Play it cool, Kat, I told myself. He doesn’t need to know how desperate you are.
“Thanks for contacting me,” I said in my best professional young woman about town accent. “I’m available for interview at any time and…”
“Grand. Well, we can do it right here and now, over the phone, if that’s ok with you,” he said. “And then if we are wanting a picture—”
“Sorry?” That wasn’t quite the reaction I’d been expecting. “Why would you want a picture?”
“It’s up to you. But it makes for a better story…”
“A story? You mean you’re not ringing about my job application?”
“I’m afraid not. That’s not my department. I’m on the news desk and I’m doing a follow-up on the murder in your village this week. Thought I’d do a bit of a background piece. I understand it was you who found the body?”
“How did you get my number?” I asked frostily.
“Ah well, I did what I always do when I want to find out what’s going on in a place. I went to the local pub. It was a bit quiet at lunchtime but I did have a drink with a very nice fellow called Terry, who says he’s your—”
“Dad.” I said with weary resignation. Was it possible, I wondered, to divorce your parents, particularly ones who gave your mobile phone number to strange guys who just happened to buy them a pint or two?
“He said you found the body, is that right?” Liam went on.
“Yes, I did. But I’d rather not talk about it.” To be honest, I’d rather not think about it, either. Rather not wake up in the middle of the night, getting flashbacks. Seeing poor Marjorie’s legs sticking out of the freezer over and over again. I’d rather not. But I did. And it still freaked me out. The last thing I wanted to do was talk about it to some sensation-seeking journo.
“Ah well, it’s up to you,” he said carelessly. “As a matter of interest, what job were you applying for? I mean, should I be worried for mine now, do you think?”
“Oh no. Nothing like that. It was no job in particular.” I launched into the spiel I’d written and rehearsed so many times. This was my chance to put it into practice. “I was employed by a commercial radio station in Bristol until a couple of months ago and enjoyed the journalism side of it so much, I thought I’d go for a change of direction. In fact, I did a journalism module as part of my Media Studies course at college. I just sent in my CV to your paper on the off-chance.”
“I see. Well, Katie…”
“I prefer to be called Kat, if you don’t mind. Kat Latcham is the name I’m known by professionally.”
“Is that a fact? Well, Kat Latcham, do you fancy meeting up some time and I can maybe give you the heads-up about possible openings for you at The Chronicle?’
“Wow, that’s brilliant,” I said, quite forgetting for a moment that I was trying to be all cool about it. “I – I mean, that’s kind of you, Mr O’Connor.”
“It’s Liam. That’s the name I’m known by,” he paused and I could hear the laughter in his voice as he added, “Professionally.”
“And would you be making fun of me now, Mr O’Connor?” I asked, with what I thought was a passable attempt at an Irish accent.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Kat Latcham. So, come on, now. How about tonight? There are new people in the Queen’s Arms and they have live music on a Friday night. We could meet up for a quick drink and a chat. Shall we say 8 o’clock? I usually sit at the table near the window. You can’t miss me. I’ll be holding a copy of The Chronicle. Unless, of course, you’d like me to be wearing a red carnation?”
“A copy of The Chronicle will do,” I said. Something told me I was going to enjoy meeting Liam O’Connor.
As I put my phone away, I realised I was no longer tired and my feet weren’t aching any more. The thought that maybe, just maybe, I could get a job on The Chronicle put all thoughts of a quiet night in front of the television clean out of my head.
The rest of the afternoon zipped by as I went through in my mind which of my work pieces I would put in my portfolio to take along to show him. And then, of course, there was the vexed question of what to wear.
***
I decided to go for cool, casual but with a touch of sophistication. Skinny jeans, my favourite killer heel boots, my hair spiked and messy, just as I liked it. The regulars of the Winchmoor Arms might not get the way I dressed, but I was hoping Liam would. I was also hoping I hadn’t overdone the Gucci Guilty. It was my favourite perfume, bought back in the days when I could afford such luxuries. I’d dabbed it everywhere in an effort to mask the smell of perm lotion which, in spite of a long and vigorous shower, I was convinced still clung to me.
I saw him the moment I entered the crowded pub. He was, as promised, sitting at the table by the window, a copy of The Dintscombe Chronicle propped up in front of him. He was younger than I’d imagined, in his early thirties probably, with thick, dark hair that curled slightly over the collar of his white linen shirt.
He was eye-wateringly, drop dead gorgeous, with a smile that could power a lighthouse.
“Mr O’Connor, I presume?” I said.
“Indeed it it. It’s good to meet you, Kat Latcham.” His handshake was cool and firm. “First things first. What can I get you to drink?”
“A sparkling mineral water, please.” I wasn’t driving. Dad had not only given me a lift in to Dintscombe but had also given me the money for a taxi back. Conscience money, I called it, for giving out my mobile number to strangers in the pub. Although, now I’d met this particular stranger, I thought maybe I’d forgive Dad. This time.
Nevertheless, no alcohol. I wanted to keep a clear head. This was business, not pleasure, after all, I reminded myself. Although I couldn’t help noticing the way his faded denim jeans clung to his slim hips as he stood up. Well, ok, maybe just a little bit of pleasure. And as for those long legs and those broad, powerful-looking shoulders…
After Ratface, I’d sworn I was off men for life. And I’d meant it. But, for someone like Liam O’Connor, whose clear blue eyes made you think of a summer evening’s darkening sky, I could be persuaded to make an exception. Me and every other woman in the pub, I reckoned, as I noticed that mine wasn’t the only gaze clocking his progress across the crowded room.
As I sat down, I became aware of someone watching not him, but me. It was Will, glaring at me from across the room.
“Will,” I called. “What are you doing here? I thought you didn’t like dreary folksy music?”
“And I thought you were planning a night in front of the TV,” he snapped. “All you had to do was say no, Katie. You didn’t have to make up phoney excuses.”
“It wasn’t like that—” I began. But it was too late. He’d already stormed out of the pub, his face as dark as a thundercloud.
Chapter Twelve
“Sorry. Did I interrupt something?” Liam asked as he returned with the drinks.
“No. Just a mate of mine being a total idiot as usual.” I reached into my bag and took out the folder containing some of my work and placed it on the table in front of him. “I’ve brought some of my stuff for you to have a look at. It’s mostly pieces I did for the radio station, plus a few random bits I thought you might be interested in.”
“I’d rather find out a little more about you, Kat Latcham,” he said, looking not at the folder but at me. “You’re working in your mother’s hairdressing salon for the moment, I understand. I’ll bet you hear all the local gossip there, don’t you?”
“Tell me about it,” I said. “My ears are still ringing.”
“And what are the jungle drums saying about Marjorie Hampton?”
My hand stilled, the glass half way to my lips. “I told you I didn’t want to talk about the murder. Is that why you asked me here, hoping I’d change my mind? This is all about you getting a scoop, isn’t it? Nothing to do with a job at The Chronicle. Well, thanks a bunch.”
I put down the glass, gathered up my folder and stuffed it back into my bag. I stood
up, my cheeks flaming. Of all the naive birdbrains. What had I been thinking of? If I hurried, I could catch Will and snag a lift back with him. And maybe find out what was bugging him at the same time.
“Exclusive,” Liam said quietly, looking up at me, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Excuse me?”
“We say exclusive, not scoop. If you’re going to become a journo, Kat Latcham, at least get the terminology right. Now, sit down and we’ll start again. And yes, I would like to hear about how you found poor Marjorie Hampton. But no, I did not ask you here tonight for that sole purpose.”
“So what exactly was your purpose?” I asked, still bristling.
“It’s Friday night. The music’s good and they do a decent pint in here, unlike that rubbish they serve in your local. I fancied a few drinks in the company of a gorgeous girl. Nothing more. Nothing less. Plus, of course, a little chat about job prospects with The Chronicle.”
Gorgeous? Did he say gorgeous? And something about job prospects? My ruffled feathers slowly began to unruffle. I sat down. But I’d heard all about silver-tongued Irishmen who could charm the spots off a Dalmatian, and hardened my resolve.
“Yeah, right. We’ve never met before. For all you knew, I could have had a face like a horse and be covered in zits.”
A face like a horse. Of all the stupid things to say. The one thing guaranteed to bring Marjorie Hampton’s horsey features back to the forefront of my mind. I swallowed hard and took a long gulp of my drink. I spluttered as the bubbles went up my nose.
“Strong stuff, that mineral water,” he commented. “Are you ok?”
“I’m fine. Sorry. You were saying?”
“How did I know you were gorgeous? Simple. I checked you out on Facebook. A good journalist always does his homework. Rule number one. Now, are you sure you wouldn’t like something that won’t make you choke this time? Something stronger?”
I smiled as the knot of tension that had been coiled inside me for days slowly began to unwind. “A good journalist should also know not to believe everything he reads on Facebook. And a Pinot Grigio would be lovely. Thanks.” I added, as I came to the conclusion that keeping a clear head was seriously overrated.
Two glasses later and the knot had completely unravelled. Liam was great company and it was amazing how much we had in common, including our love of what Will called dreary folksy music, as well as our desire to escape from small country villages and the small-minded people who lived in them.
“So what made you come back?” he asked.
I gave him a carefully edited version of why I’d had to return to Much Winchmoor. I didn’t mind owning up to the redundancy thing, but I reckoned the being dumped for my flatmate bit was on a need-to-know basis only, otherwise I might as well walk around with ‘loser’ stamped on my forehead.
“That’s tough,” he said. “I know how I’d feel if I had to go back to the little village near Cork where I come from. You can’t change your socks there without everyone talking about it and coming to the conclusion that you’re part of an international sock smuggling ring.”
“And are you?” I laughed.
“Ah well, now that would be telling, wouldn’t it? And if I did tell you, I’d probably have to kill you.”
“So how did you end up in Dintscombe, of all places? It’s not exactly the hottest spot on the planet,” I said. “Five pubs, a kebab shop and a nightclub that opens only when the owner’s sober enough to remember to unlock the doors.”
“Ah no, but, you see, I don’t intend staying at The Chronicle. It’s just a stepping stone. That’s why I want to make a good fist of this murder story.” He leaned towards me, his eyes shining with barely suppressed excitement. “It’s the biggest thing to happen around here since—”
“Since last week’s phantom knicker nicker? I saw the headlines in the paper.”
He pulled a face. “Then you’ll see what I mean. I need to make the most of this murder story. There’s plenty of interest in it from the nationals. This could be the big break I've been waiting for.”
“But I…”
He placed his forefinger on my mouth. Feather-light and cool against my lips. I only had to open my mouth, ever so slightly and – oh Lord, what was I doing? Here was I, off men for life, fantasising about how it would be if… And what was he saying? Somehow I’d completely lost track of the conversation.
“…and I would hate to spoil a lovely evening by upsetting you again. So, there will be no more talk of murder, ok?” he was saying.
“Oh, but I don’t mind talking about it.” I was relieved I was able to catch up without making a total idiot of myself. “In fact, I’d like to. It’s just the actual finding her that I don’t want to dwell on. Sorry if I was touchy about it earlier but I think that will haunt me for the rest of my life.” Despite the warmth of the crowded bar, I shuddered. Time to focus on something else. “John Manning didn’t do it, you know. Although I seem to be the only person in the entire village who believes that. Apart from his son, Will, of course.”
“And would that be the ‘total idiot’– your words, not mine – who stormed out earlier? That was John Manning’s boy?”
“That was Will, yes. You know John was released without charge this morning, don’t you?”
He nodded. “That’s because they’d held him for thirty-six hours. After that, they have no choice. They have to either charge him or release him. And obviously they’ve not got enough evidence to charge him.”
“Or they’ve found evidence against someone else,” I said. “Because he didn’t do it, Liam. I know it as surely as I know my own name.”
“And which name would that be, now?” he said with a grin.
“I’m serious. John Manning says Marjorie left him, very much alive and spitting mad, at half past three and I believe him. But I’ve asked almost everyone in the village now and nobody saw her after she went up to the farm. It’s a complete mystery.”
“Or nobody admits to seeing her.” Liam said quietly, his face serious. “But, if John Manning is telling the truth, then somebody did. I think there’s a very strong possibility that somebody’s lied to you, Kat. The question is, who?”
“Gerald Crabshaw!”
Liam raised an eyebrow. “As in Councillor Gerald Crabshaw? The probable next leader of Dintscombe District Council. The fellow who exchanges funny handshakes with my editor. What makes you think it was him, of all people?”
“Because he was the one who got me fired yesterday.”
“Fired?” He looked confused. “I thought you worked for your mum?”
“I do now but—” I stopped as I remembered I was talking to a journalist. “This is off the record, right?”
The last thing I wanted was to see the pathetic details of my ill-fated career as a barmaid splashed across the local paper, not while I was actively job hunting.
“Of course,” he assured me. “I told you before, as far as I’m concerned, I’m just enjoying a friendly chat with a gorgeous girl. Nothing more.”
I knew it was just a bit of Irish blarney, but a frisson of pleasure chased down my spine and I had to force myself to focus. If I could persuade Liam to believe that John Manning was innocent, it would be great. He would, I reckoned, make a useful ally.
“Ok. Well, until last night I was working behind the bar of the Winchmoor Arms and I’d made a point of asking everyone I served if they’d seen Marjorie on Tuesday.”
“And had they?”
I shook my head. “No one had. But when I asked Gerald, he went bonkers at me. Said I’d been accusing him of ‘doing for her,’ as he put it, which of course I hadn’t. Why would I? It hadn’t even occurred to me to suspect him.”
I’d got his attention, that was for sure. His piercing blue eyes were fixed on me intently. “Go on,” he said quietly.
“All I wanted was to find someone who’d seen Marjorie after she left John. Not track down her murderer. I’ll leave that to the police, thank
s very much. But an hour later, Donald fired me saying customers had been complaining. And the only customer who’d seemed remotely bothered by my questions was Councillor Creepy Crabshaw. Makes you wonder why, doesn’t it?”
“It certainly does.” He lowered his voice and leaned so close towards me I could smell the light citrus tang of his aftershave. “As a matter of fact, I’ve been hearing things about Councillor Crabshaw.”
“What sort of things?”
He shrugged. “Just local rumours. Unsubstantiated, of course. And certainly nothing I could go into print with. But even so, there have been whispers. And I’ve been cultivating a contact who I’m pretty sure is ready to dish the dirt on him.”
“Then there is something,” I breathed. “I knew it.”
“Ah yes. But thinking it is one thing, proving it quite another. And I have to be careful because, like I told you, he’s best buddies with my editor.”
“Oh right. And that means he can get away with—” I stopped.
“With murder? Was that what you were going to say?” He was looking at me intently. “You don’t seriously think he murdered Marjorie Hampton, do you?”
“Well, why not? It was no secret they absolutely hated each other and apparently, he blamed Marjorie for shopping him to the police, which resulted in him losing his licence for driving under the influence a while back.”
“Yes, I heard about that. But hardly a reason for murder, I’d have thought. It was about eighteen months ago, wasn’t it? Just before I started at The Chronicle.”
“Probably. I wasn’t here then either but Mum told me all about it. It was the talk of the village for weeks, apparently. Anyway, the other night in the pub Gerald had had a few and was ranting on about how Marjorie was going to come to a sticky end one day. And, believe me, he never said a truer word. Her end was as sticky as you could get. And no, before you ask, I don’t want to talk about it.”
The possibility of poor Marjorie’s undignified death being splashed across the front pages of a newspaper for people to exclaim about over their corn flakes was too horrible to contemplate.
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