Murder Served Cold

by Paula Williams

  “Not headless.” I suppressed a shudder. “And John Manning hasn’t been charged with anything.”

  “Not yet he hasn’t, but it’s only a matter of time. Not that he was the only one around here with a motive. Marjorie Hampton has got up more noses than grass pollen in the hay fever season. I’m surprised there wasn’t a queue lining up to do for the nosy parker.”

  Settling down for a long, cosy chat with Elsie Flintlock was the last thing I wanted. On the other hand, the old gossip might be able to tell me something.

  “Anyone in particular?” I asked.

  “She’s upset practically everyone in the village at some time or another,” Elsie said. “Even told poor old Olive here that she shouldn’t let her cat do his business in other people’s gardens. Isn’t that right, Olive?”

  I didn’t think Olive Shrewton was capable of killing a wasp, least of all Marjorie. But then, neither was John Manning.

  “So when was the last time either of you saw Marjorie?” I asked.

  “I saw her at your mum’s,” Elsie said, while Olive nodded in agreement. “Having her hair done. As you know, seeing as you were there at the time, trying to make me catch my death of cold, pouring freezing water down my neck. Even though I was good enough to tell you about the job going here.” She looked at me critically. “You know, you’re not a very good advert for Cheryl’s salon and I’ve told your mother as much on several occasions. If you’re going to work in there on a regular basis, you’re going to have to smarten yourself up, young lady. Have you combed your hair this morning? And what sort of colour is that supposed to be? Purple? It isn’t natural.”

  I was about to say that Blue Hyacinth wasn’t natural either, but that brought back memories of Marjorie Hampton. So I let it go.

  “Of course I’ve combed my hair. And it’s supposed to be like this. It’s the fashion. And I’m not going to be working in the salon any more. I was only covering for Sandra while she was away having her bunions done, or whatever it was.” I cleared away the empty plates and resisted the urge to point out that the steak and mushroom pies couldn’t have been that bad, seeing as both plates looked as if they’d been licked clean. “Did you happen to know where Marjorie was going, after she’d had her hair done?”

  “How would I know?” Elsie picked up her glass and took a long drink. “You were the one she was talking to, not me. Weren’t you listening?”

  “Well, yes. Sort of. She was going on about footpaths and something about how she was going to stand up to someone once and for all. But it was quite noisy in the salon, and I didn’t catch all she said.”

  “Did she now? Going to stand up to somebody, eh?” Elsie became fully alert, like a bloodhound picking up a scent. “Now, who do you reckon she was meaning?”

  “I don’t know. Except, I don’t think she meant John Manning, because—”

  “I think it’s about time you were off home, Katie.”

  Damn it. I wished Donald wouldn’t do that. He came up so quietly behind me, it made me jump. He did it all the time and it was starting to freak me out. It was as if he had a hidden camera that sent him an alert every time I stopped to talk to anyone.

  But I didn’t have to be told to go twice. Particularly as it was obvious that information gathering was strictly a one-way process as far as Elsie Flintlock was concerned.

  I grabbed my sparkly pink biker jacket and hurried out, determined to catch Jules on her way to school.

  The icy wind which had been screaming around Will’s farm this morning had obviously decided to include the whole village in its rampaging bid to bring March in like a lion. The village’s narrow High Street, with its higgledy-piggledy stone cottages, acted like a wind tunnel and I caught the full force the moment I stepped outside the pub.

  I looked down the street and saw, with a jolt, a police car parked outside Marjorie’s cottage. Would they find anything there that would tell them who she’d been planning to meet yesterday afternoon? Something that would put John Manning in the clear? I certainly hoped so.

  The wind gave another furious blast that set the Winchmoor Arms sign swinging wildly and sent an empty drink can scudding down the road like a heat-seeking missile. I pulled my jacket closer to me and cursed myself for having chosen to wear something that looked and felt good on the streets of Bristol but here, in Not Much Winchmoor, was totally inadequate. I thought about stopping off at home to add another layer or two and to change from the spiky-heeled boots into the less glamorous but infinitely more comfortable shoes I’d been wearing earlier. Then I spotted Jules in the distance. She was with a gaggle of mums and buggies and they’d just turned up towards School Lane.

  I decided against the ropey old shoes and baggy fleece. I hadn’t seen Jules in ages and wanted to look cool. She’ d always had a very critical eye (and tongue) when it came to matters of fashion and all through our schooldays and, before I discovered judo, had made me feel the plain and dumpy one.

  I called her but my voice was snatched away by the wind so there was nothing for it but to break into a light trot in a bid to catch up the girl I’d been friendly with ever since primary school.

  “Jules!” I called again.

  This time, she turned round. A big beaming smile lit up her face as she recognised me. “Katie, I heard you were back. Hey, you’re looking good, girl. I love your hair. It’s really cool.”

  “Thanks.” Praise from Jules warmed me where my sparkly pink biker jacket had spectacularly failed. “I was asked by Elsie Flintlock just now if I’d combed it this morning. And then she went on to say I was a pretty poor advert for Mum’s salon.”

  Jules laughed. “I should think that’s a good thing, wouldn’t you? No disrespect to your mum intended.”

  “None taken,” I assured her.

  “And you’ve lost a shedload of weight. Given up the chocolate digestives for good now, have you?”

  I laughed. “Never. It’s a combination of judo and running.”

  “Whatever. You look brilliant. Hey, it’s great to see you, Katie.” Jules linked her arm through mine in the way she always used to. “One of the other mums was just telling me about Marjorie Hampton. And that it was you who found her body. Is that right?”

  “Yes. It was pretty grim, actually.”

  “Of course. It must have been awful. But a murder? Right here in Much Winchmoor. It’s just terrible, isn’t it?”

  She couldn’t quite keep the excitement out of her voice and her eyes shone. But I couldn’t really blame her. I’d probably have been just the same if I hadn’t been the one to find the body.

  “Yes. Terrible. And I prefer to be called Kat now, if you don’t mind,” I said automatically.

  “Of course you do. Sorry. I keep forgetting. You told me the last time you were home. Look, it’s too cold to stand around here chatting. I’m on my way to pick up our Kylie from school. Walk with me a little way?” Jules pulled up the collar of her thick padded coat as we set off in the direction of School Lane, arms still linked, like the old days.

  “I’m not surprised you can’t get anyone to remember your new name,” she went on. “You know how folk around here hate change. In their eyes you’re little Katie Latcham. And that’s that. Always have been. Always will be. Even when you become a rich and famous radio presenter.”

  “In my dreams.” With my spare hand I tugged my jacket closer, as the chill wind cut through the thin fabric. “You know I got made redundant from the radio station, don’t you?’

  “Yeah, I heard. That’s tough. So, apart from that, how are things with you, Kat? I heard you and that guy – what was his name? – split.”

  “Nick.” I said shortly. “Otherwise known as Ratface. And is there anyone in this village who doesn’t know about my love life?”

  “Shouldn’t think so,” Jules grinned. “Once Elsie Flintlock gets hold of a piece of goss, it’s like taking out a front page advert in The Chronicle and announcing it to the world.”

  “Tell me about it,�
� I sighed. “She told me at lunchtime you were in ‘the family way’ again, as she put it. Is that right?”

  Jules stopped so suddenly I almost toppled off my spiky heels. The last time I’d seen that stricken expression on her face was the day she found out she’d failed GCSE maths for the second time.

  “Jules, I’m sorry.” I gave her arm an apologetic squeeze. I really hadn’t meant to upset her and should have known better than to assume that just because Elsie Flintlock knew something, the information was in the public domain.

  I looked at her closely and for the first time, noticed how tired and frazzled she looked, the dark circles under her eyes accentuated by the pallor of her skin. Her hair, which was usually as sleek and glossy as one of the adverts for hair products in Mum’s salon, was scraped carelessly back into a lank ponytail. And her clothes looked as if she’d grabbed the nearest things to hand. It was so unlike her. Of the two of us, she’d always been the fashionista, the one to follow the latest trend. But the baggy tracksuit bottoms and scuffed trainers she was wearing didn’t look that trendy to me. Although, I had to admit it, her outfit looked a damn sight warmer and more comfortable than mine.

  “Old witch,” Jules muttered, “How the hell did she know? I haven’t even told Eddie yet. He’s going to be over the moon – I don’t think. Another baby was definitely not part of the plan. Not now things were just getting to be a bit easier, with our Kylie starting school. And then, I had this job, which I had to pack in because I’ve been getting the most terrible morning sickness that lasts morning, noon and night, and the boss wasn’t prepared to give me any more time off. I’ve been feeling absolutely dreadful.”

  “God, I’m sorry, Jules. That’s tough,” I gave her arm another squeeze. “This place is the pits for knowing everyone’s business, isn’t it? I’d forgotten just how bad it can be.”

  Jules glanced at her watch. “Look, I can’t just stand here, much as I’d like to. I must get on. Kylie goes mental if I’m not there when she comes out of school. She started in September and I thought she’d be over all that by now. It’s been six months but she hasn’t really settled yet. Her teacher says not to worry, that they all settle in at their own pace but you can’t help worrying, can you? Why not walk up to school with me and and we’ll talk as we go along? It’ll be a trip down memory lane for you, seeing the old place again.”

  “Sure.” After all, it was not like I had anything else to do that afternoon. Apart from take off my boots, that is.

  “I hear Marjorie Hampton was decapitated,” Jules said, the gleam of excitement lighting up her face again. “That her head was in one freezer and the rest of her in another. Is that true?”

  “No.” I said shortly. I preferred not to think about Marjorie’s blue cauliflower head as it had been the last time I saw it. But, as far as I could tell, it had still been firmly attached to her body. “I saw her, you know. I mean, alive and well. It was yesterday morning. Just a few hours before the – before it happened, I suppose. I was helping Mum in the salon because Sandra had gone to Bath to see a chiropodist—”

  “Sandra!” Jules gave a shriek of laughter. “God, is she still working for your Mum? I thought she’d been pensioned off years ago.”

  “Still there. Do you remember how we used to call her Mrs Overall, after that Julie Walters character?”

  We giggled and, for the first time since coming back to Much Winchmoor, I felt a sense of connection with someone. Apart from Will, of course. It was so good to see Jules again and have a laugh over old times. Good, too, to forget, if only for a fleeting moment, Marjorie Hampton’s brutal murder, which had filled my mind ever since the grim discovery. But there was no getting away from it for long. Not even with Jules. Especially not with Jules, who was, I reminded myself, Olive Shrewton’s granddaughter and, although she moaned about it, shared her grandmother’s love of a good gossip. Providing, of course, it wasn’t about her.

  “So, go on,” Jules prompted. “You say you saw Marjorie in the salon yesterday morning?”

  “She came in to have a perm. Said she was going up to see John Manning later. Something about a footpath closure. Said she was going to have it out with him, once and for all. But there was something else she said that made me think—”

  But Jules wasn’t interested in whatever it was that had made me think. Her eyes gleamed. “And you reckon that’s when he murdered her?”

  “No, of course I don’t. John Manning didn’t do it. No way. For pity’s sake, Jules. You know the guy as well as I do. He couldn’t possibly have done it.”

  “That’s not what I heard. Not what the police think either, by all accounts.”

  “Then the police are wrong,” I said with total conviction. “It has been known. Look at that time they thought your Eddie had been receiving stolen copper cables.”

  “That was a mistake. The dumbo bought them in good faith from a dodgy mate. I’m always telling him he should pick his friends more carefully.”

  “Exactly. A mistake. The police were wrong about Eddie, and they’re wrong about John Manning.”

  She stopped and turned to me. “But then, if John didn’t do it, who did?”

  “That’s the million-dollar question.” An image of Will’s shocked expression as he watched his dad being driven away in a police car filled my mind. Swiftly followed by one of John Manning’s face, as white as his son’s. How must he be feeling now, locked up in a police cell? He was a man of the outdoors, never comfortable in confined spaces at the best of times. It must surely be freaking him out. “I don’t know who did it,” I added. “But I intend to find out.’

  “Hah!” Jules laughed. “Hark at you. Much Winchmoor’s answer to Miss Marple.”

  I turned and looked back on the village, stretched out below us now. It looked so quiet. Dead, even. The sort of place where the most exciting thing to happen had been the vicar falling off his bike into the village pond after the Harvest Supper, when he’d foolishly mistaken Abe Compton’s Headbender cider for apple juice.

  Yet, somewhere down there in that tiny cluster of houses was someone who thought that he – or, of course, she – had just got away with murder.

  I shivered and held Jules’s arm more tightly as we walked on up the hill. “No, seriously, though,” I said. “Did you see Marjorie up here yesterday afternoon?”

  “No. But I was late picking Kylie up. I had to go into Dintscombe to see the doctor and the wretched bus was late coming back. It had to go all round the lanes as there’d been a nasty crash and the dual carriageway was closed most of the afternoon. That’s why I don’t want to be late today. She’d got in a terrible state, convinced herself that I was never coming back and Miss Davenport, her teacher, now has me marked down as a bad mother.”

  “What about any of the other mums?” I asked. “Did any of them see Marjorie?”

  “I don’t know. How would I? You’ll have to ask them.”

  We’d arrived at the school by this time and I spent several minutes going from one group of mums to the next. But nobody, it seemed, had seen Marjorie Hampton coming back after John Manning had told her to get off his land, although a few had seen her when she was on the way up. One had even spoken to her. A red-haired girl called Amy.

  “Interfering old cow,” Amy said. “Only told me my little Skye shouldn’t be eating a lolly. That it would rot her teeth. Like it was any of her business.”

  I smiled down at the child in the pushchair, who was bundled up in layers of furry blankets, which I envied. I went to say hello to her but her small red face puckered as I leaned towards her pushchair and I pulled back hastily.

  “I’m sorry,” Amy shrugged. “She’s a bit shy with strangers.”

  “Very wise, too,” I said. “So when Marjorie spoke to you, that would have been about half past three, would it? And was she on her way up to the farm or coming back?”

  She shook her head. “On her way up. And it was more like quarter past. I was early. I always am. First to arrive, las
t to go, that’s me.”

  Quarter past three. That meant Marjorie would have reached the farm at about twenty past. How long does it take to have a row and be ordered off? One thing was sure, John wouldn’t have invited her in for a cup of tea and a biscuit.

  “I didn’t see her come back down, though,” Amy went on. “And I was here for ages, waiting for my Marlon who’d lost his reading book and had to stay behind until he found it. He’d lose his head if it wasn’t screwed on, that one. Just like his dad. It must have been closer to four when we finally got away.”

  I frowned. That didn’t make sense. The only way to and from the Manning farm was via the lane that led past the school. Once it reached the farm, it ended abruptly in a rough farm track that wound its way up to the top of Pendle Knoll itself. It was obvious from the deep muddy ruts that Will had been driving his tractor up and down. There was no way anyone else could have gone that way, unless they’d borrowed Will’s tractor, and somehow I couldn’t see Marjorie doing that.

  But if she had left John at the time he said, then she’d have had to come back down the lane. And Amy would have seen her. The other mums, too, no doubt.

  Which meant either John had got the time wrong, and she’d left much later, or she hadn’t come back at all. That John had lost his temper, which he admitted he had and—

  And nothing. I shook my head, cross with myself for letting my thoughts skitter off in that direction.

  John Manning was innocent. Of course he was. And I was going to prove it. One way or another.

  Chapter Eight

  It had worked! Who’d have thought murder could be so easy? Of course, it was all down to meticulous planning. And, he was big enough to admit, a small bit of luck. Hearing her and John Manning arguing like that. Well, a fellow would have to be a complete fool not to have capitalised on that.

  And he was no fool. Nobody would ever call him that again. Because if they did… Well, they always said the first one was the hardest, didn’t they? But that had been a piece of cake. She went like a lamb to the slaughter. Which, when you think where the interfering old biddy ended up, was kind of appropriate.