A suitable place to die. He’d chosen well. It was a pity he couldn’t have finished the job properly. If he’d had time to put her whole body in that freezer, she’d have been there for ages, undiscovered.
But still, the memory of that last view of her, legs up in the air, was priceless. Hilarious. And worth the risk.
He was safe now. That was all that mattered. Nobody, but nobody, could mess things up for him now.
His plan had worked.
Chapter Nine
The noise level around the school suddenly rocketed as the doors opened and a swarm of over-excited children surged into the playground. I had a certain sympathy with Marjorie’s comment to John about the din from the school yesterday. I’m sure we were never allowed to be so noisy when we were that age.
I froze, horrified at my train of thought. I’d been back in Much Winchmoor – how long was it? Three days? Four days? It felt more like a month. And already I was beginning to sound like a fully paid up member of the Grumble and Gossip Group. What was happening to me?
There was no point hanging around in the school playground, asking any more questions. I turned away, disappointed that my first attempts to find someone who’d seen Marjorie after she left the farm yesterday afternoon had drawn a resounding blank. I’d been so sure somebody must have seen her.
As I walked away, I heard someone call my name and turned back, my hopes rising.
“Katie?” It was Amy, with a small boy I took to be Marlon pulling at her sleeve. “I just wanted to say I love your jacket. It’s really cool. Where did you get it?”
Isn’t that always the way? At any other time, I’d have been dead pleased by someone commenting on the way I looked. But right then I was so focused on Marjorie and her movements that I stared blankly at Amy while I tried to work out what she was on about.
“My jacket? Oh, yes. Thanks.” I said, desperate not to spoil the effect by shivering as the mad March wind, which showed no sign of calming down any time soon, sliced through my ‘cool’ jacket like a knife through butter. I also didn’t want to tell her that I’d bought it for a fiver in a charity shop in Bristol. I had my pride.
“Oh, you know,” I said vaguely. “One of those small trendy shops in Clifton. Can’t remember where exactly. You will let me know if you hear if anyone saw Marjorie Hampton yesterday afternoon, won’t you?”
Amy nodded. “My mum lives just opposite her. I’ll ask around and…”
At that moment, Marlon decided that the tatty one-eared toy rabbit his younger sister was clutching was in fact his and our conversation, such as it was, ended abruptly.
I moved out of ear splitting distance and took out my phone to call Will. But, as always, he wasn’t answering. Not that I was looking forward to adding to his worries by telling him none of the mums had seen Marjorie, after his dad ordered her off the farm. And yet, if John was to be believed, which of course he was, then surely somebody must have seen her? This was Much Winchmoor, for pity’s sake, where a person couldn’t sneeze without the whole village speculating on what they’d been doing to catch a cold – and who they’d been doing it with.
But who had seen Marjorie? And when?
I hoped the fact that Will wasn’t answering his phone meant he was on his way down to Yeovil to collect his dad. I was dying to go home, take my boots off and thaw out. But as I was so close to the farm, I reckoned I might as well go on up and see if he was around. Just in case.
I still couldn’t get used to seeing the farmyard so clean and cattle-free. It was deserted, apart from the kittens who were playing with the blue and white police tape that still fluttered around the entrance to the old farm shop. They skittered back to the safety of the barn as I pushed open the yard gate.
I was relieved to see that, apart from the tape, there was no other sign of any police activity now. Will’s mud-encrusted Land Rover was parked in its usual place. And the fact that there were no hysterical dogs rushing towards me as I crossed the yard told me that he must be out on the farm somewhere.
Pendle Knoll Farmhouse didn’t run to such luxuries as a door bell or knocker, so I banged on the farmhouse door long and hard, in the hope that John might be back and would open it. But all I got for my effort was a set of sore knuckles.
I got my phone out to try Will again but changed my mind. What was the point? His mobile was the most immobile phone on the planet, spending most of its time sitting among the detritus that littered the old oak dresser in the kitchen. I scribbled a note asking him to let me know what was happening and if there was anything I could do, pushed it through the letterbox, then went back home to spend what was left of the afternoon trawling the internet for jobs and sending out applications.
It was a soul-destroying task. I knew that most of my applications, if not all of them, wouldn’t even get an acknowledgement, least of all be taken any further. It was almost a relief when it was time for my evening shift in the pub, even if it did mean another evening of mind-numbing boredom. But I figured that after the sort of day I’d had, a bit of boredom would come as a welcome relief.
But I’d reckoned without the power of a gruesome event like a murder to pull a community together. Or, as was more likely, to bring out the ghoul in everyone within a twenty-mile radius. Just as it had been at lunchtime, the Winchmoor Arms was heaving like it was Christmas Eve, as people flocked to the place in the hope of finding out what had really happened, rather than settle for the stark statement that had been on the early evening local news.
Talk about one man’s tragedy being another man’s good fortune. Donald had a smile on his face like he’d won the lottery. He’d even put roast lamb – a rare treat and something he usually reserved for high days, holidays and, for reasons best known to himself, Trafalgar Day – on the Specials Menu. The kitchen was working flat out all evening, while his beer sales went through the roof.
I was rushed off my feet, now thankfully clad in shoes which, while not in the Marjorie Hampton mould of ‘sensible footwear,’ were a lot more comfortable than my earlier choice. There was one tiny consolation, though. There was no sign of Councillor Creepy Crabshaw who, together with his wife, my mum and Sandra, were probably the only Much Winchmoor residents not in the pub that night. The only downside was that, after his unsubtle attempts to look down my top the night before – and given that I’d frozen half to death that afternoon – I’d dressed in a warm, fleecy, high-necked sweatshirt which, before the evening was half over, felt like one of those sauna suits people wear to sweat the fat off.
When I’d first arrived at the start of my shift, Donald nodded his approval and muttered something about how glad he was to see me in more appropriate clothing, but as the pub filled, the temperature soared. My face went from tomato red to beetroot purple and glistened with sweat as I raced about like a hen on hurry-up pills, trying to keep pace with the seemingly endless demand for food and drink. Not to mention fielding as many demands for information about the murder.
Everyone, it seemed – except, of course, me and Will – was convinced of John Manning’s guilt and had the poor guy tried and convicted. They came out with one story after another about his heavy drinking, and the unrelenting anger that had been eating him alive ever since Sally died. And, as the evening went on and the beer flowed, the stories and speculation grew more lurid and outrageous, until my jaw ached with the effort of controlling the urge to scream at them all to shut up.
I was asked so many times if it was really true that I’d been the one to find the body – always with that same, barely contained frisson of excitement – that by closing time I was wishing they’d go back to asking me about my love life, as they’d been doing the night before.
I was also wishing I’d worn the same scoop neck top as I had then, as sweat trickled down my back and pooled around the waistband of my jeans. It would certainly have been a lot cooler.
***
“Honestly, Mum,” I said next morning as we sat down together with a cup of tea at the kit
chen table after I’d got back from my morning run. “Last night, the entire village had poor John Manning in prison for murder. It was awful. How can people be so horrible?”
Mum sighed. “Let’s face it, love. John’s not the man you knew anymore. Surely you could see that for yourself on Wednesday night, when he showed up at the pub? Your dad mentioned what a state he was in.”
“Well, yes, he was. That’s true. And all this heavy drinking and cursing he goes in for is so out of character, that’s for sure. But nobody changes that much, Mum. Not underneath. There’s no way he could do something as terrible as—” I broke off, as the image of Marjorie, never far from my mind, returned in all its gruesome, stomach-churning detail. I closed my eyes and wished I had a delete button that would remove the unwanted image from my mind permanently.
“Try not to think about it, sweetheart,” Mum said gently.
“Easier said than done,” I said. “Particularly as that’s all anyone wanted to talk about.”
“Well, I told you to take the night off, didn’t I? In fact, why don’t you pack the job in altogether? You can help me out in the salon. I told you poor Sandra’s feet are playing her up again, didn’t I? An infected bunion now. It’s in a terrible state, she says, and—”
“Oh, right,” I cut in before she could go into any more detail. “And, of course, your customers won’t want to hear all the gory details about the murder, will they? I don’t think.”
Mum pulled a face. “Sadly, you’re not wrong there, love,” she sighed. “According to the talk in the salon today, the overwhelming majority of them think John’s guilty, too, I’m afraid.”
“But you don’t, surely?”
“Well…” she shook her head as she got up to pour herself another cup of tea. “Ready for a top-up?”
“No thanks. But, Mum, this is John Manning we’re talking about, remember? A gentle giant who wouldn’t hurt a fly. The man who taught me to ride that bad-tempered little pony of Will’s. And who fixed my bike so that Dad wouldn’t know I’d ridden it into the village pond and buckled the wheel.”
“Did you?” she looked up in surprise. “When was that? I didn’t know.”
“You weren’t supposed to.” I prised the lid off the biscuit tin and peered inside. “And where are my chocolate biscuits? There was half a packet left in here yesterday.”
“Well, you know…” Mum looked as guilty as a Labrador caught with its head in the pedal bin.
“So what happened to this wonderful new diet of yours? The one that was supposed to end all diets.”
“It was making me depressed,” Mum said, then gave a coy smile and a little toss of her head. “Besides, your dad says he prefers me with a few curves. Says it gives him something to hang on to.”
“Whoa! Way too much information,” I cut in hastily and went for a much-needed change of subject. “Seriously, Mum, you don’t really believe John could have done such a terrible thing, do you?”
Mum’s smile disappeared and her voice softened. “Not the John we used to know, no,” she placed a gentle hand on my arm. “You’re quite right. He was a lovely, gentle and very kind man. But he’s changed, love. It’s as if when Sally died, that John died along with her and this bad-tempered, rude and aggressive stranger took his place. I’m not saying he meant to kill poor Marjorie. Goodness knows, she could be a bit trying when she got on one of her campaigns. It’s more likely he struck out wildly in one of his drunken rages. You have to remember, grief can do terrible things to a person and John – well, like I said, he’s not the man he used to be anymore.”
“Well, I still don’t believe it,” I said. “And I don’t believe you do either. I keep thinking of the poor guy, locked up in a police cell. He must be going through hell. I feel awful, not being able to do anything to help.”
“But you are doing something, love. You’ve made it up with Will and that can only be a good thing. And didn’t you say you had a bit of a clean-up in the kitchen for them? That would have helped, too. I’d no idea they’d let things get that bad. Sally would have been horrified to think of them living like that.”
“Wouldn’t she just?”
“I’ll tell you what, I’ll pop a casserole in the oven in a minute and you can take it up to them after you finish at the pub at lunchtime. And, no, before you ask, it’s not one of my special diet recipes. It’s a good old-fashioned lamb hotpot, the way Sally used to make it.”
I thought it would take more than lamb hotpot to take the haunted look out of Will’s eyes. But I didn’t tell Mum that.
***
The lunchtime shift at the pub wasn’t quite as manic as yesterday’s had been. As soon as it was over I collected Mum’s lamb hotpot and went straight up to the farm to see if Will had any news.
As I got there, he was crossing the yard, the deranged Tam pooling around his feet as always, like a mid-day shadow.
“Hey, Will?” I called. “Why didn’t you answer my note?”
He turned at the sound of my voice. Tam came running across to me, ears flattened, hackles raised. I could tell from the look in her eyes, she was dying for me to make a run for it so she could have me by the ankles. She slunk away, disappointed, when Will called her back.
“What note?” He looked blank. He also looked as if he hadn’t got much sleep last night.
“The one I put through your front door yesterday.”
He shook his head. “Jeez, Katie. You have been away a long time, haven’t you? You know we never use the front door. So what did your note say?”
“Nothing really. Just asking you to let me know if you’ve any news. About your dad.”
“Get down, Tam,” Will said, as the dog began to dance around my feet again.
“I expect she can smell this. It’s a lamb hotpot. Mum made it for you – and your dad.” I handed him the bag containing the casserole.
“Thanks. That was good of her. Tell her I appreciate it. But it looks like I’ll be the only one eating it.”
“Your dad’s not back then? Have you heard anything?”
“I’ve heard, all right.” His voice was razor edged with bitterness. “And it’s not good. He’s still helping them with their enquiries, as they put it. Oh yes, and the stupid old fool is refusing a solicitor. Says he doesn’t need one and is ready to confess to killing Marjorie.”
Chapter Ten
For the first time since I’d returned to Much Winchmoor, the sun decided to put in an appearance. Talk about bad timing. A blanket of fog would be more appropriate, more in tune with the sense of grey, gloomy hopelessness that engulfed me at Will’s news.
John, ready to confess to killing Marjorie? The news was as bad as it could be. But still I refused to believe it. Had he been pressured by the police into admitting it? Or been driven so crazy by being shut up that he’d say anything, to get out of there?
“Did he say why he killed her, Will? Or how? Or why he dumped her body half in, half out of the freezer? It certainly wasn’t to hide it, was it? The whole thing makes no sense.”
Will kicked at a dandelion that was pushing up through a crack in the concrete. “Murdering a harmless old biddy like Marjorie makes no sense, but someone did.”
“Yes, but not your dad.”
“He doesn’t remember what happened after the row. He just said he supposed he must have done it when he was drunk.”
“He supposed he must have done it? But that’s not the same as confessing to murder,” I said, clutching at the slenderest of straws.
“In their book it is. They haven’t charged him yet, but it’s only a matter of time. They’ve collected all the evidence they need from the farm shop, or the crime scene as they call it. Right now they’re waiting for the results from the various forensic tests to come through.”
“And what about your father’s shotgun? Have they been able to prove that Marjorie was shot with it?”
“Apparently not, which is something, I suppose. It turns out she wasn’t shot at all but hit over
the back of the head with the proverbial blunt instrument. And before you ask, it wasn’t the butt of the gun. They’ve ruled that out completely.”
I gulped back the now all-too-familiar wave of nausea at the memory. “But, surely, that’s good news for your dad?”
“Not if they find the blunt instrument with his fingerprints all over it. You know what a farm is like. Blunt instruments all over the place. They’ve taken away most of my tools for analysis. I only hope they’re going to let me have them back soon.”
“But, obviously they haven’t found anything yet. Otherwise they’d still be crawling all over the place, which they’re not. And your dad would have been charged with murder. Which he hasn’t.”
“Not yet, he hasn’t. Although the farm shop is still sealed off, as you can see.” He pointed to the blue and white tape across the entrance. “And they’ve been through the house with a fine tooth comb. Scenes of crime officers were crawling all over it until early this morning. Oh yes, and they were very suspicious at the sight of recent attempts to clean up the kitchen. Spent for ever testing that. Must have gone through every pot and pan in the place. Not to mention the overflowing rubbish bin. Bet that was fun.”
“But I was the one who cleaned the kitchen,” I said quickly. “Why didn’t you tell them that?”
“I tried to. But they didn’t take any notice.”
“Then I’ll tell them.” Guilt washed over me. “Oh God, Will, I hope I haven’t made things worse for him.”
“I shouldn’t think so,” Will said heavily, giving the last of the dandelion a well aimed kick. “Face it, they could hardly be a lot worse, could they?”
“This is terrible. I was only trying to help. I didn’t imagine for a moment they’d think…”
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