‘We’ll get this analysed, but it’s undoubtedly ether.’ He slipped it into a plastic bag and handed it to DeVille. ‘That would have rendered you unconscious very quickly.’
‘There’s a bottle on the table in the living room,’ I told him. ‘Nick used it as a solvent.’
The inspector shook his head in despair. ‘It’s a highly volatile and flammable substance. It shouldn’t be stored in the home, and certainly not with other cleaning and chemical substances. You should get any bottles like that properly disposed of, Miss Browne.’
‘But where’s the bottle now, Inspector?’ Morris piped up.
‘It seems that whoever attacked Miss Browne took it with him, probably because his fingerprints were on it,’ the inspector answered. ‘However, his methods do reveal certain things about him.’
‘Like what?’ Ricky asked.
The inspector hesitated. I’d asked, when he’d arrived, if Ricky and Morris could stay, but it was clear that whilst he tolerated their presence, he would have preferred not to have them in the room. ‘If he was the sort of thug who’d wanted to do you serious harm, he could have done so. But his use of ether indicates his objective was escape.’
‘Which seems to bring us back to Richard,’ I said gloomily.
‘Or an opportunist thief,’ the inspector said. A smile glimmered briefly. ‘That is the most likely culprit, you know – a passing opportunist.’
‘But there’s nothing in here to steal,’ Ricky objected, ‘except a lot of crappy second-hand furniture.’
‘Thieves will steal anything, anything they can sell, especially if they’re desperate for drugs money,’ he answered. ‘And even Ashburton is not immune from these problems.’
‘Do we know how he got in?’ Morris asked.
‘There’s no sign of forced entry, so presumably he just walked in, as you did yourselves.’ The inspector looked at me more kindly. ‘You really must remember to lock your shop door when you leave it, Miss Browne.’
‘I thought I had,’ I responded miserably, ‘but I was so pissed off about the paint.’
‘Most likely, someone saw you go out and decided to snoop around. He found himself trapped upstairs when you returned and took desperate action. If he was in the living room, then the cloth and the ether were conveniently to hand.’
‘So you don’t believe that this is anything to do with Nick’s murder?’ Ricky demanded.
‘If Miss Browne had been a target in any way, then I fear she would not have escaped so lightly.’ He smiled at me again. ‘I’m sorry. I know this has been a horrible experience for you, but unfortunate coincidences do happen. However, if anything else should occur, Miss Browne, you won’t be tempted to keep it to yourself, will you?’
‘Cross my heart, Inspector,’ I promised devoutly. ‘You’ll be the first to know.’
As soon as the inspector and Cruella DeVille had gone, we put on the kettle for a cup of tea. Morris suggested going to a cafe but Ricky wanted to stay where we were so he could smoke a fag.
‘Just be careful where you light up,’ Morris advised him, looking around.
‘Watch out for hazardous chemicals.’
Ricky ignored him and flicked his lighter. ‘We were going to drop in for a cuppa anyway, weren’t we Morris,’ he said, drawing deeply, ‘before we found her ladyship here laid out in a swoon.’
It seems they’d brought fresh milk with them, because they didn’t think I’d have any, and three new mugs, because they didn’t fancy using Old Nick’s. I was prepared to swallow my indignation because they’d also brought three Danish pastries. Their shopping had been dropped and forgotten when they’d found me on the floor, but turned out to be only slightly squashed.
‘But first things first,’ I said, as I busied myself with the kettle, ‘tell me who you’ve been talking to. Who have you been discussing me with who thinks I murdered Nick?’
But this time they already had their minds on something else.
‘He’s nice, isn’t he, your inspector?’ Ricky opened the window so he could blow his smoke outside.
‘I think he likes you,’ Morris smiled coyly.
‘He’s not my inspector!’ I said firmly. I knew immediately where this was leading.
Morris wagged a finger. ‘I reckon he’s got a soft spot for you.’
‘Pity he’s wearing a wedding ring,’ Ricky sniffed and flicked ash over the windowsill.
‘Oh, eff off,’ I advised them affably. I wasn’t going to let them wind me up.
‘That’s why she don’t like you,’ Ricky went on, ‘that dark-haired one. Cruella! She’s got a thing about her boss.’
‘Has she?’ I was astonished. For one thing, the inspector was probably old enough to be her father.
‘Haven’t you noticed the way she looks at him?’
‘Well, no,’ I admitted. I hadn’t noticed how she looked at the inspector. I’d only noticed how she looked at me – with varying degrees of smug malevolence. I must pay more attention if there was ever a next time.
‘Pretty girl,’ Morris ventured, putting a paper bag on the table and carefully tearing it open to reveal the three Danish.
‘Pity about the mouth.’ Ricky took a deep drag and then squashed his cigarette out in the sink.
‘It is, isn’t it?’ I agreed spitefully, sitting at the table.
‘Well, not everyone can have a bleeding great gobhole like yours, Juno,’ he told me pleasantly. ‘Now, choose your weapon − lemon curd, apricot or custard?’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Next morning, I took the Tribe across the fields and sat on a stile while they raced around joyfully, tails wagging, ears flapping in the wind. It had rained in the night, and the grass glistened, the ferns in the hedgerows dripped, the wooden stile on which I sat was damp. I didn’t care. I’d been awake most of the night, trying to decide what to do. The day before, after we’d devoured the Danish pastries, Ricky and Morris had stopped talking nonsense and spent a long time trying to persuade me to the sell the shop. I would be getting rid of a big problem and liberating myself from poverty at the same time.
I had to agree it was the sensible option. But I wanted to try to make a go of it, for Nick’s sake as much as my own. Although, how I was going to run it and keep my existing business going, I didn’t know. I wasn’t prepared to abandon Maisie and my other clients, and couldn’t afford to anyway, until the shop started bringing in some money – if it ever did. And nagging at me all the time was the thought that somewhere in that place was the clue to Nick’s murder and if I sold the place that clue would be lost for ever. Sally the Labrador flopped down at my feet, panting. She looked up at me from wise brown eyes and I asked her what she thought, but whatever it was she was keeping to herself.
Despite a promise to Ricky and Morris to let them know when I was next going to the shop so they could keep me company, I slipped in at the end of my day’s work, just for an hour. The ceiling was not going to paint itself and I needed some quiet time when I could concentrate. I didn’t get it. I hadn’t even levered the lid off the paint before a light tap on the shop door made me squawk like a startled chicken.
The figure grinning through the glass at me was Paul.
‘C’mon, open up! It’s starting to rain out here.’
‘I didn’t know you were back,’ I cried, letting him in. ‘What a nice surprise!’
I let myself be kissed on the cheek.
‘How are you?’ he asked cheerfully. ‘I hear you had a bit of bother yesterday.’
‘You could call it that. God, news travels fast in this place! Mind you, I suppose the ambulance and police car parked outside were a dead giveaway.’
‘The girls in the bazaar were buzzing with it all. But you weren’t hurt?’ he asked, more seriously.
‘Only my pride.’
He looked about him at the newly painted shelves, the sparkling white walls. ‘You’re making progress.’
I gazed up at the splodged ceiling. ‘Not enough.�
�
‘Leave it! I’ve come to take you away from all this. The choice of pub is yours.’
My resolve to get the ceiling painted held sway for an entire moment. Ten minutes later we were cosily ensconced in a hostelry that is a bit spit-and-sawdust but has the advantage of a roaring fire, spring temperatures not being quite what they could be. It also sold real ale, which was another advantage, according to Paul. I stuck to cider, refusing his tempting offer of a pint of Badger’s Bum.
‘So, when did you get down here?’ I asked.
‘Last night, I just missed the excitement. Tell me all.’
I did. When I finished, Paul was looking askance at me, his hands linked behind his head, his brows drawn together in a frown. ‘You haven’t been doing any more sleuthing, have you?’
‘No, I swear to God!’ I assured him, holding up both hands. ‘Well, if you don’t count my going to see Verbena.’
‘You haven’t irritated any dangerous thugs lately?’
‘Not knowingly.’
He took a pull of his pint thoughtfully and licked a smear of foam from his top lip. ‘Well, I’m sure your police inspector is right. It was probably an opportunist thief yesterday, just snooping around. You were lucky you didn’t come off worse, though.’
I nodded gloomily.
‘As a matter of fact,’ he added, ‘someone has been snooping around my place while I’ve been away, they tried to break in to the caravan.’
‘Really?’
‘The lock on the door has been tampered with. They must have been pretty stupid. It would have been much easier to break a window and get in that way. It was probably kids, messing about in the field.’
‘Was anything stolen?’
‘They didn’t manage to get in. Anyway, there’s sod all in there to steal.’
‘There’s your netsuke collection,’ I reminded him.
For a moment he stared blankly as if he didn’t know what I was talking about.
‘Oh that!’ He dismissed it airily. ‘I took that away with me the last time I came.’ He gave a grim smile. ‘I suppose I’m lucky they didn’t torch the place.’
‘Did you report it to the police?’
He shrugged. ‘Not much point. But I do need to improve my security arrangements. The workshop is vulnerable with me being away most of the time. That’s one of the reasons I’m down here, to take my tools back with me. I don’t want them getting nicked.’
‘So, you’ve had no luck with selling the place?’
‘Not so far. I’ll bully the agents while I’m here. But,’ he added, triumphantly drumming his fingers on the tabletop, ‘I think I’ve got a buyer for the stripping tank − my mate with the architectural salvage business. He says if I’m not around to strip his doors, he might as well do it himself. But he’s got some work he wants me to do first, that’s the other reason I’ve come down here. When I’ve done that, I can finally drain the tank.’
‘And how are things in Nottingham?’ I ventured. ‘Henry Wain and Arnold Bishop doing well?’
‘Thriving!’
‘You must have discovered another pot of Darkolene.’
‘No such luck! Actually,’ he said, giving a shy grin, ‘I’ve started selling paintings under my own name.’
‘Good for you.’ I picked up his empty glass. ‘That deserves another pint.’
‘No, no! My round.’ He took it from me as he stood up and jerked his head at the chalkboard menu on the pub wall. ‘I’ll even stand you to supper. I’ve got to deliver a very expensive repair to a lady in Truro tomorrow, so I’m feeling flush.’ He raised his eyebrows at me. ‘Pie and chips?’
I thought he’d never ask.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Next day being Thursday I went around to Brook Lane in the afternoon to see Maisie. I was much later than usual; I really felt I’d done enough for the day, but if I didn’t sort out her recycling before the rubbish was collected the following morning, she’d put everything in the wrong boxes and the refuse collectors wouldn’t take them.
A curiously unpleasant smell emanated from her kitchen. A clue came from Jacko, who was staring transfixed at a point on the kitchen counter and making yearning, whining noises deep in his throat. I lifted up a teacloth on the worktop and found a packet of pudgy sausages the colour of dead fingers.
‘How long have these been here?’ I called to Maisie, trying to squint at the best-before label without getting my nostrils too close.
‘Oh, I’ve been looking for them,’ she informed me cheerfully, shuffling up beside me. ‘I was going to have them for me tea the other day. I got them out the fridge and then I lost ’em.’
‘It’s a good job you didn’t find them,’ I told her firmly. ‘You can’t have them now.’
She sniffed. ‘Jacko can have them.’
‘No, he can’t.’ Jacko with an upset stomach was an idea that didn’t bear thinking about.
Maisie wandered away, no longer interested. ‘Put ’em out for the birds.’
‘What, vultures? No, Maisie, they’re going in the bin.’
She tutted as if I was making a fuss about nothing, but didn’t argue. I inspected the rest of her fridge contents, disposed of anything life-threatening, sorted her recycling into the correct receptacles and put it all outside for collection next morning.
I left the van parked outside and walked the abominable Jacko into town. He was as badly behaved as ever and it was a relief to tie him up outside the chemist’s while I fetched Maisie’s prescription. I left him there while I did the rest of her shopping. He was looking forlorn by the time I got back, and feeling guilty at abandoning him, I let him have some of the doggie chocs I’d just bought him in Mr Singh’s. ‘Just don’t be sick,’ I warned him.
Maisie was fast asleep in her armchair when we got back. There was no need for me to tiptoe about; I knew nothing short of an earthquake would wake her. I stowed away her shopping, checked she had no laundry imprisoned in the washing machine, made her a ham sandwich for her supper and put the plate, together with her change and her prescription, on the table by her elbow. I let myself out.
Jacko had jumped up on to the sofa and from there to his favourite spot on the windowsill where he settled down for a doze. As I turned to close the garden gate behind me, he abruptly sat up, poked his snout through the lace curtain and began growling at me, showing his teeth, the curtain draped around his head like the veil of some ghastly bride.
‘What’s up with you?’ I mouthed at him. I crossed the lane to the van, coming around to the passenger door so that I could dump a bag of groceries I’d bought for myself on the front seat.
Late afternoon had turned to evening. The sun was already low in the sky, a glowing red ball netted in branches. Time for me to go home and get some supper.
I put my right hand in my pocket for my keys. By now, Jacko was really going for it, snarling and barking his nasty little head off.
Too late I realised he wasn’t barking at me. Something clobbered me in the back, knocking the breath out of me, slamming my body hard up against the side of the van, trapping my arm against the door. An iron fist gripped my wrist and forced my free arm behind my back. I yelped, shopping falling to the ground, tins rolling in the gutter.
‘Hello, girlfriend,’ a voice hissed in my ear.
I could turn my head just enough to see the reflection in the wing mirror: Vlad, his body close against mine, his lips pressed to my ear.
He chuckled as Jacko’s barking reached a frenzy. ‘Your little friend over there can’t help you. No big black dog to save you now, eh?’
Once more it seems my van had led him straight to me. I tried to push away from him, but he gave my arm a warning twist, making me cry out. ‘What do you want?’
He grabbed a handful of my hair and pulled savagely. ‘I want it back. I want what is mine. They say the old man left you everything, girlfriend. You must have it.’
My voice came out in a broken whisper. ‘I don’t know what you’re t
alking about.’
‘Like our friend with the fish. He didn’t know either.’
‘Murderer!’ I kicked back hard with one foot, catching him on the shin. He cursed, but didn’t loosen his hold.
‘I’m just a businessman,’ he told me softly and laughed.
I couldn’t shift my right arm, trapped against the van door but I could just wriggle my fingers. Deep in my pocket they found my keys. I let them slide into my palm and then closed my fingers in a fist.
‘We go for nice ride in car,’ Vlad’s voice was silky with menace, ‘up on moor. Maybe then you remember.’ He started to pull me away. The lane was deserted except for a red car parked a few yards down. If he got me into that vehicle, I knew I was dead.
I let him drag me away from the van, pretending to resist. He still had my left arm bent behind my back, his fingers knotted in my hair. Slowly I drew my right fist from my pocket, keys projecting between my fingers in a spiky knuckleduster, then swung my arm back fast, as I pivoted on one foot, turned and hit him hard in the face. If the blow had connected squarely, he’d have lost an eye. As it was, I misjudged a little, but the keys scraped across his forehead, leaving bloody tramlines over his brow and across the bridge of his nose.
He leapt back, cursing. I hit him again and this time the keys made a soft, sickening connection. The impact shuddered through my fist sending agonising pain up my arm. Vlad screamed, staggering, reeling like a drunk, shielding his eye with his palm. I tried to unlock the van but my shaking fingers wouldn’t work. I dropped the keys as he launched himself towards me. There was no time to pick them up, to get in the van, no time to do anything. All I could do was run.
Ahead of me the lane was lost in darkness, the masses of the hedgerows blocking out the evening sky. I saw the flickering swoop of a bat hunting in the dusk.
I hurtled down the track, praying that no rut or stone would trip me, send me flying. As I reached a bend, I risked a glance over my shoulder. Vlad was getting into the red car. He could catch up with me in seconds, run me down. I had to get off the lane and there was only one place I could go.
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