Was it fate or blind luck that Juliette Palmer showed up right at that moment to invite them to the interview room? Pattie would never know, but there was a silly superstitious side of her that liked to think it was destiny at work.
Soon enough, Pattie was back at that metal table in the interview room opposite Blossom Carter. This time Constable Palmer handled the questioning.
“So we’re told that you’d like to revise your statement, Ms Carter. Is that right?”
“Yes,” said Blossom tiredly. She had bags under her eyes, and her hair was greasy. She looked unkempt and fatigued. Was guilt playing on her conscience? Or was she just not psychologically suited to endless hours in a police cell?
“Go on, then,” said Constable Palmer good-naturedly. “What would you like to change?”
“Well…” Blossom scratched her forearm and looked at the wall.
The Constable leaned forward. “People change their statements all the time, Ms Carter. Just go ahead.”
“I told you that I was in the tent when Daryl was killed. But I wasn’t.”
“Oh? Where were you?”
“I was at Harry’s tent. We were alone together. That’s how I know that Harry didn’t kill Daryl. It wasn’t my idea! I know what you must think of me … But Harry came to my tent a few hours after Daryl and I got back, and … Well, I left Daryl asleep and went back with Harry. We were only gone an hour.”
Pattie was impressed at the Constable’s poker face. “So after an hour, you went back to your tent?”
“Yes … I sneaked in beside Daryl, trying not to make any noise … I just crawled into my sleeping bag and fell asleep. Harry and I had a few beers, and it was about two or three o’clock, so I was really tired … Daryl must have already been … Oh, god!”
Blossom covered her tears, but it didn’t help. She broke down and began to cry, her head in the crook of her elbow, pressed against the table.
Pattie took a packet of tissues out of her purse and discreetly passed them to Constable Palmer with a look. Blossom took a tissue and cleaned herself up, but it took several attempts before she was ready to speak again.
“I’ve done some bad things like that before, but it’s not like Daryl and I were serious. Normally I would have just taken it as a sign that we weren’t meant to be together, but now that he’s … I just feel awful. I don’t know what to do!”
“It’s alright, Ms Carter. We’re not here to judge. We just need to know all the facts. Do you believe that Daryl was already dead when you returned to the tent?”
“I didn’t sleep very well. Probably guilt … Everything running around my mind. I’m sure that if anyone had come in whilst I was there, that I would have woken up. No, it must have already happened, when I was out the tent. But this proves that Harry is innocent, doesn’t it? He was with me when it happened. Just ask him!”
Constable Palmer took a short breath and gathered herself. “Ms Carter, I’m afraid I have some bad news. Harry was found dead this morning. We believe that it was murder.”
“Oh my god! I can’t believe this is happening!”
“Were you aware of anyone who might want to hurt Harry?”
“Well, if Daryl had found out then he would have been angry – he had a temper, did Daryl. But obviously he couldn’t have done it … I’ve no idea who could be responsible!”
“Do you know what I think?” asked the Constable calmly. “I think your boyfriend had anger issues and you didn’t know how to get yourself away from him. So when you met a young, strong guy like Harry Widmore at the festival, you thought ‘Hey, he’ll protect me!’ Only he protected you a little too well, didn’t he? He murdered Daryl. And I think that somehow you arranged for the truth to be covered up, by getting Harry killed.”
Blossom’s jaw dropped. “I could never do anything like that! What are you even talking about?”
“I’m talking about a premeditated double homicide, Ms Carter,” Constable Palmer said seriously. “If you tell me the truth now, then maybe we can cut some kind of deal. But if you keep lying then it’s only going to get worse for you.”
Now Blossom really was crying. Tears rolled down her face. Her tissue was soaked through and unusable, but the Constable didn’t offer her a new one. Tears just poured down Blossom’s cheeks and dripped from her chin. “Oh god, I wish I’d never come to this horrible place!”
Constable Palmer looked to Pattie for her reaction. Pattie had nothing to say.
Chapter 13
The last appointment at Croftmason GP’s Surgery was 18:00. Pattie arrived at 18:10 with a thermos and the cat collar, still in its evidence bag. The Doctor was running over by a little while, but he soon sent out his last patient of the day. Pattie gave him twenty minutes to catch up on the paperwork, then knocked quietly on his door.
“Ah, Patricia!” said Elliott as she put her head around the door. “I’m glad to see you. It’s been such a long day – I’ve had four house-calls and a new-mums group prattling on again about whether the MMR is dangerous. What nonsense … and I never knew the young families in this village were so fruitful!”
Pattie laughed and poured him a hot cup of tea from the thermos, which he accepted gratefully. She’d called ahead, and he already had the pet scanner on his desk ready.
“This is a flea collar that I believe belongs to Seth MacGowan.”
“He has fleas, does he?”
“…To his cat!” Pattie corrected. “It’s related to a fishy murder case, and something made me want to have it scanned first in case it’s the type with a microchip. What can you tell me?”
The kindly Doctor took the translucent evidence bag and peered at the silver tag on the collar. Without taking the collar out of the bag, he pointed the scanner at it. They both heard the beep.
“There we are,” said Elliott, smiling. He checked his computer, where the scanner was connected by USB. Details of the cat’s owner came up on screen. “Yep, the tag is registered to a Mrs Elaine MacGowan of Rostead Farm, Little Hamilton. You were right on the money. But where is the cat?”
“O’Malley is prowling around the village somewhere. Apparently he rarely leaves the farm, but I saw him in one of the tents at the festival yesterday, where he’d been stealing tidbits from some suspects of mine. I can’t figure out the connection between the suspects and the cat!”
“Does there have to be a connection?” asked Elliott, taking a sip of his hot tea and sighing contentedly.
“The collar was found in the hand of a murder victim named Harry Widmore. And he was our prime suspect for an earlier murder – and so was Seth MacGowan.”
“Could they have been working together? Harry and Seth?”
Pattie topped up her tea. The hot Yorkshire Blend was steaming up her spectacles. “I’m sure that Seth and Elaine have nothing to do with it, besides a brief argument between Seth and the first victim. But the MacGowans have alibis, and although Seth’s a hothead he’s not the type to hire a random festival-goer to murder someone for him. He hates the festival and everyone there. No, I think that O’Malley is the key, not the MacGowans…”
The Doctor scratched his head. “Remind me who O’Malley is?”
“The cat, Elliott,” said Pattie.
“Oh! Right, of course … Like the Disney film. Wait a sec, don’t you have a furry little lodger who happens to be an expert sniffer-tracker?”
“Yes, you’re thinking of Tyson. But I tried with one of O’Malley’s toys and it got me nowhere fast.”
“But those toys are often stuffed with catnip. You have the collar now; surely that’s got a good, strong scent on it?”
Pattie’s eyes lit up. Sometimes she could kiss Doctor Elliott Knight! “Of course! Oh, Elliott, I knew it was the right choice coming to you!”
He looked hurt. “When is it not, Patricia dear?”
Pattie was already on her feet. “Sorry to dash, Elliott, but I’d better get on this right away. If we’ve got a serial killer on our hands I can’t waste a mi
nute.”
“But, Patricia…! What about our tea?”
“Just enjoy it, dear – A cup of tea costs nothing, you know!”
The good Doctor got to his feet and screwed the cup back onto the thermos. “You aren’t ditching me that easily. I’m coming with you!”
Chapter 14
Pattie unlocked her front door and gestured for Elliott to enter before her. She switched on the lights and went to prepare the cats’ dinners. The Doctor waited in the hallway, looking at the many photos on Pattie’s walls: her husband, long passed, and their two boys. The boys grew up with each photo. After a while, when they were teenagers, the blond boy was in all the pictures, and the dark-haired boy disappeared. Elliott guessed that Andrew, her disgraced Detective son, no longer had a place on her walls.
Pattie bustled about the place, filling bowls from foil pouches and tickling so-and-sos behind the ear. She called to Tyson and gave him some extra affection when he bounded up to her. She talked Elliott through her training process and let him be impressed for a moment, before allowing Tyson one last whiff of O’Malley’s collar.
Tyson jumped for the front door and sat down, looking back expectedly for Pattie to open it.
“We’d better get ready,” said Pattie.
“Should we put him on a lead or something?” asked Elliott.
“Have you ever tried to put a cat on a lead? Some cats might accept one, but Tyson definitely wouldn’t. We’ll just have to do our best to keep up. Let’s go!”
As before, Tyson trotted across the front lawn at a steady pace. He turned back once to check that his mistress was following, then sauntered casually up Shepherd’s Street. They followed the talented little kitty past the junction he had paused at before, crossed the road safely, and let him lead them towards the pastures and farms at the edge of town.
“I hope he’s not just taking us to Seth MacGowan’s farm,” said Elliott.
“Me too. Although I wouldn’t care if it meant we found O’Malley. This cat thing has really got me scratching my head.”
“If it’s dermatitis, I can prescribe a cream,” the Doctor said with a chuckle. “Or at least a good anti-dandruff shampoo.”
“Do you have anything for a mild slap?” warned Pattie with a smile, and they both laughed good-naturedly as they followed the stripy tom.
Soon they came close to the MacGowan’s farm, but turned right across the bottom of the valley towards the festival grounds. They passed through a narrow strip of woodland, following the main walking path that came close to the confluence of the road, path and river, about half a mile from the stone bridge. Then they emerged into the festival campsite near to a small stage on which a sixties-style rock band were playing in stylish suits.
“He must still be somewhere around here,” said Pattie. “I wish I’d worn my wellies…”
“You’re telling me,” said Doc Elliott, who looked sadly at the mud up his work shoes and smart trousers. “Why do these festivals always turn into giant wallows? I keep expecting to see a hippo rolling over in the mud somewhere here…”
“Focus, Elliott! Did you see where Tyson went…?”
“There…!”
Tyson was moving quickly now, employing all of his feline dexterity and speed. He hoped over beer crates and coolers; he ducked under barbeques and beach chairs; he slunk between the legs of picnic tables and the assorted revellers, dancers, buskers and socialisers that filled the spaces between the labyrinth of tents. His lithe little body soon disappeared amongst all the people and clutter.
“I don’t see him…” said Elliott. “Where did he go?”
“Blast! We’ve lost him!”
They kept searching amongst the campsite, but Tyson had been too eager. Pattie was happy knowing that Tyson would be able to find the way back home by himself, even if it meant they hadn’t found O’Malley.
“Well,” said Elliott, “at least we know O’Malley is somewhere around here, right? Assuming Tyson didn’t just get a whiff of grilled chicken and take off to satisfy his belly…”
“We aren’t going to find out standing here,” Pattie replied. She was looking at her filthy shoes. “But since we’re all the way down here, I think I’ll pay a visit to our suspects on plot 369 and see what they know about poor Harry’s death … Oh, would you mind hanging back for a while? I really shouldn’t take anyone with me if I’m asking questions…”
Elliott smiled warmly. “I understand Pattie, of course. I’ll wait for you by that hotdog van over by the stage, there. That band sounds like a Beatles cover group.”
“I love the Beatles!” said Pattie with a grin. “It’s a date!”
“A date it is,” said Elliott, and he strode towards the hotdog van with his hand in his pocket, no doubt fishing for loose change.
Pattie waited for a while and watched him go. She’d grown very fond of Elliott Knight over the years they’d known each other. He had moved to Little Hamilton four years ago for a fresh start. Unfortunately the village’s previous doctor had been locked up by the police – that was an interesting little story, and Pattie’s first case in the village – and Doc Knight filled an empty space that sorely needed it.
It struck Pattie again how she was different in his company: a brighter, happier Patricia Lansbury, who she much preferred to her usual self. Cats were perfectly adequate company, not to mention cute as buttons, but they weren’t particularly good at conversation.
Pattie made her way to plot 369, where she expected to find Toby Draper, James Farrell and Tim Jeffries, but the only person there was an officer on duty.
“D.C. Downey took them to the station,” he said. “He said the whole situation was much too suspicious.”
“I thought Constable Palmer was managing the legwork – what does she think?” asked Pattie.
“She agrees with Downey, of course,” the officer replied with a wink. “The three guys haven’t been formally charged yet, but I hear they’re really getting grilled.”
“Has anything come to light?”
“Not that I’ve heard, but the D.C. told me to fill you in if you showed up. Oh, he also asked if you were done with some evidence? He gets antsy when the consulting detectives wander off with things.”
Pattie handed over the cat collar in the evidence bag. There was little good in keeping it now that Tyson had made his best effort, wherever he was. “Of course, here it is. I have a new mobile telephone; would you mind giving me a call if anything comes up?”
“Sure,” said the officer, and took her number.
Pattie left, happy that the three suspects were being properly interviewed down at the station. It was very worrying that Harry Widmore had shown up dead so soon after the first murder.
She was deep in thought when suddenly a modern smartphone was thrust into her face.
“Pattie Lansbury, I’m Laura Conrad, for YTV News? Could I ask you a few questions?”
Pattie recoiled from the young red-haired woman who had leapt out from behind a large tent. She batted the phone away, which was being used as a recorder, and scowled at the reporter. “I know who you are, Miss Conrad: we’ve met several times. You don’t have to introduce yourself every time you approach me for something. And it’s Patricia, if you don’t mind terribly.”
“Mrs Lansbury, you’re consulting on the murder case of Daryl Hardy, is that right?”
“I really don’t want to discuss an ongoing case with you, Miss Conrad,” Pattie said shortly. Having the recorder in her face really bothered her; she considered it the height of rudeness. If there was anything she couldn’t stand, it was rudeness.
But the reporter was as insistent as always. “But you are consulting on the Hardy murder case?”
“Laura, if you want to talk to me, it will have to be off the record. Okay? I’m not speaking into that thing.”
The young lady hesitated for a second with her lips pursed, then tapped her touchscreen and said, “Alright. It’s off, see? Let’s talk. I just want some basic de
tails to run on the evening slot, but the chief is like a headless chicken with the whole festival thing…”
Pattie gestured to a nearby bench, and they both sat. “Yes, it’s a lot for them to handle. I’m happy to give you the bare facts, but I can’t discuss any of our enquiries, okay?”
“Sure. Daryl Hardy was murdered?”
“Yes.”
“As well as this other person, Harry Widmore, who was one of the suspects in the first murder?”
“Mr Widmore has also been found murdered, but I can’t comment on who our suspects are for either crime. The police have arrested three people who are associated with both victims.”
She watched patiently as the reporter scribbled down some notes on a small pad. Pattie had been aware of the young woman since she’d been little; her father, Matthew Conrad, was a local media tycoon whose name cropped up suspiciously often in national police cases. He was also a benefactor of small local businesses and worldwide philanthropist. It was no wonder that Laura was so beautiful; Pattie had often thought that Matthew Conrad was distractingly handsome, and he was known as something of a ladies’ man.
Laura stroked some hair behind her ear and licked the tip of her pencil again. When she looked up, her green eyes were bright with intelligence. “So, spill the beans, Patricia. What has Seth MacGowan got to do with all this?”
“What are you talking about?”
“One of my sources says you were seen visiting his farm today, more than once. It’s got to be related to the case, right?”
“Firstly,” Pattie said frostily, “we can’t be certain that this isn’t two separate cases at the moment.”
“Be a bit of a coincidence, wouldn’t it?”
“Secondly, who exactly is your source, who keeps sticking her noise into other people’s business?”
“Why are you so sure it’s a her?”
“This is a traditional countryside village, Miss Conrad. There’s not much for a woman to do around here but earwig and get involved where she’s not wanted.”
Murder and a Song (A Pattie Lansbury Cat Cozy Mystery Series Book 2) Page 4