Murder Served Cold

by Paula Williams

  Five minutes later, after promising to treat Mum’s sugar pink car like it was made of spun glass, I was bowling along the narrow lane that led out of Much Winchmoor on my way to meet Liam, praying that the Much Winchmoor community speed watch team hadn’t decided Sunday was a good day to take to the lanes with their speed guns. Or that Will hadn’t decided to take his tractor out for a nice leisurely chug around.

  ***

  The only time Dintscombe High Street showed any signs of life was on Wednesday mornings. Then the streets would be packed as everyone poured into town for the weekly market. The rest of the time it was as dead as the proverbial dodo and not nearly as interesting. Forget the economic downturn. The blame for turning Dintscombe High Street into a wasteland lay squarely at the door of Dintscombe District Council, when it decided to grant planning permission for an out-of-town retail park a few years earlier.

  The problem was, it wasn’t really out of town, but a mere hop, skip and a jump from the High Street. And it was no surprise to anyone, except the Council, when the retail park lured the few shoppers there had been away from the High Street and into its characterless, cloned units.

  Which was the reason why, even on the brightest, sunniest days, the centre of Dintscombe could best be described as dreary. But on a chilly grey Sunday in early March, it went off the scale of drabness. I drove along the deserted High Street, which was totally devoid of life, except for a few scruffy pigeons scavenging among the overturned rubbish bins, a legacy from last night’s night revelries which, as far as I could see, consisted mainly of the challenging game of who can kick the rubbish bins the furthest.

  You can’t say the drinkers of Dintscombe don’t know how to enjoy themselves on a Saturday night, I mused, as I turned off the High Street and into Park Road. As I pulled in to the lay-by near the imposing wrought iron gates at the entrance to the park, a legacy of the town’s more prosperous past, my heart gave a little skip. Liam was waiting for me, the collar of his leather jacket turned up against the stiff breeze that sent a discarded crisp packet skipping along the pavement.

  He had to all but fold himself in two as he shoehorned his long legs into Mum’s tiny car, which became even tinier the moment he got in. At the same time, I became acutely conscious that he was wearing the same tangy aftershave he’d worn on Friday night and I wished I’d taken more time getting ready. Wished, too, I’d worn that skimpy blue top I’d decided against at the last minute.

  “This is your car?” he asked with a frown.

  “No. It’s Mum’s,” I said. “She’s the Cheryl—”

  “Of Chez Cheryl. Yeah, I kind of got that, seeing as it’s written all over the car in gold, glittery letters.”

  “Mum has this idea that if she drives around in an eye-catching car, people will see it and think, ‘Oh yes, I must go and get my hair done. Chez Cheryl sounds a fun place.’”

  He raised an eyebrow. “And do they?”

  I shrugged. “Not so you’d notice. Although, as Dad says, at least it stops the boy racers pinching it.”

  “He’s not wrong there.” He gave a flicker of a smile. “The only thing is, Kat, I’m not sure it’s quite suitable for the job I had in mind for you.”

  Not suitable? My bubble of excitement burst. What had the car got to do with anything? “Don’t tell me,” I forced a laugh and was pleased at how casual my voice sounded. “You’re a boy racer at heart and wouldn’t be seen dead in a sugar pink car?”

  That flicker of a smile again. “Something like that. But what’s more to the point is that it’s a very conspicuous car, which might make it a very effective marketing tool for a hair salon but is probably not too well suited for a surveillance job.”

  “Surveillance?” That bubble of excitement popped to the surface again. “As in private detectives? Stake-outs and that sort of thing? Is that the research job you were talking about?” It certainly sounded a lot more interesting than colour-coding the towels in Mum’s airing cupboard, which is what I’d be doing if I’d stayed at home.

  All I had to do was convince him that the car and I were both up to the job. “But I’ll be very careful, I promise. Stay deep in the shadows. I’m sure it won’t be a problem. And look, this car is so small, it’s virtually invisible.”

  “Hardly that.” He glanced at his watch and frowned. “Well, it looks like I have no choice. I’m running out of time. Mike will be here any minute.”

  He tapped his long, slender fingers on the dashboard in front of him and appeared to be deep in thought. Finally, he nodded like he’d just made up his mind about something. I crossed my fingers.

  “Ok. Here’s the deal. Do you see that house over there?” He leaned across and pointed to a small, grey stone cottage with diamond-paned windows and a neat pocket handkerchief front garden on the other side of the road. “It belongs to a woman called Doreen Spetchley. Do you know her?”

  I tried not to think about how close his face was to mine and forced myself to concentrate. “I, um, no. No, I don’t think so. The name doesn’t ring a bell. Should I?”

  “Probably not. She’s got a senior post in the council planning office and I received a tip-off about her yesterday. A disgruntled colleague whom she’d passed over for promotion said it might be worth my while checking out who she’s arranged to meet up with this afternoon. But my contact wouldn’t, or couldn’t, say where that meeting would be. Or with whom. Although I’ve got my suspicions.”

  “Do you think it’s Creepy Crabshaw?” I asked.

  “I don’t know and that’s the truth. My contact just said they thought I’d be interested in seeing who the deputy head of the planning department is having cosy little meetings with out of office hours.”

  “So what do you want me to do? Wait and see who comes calling?”

  “Exactly. Hence my concern about the car.”

  “I’m sorry. Dad was using his so it was the Pink Peril or nothing. But I’ll be really careful and stay out of sight, I promise. What are you going to do?”

  “That’s why I called you. I’ve been here for an hour already, but there’s a massive fire on the industrial estate and the photographer’s going to pick me up from here any minute. Could be a big story – there’s hints about it being arson – so I can’t afford not to be there. So, how about it? Not your usual research job, I admit. But a pretty important one. Are you up for it?”

  “Try and stop me.”

  “Did you bring a camera?”

  “I’m afraid not. You said to hurry and I didn’t want to waste time hunting for Dad’s. So I’ve only got this.” I showed him my phone.

  “That’ll probably be good enough. I was going to use my phone. Any pictures we do get won’t be for publication. Just as leverage to persuade one or the other, or preferably both, to give me an interview. My contact was pretty sure the meeting was at Doreen Spetchley’s house, so all I want you to do is take pictures of whoever turns up.”

  “What about if the meeting is somewhere else? Do you want me to follow her?” I asked eagerly.

  “No way,” he said firmly. “Let’s face it, that would be almost impossible driving around in a car like a big pink marshmallow. She’d spot you a mile off.”

  “But if she’s on foot? I could follow her then, couldn’t I?”

  He gave me a long, straight look. The kind of look people give you when they’re trying to work out how to say something they know you’re not going to like. He was right. I didn’t like.

  “Your jacket. It’s about as inconspicuous as your car,” he said. “And as for your hair, well, let’s face it, you don’t merge into the background, do you? Certainly not in Dintscombe on a grey Sunday afternoon.”

  He had a point. My jacket was the pink sparkly one. I’d been in such a hurry to leave the house, it was the first one I’d come to. As for my hair, well, the evening before, I did what I often do when I’m feeling a bit low. I coloured my hair and had opted for two contrasting tones – purple and a pale, silvery blue. I fiddled i
n the glove compartment, hoping to find a bobble hat or something that I could cram on. But my mother’s a hairdresser. She didn’t do hats. Least of all bobble hats.

  “I’m sorry.” I mumbled, feeling pretty silly. “I didn’t know. If you’d said—”

  He smiled and touched my arm lightly. “Hey, don’t be. You look amazing. It’s probably a dead-end story anyway. If Doreen goes out, chances are, it’ll be to a car boot sale or something, so don’t worry about it. But if the meeting is here, and you can manage to get a shot, preferably of them both, that would be fantastic. If not, well, at least we tried.”

  I felt a warm glow at the way he said ‘we tried’. Like we were a team. “How will I know it’s her?”

  “She lives alone,” His voice had an edge of impatience to it. “Who else would it be opening her front door?”

  “Yeah, of course. Sorry. I just thought…”

  “She’s in her mid-fifties, slim, about five foot six, with grey hair pulled back in one of those bun things.”

  “Ok. I’ll do what I can,” I said. “I’ll call you and—”

  “Sorry. Got to go. This looks like Mike. I really appreciate this.” He touched the back of my hand briefly and sent tingles zinging up my arm. “I owe you one, Kat Latcham, so I do.”

  As he and the photographer drove away, I settled down to watch out for Doreen Spetchley. It wasn’t quite what I’d expected when Liam had talked about a research job. But a job was a job, and who knew where this one would lead? I took my phone out and set it to camera.

  The only problem was, sitting there with nothing to do but watch that little cottage for signs of life gave me plenty of time to sit and think. And, as they had done several times since yesterday afternoon, my thoughts came back to Jules. And what she’d said. She’d got it all wrong, of course. All that stuff about running home to Mummy and walking into a job that was meant for someone else. I didn’t run home. I’d crawled there, with my tail firmly between my legs, and I’d had to put up with no end of grief from Dad about it. As for the job, didn’t she realise my mum was virtually blackmailing me into working for her? Millie Chapman was welcome to the job – and I’d told Mum that. Several times.

  But most of all, Jules had been wrong about Will. He and I were like brother and sister. We used to talk to each other about everything, even each others’ romances – or, as was more often the case, lack of romances. Even when I left home and went to college, we’d take up where we’d left off when I came back in the holidays. Arguing, bickering, but underneath it all the best of mates.

  Until I met Ratface Nick. And everything changed. For a start, I didn’t come home anything like so often and, when I did, Will was cold and distant, if not downright rude. And it had hurt. Ok, so he didn’t like Ratface. Well, I didn’t like Amy Snelling, and Will had gone out with her for ages. But I didn’t go round talking about ‘punching her lights out’, like Will had threatened to do to Nick.

  As for this thing Jules had said about him fancying me, that was the most ridiculous thing I’d heard since the vicar’s wife suggested a mass abseil down the church tower to raise money for the bell fund. In fact, not only was the thought of me and Will ridiculous, it was downright uncomfortable. For pity’s sake, it would be like fancying your own brother. Besides, how can you fancy a man you could beat at conkers? Or who sat behind you in primary school and tied your plait to the back of a chair? Or laughed himself silly when a cow head-butted you into a ditch?

  I wished he was here beside me, so we could have a good laugh about how Jules’s raging hormones had turned her brain to porridge. She’d be seeing little green men on the village pond next.

  As if on cue, my phone pinged with a text message. It was from Jules. An apology. Of sorts. “Sorry. Was a total cow yesterday. Bad day. Weird things in pub. CU later? xx”

  There was still no sign of activity from Doreen’s cottage and I was getting bored, to say nothing of having a numb bottom from sitting in the same place for too long. I replied to Jules, saying I’d call her tomorrow. I still hadn’t heard from Will so I texted him. Yet again. I tapped out another apology. Another explanation. In case he hadn’t got the first one. “Why don’t u answer my txt? Did u get it? Srry abt Fri night. Not what u thought. Liam offered me work 4 Chronicle. Cldnt say no, cld I?!! Am working now!!!! Tell u ltr. How’s yr dad? Kat. xxx”

  He probably wouldn’t answer that one either. One of these days, Will would maybe catch on that texting is meant to be a two-way process. But at least I’d tried. I’d just hit send when I saw the front door of the cottage open. It was Doreen Spetchley. It had to be. Liam’s description was spot on. I watched with dismay as she hurried out and got into the small blue hatchback that was parked on the drive.

  Obviously the meeting was not at Doreen’s house after all. What to do now? Liam had told me not to attempt to follow her on foot or in the car, but I couldn’t just sit here and do nothing. I tried to phone him but just got his voice mail. There was nothing for it. Surely, as long as I kept a couple of cars between me and Doreen, it would be easy enough to follow her without being seen? Goodness knows, I’d watched enough detective programmes to know how it was done.

  I waited for Doreen to drive past. Mindful of what I’d seen them do on the television, I allowed another car to pass before pulling out, earning myself a blast on the horn from the irate driver of the massive 4x4 I’d just cut in front of. Not the best of starts at being inconspicuous, particularly as the racket he made was loud enough to wake up everyone in Dintscombe cemetery.

  I focused so hard on keeping my eyes firmly fixed on Doreen’s little blue hatchback that its image was probably permanently etched on my retinas. It helped me ignore the fact that I had a 4x4 the size of a small tank welded to the rear bumper of Mum’s little pink car as I drove along.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Since the latest round of cutbacks, policemen in and around Dintscombe were rarer than hens’ teeth – which was lucky for me. If one had been about that Sunday afternoon, he’d have pulled me over for erratic driving quicker than you could say, ‘could you blow into the bag, please, madam?’

  The 4x4 driver’s patience ran out at the first set of traffic lights, when he rocketed past me with another ear-splitting blast and a mouthful of abuse which thankfully I couldn’t hear, owing to the ear-splitting blast.

  Not that I blamed him. One moment, I was crawling at a snail’s pace in an effort to keep at least one car between me and Doreen, the next I was racing along, the engine of Mum’s little pink car screaming as I hurried to catch up. Tailing someone looked so easy on TV but the reality was a nightmare.

  At one point, I got stuck behind a bus – needless to say, it was not heading for Much Winchmoor – and, for one horrible moment, thought I’d lost Doreen completely. But the patron saint of surveillance operatives must have been looking out for me at that moment, because I was able to nip past the bus in time to see Doreen indicating left.

  As we left the town and got out on to the bypass, I was able to relax a little and allow a few more cars between us. But then I began to worry about what I’d do if Doreen was heading for Much Winchmoor. It would be impossible to follow her along the narrow lanes that led into the village without being noticed. I gave a sigh of relief when I saw the blue hatchback indicating it was getting ready to leave the dual carriageway at the turning before the one for Much Winchmoor.

  I was pretty sure I knew exactly where she must be heading. The narrow road led up to Compton Wood, a rambling, mostly neglected stretch of woodland used only by a few local dog walkers and bird watchers. It had to be there. It was the perfect spot for a secret assignation. Excitement fizzed through my veins as I turned off the main road.

  I pulled in at the bottom of the hill that wound up through a tunnel of trees to a small car park near the top. The last thing I wanted to do was catch up with Doreen part way up the hill. Suddenly I got a mirror-full of flashing headlights, and pulled over as close to the hedge as I dared, to let
a silver Porsche streak past.

  I turned my head away quickly as I recognised the impatient driver. It was Gerald Crabshaw. I didn’t have him down as a bird watcher and he was well known for his dislike of dogs. So I reckoned my guess about Doreen Spetchley’s mystery man was the right one. Liam was going to love this.

  I waited until Gerald’s Porsche disappeared, then drove after him. I knew every inch of this area well, as Will and I used to come up here collecting hazelnuts and blackberries when we were kids. I remembered that, just before the turning into the car park, there was a field gate with a bit of a pull-in. I drove as quietly as I could, parked in the gateway and got out, being careful not to slam the car door as I did so.

  Then I crept up the remaining few yards towards the car park. It was set back from the road, in a dip that, according to Will, was once a small quarry. The overgrown hazel bushes, sycamores and brambles that surrounded it would make a perfect screen. Even though the trees were not in leaf, there was still enough cover for me to be able to peer down on the car park without being seen.

  Just as I’d hoped, there were only two cars there. Doreen’s little blue hatchback, and Gerald’s sleek silver Porsche. The two of them were standing by Gerald’s car. Doreen’s long thin arms were draped around his neck, laughing up at him, as she pulled him towards her. She looked like she’d been stranded on a desert island and he’d just rocked up to rescue her.

  It looked very much like Doreen Spetchley and Gerald Crabshaw were having an affair. More to the point – and this was the bit that was going to interest Liam – a senior member of the Planning Department and a member of the Council’s Planning Committee were tangled together like tights in a washing machine. What a story. And what a picture. They were so engrossed in each other, I could have used a flash and they wouldn’t have noticed.

  I edged my way through the tangled undergrowth, the smell of wet leaves filling my nostrils with each cautious step. But they were obviously not cautious enough because, with the next one, my foot slipped from under me and I had to drop quickly to my knees to stop myself from tumbling all the way down the slope.