Every Trick in the Rook

by Marty Wingate

  That is what happens when people turn all DIY with their ’do.

  Stephen’s voice in my head. He had said that when he looked at the photo of kitten woman, half-wedge, half-cropped. Reddish-brown hair. I glanced over to the passenger seat where lay my mack. I rang Rosy.

  “It’s about time you’re coming in, isn’t it?” she asked when I identified myself.

  “Yes, I’m in desperate need of a trim”—I’d have to put her off as Stephen had just done that for me—“but right now, let me ask you a rather silly question. Have you cut any really long hair lately? As long as mine was?”

  “No,” she said, drawing out the word. “Why? Are you thinking of doing one of those fundraisers where all the villagers grow their hair out and there are prizes and we send off the hair to the charity?”

  “Well, now, Rosy, you’ve caught me out, haven’t you?” I said cheerily, as a string of enormous lorries roared past me. I raised my voice. “And I’ll certainly need you in on the planning of that one. But can’t talk now—we’ll be in touch.”

  Confirmed—Rosy had not done this job. No, the hair had been cut by its owner—kitten woman, I felt sure. And to think I’d picked it up and stuffed it in my pocket. I rubbed the palms of my hands on my trousers, trying to wipe away any vestige of her. Why ever would she do that? And she had tossed it out. Why—and where? Alfie had recovered it and stuffed it in the pocket of my mackintosh. Why…well, Alfie is a collector, that’s why.

  The important thing to ask was: Could this be a way to be rid of her for good? Could she be charged with a crime for cutting her own hair and throwing it away? Sadly, I didn’t think so.

  But that didn’t mean I wouldn’t try. I rang Tess.

  “Julia, where are you?”

  Why must the police always know my whereabouts?

  “On my way to Minsmere, remember?”

  “Yes, right,” she said. “Anyone with you?”

  “No, the crew is already there—Dad, too. I’m running a bit late. Why?”

  “I rang Terry Fisk just after we talked last night.” The DI calling my prime suspect at midnight sent a shiver through me. “I said we’d further questions and I expected the two of them at the station at ten o’clock. They agreed to come in.”

  “And?”

  “They’ve yet to appear. And they aren’t answering calls. They haven’t been seen at the pub in Cambridge. We contacted their old friend from uni where they were staying, and according to him, they left at seven this morning.”

  I checked the time. It wasjust now one o’clock. Their journey from Cambridge to Sudbury—which normally took an hour and a bit—had stretched into six.

  “They’ve done a bunk?” I whispered.

  “Apparently. You continue to Minsmere—best to stay clear of the village until this is settled. But ring me, would you—as soon as you arrive?” In the past, her clipped words, impersonal and full of police authority, would’ve set me off, but now they gave me comfort.

  “You don’t think they’d go to the village looking for me?”

  “I’d say if they wanted to get away, they’d try to go as far as possible, but it would be good to know you are out of the way. But the thing is I don’t know why they would bother—”

  She broke off, and I heard Sergeant Glossop’s voice in the background, saying something about a crash. A bit of reality settled on me—the police had to deal with it all, didn’t they? Murder, smashed car windows, road-traffic accidents.

  “Just there,” she said away from the phone. “Julia, the thing is, the pub’s sent us CCTV of Friday afternoon, the four-hour window of the murder. We see Terry Fisk approach Michael—a brief encounter—and the rest of the afternoon, he is sitting there alone, nursing a pint.”

  “No,” I wailed, “that can’t be. What if you have Nick’s time of death wrong? How about that—it could’ve been later. Or earlier?”

  I heard her sigh. “That question has been asked and answered. But it doesn’t mean I won’t ask it again. When a body has been left as long as this one and with the overnight temperatures…the more time passes, the wider the time frame of the murder grows.”

  “So, it’s possible one of them did it. It isn’t impossible.” I grasped this straw of hope.

  “I will go over the details again with the pathologist—but do not think you can take this and make more of it than it is. It remains unlikely.”

  “They had to have done it.” I stamped my foot on the floor of the car. “If not Terry, then Sam—it must’ve been him.”

  “Redman maintains he was at work, and we’ve requested the CCTV feed from his company.”

  Sam Redman seemed the least likely murderer, but it was down to him.

  “Tess—about that woman journo.”

  “Julia, unless it’s an emergency, I’ll have to ring you back.”

  “Yes, fine. Bye.” I wouldn’t let go of it, to be sure.

  I shook my head to clear it and started the engine. I’d never arrive at Minsmere if I didn’t get pulled away from Stowmarket, and so when my phone rang again, I had a thought not to answer until I saw Kathleen’s name.

  “Julia, I’m sorry to disturb you, but you did say to let you know if I saw that woman again. I had a most disturbing visit from her earlier.”

  That woman—she wouldn’t let us be.

  “Did you tell me her name?” Kathleen asked.

  “Olive. What has she done? Kathleen, where are you—did you see her at the church?”

  She paused, as if sorting through my questions.

  “No, I left the church following your warning. I came back here to the hotel, and Peg Phipps, the proprietor”—yes, yes, I knew who Peg was—“offered me a table in the dining room for my work. It was morning, and no one about. That Olive woman came looking for me. Apparently, she went up to my room first, and then she found me in here.”

  A cold shiver ran through me at the thought of Kathleen being tracked.

  “What did she say to you?”

  “She asked me where Nick’s ashes were. She told me that it would help my grief if she could pray over them and so why didn’t we get them now and do that?”

  “That’s dreadful, it’s disgusting.”

  Not the praying part, but the entire subterfuge in order to invent more horrible headlines. Had the woman no conscience at all? How low would she stoop to scrape up lies and form them into her pseudo-journalism? What could she possibly gain from such an effort—a top job on the publication that spewed the most scandalous lies? Someone should remind her that News of the World was no more.

  “Well, disconcerting, certainly,” Kathleen said, and I could hear her regain control. “I told her I knew she was not the vicar and these were private matters—and I had someone locally taking care of the matter. I told her to leave. And so, Julia, I’m ringing to say that if she knows of our relationship, I may have dropped you in the middle of it, and I’m sorry.”

  I laughed, but, mortified, tried to cover it with a cough. I blushed to hear that Kathleen thought we had a relationship, and I wondered if, after she left Smeaton, I should stay in touch. Was she still considered my sister-in-law?

  “Are you in the dining room now?” I asked.

  “Oh no, I’ve returned to my room. It was pleasant there to begin with, but people began arriving for lunch, you see, and the crowd, you know.” Monday—probably two tables occupied. Far too many people for Kathleen.

  “Look, I will take care of this. You leave it with me.” I should go this instant and confront this Olive, this kitten woman. I should not subject Kathleen to one more day of such harassment.

  But I was meant to be at Minsmere.

  Although, of course, Basil had things well in hand.

  No, Tess said to stay away from the village.

  But…

  I felt dizzy and put my head back on the seat rest and closed my eyes.

  “There’s one more thing, Julia.” A pause. “The crematorium rang a few moments ago to say that
the proper urn has arrived.”

  “Good, yes, that’s fantastic,” I said, at once embarrassed at my enthusiasm. “I mean, you must be relieved to know that will be sorted.”

  “I’ve told them I’d be by later today. May I stop round and collect Nick’s ashes?”

  There you are, it had been decided for me.

  Chapter 27

  Before I headed back to Smeaton, I sent two texts—one to Tess, accusing Olive of harassment, and one to Michael, with hugs and kisses, telling him Kathleen needed me and asking him to look in The Eagle before he departed Cambridge, just in case Terry or Sam had remained, cowering in a dark corner.

  I may not be able to prove Terry and Sam killed Nick, but I could take care of these two things—handing over Nick’s ashes and ridding the village for good of kitten woman, even if I had to frog-march her to the estate boundary and give her a swift kick in the bum to send her on her way. I tore down the A14 wishing Vesta’s car had a wiper speed above high, and made it to the village in a half hour, coasting up to the Stoat and Hare before yanking on the hand brake. I had planned it all out on the drive. The police would need evidence of harassment, certainly—apart from what kitten woman had done to Michael and me, which probably came under the grimy umbrella of free speech. But she had misrepresented herself to Kathleen, and she had stalked her. Could we say that? Sightings—ha, I thought, seeing the wordplay on the name of her online rag—I would record sightings of her. She had visited Kathleen’s room upstairs at the pub, and so I would begin with Peg and Gwen.

  The rain had been reduced to sweeps of large drops followed by a pause followed by another sweep of drops—the sky shaking out the last of the moisture from the clouds. I grabbed my mack, but only threw it over my arm and hopped out of the car. I hadn’t made it to the pub door before I heard such a clamor of cawing across the road that I stopped and looked back to see over the bridge that spanned the brook, a group of about a dozen rooks flying up and round, creating their own dark funnel cloud as they dived and soared. I squinted at another, larger, winged figure. Ah, a buzzard—a large predator, but the rooks were mobbing him, showing no fear in defending their nests and their territory, announcing to one and all that they would not stand for this invasion. I took a page from SaraJane’s class book and envisioned all of us chasing kitten woman away in the same manner. I smiled.

  As if in response to the mobbing, I heard a single cawing coming from behind the building. I followed the sound, walking around the back to the small yard between the pub and the outbuilding that housed the rubbish and recycling bins.

  Alfie perched on the very corner of the shed, flapping wildly and keeping up his complaints. Standing in the middle of the yard was Gwen.

  “But I’m only taking out the veg trimmings for the compost,” she said to the bird, hands in the air to show him a newspaper piled high with wilted lettuce leaves and potato peelings.

  “Does he want them for himself?” I asked, and Gwen turned to me and laughed.

  “If only—I’ve tried that one. It’s something about this shed that’s got him so agitated. It’s been that way for a week or more.”

  Alfie turned his head, giving me his profile of gray beak and beady eye, before flying straight at me. Without thinking, I put my arms up in front of my face and felt the wind from his beating wings as he paused in midair and plucked at my sleeve with his beak.

  “Here you go now,” Gwen called. “Door’s open—it’s all yours.”

  She stood holding the shed door wide. Alfie twisted in midair, reversing direction, and flew straight into the darkness. Gwen and I stood quiet for a moment. The mobbing over the road had ceased, and I could hear the normal road traffic and, in the distance, the yaffle of a green woodpecker.

  “Well, then,” I said, “perhaps you could get him to sort the recycling for you while he’s in there.”

  Gwen shook her head. “He’s a quiet soul at home, you know. We’ve got a large corner of the sitting room for him—thank God Derry didn’t mind. We made it into a sort of loose wire cage, almost floor to ceiling and as big as a dinner table. Fitted it with his own tree branch and all—he roosts on that every night.”

  “Does he go in on his own?” I asked.

  “Oh yeah—seems to like bedtime. He starts getting ready ages before we do—cleaning his feathers and such. He can do quite delicate work with his beak. We can hear that clack-clack-clack as he goes at it. While that’s going on, we take turns reading stories aloud.” Gwen gave me a nervous glance. “Tennyson and I do—Alfie doesn’t read, of course.”

  “Not yet,” I added.

  “You’ve returned from your television program work, have you?” Gwen asked, checking her watch. “You were quick to the coast and back.”

  “Yes, well, I never quite made it. Something’s come up and I wanted to ask you—did you see a woman go to Kathleen’s room today?”

  “Oh,” Gwen said, her eyes widening. “That was odd—unsettling, too. She just appeared behind me in the room—gave me a fright, I can tell you. Asked where Kathleen was, as if I was supposed to keep track of the guests’ whereabouts. I told her I didn’t know, but perhaps she’d like to ask Fred about it. That sent her on her way.”

  “Good, you did the right thing. I’ve notified the police.”

  “But look now—there’s something else. When you showed me that snapshot, I thought she looked familiar. Well, here’s the thing…I’ve remembered now where it was I saw her, but it doesn’t make much sense. She’s the one I turfed out of the kitchen that day of the funeral reception. Mind you, she looked a fair bit wilder that day. Her hair”—Gwen waved her hands round her head—“it was long and full, standing out in all directions. That photo—and what she looked like this morning—her hair’s all cut off.”

  I had accepted that kitten woman, aka Olive Carboys, had whacked off her own hair, but hadn’t considered just where the event had occurred. But this had to work in our favor. “DIY hairdo,” I said. “But why? She must be on the run. That’s it—she’d been caught spreading lies elsewhere and authorities were in pursuit. She legged it and ended up here.” This gave me such hope—hope that the police really would be able to do something.

  Gwen’s brow furrowed, and I realized I should offer an explanation, but before I could, she joined in my supposing. “And she wanted to give herself a new look for a fresh start?”

  My hand flew up to my bob and I tugged on the ends as I remembered starting over.

  Gwen’s hand touched her own multilayered, straight cut, dislodging a couple of tiny clips. She smiled with chagrin. “I tried that myself—cutting my own hair. I learned the hard way I’m no stylist.”

  I was about to recommend Rosy when Alfie flew out of the shed and perched on the edge of a stack of pallets near the back door of the pub. He had a beakful—something reddish-brown that looked like wool. He laid his prize down, ruffled and smoothed his feathers, and eyed us one at a time.

  “My God,” Gwen said. “Is that hair?”

  “It’s her hair,” I replied. “The rest of it.”

  “What was it doing in there?” Gwen asked, nodding toward the shed.

  “She was on the run and ended up here, and had to lay up somewhere to give herself the makeover. She must’ve been round all that afternoon—all weekend.”

  The truth slapped me in the face—kitten woman was the anonymous tip. Was she a journalist or had she only taken up this persona after she had landed in Smeaton-under-Lyme by accident? Sleepy little village, she thought, just the place to lie low until whatever trouble she was in blew over. She’d boldly marched into the pub thinking no one would notice her in the crowd for the funeral reception. She’d given herself a botched makeover. Perhaps she’d slept rough and wandered the grounds of Hoggin Hall. The thought of her walking on Fotheringill land made me both nauseated and furious. She had come across Nick’s body on Saturday afternoon and had phoned the police to tell them. What luck, she must’ve thought—just the tip she needed to st
art fresh destruction in a new place. She seemed to feed off pain and chaos.

  Call Tess. Call Michael.

  “Is she dangerous, this woman?” Gwen asked.

  “No, not dangerous. Just…” Evil? Delighting in others’ despair? “Odd. Best to steer clear of her. Where will Tennyson go after school?”

  “His Lordship has invited the two of us to the Hall for tea. She’s chuffed, I can tell you. She printed off one of your leaflets and is studying up.”

  I put my hand on Gwen’s arm and squeezed. “That’s fantastic—I’m so glad you’re doing this. Yes, good. You haven’t met Thorne or Sheila Bugg yet, have you? You’ll have such a lovely time.”

  Alfie had remained silent, turning his head to one, then the other of us, as if keeping up with the conversation and waiting for the moment he had something to contribute. It came when I took one step away to leave—he flapped twice and gave a complaining squawk, edging himself closer to the hair.

  “Yes, all right,” I said, scooping up the wad and stuffing it in the other pocket of my mack. “There now—satisfied?”

  Apparently. He flew off.

  —

  As did I—off to the TIC to get ready for Kathleen to collect Nick’s ashes. I left Vesta’s car in front of the pub, needing to move my legs to make me think. I would sort through the latest influx of evidence and immediately turn it all over to the police. They would come to the same conclusion, surely. I began walking, but my pace quickened, and by the time I passed my cottage and the shops along the high street, I had stepped it up to a trot until, panting, I reached the TIC. I stepped in, keeping the lights off, the “Closed” sign up, and locking the door behind me. It was, after all, my day off. The rain may have stopped, but the air remained thick with moisture, warm and close. I hung up my mack and stripped off my sweater, leaving only a T-shirt layer until I had cooled down. I moved the Grecian urn from the back table to the front counter without a thought, as if it had become a part of the TIC décor. I would be happy to send Nick on his way with his sister.