Murder Served Cold

by Paula Williams

  “What job?”

  “Working for The Chronicle.” I reached across and touched his hand, unable to stop myself smiling. “Keep your fingers crossed for me. This is so what I want.”

  “What, covering dog shows and parish council meetings? That’s all there ever is in that blasted rag. Do you remember how we laughed that week when the lead story was about some celebrity chef buying a pound of carrots off a stall in Dintscombe Market?”

  “Don’t you just wish that was this week’s lead?” I said sombrely, as my feel good mood plunged like my poorly executed skimming stone had earlier. “It’s not hard to guess what it’s going to be.”

  Will covered my hand with his. “I thought we agreed we weren’t going to talk about it?’ he said softly.

  “You’re right, we did, didn’t we?” I said. “But it’s sort of become the elephant in the room, hasn’t it?”

  “And we weren’t going to talk about elephants either,” he said firmly. “So, tell me, does this mean you’re going to be The Chronicle’s crime reporter now?”

  “Of course I’m not, birdbrain. I know jolly well it’s going to be dog shows and parish council meetings. But I don’t mind. I enjoyed the journalism part of my course and, though I say it myself, I was pretty good at it. This is it, Will, I can feel it. My ticket out of Much Winchmoor.”

  He sat back in his chair, his expression unreadable. “And is that so very important to you? To get away from Much Winchmoor?”

  I sighed. “It’s ok for you. Your family’s as much a part of this village as the duck pond. In fact, I dare say there were Mannings in Much Winchmoor when the Romans were rampaging around the country. You belong here. But I don’t.”

  “Now you’re just being a drama queen,” he said. “You belong here as much as I do.”

  “But that’s the thing. I don’t anymore.” I inhaled the fragrant steam of the coffee and took a sip. I scrabbled around to find the right words that would make him understand how I felt. “It’s like, oh, I don’t know. It’s hard to put into words but, although I’ll always love Much Winchmoor, it doesn’t feel like my home anymore. I feel sort of out of sync with everything and everyone. Like I’m on the outside, looking in. And when I look into my future, I don’t see myself living here, married with two-point-four children, doing the school run, running the play group or whatever it’s called now.”

  “Would that be so bad? Jules seems happy enough.”

  “But I’m not Jules. I want something different. I worked really hard at college. I know you think I just racketed around the whole time, but I didn’t. And I want to be able to use the skills I worked so hard for. That’s why this job on The Chronicle is so important. It’s a stepping stone. Once I’ve got something like that on my CV, I’ll be able to move on.”

  “You’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you?” There was an edge to his voice that hadn’t been there before. It was like he’d suddenly got fed up with the entire conversation and gone all moody on me again. I wanted so much to get him to see where I was coming from.

  “I wish I did have it all worked out,” I said. “But, you see, that was where I went wrong with my job at the radio station. I didn’t plan ahead enough. The warning signs were there but I ignored them. And, looking back with the benefit of hindsight, there were plenty of them. I should have started job hunting right then. If I’d done that, I’d have gone from one job straight into another, rather than wallowing about in the black hole of unemployment I’m in now. And the longer that gap is on my CV, the harder it will become. You do see that, Will, don’t you?”

  “I suppose. Well, I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you, then,” he said, although I’d have preferred it if he’d said it with a little more conviction.

  “Thanks.” I finished my coffee and pushed the empty cup to one side. “Now, that’s enough of me. What was it you wanted to tell me?”

  He shook his head and lifted his jacket from the back of his chair. “It was nothing important. Are you ready?”

  “For a rematch on pebble skimming? You bet I am. Because I have to warn you, boy, I was letting you win earlier.”

  “No, I meant ready to go.” He shrugged on his jacket, his face as dark as the bank of storm clouds that was building up out of the sea. “Back to that place where you feel you don’t belong. I have livestock to sort out.”

  I stared at him, dismayed by his abrupt change of mood. “But I thought the plan was we were going to stay here for the afternoon? That your dad was taking care of things on the farm?” I was almost running in an effort to keep up with him as he strode ahead of me, out of the cafe and across the car park. “Maybe we could take a walk along the cliff path. What do you think?”

  “Sorry. No can do. I’ve got to get back. I’ve got a million and one things to do. Besides, that rain is heading our way.”

  He drove back to Much Winchmoor mostly in silence, only giving monosyllabic answers when pressed to do so, until I finally got the message and stopped trying to make conversation. And they said women were the moody ones, I thought. They’d obviously not met Will Manning on one of his off days. He could make Mr Grumpy look like Little Miss Sunshine.

  And, to make matters worse, the rain he’d predicted arrived within minutes of us driving out of the car park. I hated it when he was right.

  He pulled up outside our house, turned towards me as if to say something. But before he could do so, my phone rang. He pulled back with an exclamation of annoyance.

  “You’d better answer that,” he said as he reached across and opened the passenger door for me.

  I got out, figuring that in his present mood, he was likely to push me out if I didn’t move. “Ok, then. Thanks for…” I began, but he didn’t wait to hear the rest, leaning over to slam the passenger door and roaring off up the road. I watched him for a moment, then realised my phone was still ringing.

  “Hello? Kat?” I didn’t recognise the breathy voice. “It’s Amy. From school, remember? You were asking if anyone had seen Marjorie Hampton?”

  My heart quickened. I forgot about Will and his mood. “Yes. Yes, I was. Did you remember seeing her, after all?”

  “No. But, as I said, my mum lives just opposite her. She used to live the other side of Dintscombe but moved here six months ago to be nearer me and the kids. I saw her this morning and remembered I’d told you I’d ask her if she saw anything that afternoon...”

  “And did she?” I prompted, wishing she’d get on with it.

  “She saw someone go up to Marjorie’s cottage. Said he seemed an unlikely sort of visitor for Marjorie to have, which was why she remembered it. A big fellow, loads of tattoos, and a scruffy leather jacket.”

  “Shane Freeman!” Excitement surged through me. “Do you think it was him?”

  “Do you mean the guy with the old Labrador? Drives a lorry?”

  “That’s him. Always wears this battered old leather jacket, whatever the weather.”

  “It could have been, I suppose. Mum doesn’t know many people in the village. Like I said, she hasn’t lived here that long.”

  “So what time was this?”

  “It would have been a little after four, because she’d just come in from work. She works in that big new supermarket on the edge of town.”

  “So Marjorie must have been at home at 4 o’clock, way after the time she saw John Manning,” I said. “I knew it. That puts him in the clear. That’s brilliant.”

  But my relief was short-lived. “Well, I’m not so sure,” Amy’s voice held a note of caution. “Mum says she didn’t actually see Marjorie. Which is why she was keeping an eye on this man. But, here’s the thing, Kat. Mum says she saw the two of them the day before. And Marjorie was having a right go at him. She said something about how it had to stop and that she was going to tell the police. Mum is now in quite a state, wondering if, when she saw him the next day, he was going back to kill Marjorie. She said he’d looked pretty angry the day before.”

  I shook my head. “
He couldn’t have. Marjorie wasn’t killed at her cottage, remember? I think when Shane called on her, the poor soul was already dead. All it means is that Shane Freeman is up to something. But it wouldn’t have been murder. And it doesn’t put John Manning in the clear, either. Just emphasises the fact that Marjorie did not return to her cottage that day.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “Has your mum told the police this, yet?” I asked.

  “She’s been away visiting my aunt in Wales since then. Only got back this morning and didn’t know anything about the murder. She’s pretty shocked, as you can imagine. You don’t expect that sort of thing in a quiet little village, do you? I thought—” she broke off, as from somewhere behind her came the sound of all hell breaking loose. “I’ve got to go. Marlon. Give that back to Skye this minute!” She gave an embarrassed laugh as she ended the call. “Kids, eh? Who’d have them?”

  Not me, I thought as I let myself into the house, my ear drums still ringing from Skye’s scream of outrage. Not in a million years.

  ***

  Mum and Dad were in the kitchen when I got in. Dad was reading the paper and Mum was cooking.

  “You’ve got a bit more colour in your cheeks, love,” Mum said. “All that fresh air must have done you some good. But you’re much earlier than I expected. I thought you were staying down the coast for most of the afternoon and wouldn’t be in for dinner.”

  “So did I,” I grumbled, as I shrugged off my coat and rooted around in the cupboard for the biscuit tin. All that sea air had given me an appetite and those crab sandwiches now seemed a long time ago. “But Will had to get back. Apparently, the farm can’t survive without him. What it is to be indispensable.”

  “Never mind. And put that biscuit back, because you’re just in time for dinner. I’ve been trying out a new recipe.”

  My heart sank. Dad looked up from the sports pages, his face anxious. Even the cat looked uneasy.

  “I thought Will said he brought you a leg of lamb this morning?” I said, sniffing the air but smelling nothing remotely like roast lamb. In fact, the air smelt like nothing I’ve ever smelt before, which was always a bad sign when Mum was on one of her health crusades.

  “I’m keeping that for next Sunday. I think I’ll invite Granny and Grandad over. You know how they love a nice Sunday roast. And they were only saying the other day that it’s ages since they saw you.”

  “Great,” I said sounding more enthusiastic than I felt. I’ve never had the same easy relationship with Mum’s parents that I used to have with Gran Latcham, and knew that the lamb wouldn’t be the only thing getting a roasting on Sunday. My appearance, my job prospects, my failure to catch and hold on to a man and give them lots of lovely great-children, would all be under scrutiny. I’d be found wanting in every way.

  “And I thought maybe Will and John would like to come as well,” Mum went on. “What do you think?”

  “Who knows?” I said gloomily. “I’ve given up trying to work out what Will Manning does or doesn’t want to do.” I lifted the lid of the saucepan that was bubbling away on the stove and stared suspiciously at the pink sludgy mass inside, while Dad muttered something about getting a pie in the pub later. “What is it?” I asked.

  “It’s a low carb beetroot risotto, which you make with cauliflower instead of rice,” Mum said brightly. “It tastes better than it looks, honest.”

  I reckoned it would have a job to taste worse than it looked. Although if the smell was anything to go by, it probably did.

  “Thanks, Mum, but I’ll pass too, if you don’t mind,” I said quickly, promising myself that I’d sneak in and help myself to some bread and cheese when she was safely out of the way. “Will and I had a huge lunch. I’m still stuffed.”

  As I spoke, I glanced over her shoulder at the television in the far corner of the kitchen. I gave a little gasp, like you do when someone punches you in the stomach. Hard. The tin of biscuits clattered to the floor.

  “Katie?” she looked anxiously at me. “Are you all right? You’ve gone as white as a sheet. What is it, love?”

  I couldn’t answer. Couldn’t move. Just stood there, staring at the screen. The early evening local news had just started and there was a reporter standing in front of the blackened shell of a building.

  “Oh yes, the fire. Nasty, wasn’t it?” Mum said as she turned round to see what I was looking at. “It was somewhere in Dintscombe, although they didn’t say exactly where. There was quite a bit about it on the lunchtime news. Apparently, the alarm was raised by a passing motorist in the early hours of this morning. But by the time the fire engine arrived, it was too late.”

  “God, that’s awful.” I managed to croak as I knelt down to pick up the biscuit tin, glad of the chance to drag my horrified gaze away from the screen.

  “But that wasn’t the worst of it,” Mum went on. “They found a body inside, although they haven’t identified it yet. I was trying to work out where the cottage was. What do you think? Looks as if it might be down by the park, if you wait for them to show a longer shot.”

  But I didn’t need to wait for the longer shot. I knew exactly where the burnt-out cottage was. I should do. I’d spent enough time, the previous day, sitting in Mum’s little pink car, staring at it. I also had a pretty good idea of the name of the casualty.

  It was Doreen Spetchley’s cottage. It was, therefore, a safe bet that the body they’d found inside would be identified as that of Doreen Spetchley.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Katie? What is it?” Mum asked. “Aren’t you feeling well, love?”

  Mum’s anxious voice barely penetrated the fog in my mind as I struggled to make sense of what I’d just seen.

  “What is it?” she repeated. She took the biscuit tin from me and placed it on the table. “Come along, Katie. Speak to me. You’re beginning to worry me, standing there like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Is it something on the telly, love?” Dad asked. “Something about the fire?”

  “Oh, no, it’s not someone you know, is it?” asked Mum. “Is that why you’re looking so upset?”

  I shook my head as I took a step back from their volley of questions. “No. No. I didn’t know her.”

  “Her?” Mum frowned and looked anxiously at Dad.

  “How do you know it’s a she?” he asked. “They said they hadn’t identified the body yet. Do you know something we don’t?”

  “No, of course not,” I said quickly. The last thing I wanted to do, at that moment, was tell them about Doreen. At least, not until I’d spoken to Liam. I forced myself to calm down and tried to think things through clearly and calmly. “But, face it, there’s a fifty-fifty chance I’m right, isn’t there? Look, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to make a phone call.”

  “But we’re just about to eat,” Mum protested although Dad was already shrugging his coat on and heading for the front door.

  “But I told you, Mum, Will and I had a huge lunch. I really couldn’t eat a thing.”

  And that was nothing but the truth. Even if Mum had been serving Will’s lamb, cooked pink the way I liked it, with those lovely crunchy roast potatoes she did so well, I wouldn’t have been able to force it down. In fact, there was a good chance I’d never be able to eat again.

  I hurried out into the back garden and, when I was sure I was well out of earshot, keyed in Liam’s number.

  “Hi Kat. Sorry I had to cut you short earlier—”

  “That doesn’t matter,” I cut in quickly. “I’ve just seen the news on the television. About Doreen Spetchley. At least, I’m assuming it was her body they found in the fire. And that this was the big story that was breaking the last time we spoke?”

  There was a slight pause. “It was. And I’m afraid it’s looking highly likely it was her body. She lived alone. There’s no formal identification yet, though. It’s going to have to be done on dental records, unfortunately.”

  I shuddered at the thought of that tall, grey woman being identifiabl
e only by her teeth. Horrible to think that the last time I’d seen her, she had been furiously angry – but very much alive.

  “What happened?” I asked. “Does anyone know?”

  “My money’s on an electrical fault. The fire broke out in the small hours of this morning, so that’s the most likely explanation. But the police are being tight-lipped, as usual. The only information they’ll give is that their investigation is ongoing.”

  “They said on the television that they’re asking for anyone who saw anything to contact them. Do you think I should tell them about Doreen meeting Gerald Crabshaw?”

  “But that was ages before the fire, so it can’t possibly have any relevance, can it?” he said. “Besides, are you going to explain what you were doing, spying on her? Or following her up to Compton Wood? Because, I have to warn you, Kat, it’s not going to look good on your CV. Not good at all.”

  “I realise that. But even so…”

  “Trust me, Kat,” his voice was low and measured. “You will achieve nothing by going to the police. Except leaving yourself wide open to a whole heap of awkward questions. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but I would say that since finding Marjorie Hampton’s body, you’ve had enough of answering awkward questions, wouldn’t you? It’s up to you, of course. But my advice would be to say nothing. Because at the end of the day, there is nothing to say, is there?”

  “No. I suppose not,” I said slowly, although I was not entirely convinced. “But I wanted to tell you something about Gerald Crabshaw. He threatened me, you know.”

  “He did what?” Liam asked sharply. “When?”

  “It was yesterday afternoon. I saw him in the village after I got back from Compton Wood. We had a few words and he told me to stop poking my ‘sticky little beak’, as he called it, into his business. And he said it in exactly the same way he’d talked about Marjorie Hampton, the day before she was killed.”

  “Just bluster, that’s all. He’s a load of hot air, that one.”