by Agatha Frost
“He doesn’t strike me as money-obsessed,” Claire pointed out. “You should have seen his house. Flashy beyond belief, but he didn’t seem to care about any of it. He made out like it was all Nicola’s idea.”
“Maybe he was onto you?” Pat suggested. “Trying to throw you off the scent?”
“Maybe.”
“A bird-watching accountant who loves gardening?” Damon circled the empty plate with his finger to swipe up the leftover chocolate crumbs. “Hardly strikes me as a cold-blooded killer.”
“Murderers usually don’t,” Alan said, tapping the pen between his fingers. “I’ve looked into the eyes of people who have committed murder and couldn’t imagine them killing even a spider. Don’t let looks fool you. Any of us has the capability to kill, given the right – or wrong – incentive.”
“Not me,” Pat muttered through his brownie. “I throw up at first sight of blood. Always been that way.” He grinned, revealing chocolatey teeth. “These are really good, by the way. You were right. Can’t tell the difference.”
“But if Graham didn’t know about the affair,” said Damon, “why would he kill Jeff?”
“We don’t know he didn’t know,” Alan pointed out. “We just don’t know if he did know.”
“This all makes my head hurt,” said Pat.
They sat in silence for a moment, contemplating the situation. Claire glanced at the muted TV on the wall in the almost empty café. It was playing an episode of Cash in the Attic, the kind of early afternoon television programme she’d have to get used to if Graham really did sell the factory.
“Graham has two motives then,” Claire announced when the silence grew uncomfortable. “He could easily have known about the affair. They weren’t exactly good at keeping it a secret.”
“That’s true.” Damon nodded. “We saw them snogging through the window. Graham could have seen them. He could have been there, looking through the window like we were. We didn’t see him, sure, but we didn’t not see him. He could have snuck up the fire escape and flipped out.”
“All plausible,” Alan agreed, his pen scribbling away. “And then he killed Jeff to get him out of the way. Although the rest doesn’t make sense.”
“The rest?” Claire asked.
“DI Ramsbottom called this morning to fill me in on the details.” Alan looked around the café, and when he seemed satisfied they weren’t being listened to, he ducked his head slightly and lowered his voice. “Jeff was found in a very shallow grave, which means whoever buried him knew he’d be found. He was hit over the head with a giant rock. Seemed to kill him instantly, according to the experts. They even found the rock there.”
A lightbulb flicked above Claire’s head. “Doesn’t that mean his murder might not have intended to kill him? If they killed him impulsively, they weren’t thinking about getting rid of the body. They did what they could with what they had.”
Claire’s father smiled proudly.
“Exactly.” He stabbed the pen down on the table. “Two impulsive murders, one week apart. Same motive, too, which means we have two likely suspects.”
“Graham,” Pat said, eyes glazing over, “and Belinda.”
“And the other angles?” Claire leaned in closer. “Her brother? And the Abdul thing?”
“For the last time,” Pat interrupted, sighing, “Abdul had nothing to do with this.”
“Well, Ben Warton still could have.” Claire stared at the empty plate, a theory forming. “If he killed Nicola to get the factory, maybe it wasn’t impulsive at all? What if, and this is just a theory, but what if Jeff saw Ben push Nicola? He was there right before, after all.”
“Why wouldn’t Jeff tell the police?” Damon asked. “They kept interviewing him.”
“Oh, yeah.” Claire fell back into her chair. “I don’t know. Maybe he was blackmailing Ben? Belinda didn’t see him for days. He was clearly trying to get away from the village.”
“He was,” Alan confirmed. “DI Ramsbottom also told me all of Jeff’s clothes were bagged up. Found them less than a hundred metres away, buried in the leaves.”
“So, whoever killed him knew he was leaving and tried to hide it?” Claire suggested. “Or at least they hoped nobody would find him that quickly. According to Gran, that’s right on a dog walking circuit.”
Another heavy silence fell as the quietness of the café swallowed them up. Claire glanced at the counter where Marley was flicking through a magazine. She was glad they were discussing this here. At Jane’s Tearoom, Jane would have been trying to eavesdrop on every word, but Marley’s quiet, zen personality made him indifferent to furthering the local gossip.
“I know we’re all avoiding saying it,” Damon said finally, looking around the table, “but Belinda is the most obvious suspect. She was at the factory, and she was clearly angry with Jeff for cheating on her. What did she tell you again, Claire?”
“That when she woke up, all of Jeff’s stuff was gone,” she repeated. “Separate bedrooms, so she never heard him come and go.”
“What if that was all a lie?” Damon’s voice sped up: excited, almost. “We don’t really know her. She could be an amazing liar.”
“She seemed pretty upset when I told her what we saw.” Claire cringed at the memory. “That didn’t seem put on, but then again…”
The café door burst open, and Marley’s husband, Eugene Cropper, hurried in. With his mane of greying hair, thick beard, grand stature, and puffed out chest, Claire always thought he looked like a lion. The brown, crushed velvet suit and creamy cravat only furthered the resemblance today.
“Get the news on, Marley!” he cried, biting his nails as he stared at the TV. “Cash in the Attic? Hurry, man!”
“What is it?” Marley slowly closed the magazine and reached for the remote.
“We’re on the news!” Eugene could barely hide his grin. “Northash is on the news!”
“We’ve been on the news all week, dear.”
“No, not the regional news!” Eugene hurried over and snatched the remote from his husband. “The national news! And according to Mrs Beaton, we’re the top story!”
“Mrs Beaton says a lot of crazy things,” Marley remarked mildly.
But this time, Mrs Beaton was right. When Eugene unmuted the TV and flicked up two channels, the national lunchtime news came on, and there, next to a familiar-looking suited newsreader, were pictures of Jeff and Nicola.
“That top story again,” the newsreader stated grimly. “Lancashire Constabulary have confirmed the suspected connection between the seemingly random murders in the small North West village of Northash. According to eyewitness reports and DNA evidence, the victims Jeffrey Lang and Nicola Warton were engaged in an affair before their deaths. Police are now looking for Lang’s wife, Belinda, a fifty-year-old local woman who hasn’t been seen since the discovery of her husband’s body. Local police were reluctant to name Mrs Lang as an official suspect, but they do wish to speak to her as a matter of urgency. Warton’s husband, Graham Hawkins, released a statement saying he was ‘sickened and saddened’ when the police confirmed the news mere hours before the press release. And now, we go to Jake Yarmouth for this afternoon’s sport.”
Eugene muted the TV the moment the camera cut to the sports reporter. None of them seemed able to speak, so they simply sat in silence, each staring into space.
“Well, I never!” Pat said at last. “I guess that settles it then. The police think Belinda did it.”
“They didn’t say that,” Alan reminded him. “They just want to question her.”
“But she’s gone missing!” Eugene boomed, his theatrical voice filling the small space as if he imagined himself in the West End’s largest theatre. “Surely, that’s confirmation of guilt?”
Nobody replied; the silence said enough.
“Closed case, if you ask me.” Pat drained his cup of tea and stood. “Which is perfect timing for me since I’ve a meeting with Graham and the other shift managers to discuss how we move f
orward. Unlike Ben, he admits he doesn’t know what he’s doing, and he actually wants our input. Claire, shall I ask about that promotion you mentioned?”
“No,” she said quickly, remembering cigarette-scented breath and Graham’s ill-advised attempt at a kiss. “Best to wait and see what happens.”
Pat left the café, and Claire’s father rose soon after. She could tell his foot was hurting him, but he’d never use his cane outside the cottage.
“Do you think it’s a closed case, Dad?”
“Not until it’s actually closed.” He kissed her on the cheek. “Can’t afford to get tunnel vision just yet. We’ve still nothing concrete pointing at anyone. It’s all speculation until proven otherwise, and the police haven’t enough evidence to lay charges, or they wouldn’t have cared about naming Belinda as a suspect on the national news.”
Alan left, Eugene following close behind. Marley got back to his magazine; Claire couldn’t imagine anyone managing to look less interested in the murder. Claire and Damon faced each other, essentially alone in the café.
“Belinda,” Damon said, brows scrunched together. “Do you think it could be true?”
“Maybe.” Claire inhaled. “Maybe not. Something about all this doesn’t feel right.”
“I know what you mean.”
“I don’t think we have all the pieces yet.”
“It’s not a jigsaw.”
“No, but it is a puzzle.” Claire stood and pulled her jacket off the back of the chair. “You heard my dad. It’s not over until it’s over, and until it’s over, I’m not pointing the finger at Belinda. I just need to nip to the bathroom, but do you fancy going to the cinema?”
“To watch?”
“Anything.” Claire shrugged into her jacket. “I need to not think about this for a few hours. I don’t know how my dad did it for so many years.”
Leaving Damon to settle the bill with Marley, which he insisted he’d do when they ordered the six brownies since he got a discount for living upstairs, Claire locked herself in the tiny bathroom. She didn’t really need to go, but she wanted to check something – without an audience. She pulled her phone from her bag and scrolled to the ‘B’ contacts.
Belinda Work.
It was a long shot, but if Belinda was suspected of murder, Claire couldn’t help thinking she’d want to hear a friendly voice on the phone no matter where she was.
Belinda picked up after three short rings.
“Claire?” came the hissed voice down the phone. “Please tell me that’s you.”
“It’s me.”
“Have the police made you call me?”
“No, no.” Claire looked around the small bathroom. “I’m alone. You can trust me, which I know means nothing since I didn’t tell you about Jeff and Nicola. Please understand I was only trying to protect you. Where are you?”
“I-I don’t know.” There was a long pause. “A motorway service station somewhere up in Scotland, I think. I’ve been catching rides with lorry drivers.”
“Why?”
“Because the police came for me!” Belinda sounded like she was lighting a cigarette, and the inhale that followed confirmed it. “They were banging on my front door almost the moment I got back from the factory. I didn’t know why – and then I checked my phone to find people texting me to say how sorry they were to hear about Jeff. Of course that’s why the police were sniffing around at the bottom of my street! I threw up, and then I panicked. I ran out the back. Thank goodness I was dressed.”
“Did you—”
“Kill him?” Belinda muttered around the cigarette no doubt clamped between her lips. “Of course not! But I know how this looks. I nicked a fiver out of a woman’s pocket and got myself a coffee and a sandwich. It’s not my proudest moment, but it was just there. I could have taken more, but I didn’t. Saw the bloody news, didn’t I! Almost choked on my coronation chicken. I knew they’d try to do this to me.”
“Where are you right now?”
“Hiding,” Belinda whispered. “In the toilet.”
“You can’t stay there forever.”
“I know that!” Belinda huffed. “Maybe I just need to shave off my hair and hope nobody recognises me. It’ll all blow over, won’t it?”
“Just come back. They only want to talk to you.”
Belinda forced a dry laugh. “Yeah, right. That’s not how this works.” She sighed. “There’s something I didn’t tell you, Claire.”
Claire waited for Belinda to say something, but it sounded like she was sucking for dear life on the cigarette.
“I hit Jeff,” she finally said. “A few weeks ago. I was drunk; I don’t even remember it. Again, not my proudest moment. He didn’t go to the police, but he went to get stitches. He told them what happened. Police came looking for me then, gave me a warning. He didn’t press charges. I swear I have no memory of it, and I know that’s not an excuse, but that’s not me. You know me, Claire. I’m a good woman, really. I wouldn’t do any of what they’re saying!”
Claire was about to question if she knew Belinda at all – but there was no denying how many times Belinda had been kind to her over the years, and as recently as the morning of Nicola’s murder, when she’d loaned Claire her spare jumpsuit. In all the years they’d worked together, they’d never exchanged cross words until their brief spat outside the factory the morning Jeff was found. Belinda had been erratic, but Claire knew her well enough to know she’d not just committed murder. The way she’d spoken about Jeff had almost brought Claire to tears.
“Claire?” Belinda prompted. “You still there?”
“I believe you.”
“You do?”
“I do.” Claire rubbed at her forehead, knowing her father wouldn’t approve of what she was about to say. “I’ll try and help you prove it, but you need to be completely honest with me. Where were you when Jeff was murdered? He must have been murdered in the early hours of Tuesday morning after he confronted me.”
Claire waited for a response, but none came. Just as she was about to prompt Belinda, a hitched breath revealed the woman was sobbing as silently as she could on the other end of the phone. Claire let her. When she heard the cigarette lighter flick again, she knew the crying had stopped.
“I told you,” Belinda wheezed. “I was passed out in bed.”
“Can you prove it?”
“Ask my cat.”
“I’ll take that as a no then.” Claire looked around the bathroom, hoping for a bolt of inspiration. “Wait, where did you say you were when Nicola was killed?”
“Smoking in the bathroom.” Belinda chuckled. “Ironic, right? I can’t prove that, either!”
“There might be a way.”
“Oh?”
“That rumour you heard about the secret bathroom camera?” Claire’s heart stomped in her chest. “How seriously did you take it?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Y ou want to do what?”
“Break into the factory,” said Claire, forcing the best ‘don’t worry about it’ smile she could muster. “Well, it’s not technically breaking in.”
Damon scratched the back of his head, glancing down the street at Gary’s Mechanics. At some point during the night, the cordon had been pushed back behind the garage, allowing Gary Bushell to open for business. His radio blared, barely drowning out the sound of his machinery. It was almost like everything had gone back to normal; Claire really had to squint to see the crime scene investigators still sniffing around in the forest.
“Claire, you’re mental.” Damon’s cheeks flushed as a police car whizzed past them to the bottom of the street. “Properly mental. Why can’t we just go to the cinema like you said? We can be normal. You’re going to get us locked up.”
“We work there, don’t we?”
“For now.”
“Then we’re just letting ourselves into our place of work, and if anyone catches us, we say we were collecting something important from our lockers.” Claire rested her hands on Da
mon’s shoulders and forced his gaze to meet hers. “C’mon, mate. You’ve got to admit, it’s a bit exciting.”
“Is it?”
“You know it is.” Claire winked. “Everyone thinks Belinda did it.”
“I think Belinda did it!”
“Well, I don’t.” She sighed, looking down. “I can’t explain why. It’s just a feeling.”
“Then ignore it.”
“I can turn that feeling into proof! If we find the camera, we can prove Belinda was smoking in the toilets when Nicola was pushed.”
“If we find a camera.” Damon fiddled with his glasses, his hands shaking. “It’s just a rumour.”
“It must have come from somewhere.”
“Probably Belinda’s paranoia!” he cried. “She shouldn’t have been smoking in there in the first place, and we all know it. She made that locker room stink! The smoke clings to everything. And for what? Because she couldn’t be bothered walking through the factory to smoke outside like everyone else? Or because she knew she was having far too many secret smoke breaks and wanted to disguise them as toilet breaks?”
“Do you want to see an innocent woman get the blame for something she didn’t do?”
“No, I don’t,” he said glumly, “but I don’t see why it’s our problem.”
“It has to be someone’s problem.”
Damon squirmed on the spot, pouting like a child. She could tell she was getting to him; he’d always been easy to persuade.
“I think I know a way in,” he admitted quietly, glancing at the police car outside the garage as DI Ramsbottom struggled out of his tiny Smart car, toupee fluttering in the breeze, “but it won’t be easy.”
CLAIRE HAD LIVED in Northash her whole life, but even she hadn’t ventured into the depths of the forest that surrounded it. When they finally broke through the treeline on top of the factory hill thirty minutes later, she realised why. Roots had tripped her, bushes had scratched her, the streams had soaked her shoes, and thanks to the previous day’s downpour, mud caked her jeans up to the calves.