Her Final Hour

by Rachel Amphlett

  ‘Is she here at the moment?’

  ‘She went out about half an hour ago – she wanted to get some plastic containers. She’s planning to make some meals for Jessica’s parents. Things they can put in the freezer to keep them going, stews and things, you know?’

  ‘That’s good of her.’

  ‘We didn’t know what else to do. I can’t imagine what they’re going through.’

  ‘No children of your own?’

  ‘No.’ Collins managed a smile. ‘This environment isn’t exactly conducive to bringing up kids, although I know some publicans who do.’

  ‘How many staff do you have working here?’

  ‘Six part-time bar staff and three part-timers in the kitchen.’

  ‘Any problems amongst them? Any personality clashes?’

  ‘None that I know of. We can all get stressed when it’s heaving with people out here, and the kitchen is smaller than our needs, so that doesn’t help, but nothing that isn’t put to rights by the time we’re done for the day.’ Collins gestured to where they sat. ‘I always encourage them to have a last drink with me – coffee or a soft drink, if they prefer – once the doors are closed for the night. It helps to wind down and talk through any issues before they become a real problem.’

  ‘And she seemed happy enough?’

  ‘Yes, same old Jessica really.’

  ‘What time did she leave here last night?’

  Collins ran a hand over his chin. ‘Doesn’t seem possible we’re talking about her like this. I can’t believe it’s only a few hours ago since she was here. I suppose it must’ve been about half past eleven by the time we got everything cleared away.’

  ‘Did she leave with anyone?’

  ‘No, she said she was going to walk. Her parents’ place is only a mile up the road and it’s well lit. Not much traffic that time of night. She’s done it plenty times before.’

  ‘It was cold last night.’

  ‘She always said she warmed up by the time she was nearly home.’ His voice broke, and he gave a slight shake of his head before blinking. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘None of the regulars offered her a lift?’

  ‘There was no-one here by the time we finished packing up.’

  ‘Would she get a lift from any regulars who drank here in the past?’

  ‘From time to time, yes, if she wasn’t leaving with a friend.’

  ‘We’ll need a note of the names of other staff members, and the regulars if you’ve got them.’

  ‘No problem.’ He took Jan’s notebook from her and began to write on a clean page, scrolling through his mobile phone for numbers and adding those where he could.

  ‘Was there anyone else working in the bar or kitchen that could have driven her home?’ said Mark.

  Collins shook his head and passed back the notebook. ‘Not last night. Martin, who helps in the kitchen, rides his push bike here – he lost his licence six months ago – and he was out of here as soon as he and Sonia had finished cleaning up. That was about nine-thirty. Cheryl lives in the opposite direction, towards Hazelthorpe. She left an hour before Jessica, because she’d started earlier.’

  ‘Why didn’t you give Jessica a lift?’

  A sheepish look crossed the man’s face. ‘I’d been drinking, and couldn’t risk it. So had Sonia. We tend to share a bottle of wine sometimes if the pub is a bit on the quiet side.’

  ‘And what did you do after Jessica left the pub?’

  ‘Went to bed,’ said Collins. ‘We had to be up at eight o’clock this morning to take delivery of half a ton of logs for the fire, and the oil tank resupply.’

  ‘Hard work,’ said Jan.

  ‘Yes, and it makes you wonder why so many people say they’ll retire and run a pub.’ Collins pushed himself away from the till and wrapped his fingers around the nearest beer pump. ‘Look, if there was anything else I could tell you, I would, but after Jessica left here, me and the missus were out like a light.’

  Mark rose from the bar stool and slid across a business card. ‘All right. We’ll let you get on. Call me if you remember anything that might help us – or if you overhear anything.’

  Collins tucked the card into the breast pocket of his shirt. ‘I will.’

  Outside, Mark waited until Jan had closed the door and then strode back towards the car. He paused at the roadside and peered up the uneven camber of the lane in the direction of the Marleys’ house.

  ‘Narrow, isn’t it?’ said Jan. ‘No pavement, and a blind corner.’

  Mark cocked his head, but no vehicles sounded in the distance, only a tractor that rumbled across a field behind the pub.

  ‘Do you think she knew her attacker, Sarge?’

  Mark shoved his hands in his pockets and glared at the white clouds that scudded across a greying sky.

  ‘From what we’re hearing about her, she was a smart young woman,’ he said. ‘I can’t see her accepting a lift home from a stranger, can you?’

  Chapter Seven

  Noah Collins watched the detectives’ car turn into the lane before removing the tea towel from his shoulder and rubbing at the bar where they had been sitting.

  Smudges removed, he returned to the bar, picked up his pen and crossed off the day of the week on the calendar below the clock on the wall, wondering if he would ever forget the date.

  The day Jessica Marley was found murdered.

  He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of a car entering the car park beyond the front windows, and then a flash of blue passed by.

  Noah picked the last of the clean pint glasses out of the washer under the bar, gave each a polish and then slapped the tea towel over his shoulder once more. He wandered through to the kitchen, opened the back door and smiled as his wife handed him a laden tote bag.

  ‘Did you get them?’

  ‘There’s seven in there that I can use for Jessica’s mum and dad, and I bought some extra for us as well. I thought perhaps we could experiment and offer a takeaway service over the winter.’

  Dark-haired, shorter than her husband, Sonia had green eyes that flashed with excitement.

  ‘I love the idea,’ he said. ‘What are you going to put on the menu?’

  ‘The simplest meals possible. That way, if we’re busy out here with orders from the bar, it won’t cause too much disruption.’ She followed him into the kitchen and closed the back door. ‘Any more news?’

  ‘The police were here just now.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘Two detectives this time.’

  Sonia blew her fringe out of her eyes and placed two more tote bags on the stainless-steel worktop. ‘What did they want?’

  ‘Not much. Just asking the same questions the two coppers asked us this morning. Do you want a coffee?’

  ‘Sounds good. I’ll get the fryers and everything switched on, and then I’ll come and join you.’

  Noah returned to the bar and busied himself with the state-of-the-art coffee machine he had purchased in the summer. He swallowed, his thoughts turning to the shift he and Jessica had spent together trying to learn how to work the damn thing.

  She had known more about the business than most, and her absence was going to be hard to bear.

  The rich aroma of ground coffee beans filled the air and he shook his head to clear the memories before filling two cups and wandering over to the table near the window.

  Sonia sat in a chair that was nearest to the weak beam of sunlight that shone through, the warmth accentuated by the central heating.

  ‘They wanted a list of who was in last night,’ he said, placing one of the hot drinks in front of her.

  Her eyes widened. ‘Do they think one of the regulars killed her?’

  ‘I don’t know. They’re not saying much. They can’t, I suppose.’

  Sonia brought her hand to her mouth as he sat opposite her. ‘What do we do?’

  ‘Carry on as normal, I suppose. Nothing else we can do.’

  ‘But if they think a murderer comes in h
ere to drink?’ She dropped her hand. ‘Think what that’ll do to the business, after everything we’ve worked for.’

  ‘There’s not a lot we can do about it, love. Let’s just hope it turns out to be nothing. After all, she was found up on the gallops, wasn’t she? It could be someone around there that did this.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right.’ She pulled her cardigan around her shoulders, her mouth twisting. ‘Still––’

  ‘They asked me if we had kids,’ he said, his gaze on the milk froth bubbles that popped as the coffee cooled. ‘I didn’t try to explain to them that Jessica and the others are like our family. Jess more so. We’ve been so dependent on her. What are we going to do without her?’

  Sonia looked at him over the rim of her cup, then placed it on the table. ‘I don’t know. I was thinking on the way back here that we’re going to have to advertise for a replacement at some point but it seems so crass, doesn’t it? We’re going to have to wait.’

  He nodded. ‘We’ll manage. I don’t want to upset anyone.’

  Peering out of the window, she wrinkled her nose at the inclement weather. ‘Should we open today?’

  ‘I think so, yes. I’d imagine people will want to talk about what’s happened. It’s how some people cope, isn’t it? I think it’d look odd if we didn’t, but––’

  ‘Maybe stay closed at lunchtime and open this evening for a few hours. We only get passing traffic anyway this time of year during the week, but chances are the locals will come in tonight. Some of them have nowhere else to go and no family at home.’

  ‘If you’re sure?’

  She reached out and placed her hand over his. ‘It’ll give me time to cook those meals for her parents and take them up there. I’m still trying to come to terms with all of this, to be honest. I haven’t a clue what I’m going to say to them. When we started this business, I knew we’d get trouble from time to time but nothing like this.’

  ‘I know.’ Noah sighed. ‘Nigel phoned from the stables.’

  ‘Did he? Did he say how Will is?’

  ‘Not good. In shock, I’d imagine, after finding her this morning.’

  His wife bit her lip and shook her head, her eyes filled with sadness. ‘I can imagine he is.’

  Chapter Eight

  Mark twisted the key in the deadlock and pushed open the front door, seconds before a brown mottled ball of fur barrelled down the stairs and launched itself at his ankles.

  The dog’s feet scraped against his trousers as he crouched to pick up the letters deposited on the door mat, before an excited snuffling accompanied by a wet lick across his nose made him step back and wipe his face.

  ‘Enough, Hamish. I’m home now. Good boy.’

  Satisfied he was telling the truth, the scruffy mongrel tore into the living room, the sound of a toy being squeaked to death reaching his ears.

  Mark shrugged off his coat, tweaked the thermostat on the wall, and held his breath until he heard the boiler start up.

  He ignored the faded decor that covered the walls. If it were his house he’d strip back the decade-old wallpaper and use a couple of cans of white paint to cover the plaster before hanging the prints that were currently covered in plastic wrap and stored in the garage that abutted the property on one side.

  He’d finally left the rented narrowboat on the Thames two months ago but was reluctant to unpack his life. The boxes that had previously covered much of the seating in his water-based home had simply been scooped up, thrust into the back of his car and dumped in the garage together with the paintings and everything else from the storage unit he’d been using.

  The neighbours kept to themselves but seemed friendly enough when he’d arrived, offering help if he needed it, and relieved to find out he was a serving police detective. Part of him relished the solitude; part of him kept an open ear for the doorbell. He’d discovered when he had first joined the police force in Wiltshire that some neighbours would rather knock on his door than dial triple nine. It could make for an exasperating time if he was trying to get his head down after a late shift.

  However, the middle-aged couple next door had so far respected his privacy.

  Despite his best attempts to pack up his belongings from the boat, he still couldn’t fathom where he’d stored some of the day-to-day things he needed. On his first night in the house, he’d had to eat his fish and chip supper with the aid of a pocketknife. It took him another three days to locate the box with the cutlery inside.

  The semi-detached house suited his purposes for now. With three bedrooms and a separate living and dining area, it provided him with a chance to spread out, especially after the cramped living conditions on the boat. For all that though, this, another roof over his head that didn’t belong to him, felt like a temporary reprieve.

  Flicking through the day’s post, he tossed aside the marketing leaflets from a local curry house and a pizza delivery service, then frowned as he ran his fingers over a plain brown envelope with a Swindon postmark on the label.

  He hadn’t heard from Debbie for a few weeks. His last scheduled turn to have his daughters stay the weekend had been postponed so that they could go with their mother to the south of France for a last-minute cheap holiday. Instead, he had followed their exploits – mostly larking around by the hotel’s swimming pool – on social media and tried to ignore the churning in his stomach as he did so.

  Mark tore open the envelope and pulled out the contents, his brow furrowing while he ran his gaze across the logo at the top of the page and unfolded the attachments.

  ‘What the hell?’

  A sickness tore through him, and he pulled out his mobile phone with a shaking hand while stomping towards the kitchen, switching on lights as he went. He paced the floor, his jaw clenched.

  ‘Come on. Pick up. Pick up.’

  ‘Mark?’

  ‘A divorce petition? Are you kidding me?’

  ‘They– they’ve sent it to you already?’

  He stopped in the middle of the tiles.

  Debbie sounded confused, and then––

  ‘Shit. I’m so sorry. They were meant to hang on until the end of the week to send it. To give me time to speak to you first.’

  Mark staggered, then reached out for the edge of the sink and leaned against it, heart racing.

  ‘A divorce?’

  ‘Hang on.’

  He heard her move, then call out to Anna and Louise to make sure they were doing their homework before she returned.

  ‘I just had to shut the door.’

  ‘Do they know?’

  ‘What? Of course not – I wanted to discuss it with you first.’

  ‘It’s a bit late for that, by the looks of it. I mean, why not talk to me before you spoke with the solicitors?’

  ‘Mark, we’ve been living apart for over six months. You’ve moved on––’

  ‘It was meant to be a temporary move, you know that.’

  ‘If it was only temporary, why did you transfer to Thames Valley Police?’

  ‘You know why. I was planning to move back, Debs. In time. I just needed to get away for a while after everything that happened, you know that.’ He pushed himself away from the sink and headed towards the living room, warming to his theme. ‘What about the girls? What are they going to think?’

  ‘I-I don’t know. This won’t change anything, Mark – they’ll still come and stay with you every month. I won’t stop you seeing them or anything stupid like that. I just need to move on. I––’

  ‘Are you seeing someone else?’

  ‘What? No, I––’

  ‘What, then? What’s brought this on?’

  He heard the scrape of one of the chairs being pulled out from under the kitchen table, a rustle of paper, and then a deep sigh as Debbie sat.

  ‘Mark, we’ve been drifting apart ever since you were stabbed. You know your job always worried me. It’s got worse the more you took on – it was bad enough when you were in uniform, but this— Ever since you were p
romoted to DS, it’s become an obsession. We hardly saw you before the attack, and when that happened I thought I was going to lose you for good… Now look at us. We haven’t even lived in the same house for months.’

  Mark ran his gaze over the documentation once more, his throat aching with emotion. His legs unsteady, he paced the living room in a daze, the silence at the end of the phone increasing his dread.

  She had nothing more to say.

  Collapsing onto the sofa, he blinked back the sting at the corners of his eyes. ‘I can make it better, really I can. I could move back. I can tell Kennedy I’ve made a mistake. I can—’

  ‘It’s too late, Mark,’ she whispered. ‘I can’t do this.’

  ‘Debbie, please––’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mark.’ She sniffed. ‘I’ve got to go. The girls will want their dinner.’

  ‘Wait, Deb––’

  He swore as the call ended and sat for a moment, his hands clasped between his knees as he tried to process what had happened.

  That was it.

  His old life was over.

  Everything he had hoped for, everything he had worked for.

  Gone.

  Hamish whined, then jumped on the sofa beside him and tried to lick the salty tears that covered his cheeks.

  Mark exhaled, then leaned back into the cushions and closed his eyes, groaning under his breath.

  Had he been fooling himself all this time? Did he really think he could ever return to what he had walked away from?

  All this time, he had tried to convince himself he was doing the right thing for his family. Protecting them, giving them some time to heal, playing at happy families while an undercurrent of hopelessness ebbed at the edges of his fractured marriage.

  Perhaps Debbie was right.

  Perhaps it was too late.

  Perhaps she was simply braver than him.

  Maybe he had been holding on to a false hope since he had arrived in the Vale of the White Horse.

  Opening his eyes, Mark wiped at the tears and ruffled Hamish between the ears.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be all right, boy. Honest.’

  He chose to ignore the tremor in his voice.