Rough And Deadly (A Much Winchmoor Mystery Book 2)

by Paula Williams

  Tanya extricated herself from the laurel bush. As she did so a police car threaded its way in and out of the parked cars that lined the High Street.

  “That’s the second police vehicle I’ve seen this morning,” Tanya said. “This place is busier than Bristol city centre on a Saturday night. What’s going on?”

  “Remember the woman you met on Monday in the salon?” I said. “The one you thought you recognised?”

  She gave a small, tinkly laugh. “Silly me. And all the time I was mistaking her for the lady from ITV news. I felt such a fool.”

  “Her name was Margot Duckett-Trimble. She was found dead this morning. That’s what all the police activity is about.”

  Tanya stumbled as she tripped on an uneven paving stone.

  “Dead? This morning?” she echoed when she’d recovered her balance. She looked bewildered. “But she can’t be. I was only speaking to her yesterday. What do I …? I – I can’t believe it.”

  She sat down on a nearby garden wall and looked so genuinely upset that I wished I’d been a bit more tactful about the way I’d told her.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t realise you knew her.”

  “I didn’t,” she came back, quick as a flash as the colour returned to her face. “As I said, it was just a silly mistake on my part. Was it a car accident? I must say, some of these country lanes around here are death traps. I had a very narrow escape myself on the way here. A tractor wanting all the road and totally oblivious to other road users.”

  “No. Nothing like that. She was found dead in a barn just up the road. That’s probably where that police car had just come from.”

  “In a barn?” Her face paled again beneath her salon tan. “She didn’t – oh my God, you don’t mean she committed suicide, do you?”

  “Oh no. Nothing like that. She drowned.”

  “In a barn?”

  I nodded. “In a vat of cider.”

  She hugged her thin arms around her body and rocked slightly. “Oh my God, what a dreadful thing to happen. What a ghastly accident.”

  “But that’s just it. They don’t think it was an accident.”

  Tanya stared at me. “But if it wasn’t an accident… and she didn’t commit suicide…” Her voice rose an octave. “Do you mean she was murdered?”

  “I think the official line, at the moment, is that the police are treating it as a suspicious death.”

  “But who did it? Have they charged anyone?”

  “Not as far as I know.” I decided not to tell her about poor Abe being taken in for questioning. The police had obviously made a mistake, so there was no point in adding fuel to that particular rumour.

  She shook her head. “It doesn’t seem possible. Her poor husband. He must be devastated. Some sort of business man, wasn’t he? I seem to remember her saying something along those lines?”

  I nodded. “John Duckett-Trimble is, as Margot was always at pains to point out, ‘something big’ in the city.”

  “Really? You mean, he’s a property developer?”

  “I couldn’t say. Margot never went into detail. I always had the impression he’s a banker or something like that, but I could be wrong. Whatever it is, he has pots of money, which is how he can afford to gazump anyone who tries to buy one of the houses in the village so that Margot can – I mean could – turn them into holiday cottages. He’ll end up owning the entire place at the rate he’s going. Although I don’t suppose he will now. The holiday cottages was Margot’s thing, not his.”

  “So, was he the person who bought The Old Forge?” she said.

  I nodded. “Probably.”

  “Well, I don’t suppose he’ll want to go ahead with it now, will he?” She tossed her hair back and gave a sudden bright smile. “Every cloud and all that. It leaves me in with a chance of getting the cottage, after all, don’t you think?”

  I had to hand it to Tanya. She was all heart. Not.

  Chapter Seven

  Before I could answer her, yet another police car had threaded its way along the High Street. I thought of poor Millie and hoped she was feeling a little better now that her sister was with her.

  “Really, this place gets more like Midsomer Murders every day,” Tanya commented with a giggle. No doubt the prospect of The Old Forge coming back on the market had helped her recover from the shock of Margot’s death. “Where’s Inspector Barnaby when you need him?”

  “Except Midsomer Murders is made up,” I murmured. “And Margot’s murder is real.”

  Horribly real. Because murder happened to real people. It left families bereft. Their lives changed forever.

  Not only that, it left friends and neighbours looking at each other and wondering. Was it him? Or her?

  Because if it wasn’t Abe Compton, in a fit of totally out-of-character uncontrollable rage, then who? I couldn’t forget the fact that Marjorie Hampton’s killer had turned out to be the last person I, or anyone else, had suspected last year.

  Who then, I wondered, as we walked along the High Street with its closed-up, out of season holiday cottages, who in our small, claustrophobic community was the person least likely to have committed the murder? Our elderly vicar? Elsie’s neighbour, Creepy Dave? Or even, of course, Abe Compton? Or quiet as a mouse Fiona Crabshaw, who was known to have had a blazing row with Margot and whose husband may or may not have been having an affair with her.

  We hadn’t got very far when Tanya’s phone rang. She looked down at it, swore and stuffed the phone back in her bag.

  “Problems?” I asked.

  She gave an exasperated sigh. “Richard. He’s been phoning me all day. I knew it was only a matter of time before he came crawling to me. He wants us to go to counselling, if you’ve ever heard anything so pathetic. ‘To start a dialogue,’ is how he put it. I’ve told him, the only dialogue I want with him will be through our respective lawyers.”

  “I take it there’s no chance of a reconciliation, then?”

  Her eyes hardened. “None at all.”

  We walked on in silence until we reached the end of the High Street and were just turning into our road when she stopped and looked back. A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. She had a look on her face like our cat gets, when he’s eyeing up the bird table.

  “Do you know, in these last four days I’ve developed quite a liking for this funny little place, Katie,” she said. “And I’ve just had this really brilliant idea.”

  “Oh? What’s that?”

  She gave another of her tinkly laughs. “Oh, I’m not ready to share that with anyone yet. But I’m actually beginning to see why you hang around. Much Winchmoor kind of grows on you, doesn’t it?”

  You reckon? The only thing about Much Winchmoor that grew on me was the desire to get away from it. Even more so if Tanya was thinking of moving here.

  ***

  “Isn’t that your dad’s car?” she asked a few minutes later as we reached our house. “And there was your mum trying to make out how he worked all the hours under the sun and that the place would grind to a halt without him. It’s all right for some, finishing half way through a Friday.”

  “He’s been working late almost every night this week,” I said. “He’s probably got an afternoon owing to him.”

  Our cat Cedric had been sunning himself on the garden wall but stalked off, slowly but purposefully, his tail flicking like a metronome that’s lost its oomph as we approached.

  We should have named him Slo-Mo because he never did anything at speed, apart from eat, which is why the birds on the bird table were never in any danger from him. Cedric preferred his meals served up to him on a plate. With a side order of salmon flakes or prawn cocktail crisps.

  As we reached the back door, my phone rang. My heart leapt, thinking it was Will. I gave Tanya my key, took out my phone and groaned.

  Mike.

  “Trouble?” Tanya purred, her eyes glinting.

  “Of course not,” I lied, because of course, it was trouble. With a
capital T. “Just work stuff. You go on in. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Once I was sure she was safely out of earshot, I hit reply.

  “Mike, hi,” I called, in my chirpiest voice. “I’m glad you called. I was about to call you.”

  “I’m not in the habit of chasing up my reporters,” he said, stonily. “You said I’d have your copy in my inbox first thing this morning. It is now almost two o’clock in the afternoon. So, where is it?”

  I swallowed hard. “Yes. Well, the thing is—”

  “I don’t want to hear excuses,” he cut in. “I’m pushed for space this week anyway. So we’ll forget it.”

  Noooooo! Forget the time I’d spent in an overheated school hall, scrunched up on a chair made for a seven-year-old, while the guy from Somerset Highways droned on? He’d taken an hour and forty-three minutes to say, ‘Money for potholes? No chance.’

  And now Mike was saying my numb bum (not to mention my numb brain) had all been for nothing?

  While I was desperately trying to think of a way to make him change his mind, he went on: “This is not good, Kat. Not good at all. I need my reporters to be one hundred and ten per cent committed to Team Chronicle. If I can’t rely on you, we’ll have to do a rethink about whether you deserve your seat on the team bus. As I keep saying, there’s no I in team, you know.”

  Did he just say what I thought he’d said, in amongst all that cringe-worthy management speak he was so fond of? He was about to start again, so I broke in before he could say anything that I would regret.

  “Look, Mike, I’m really sorry about the potholes,” I said quickly. “But the thing is, there’s been a murder in the village this morning. I – I thought it would be better if I spent some time getting local reaction. On the spot stuff. That sort of thing.”

  There was a pause. A very long pause.

  “I – I know I can’t go around interviewing suspects, or anything like that,” I went on. “But I thought it would be good to get a bit of background on the victim, and local people’s reaction. You know, ‘killer strikes terror in sleepy village,’ that sort of thing.”

  I shrivelled up inside as I said that. I hated it when reporters talked about ‘sleepy villages’. It was patronising and cliched. But I was fighting for my job here.

  I thought back to the last time there’d been a murder in the village. The staff reporter from The Chronicle, an ambitious Irish charmer called Liam, had been on the spot within the hour, interviewing anyone willing to talk to him.

  But what had I been doing this morning? Too busy fancying myself as a (young) Miss Marple, filling my head with theories about who might have done it, instead of thinking like the journalist I pretended to be.

  But it felt like I was cashing in on John Duckett-Trimble’s misery. To be honest, I hadn’t even thought about Margot’s death being a news story. Until now. Now it had become my hang-on-to-your-job card.

  I held my breath, crossed my fingers and waited.

  “Ok then,” he said finally. “Let’s see what you come up with. Only local, peripheral stuff, mind you. I’ll liaise with the police. Who’s the victim?”

  “A woman called Margot Duckett-Trimble. I actually did an interview with her a couple of weeks ago. She is – was – standing for the parish council.”

  “Oh right. I remember. Two women contesting the seat, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  ”So have they charged anyone, do you know? The husband? It’s usually the husband.”

  “Oh no, it can’t have been him. He’s been away on business all week. Poor guy, what a shocking thing to come home to. I’ve heard that a local man, Abe Compton, has been helping the police with their enquiries, as they put it. But it couldn’t have been him either.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I know him. And he’s harmless. He couldn’t have done it.”

  “Well, it’s not your place to decide who did or didn’t do it,” he said. “Ok, go ahead. Let’s see what you come up with. We might be able to use it. Just a bit of background stuff, nothing too heavy. And no rush. Monday will be fine. I’m warning you now, there may not be space in the end, but it’ll be good practice for you.”

  “Thanks Mike.” I remembered to start breathing again. “I’ll get on to it.”

  “Oh. And one more thing, Kat?”

  “Yes?” My heart skipped a beat. Had I pulled it out of the bag after all?

  “Your coverage of the parish council meeting with Somerset Highways? In my inbox by four o’clock, please. And just the straight account this time. None of this ‘aren’t I the clever one?’ padding, like you did with the dog show. And leave the funny headlines to the subs, ok?”

  I was shaky with relief as I ended the call and went indoors. As I did so, I could hear Dad and Tanya in the kitchen, laughing. That’s to say, Tanya was doing that girly high-pitched giggle that set my teeth on edge, punctuated by Dad’s low rumble.

  I could tell from the whine of a hairdryer that Mum was still in the salon so I went straight in there to see if she needed any help before settling down to work.

  “Thanks, love, but I’ve only got Mrs Crabshaw here to finish off, then I’ll be free. One advantage of the big rush I had on Monday is that it’s made Friday a lot quieter than normal. So your Dad and I are planning on having an afternoon out for a change, which is why he’s taken the time off.”

  “Good idea.” I nodded approval then looked in the mirror at Fiona Crabshaw and smiled. She gave me a small, tight smile back that didn’t quite reach her strange green-gold eyes, fringed with sandy eyelashes. The colour always reminded me of that lemon and lime marmalade Gran Latcham used to be so fond of.

  Everything about Fiona Crabshaw (apart from those strange eyes) was beige. She wore mid-calf length skirts, with long, droopy cardigans in varying muted shades of browns and creams. Looking at her was like looking at one of those old, sepia photographs. Her hair was the colour of curtains that have been left in the sun too long (no highlights or lowlights for her, in spite of Mum’s best efforts to persuade her otherwise) and she always wore it coiled in a neat bun at the nape of her long, bony neck.

  I wondered why Mum bothered to blow dry that fine shoulder length hair into some sort of style when Fiona always wound it into the same neat bun (she never trusted Mum to do it) as soon as Mum finished.

  Fiona always looked fragile, as if ‘a puff of wind ’ud roll her over,’ as Olive often said. But that day, she looked even more fragile than usual and her pale beige face was etched deep with weariness. I reckoned sitting in the chair while Mum did her hair was probably the longest time she’d sat still in ages.

  “How was Elsie today?” Mum raised her voice above the noise of the drier as she carried on blow-drying Fiona’s hair.

  “Fine,” I said. “Getting more mobile by the day. In fact, she had a visitor this morning. Her grandson.”

  “That would be Danny,” Mum said, putting the finishing touches to Fiona’s hair. “Such a clever boy. He went to Cambridge, you know. King’s College, so I believe. Would you like some hairspray on that?”

  “Thank you. But I won’t.” Fiona’s soft voice was apologetic, as if she expected her refusal to offend.

  “She’s that proud of him,” Mum went on, picking up a hand mirror and angling it so Fiona could see the back. “He’s such a lovely boy, taking the time to visit his grandmother like that.”

  Hmmm. ‘Lovely boy’ wasn’t exactly the phrase I would have used to describe him.

  “Do you know, Katie,” Mum went on. “Your Grandma was only saying to me the other day how long it is since she and Grandad saw you. She said the last time you visited—”

  “Have you heard the news?” I asked, cutting her off. Once she got started on my shortcomings, we could all be there for the rest of the afternoon.

  I hadn’t been going to say anything about Margot until Mum was on her own, but speaking to Mike had changed everything. Getting the reaction to Margot’s death from
a rival would be as good a place as any to start my report. I meant rival in the parish council election, of course. Not for the attentions of Gruesome Gerald. I still couldn’t quite buy that one.

  “You know I don’t approve of gossip, Katie,” Mum said.

  “But this isn’t gossip. This is fact. Margot Duckett-Trimble was found dead this morning. In one of the vats in Abe Compton’s cider barn.”

  Both Mum and Fiona gave a horrified gasp. What little colour there had been in Fiona’s pale face drained away, so that her eyes stood out, in sharp glittering relief, against ashen cheeks.

  If she hadn’t been sitting down, she would have fallen. Instead, she swayed slightly and gripped the arms of the chair so hard, she looked as if she was in the front seat of a roller coaster ride. And hating every minute of it.

  “But that’s terrible,” Mum said as she turned towards me. Her eyes, too, were wide and startled. “Just terrible.”

  Then she looked back at Fiona.

  “Are you all right, Mrs Crabshaw?” she asked. “Would you like some water?”

  “No. No thank you. I’m fine. It was just… just such a shock, that’s all.” She looked across at me as she struggled to regain control. “How – how did she…? I mean, what happened?”

  “They think she was murdered.” I said.

  “Murdered!” Fiona gasped. “Oh no. That’s not possible.”

  “Of course it’s not,” Mum said. “It must have been some horrible accident. Oh, the poor woman. She was such a lovely lady.”

  Only my mother would describe Margot Duckett-Trimble as a ‘lovely lady,’ but it didn’t seem appropriate to contradict her.

  “They’ve taken Abe Compton in for questioning,” I said. “That’s how I knew about it, because I was there when a policewoman came to take Olive up to be with Millie, who is, it seems, in a bit of a state.”

  “Well, yes, of course. She would be. Poor little Millie,” Mum said. “It’s a mistake, obviously. I mean, Abe, for goodness sake. What on earth are the police thinking of?”

  “The police are very good at making mistakes,” Fiona said, her voice stronger and clearer now. “If you recall, it took them ages to admit they’d made a mistake over Gerald. And by the time they did, the damage to his reputation had been done.”