Murder on the Menu

by Fiona Leitch

  ‘Thanks…’

  I stood in the doorway of the hotel, fumbling with the lead. It was one of those retractable ones, with a long lead curled up inside a plastic case and a button to lock it in place, or to let it spool out as the dog ran. Germaine was a very good girl and sat patiently while I clipped it to her collar and stuffed the poop bags into my pocket.

  Should I take her for a walk so she could do her business? I rolled my eyes. Do her business. I was already talking like a true dog owner. I didn’t know how long she’d been cooped up for and as much as the Gimpmobile – in which I’d driven over against my better judgement, as I hadn’t known what the hotel had wanted me to collect – as much as it already smelt a bit funny (I did not want to know why, bearing in mind what sort of business the previous owner had run), I didn’t want to risk the newest member of the family having a dump in it. And it was early evening, the weather was good, and it was still light. A brief walk around the grounds it was, then.

  Germaine led me down the stairs and out into the car park. She turned straight towards the battered old Vauxhall, which hadn’t moved from the night before and which had police tape all round it; I supposed it was evidence. The only thing I could see was different was that the window in the back – which I’d previously seen Germaine’s snout sniffing at – was now open much wider. I looked down at her.

  ‘Did you do that, Houdini?’ I asked, remembering what Mel had said about her escaping from cars. The dog just wagged her tail and waited to be let into the car. I sighed and bent down to stroke her. ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart, you’ll have to come for a ride in my stinky old van.’

  The phone in my back pocket vibrated. I took it out and looked at it. A text from Tony:

  Everything okay with you?

  Cheeky sod. He knew that right about now I’d be knee-deep in Pomeranian.

  I’d just started to type out a slightly snarky (but not too snarky, as he was bound to be feeling emotional) reply, when Germaine picked up a scent.

  I obviously hadn’t clicked the button on the plastic housing properly because she was off and across the other side of the car park before I recovered my senses. I tried to reel the lead back but her momentum was too great and there was too much dog leash, well, unleashed. I hauled on the nylon lead; she was heavier than she looked. I felt like a fisherman on one of those extreme fishing shows they have on TV, you know the sort, where they’re fishing off the Bahamas for barracudas or something and they have to strap themselves in so the massive beast on the end of the line doesn’t pull them overboard. It was just like that, only with a small dog instead of a shark. I had no choice but to set off in pursuit.

  It soon became apparent where she was heading. It was obvious, really. I ran towards the ornamental fishpond and got there just as Germaine reached the spot where she’d left her late mistress. She plopped herself down and start to howl, a tiny, high-pitched howl which broke your heart.

  The crime scene itself was covered by a tent, erected by the forensic team to keep the prying eyes of the guests away from the victim’s body and to protect any evidence. Police tape criss-crossed in front of it and I was mildly surprised that there was no officer on duty outside it; but then, maybe the scene of crime guys had finished, and we were, after all, in Penstowan, which at the best (or should that be worst?) of times was probably quite short-staffed. It had been in my dad’s day anyway.

  I squatted down in front of Germaine; if nothing else, my calf muscles would be getting well toned with a dog of this size. I reached out and stroked her soothingly.

  ‘I’m sorry, fluffball, but your mum’s not in there anymore,’ I said, feeling a lump form in my throat. Poor Mel. Poor Germaine. The dog looked at me and I had to blink back tears. Ridiculous. Years in the force had made me, not hardened but able to control my emotions in the face of bereaved or angry relatives, but put a dog in front of me and I turned to mush.

  Germaine licked my knee, which was comforting in a bizarre way, then she put her head down and began to snuffle around in the grass. I watched her for a moment. It was well trampled here, both where Mel and I, and then Tony, had strayed off the path to sit on the bench, and where later on the small crowd had gathered to gawp at her body. Later still, the heavily shod feet of the police had crushed it even further.

  Germaine turned away from the tent and sniffed; she’d picked up a scent. I should really reel her in and get her away from there. I stood up, but halfway up I stopped, then hunkered down again. It wasn’t really noticeable when you were standing, but from down here there was a faint but definite path in the undergrowth, leading away from the bench. Germaine started up that path, tail wagging, obviously following some kind of scent trail.

  I stood up again and looked around. There was no one about. I felt pretty sure the police wouldn’t really want anyone fumbling around so close to the crime scene but there was no one on duty and I could hardly help it if my dog managed to slip her lead…

  I followed the ridiculously fluffy, waggy tail in front of me. The path was quite faint but it was also wide, stalks of grass flattened and bent, forming a track almost a metre across. It could be nothing, I told myself, but my copper’s intuition was nagging at me.

  Germaine ran on ahead, all thoughts of her mistress left behind with the tent. The trail wound through the grass for a good five hundred metres, and I was just starting to think that it was nothing more than an animal track or something when we reached a rather rickety wooden picket fence. On the other side of the fence was a lay-by, with the main road between Penstowan and Launceston next to it.

  Germaine stopped and sat down, looking pleased with herself, and began to wash her unmentionables. I sighed and turned back to look towards the hotel, which was pretty well hidden behind the bushes. I must’ve driven past this spot thousands of times and never realised it was here.

  I looked down at Germaine and reeled in the lead, then stared in astonishment. Caught on a bush next to her was an earring, a big gold flashy thing. A small yelp told me I’d reeled in the leash as far as it would go, so I loosened it and bent down to study the discarded jewellery.

  I recognised it, I was sure. It was a large, hammered gold disc, about 5cm in diameter, with a red jewel set in the centre. I was ninety-nine per cent certain it was Cheryl’s. She’d been wearing it the night before with her swanky red cocktail dress and I’d noted it at the time as I remembered my mum having some similar earrings when I was little. I’d coveted those earrings, but I’d been too young to have my ears pierced and by the time I could have them done, fashions had changed and so had my taste in jewellery.

  I reached out to pick it up but stopped myself just in time. How had it ended up here? I stood and stared at the trail leading back towards the hotel; how had it been made? It was too wide to have been made by a runaway bride, even if it did lead to the freedom of the open road… I thought for a moment then, watched by a bemused Germaine, lay down.

  The trail was the width of my body with my arms draped casually by my side. So the trail could have been made not by feet, but by a body. A body being dragged, all the way to the road.

  I got up and inspected the fence. It was just about low enough to climb over, especially if you put a foot on one of the cross beams. The wood was old and rough under my skin and I yanked my hand away as a splinter found its way into a finger. I tied Germaine’s lead to the fence and climbed ungracefully over it, hoping no one would drive past and find me in such an undignified position.

  There was a scrap of material caught on the fence this side. White cotton, with a thin blue thread running through it. Nothing particularly distinctive, nothing like the red silk Cheryl had been wearing the last time I’d seen her, although of course she probably would have changed into something a little less restrictive if she’d been fleeing from her nuptials. But then, why come this way when she had a car in the car park? And why leave her suitcase?

  I looked around the lay-by. There was nothing there except for the ubiquitous l
itter and suspiciously smelling damp patch you seem to find in all lay-bys where there’re no toilet facilities. On the tarmac, where a car using the lay-by would have sat, was a dark stain, probably from engine oil or something. And that was it.

  I climbed back over the fence. I momentarily considered bagging up the earring as evidence, but then I remembered that 1) all I had in my pocket was a bundle of hotel doggy-poop bags, and 2) it wasn’t my job anymore. Instead, I took out my phone and called the police station.

  Chapter Eight

  DCI Withers gave a big exaggerated sigh, which I thought was probably meant to make him look like a world-weary cop but just made me despise him all the more.

  ‘And do you want to tell me exactly why you were poking around in the undergrowth near my crime scene?’ he asked. No, I thought, but I didn’t say it.

  ‘I wasn’t poking around. The dog slipped her lead and ran off.’ It was more or less true.

  ‘Hmm.’ Withers did not look convinced. ‘If you weren’t sneaking around, how did you manage to get past the officer who was guarding the crime scene?’ He indicated a young uniformed officer who was standing behind him nervously. The young man immediately looked terrified and shot me a pleading glance.

  ‘I didn’t sneak past him,’ I said. ‘I explained the situation and the officer used extremely good judgement and let me pass. We obviously couldn’t leave the dog roaming around and I didn’t want to make him desert his post and get into trouble.’ The young officer sagged in relief and gave me a look of deep gratitude. So it clearly wasn’t just me who thought Withers was an annoying git.

  ‘Hmm.’ Withers examined the trampled grass carefully, ignoring me. I let him look for a few seconds, but couldn’t keep quiet any longer.

  ‘If you look at the grass, it’s not completely flattened, not like where the body was found, so I reckon there was only one, maybe two people walking along here.’

  ‘Before you, you mean,’ said Withers, pointedly. I ignored the veiled criticism.

  ‘And the width of the path is about the same as a body with the arms laid out by its side.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘I lay down and tried it out,’ I said. Withers looked surprised, and for a moment it looked like he’d almost forgotten himself and was going to laugh – but it was only for a moment.

  ‘You lay down, contaminating the scene?’

  Oh for God’s sake! I rolled my eyes. ‘I lay down in one spot, yes, but you’ll be taking my DNA for elimination purposes anyway, won’t you?’ He looked surprised again, but this time not in a good way. ‘You know, because I manhandled the victim when she had her fight with Cheryl? Or had that not occurred to you?’

  ‘Of course it had,’ he said, but I got the feeling he’d dismissed me so easily earlier that day that he’d not really considered that my DNA would be all over Mel.

  ‘You’ll need Cheryl’s as well,’ I said, ‘but as she’s disappeared you’ll have to get a sample off one of her belongings, a hairbrush or—’

  ‘Yes, thank you!’ said Withers. ‘It’s all in hand. One of my officers will take a swab from you now.’

  ‘Er, the forensic blokes have gone home, guv,’ said the nervous uniformed officer. Withers sighed again.

  ‘In the morning, then. Pop along to the station and— STOP THAT DOG URINATING ON THE EVIDENCE!’

  Germaine and I finally escaped. I took her back to the Gimpmobile and settled her on the passenger seat – which didn’t feel terribly safe, but I didn’t know what else to do – then I patted her on the head.

  ‘Good girl, Germaine!’ I said. ‘Someone deserves some doggy treats for annoying old Mr DCI Grumpy Pants, doesn’t she? Oh, yes, she does, oh, yes, she does.’ I stopped in disgust. Less than two hours had passed since I’d returned to the hotel and I’d already turned into a doggy person. By morning there was every chance I’d be unironically wearing jumpers with pugs on them.

  Daisy, of course, was over the moon when Germaine bounded in through the front door. She momentarily forgot that she was a streetwise South London twelve-year-old who was too cool for school, and actually squealed with delight at the sight of the fluffy white ball of cuteness who was to be our new family member. I think she was about to clap her hands in her excitement but she remembered just in time that she had a reputation to uphold and stopped herself. She still dropped to her knees and hugged Germaine tightly, burying her face in her fur in exactly the way I’d envisioned myself doing.

  By now it was starting to get late. I offered to take Mum home, but she looked so tired that I suggested she stay overnight with us again. I didn’t have to insist too hard and I was beginning to suspect she didn’t enjoy her freedom and independence quite as much as she had said she did.

  Daisy reluctantly went to bed – reluctantly, because she didn’t want to leave Germaine and she begged me to let her sleep in her room. But I wasn’t sure how well she would settle (the dog, not my daughter), so with one last cuddle (for the dog, not for me) she trooped off upstairs. I made Mum a cup of cocoa and we sat up, talking over the day’s events, until she too took herself off to the spare room.

  I was tired but my mind was buzzing and I didn’t think I’d be able to sleep. Germaine had flopped down on the sofa; I wasn’t sure how I felt about getting dog hair on my lovely new furniture but she looked so comfy that I didn’t have the heart to move her… I was just wondering if I should take her out for one last walk around the block to relieve herself before going to bed, when my phone buzzed. Another message from Tony.

  You still up? Can’t sleep.

  ‘I feel like a teenager, sneaking out to meet a boy at midnight.’

  Tony was leaning against a railing, looking out to sea. He jumped as I spoke and turned around to greet me with a grin. He looked at his watch.

  ‘It’s only half ten,’ he said. ‘I felt knackered and thought I’d have an early night, but then I couldn’t get to sleep, and I had to get up again.’

  ‘Same here,’ I said. Germaine wagged her tail and sniffed around his shoes.

  ‘You didn’t mind me lumbering you with the dog?’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, I should’ve checked with you first but I wasn’t really thinking straight.’

  ‘It’s fine. You are officially one of Daisy’s favourite people for suggesting it.’

  ‘I would’ve taken her, but Cheryl’s allergic to dogs and I thought, when she comes back…’ His voice trailed off.

  The town was pretty quiet for a Saturday night. There were a couple of pubs open near the sea front and a few drinkers spilled out into the street, talking loudly and laughing, but the police had cracked down on people drinking on the beach in recent years (too many people getting drunk and deciding to go for a moonlit swim), so apart from a group of moody-looking teenagers skateboarding and smoking spliffs in the car park and a drunken couple snogging furiously in a shop doorway, we had the beach to ourselves.

  We walked down stone steps onto the sand and sat on a nearby cluster of boulders. The rock felt cold through the thin yoga pants I’d changed into earlier and I could hear my mum’s voice in my head warning me about getting piles, but I ignored it.

  ‘How’re your mum and dad?’ I asked.

  ‘They’re fine,’ said Tony. ‘I’m staying with them tonight. I’d rather be at home but Mum worries, you know?’ I nodded. ‘I think that’s why I can’t sleep. Their house always makes me feel claustrophobic. Like the walls are closing in.’

  ‘Old people like a lot of stuff,’ I said, and he laughed softly.

  ‘Yeah, Mum’s collected a lot of knick-knacks over the years…’

  We sat in silence, listening to the waves. The tide was a long way out and the wet sand reflected the moonlight above, shining like a mirror in the darkness. I couldn’t quite decide if it was eerie or romantic – probably a bit of both.

  Germaine was having a grand old time digging in the sand and I could see clumps of it sticking to her lovely white fur; I’d have to give her a go
od brush before I let her in the house again.

  ‘How are you holding up? Have you heard anything?’ I asked. I wondered whether I should mention finding Cheryl’s earring. It was on the tip of my tongue but I stopped myself; it looked like something bad had to have happened to her and there was no point upsetting him. Let him at least have a few more hours of blissful ignorance. I wasn’t sure if that made me a good friend or a bad one.

  ‘No, nothing,’ he said. ‘Did you talk to anyone when you went back to get the dog? Did they let slip anything about the investigation? You being Eddie Parker’s daughter and everything…’

  I laughed. ‘I don’t think DCI Withers has heard of my dad,’ I said. ‘Before his time. Most of the officers who served under him must be getting close to retirement age now.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose.’

  ‘I’m assuming there’s no word from Cheryl? What about her uncle and aunty? Or her cousin?’

  Tony shook his head. ‘You met her uncle. He despises me, which is fair enough because I don’t like him. Her aunty is nice enough but she just does as he tells her all the time. She wasn’t there last night but she was at the hotel earlier today; she had a stupid hat on—’

  ‘Half the guests had stupid hats on,’ I pointed out, and he smiled.

  ‘What is it with weddings and stupid hats?’ he asked. ‘You should see the one my mum wanted to get.’ He shifted on his boulder. ‘I don’t know what’s going on. That Withers asked me a lot of questions about my relationship with Mel, then he started going on about Cheryl and did I have any reason to believe she was going to leave me…’

  ‘Did you?’

  He sighed. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You know something?’ I said. ‘When I told you what Mel had accused Cheryl of, you looked surprised. And a bit relieved.’