Rough And Deadly (A Much Winchmoor Mystery Book 2)

by Paula Williams

  Margot frowned at her. “I’m sorry? I think you’re mistaking me for someone else.”

  Tanya’s cheeks flushed pink beneath her spray tan. “Oh yes, yes. Of course I am. I do apologise. Just for a minute there, I thought you were – never mind. You can’t be her.” She glanced around the salon and, although she didn’t quite add, ‘not in a place like this,’ it was quite clear that was what she was thinking. “My mistake. I’m so sorry.”

  Margot gave a condescending smile. “Don’t worry about it. It happens all the time. People say I look very much like the lady who reads the news on ITV. But I wouldn’t know, as I’m strictly BBC myself.”

  She reminded everyone not to forget polling day, then swept out like she’d just done us all a huge favour by honouring us with her presence. A collective sigh of relief rippled around the salon like a Mexican wave.

  “That woman is so damn rude…”

  “Katie,” Mum cut in sternly. “We don’t pass comments on the customers, do we?”

  Well, she might not. But Olive and the other members of the Much Winchmoor Grumble and Gossip Group had no such scruples.

  “Stuck-up cow,” Olive muttered. “Poor Millie. I know my sister’s all sorts of a fool, not least for marrying Abe Compton, but there was no call to rip into her like that – even though Abe’s cider is the best paint stripper outside of B&Q. But our Julie could tell you a thing or two about Lady High and Mighty Duckface, you know. For all her hooty-tooty ways, she’s no better than she should be.”

  “Really?” I asked, but at a warning glare from Mum I decided a change of conversational direction was called for. “So – um – how is Jules?”

  Although Jules and I been best mates at school and vowed to stay BFFs (that’s best friends forever), as you do, we had drifted apart after I left home to go to uni. And when I came back last year, it was kind of hard to take up where we’d left off. She’d changed in the five years I’d been away and so, of course, had I.

  She’d had her second baby three months ago now and, apart from visiting her just after the baby was born, I hadn’t really seen that much of her since. I’m not very good at talking to or about babies, so Jules and I tended stay in touch mainly through Facebook and occasional texts.

  But, to be honest, the other reason I’d been, well, not exactly avoiding her but not going out of my way to meet up either, was that whenever we did, she’d end up giving me the third degree about me and Will.

  Not that there was any me and Will at that moment. Not after Saturday night and the deafening silence ever since. I’d texted him a couple of times but, as usual, he’d ignored me. Well, this time I wasn’t going to go chasing after him.

  “Our Julie? Up to her eyeballs in debt and nappies, that’s how she is,” Olive was saying. “And that useless husband of hers can’t hold a job down for five minutes. But she’d love to see you, though, Katie. You two used to be such pals, didn’t you?”

  “I’ll pop in and see her soon. I’m a bit tied up at the moment, what with helping Mum out in here and trying to find a job.”

  “Still no luck, then?” She clucked sympathetically. “D’you know, I might be able to help you there. It’s only temporary, mind, but one of my neighbours is in a bit of a fix. She’s broken her ankle and can’t do very much for herself at the moment. So she’s been paying someone come in once a day to help out. But now her carer’s had to go off to look after her own daughter who’s expecting twins any day. She’s a nice, friendly little body.”

  Horribly aware that everyone in the Salon, including Mum, was settling down for another in-depth discussion of my job prospects, or lack thereof, I made yet another conversational swerve.

  “It’s good to have nice, friendly neighbours,” I murmured.

  “Friendly?” Olive gave a bark of laughter. “I’m not talking about Elsie Flintlock. It’s Millicent Lydiard, her carer, who’s the friendly one. Oh no, my dear, I don’t think you could call Elsie friendly. Not even on a good day. And since her ankle, she doesn’t have too many of those.”

  I could well believe it. Elsie and I had crossed swords before. She had a tongue sharp enough to cut shoe leather and an opinion on everything from the world economic crisis to the required number of biscuits in a packet of Cheddars. Not to mention an encyclopaedic knowledge of who’d said what to whom and why.

  Times were hard and I was desperate for a job. But look after an crabby old lady with an attitude problem?

  Thanks, but no thanks. I wasn’t that desperate.

  Chapter Three

  By the time Mum and I had finished off the last of the perms and sent them on their way in good time to get a decent seat at the funeral, Tanya was on her third cup of coffee and the last of the chocolate Hobnobs.

  “Sorry, Cheryl.” She held up the empty packet as we came into the kitchen. “But you know what I’m like when I’m upset. The original emotional eater, that’s me. It’ll be Richard’s fault if I end up as fat as a house. I swear I’ve put on two pounds already today. Look at me. I shan’t be able to see my toes soon.”

  If she had put on two pounds, it was hard to see where they’d ended up. Tanya’s skin was stretched that tightly over her skinny frame, there wasn’t room for an ounce of fat, let alone two pounds of the stuff. And it certainly hadn’t landed on her hips and thighs. Had it done so, her pink Lycra leggings, which clung like a second skin, would have burst open like overfilled sausages.

  It was obvious she was expecting either Mum or me to tell her not to worry, that she looked lovely and slim and didn’t need to think about dieting. But neither of us said a word.

  “I’ll just pop up and change my shoes,” Mum said, not even appearing to notice how Tanya bristled at her lack of response. “My feet are killing me this morning.”

  There was an awkward pause after Mum left the room. My stomach rumbled at the sight of the empty packet of biscuits. I’d been looking forward to one of those all morning. I put it in the bin and asked if she’d like more coffee.

  “There’s some of Mum’s prune and bran compote from this morning if you’re still hungry,” I added with a grin.

  “She’s not still on one of her crazy diets, is she?” Tanya’s patronising smile set my teeth on edge and made me wish I hadn’t mentioned it. “I’m sorry to say this, Katie, but it doesn’t look as if they’re working, does it?”

  “Well, I think…”

  But Tanya was not interested in what I thought and steamrollered on, as if I hadn’t spoken. “Cheryl was such a tiny little thing when we did our training together all those years ago, you know. She was much smaller than me then, but now look at us.” She stretched out one pink Lycra-ed leg and flexed her tiny but well-defined calf muscle. “Of course, I do have the advantage of a personal trainer and I spend hours in the gym. We should all work at looking our best, you know, Katie.”

  “Dad likes Mum just as she is and that’s the main thing,” I murmured, as I tried to control the urge to strangle her, or at least wipe the self-satisfied smirk off her face.

  She sniffed. “Yes, but then, Terry always was easily pleased. Unlike his brother.” Her face darkened. “Still, I suppose it’s all too easy to let yourself go when you live out here in the sticks, like your mother does. How she can spend her days giving perms to a load of doddery old ladies is quite beyond me. It would drive me to distraction.”

  It was beyond me, too. But there was no way I was going to let her know that.

  “Aunty Tanya…” I began, but before I could think of something that would annoy her as much as she was annoying me, Mum came back. She was wearing a pair of pink, fluffy slippers that she’d had for as long as I could remember. Tanya’s finely-drawn eyebrows rose at the sight of them.

  “Still keeping up with the latest fashions, I see, Cheryl,” she murmured. “Just as well you didn’t bring them to Bournemouth with you, wasn’t it?” She turned to me. “Your Mum and I had a trip to Bournemouth a while back, didn’t we, Cheryl? You should have seen her then,
Katie. Not a shabby old slipper in sight, I can tell you. In fact, we—”

  “Katie,” Mum cut across Tanya’s reminiscences. “Didn’t I hear you say you’d call in and see if you could be any help to Elsie Flintlock?”

  “No. I—”

  “Yes, I thought you did. Off you go, then. I’ll see you later.”

  “But I’ve got my piece to do for the paper,” I protested, as she all but elbowed me towards the door. “The new editor’s a stickler for deadlines.”

  “A newspaper?” Tanya’s overdrawn eyebrows shot up. “Glad to see your expensive university education wasn’t completely wasted after all, Katie. Last I heard you were working behind a bar. So which paper is it? The Times?” She gave a tinkle of laughter as she added: “Or the local freebie?”

  “Somewhere between the two,” I said. “I’m freelance at the moment but there’s a chance of a staff job…”

  “In the meantime, there’s a definite chance of a job in the village going begging,” Mum said as she handed me a letter and gave it a significant tap. “This came in the morning post for you. And I don’t need to remind you, young lady, a job’s a job after all, and you can’t afford to be choosy.”

  It was a letter from my bank. I didn’t need to open it to know what it was about. I stuffed it in my pocket and headed for the door. As I reached it, I turned back to say I wouldn’t be long and was shocked at the expression on my mother’s face as she and Tanya faced each other across the room.

  If, as they say, looks could kill, I half expected that when I got back I’d find Tanya stretched out cold on our kitchen floor.

  ***

  Crabshaw Crescent is a cluster of old people’s bungalows, named in honour of our since-dishonoured Councillor, Gerald Crabshaw. Or Gruesome Gerald, as I preferred to call him.

  I’d been standing on the doorstep of Number Six for so long I began to wonder if Olive had got it wrong, and Elsie Flintlock wasn’t housebound at all but had gone to Arthur’s funeral, along with the rest of the village.

  Relieved, I turned to walk away. At least I could tell Mum I’d tried. However, before I reached the front gate, the bungalow door opened and a woman with scarecrow hair and a face like she was chewing a wasp peered out. She was wearing a Homer Simpson slipper on one foot, a plaster cast on the other and was leaning heavily on a walking frame.

  “I’m not buying,” she snapped and went to close the door.

  “I’m not selling,” I said quickly. “It’s Kat, Elsie. Olive said you need someone to help out while your ankle gets better and I wondered—”

  “Kat?” she cut in. “What sort of daft name is that? And it’s Mrs Flintlock to you. I don’t hold with all this Christian name stuff. It’s not respectful. And if you – get back!” she suddenly yelled. “Now.”

  I jumped back, startled. There had to be something more wrong with her than a mere broken ankle. Elsie could be pretty feisty, not to mention downright rude. But this was something else.

  “I’m sorry to have troubled…”

  I got no further. I was too busy leaping out of the way as, snapping and snarling like the hell-hound itself, something small, brown and angry shot between the legs of Elsie’s walking frame and hurtled towards me. I’m not keen on dogs at the best of times and didn’t fancy hanging around to find out if this one’s bite was worse than its bark.

  “Prescott! Get back. Now,” Elsie roared in a voice loud enough to have stopped a jumbo jet in mid take-off. But the dog ignored her – and me, too, thank goodness – and streaked off down the path between the bungalows like a heat-seeking missile.

  “Shall I go after him?” I asked.

  “No point. The little ratbag will be half way to Dintscombe by now. Well, don’t stand there letting the heat out, girl. It’s ok for you youngsters, with money to burn on your binge drinking and fancy phones. Us poor pensioners have to be more careful with our pittance that we worked hard all our lives for. Come along in, and be sure to wipe your feet.”

  I wiped my feet then followed her into a small, overheated room that was dominated by a large flat screen television in one corner. A high-backed chair and footstool was placed in front of the window while the far wall was covered in photographs of what I assumed to be the same boy, sometimes grinning, but more often glaring at the camera. They’d obviously been taken at various stages of his school career.

  “Your little dog. He’s, erm…” I tried to find something good to say about the animal but couldn’t, so I gave up.

  “Prescott’s a loud-mouthed, out of control little hooligan,” Elsie said. “But he’s company. At least, he is when I can manage to keep him in. He needs his daily walk and is going stir-crazy without it.”

  “I’m good at dog walking.” You see what getting snarky letters from the bank can do, when you’re desperate for money? I didn’t even like dogs, particularly this one. And I was being slightly economical with the truth about being good at dog walking. But I did used to take Gran Latcham’s elderly Labrador for a sedate amble around the block when Gran became too ill to do so. “And I can do other things as well, like cleaning and…”

  “Hah! I’ve placed you now. You’re Cheryl’s girl, Katie.” She looked at me critically. “Not that anyone would know from the state of your hair. Not a very good advert for your mum’s salon, are you?”

  “Mum doesn’t do my hair.”

  “I can see that,” she sniffed. “Did you know there’s a very pretty young blonde vet just joined the Dintscombe Veterinary Practice?” she went on, while I struggled to work out where the abrupt turn in the conversation was leading.

  “Er, no. Our cat Cedric is very fit for his age and we don’t have call to go to the vet very often.”

  Her sharp blue eyes glinted as she peered at me. “That’s as maybe. I’m just telling you this for your own good. Because from what I hear, you and Will Manning haven’t been getting on so well lately. And you know what they say about gentlemen preferring blondes? It applies to farmers, too. Especially when the alternative is someone with hair the colour of a well-pickled beetroot.”

  I felt a pang of sympathy for Posh, Britney and the Royals. The Much Winchmoor Grumble and Gossip Group was as relentless as any paparazzo. And this particular member, whose hair was like an unravelling Brillo pad and who was therefore in no position to criticise mine, was the worst of the lot.

  I was about to say that I wasn’t actually after a job when the crackle of the letter in my pocket reminded me how beggars with an Manchester-sized overdraft can’t be choosers.

  “So you’re after a job again, are you?” she went on while I was still trying not to think about pretty blonde vets or bank managers. “I thought you were working for The Chronicle now?”

  “Well, yes, I am. But it’s freelance and…”

  “I can’t pay you much and it’s only until Millicent Lydiard’s back – even though she’s a wittering fool who chirps about the place like a mad canary. Do you chirp?”

  “I don’t…”

  “Good,” she cut in again. Conversation with Elsie, I’d discovered long ago, was a strictly one-way process. “So, are you going to stand about like a spare part, or get me a cup of tea? Strong with two sugars, please.”

  “You’re offering me the job? But I haven’t said I’ll…”

  “I’ll let you know when you’ve made the tea. And I like it in a bone china cup with matching saucer. You’ll find them in the top cupboard.”

  She didn’t let me know. Instead she drank the tea, pulled a face then held her cup out for a refill, so I assumed I’d passed the tea test.

  “I blame your mother,” she said with another conversational side swerve.

  I bristled. “What for?” I blamed my mother for loads of things but that didn’t mean I liked it when others did.

  “That Sandra Mitchell, running off with the chirrupist.”

  I knew, from the many tedious conversations I’d heard in the salon, that ‘chirrupist’ was Elsie-speak for chiropodist.
>
  “How did you know about that?” Mum had only found out this morning. But Elsie went on as if I hadn’t spoken.

  “I ask you, talk about selfish. What about my bunions? Do you know how hard it is to get a chirrupist to come all the way out here? According to Olive, who went to school with her older sister, that Sandra always was a flighty piece. Your mother should have kept a better eye on her.”

  “Or Maurice should have.” I retorted, refusing to let Mum get the blame for Elsie’s neglected bunions.

  “Maybe.” She shrugged and took another sip of her tea. “Heard you had Lady Duckface in the Salon this morning. After your votes, was she?”

  “Well, she’s not getting mine,” I said, as I remembered the cruel way she’d upset poor little Millie Compton.

  “Nor mine. She came round knocking on all the doors in the Crescent last week and I asked her, straight out, what made her think she was good enough to step into Marjorie Hampton’s shoes?”

  My stomach gave a sickening lurch at her words. The last time I’d seen Marjorie Hampton’s shoes they’d been on the ends of her legs which were sticking out of one of Will’s dad’s freezers where the murdering maniac had planted the poor soul after she’d been killed. It was something that would be imprinted forever on my mind. Even now, almost a year later, I still woke up some nights shaking with the horror of it all.

  “So then I said to her, all Jeremy Paxman-like,” Elsie was saying. “What was she going to do about the minibus Marjorie used to organise, to take us into Dintscombe to collect our pensions, now that the Post Office has been closed and turned into one of her horrible little holiday cottages? And what do you think she said?”

  “I have no idea. Maybe…”

  “Only told me that I should have my pension paid directly into my bank account. Like normal people, she said. Her very words.”

  “Well, it would perhaps be safer—” I began, but at that moment, the clock on the mantelpiece chimed.

  “Two o’clock,” Elsie said. “Off you go. If I don’t get my afternoon nap, I fall asleep in front of Countdown and it’s my favourite programme. So I’ll see you tomorrow morning, ten thirty sharp. And wear something more suitable. If Creepy Dave at Number Four sees you in that top that barely covers your decency, he’ll have a heart attack. Which would be no bad thing, now I come to think about it.”