakfast dishes— ‘we will have something to hide. Ourselves. From the friendly, neighbourhood bailiffs.’

Abra tossed her long, chestnut hair and gave him a poke in the ribs as she said with a challenging air, ‘Aren’t I worth it, then?’

This, of course, put Rafferty in a cleft stick. Damned if he said yes and damned if he didn’t. ‘Of course, you’re worth it, my little peach melba. But you must remember I’m not Rockefeller. I’m just a humble cop still paying off for all the new stuff we bought for the flat.’

‘And that’s another thing. I think we ought to sell this place and buy a house.’

‘But we’ve only just decorated throughout,’ he protested. ‘Not to mention all the new furniture we’ve bought.’

‘Exactly. That’s the most sensible time to sell. When the flat’s looking its best.’

‘I’d rather like to enjoy it looking its best myself. Anyway, I thought we were meant to be discussing the wedding, not moving home. Surely getting married is enough of a big thing to be doing at one time?’ It’s certainly the most stressful, he thought, but was wise enough not to voice the thought.

‘Maybe. But the flat’s not mine and never will be. I’d like us to have a completely fresh start, when we begin married life. With a place that’s ours.’

‘We still haven’t even settled on a date for the wedding,’ Rafferty pointed out. Never mind where, which was likely to be another bone of contention.

‘I thought next May.’

Rafferty nodded quickly. ‘Next May’s fine with me.’ He was just glad to have got one thing sorted.

On that happy note, he stood and grabbed his jacket. ‘And now I’ve got to get to work.’ And earn the money to pay for it all.

The wedding costs were getting seriously out of hand. Abra seemed to think she had to emulate the pomp of Lady Diana Spencer’s wedding. And look how that marriage had turned out. All his attempts to encourage her to be reasonable had fallen on ears that were seemingly stuffed with cotton wool. It was as if she was bewitched by some mischievous wedding sprit—and he didn’t have the formula to break the spell.

Abra shuffled the wedding quotes into a neat pile. ‘I’m off today so leave these to me. I’ll make a start whittling them down. Some of them are charging way over the odds,’ she conceded. ‘I’ll ring round and see if I can’t knock them down a bit.’

A lot would be better, Rafferty thought as he kissed Abra goodbye, shrugged into his jacket, and made for the door, picking up his raincoat on the way. But again it was a thought he kept to himself. It wouldn’t go down well, and would only bring them back to Abra’s ‘Aren’t I worth it?’ argument, to which he knew he’d never find a winning response. ‘I just hope this marriage does better than my first,’ he muttered as he shut the front door behind him and made for the car.