Melissa’s interest was immediately aroused. ‘That’s unusual, isn’t it?’ she commented. ‘Most commercial processors put some kind of coding on the back of their prints.’
‘Exactly. It suggests that whoever took it did his or her own processing. Plenty of people do.’
‘So we could be looking for a long-distance truckie whose hobby is photography?’
‘We?’ Matt took his eyes off the road for a moment to give Melissa a keen glance. Although the light was failing rapidly, there was still enough for her to read concern in his expression. ‘I hope you aren’t thinking of doing any unofficial sleuthing on your own, Mel.’
‘No.’ Not on my own … but if I pass this latest titbit to Bruce, who knows? It’s obvious that finding this man isn’t getting top priority from the police.
‘Good.’ Matt’s voice held a note of finality, as if the monosyllable was something more than a mere expression of approval. Melissa felt a sneaking suspicion that there was more to this invitation than a friendly gesture or expression of thanks for her help, but all she said was, ‘Take the next turning to the right and then left at the T-junction. The pub’s about two miles along.’
‘Thanks.’ Having completed the manoeuvre, Matt said casually, ‘D’you find the time drags when Ken’s away?’
The suspicion grew a little stronger, but all she said was, ‘Not particularly. I’ve always got plenty to do. I’m working on a book and just now I’m trying to get the garden straight before the really cold weather sets in.’
‘Ah yes, always something to do in a garden, isn’t there? Mine always seems to be one jump ahead of me.’
No reply seemed to be called for and there was another silence until Melissa said, ‘There’s the pub,’ and pointed ahead at the illuminated sign that shone like a miniature moon in the gathering dusk.
The car park was almost empty and there was no one else about as they made their way to the entrance, their path illuminated by mock-Victorian street lamps that cast a warm glow on the creamy gravel. The roof of the ancient building had been newly thatched, the doors and windows freshly painted and the name The Golden Bell in gilded letters mounted on the wall above the stone porch. Well-tended tubs of geraniums, still blooming bravely despite the autumnal nip in the air, were ranged along the front of the building. Matt gave an appreciative nod.
‘Looks promising,’ he commented. ‘Let’s hope the beer’s as good as the surroundings.’ He pushed the door open and stood aside for her to enter.
The impression inside was of warmth and an almost clinical brightness. The stone walls had been cleaned and repointed, the oak beams across the low, whitewashed ceiling treated with preservative and the floor covered in a brand-new crimson carpet. A log fire burned in a wrought-iron basket beneath a massive stone chimney-piece, the flames reflected in a myriad highly polished surfaces: the legs of the chairs, bar stools and tables, the collection of copper kettles ranged on either side of the stone hearth and various copper and brass artefacts dotted around the walls. Concealed loudspeakers played anodyne ‘mood music’ of the kind Iris used as a background to her yoga classes.
‘Very nice,’ said Matt, glancing round. ‘Could do without that, though,’ he added in an undertone, jerking his head upwards at the nearest speaker.
‘Can’t get away from it nowadays,’ Melissa agreed resignedly.
A vase of scarlet and yellow dahlias stood on the bar, their brilliance almost eclipsed by the flamboyant colouring of the woman who was filling a tankard with beer while being chatted up by a heavily built, leather-jacketed man. He was leaning on the counter openly admiring her cleavage while bemoaning the fact that his wife had deserted him on his first evening home for a week. There were only a handful of other customers: a couple of ruddy-faced men, probably farmers, and a dowdy-looking middle-aged couple with a dog who sat silently contemplating two half-consumed drinks.
Melissa asked for a spritzer and, at Matt’s suggestion, went over to a table near the fire. As she sat down, she saw the barmaid hand a newspaper to her flirtatious customer, who came and settled with it in the opposite corner. He had a round, slightly pugnacious face, not especially handsome but with a brooding, sensual quality that many women would find attractive. She decided that he might serve as a model for a character in a future novel and she observed him covertly, noting the carefully styled brown hair, the rather prominent eyes set in lightly tanned features, the strong hands sprinkled with brown hair and the square-cut fingernails. His checked shirt was open at the neck beneath the unbuttoned leather jacket, revealing a narrow leather thong that hinted at the presence of a medallion nestling seductively on his chest; his fawn slacks were sharply creased and his leather moccasins looked brand-new. He was probably awash with the latest thing in body lotion as well. It was easy to imagine him scanning the colour supplements, looking for the latest trendy gear to impress likely females. An undoubted womaniser who’d do his best to score with whoever took his fancy, even if the signet ring on his left hand meant that he had a wife. Not hard up for a bob or two either, judging from the heavy gold wrist-watch that caught the light as he raised the tankard in his left hand. Over the rim, he caught Melissa’s eye and winked. Disconcerted, she hastily looked away.
Matt arrived with their drinks. He settled in the chair beside her, raised his tankard of ale and said, ‘Cheers,’ and she raised her own glass in reply. He took a long pull and gave an approving nod. ‘That’s the real McCoy – knocks spots off all the mass-produced rubbish that passes for beer in some pubs. How’s your spritzer?’
‘Fine, thanks.’
‘So what have you got lined up for the next few days?’
‘While Ken’s away, you mean?’ He looked slightly abashed, and she went on, ‘Matt, I have a feeling there’s something behind this little jolly.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘I think you do. Either you’re about to give me some sort of lecture, a semi-official warning’ – here she paused deliberately to gauge his reaction and saw his grip on the handle of his tankard momentarily tighten – ‘or you’re taking advantage of your best friend’s absence to make a pass at me.’ Matt hurriedly put down his drink, his eyebrows shooting up in alarm, and Melissa burst out laughing. ‘Don’t worry, that wasn’t a serious suggestion … but I’m on the right track, aren’t I?’
‘Well…’ For once, the slightly stolid police sergeant appeared disconcerted. Melissa sipped her drink and waited. It was her turn to use the steady, unwavering gaze technique and after a moment he shrugged and said, ‘It’s pretty obvious to both Ken and me that you’re more than a little interested in this freezer murder … and your curiosity has got you into some pretty hairy situations in the past—’
‘Just a minute!’ From being mildly amused, Melissa felt her hackles rising. ‘Did Ken put you up to this?’
‘Put me up to what?’
‘Warning me off? Telling me to be a good girl and stick to my desk and my garden while he’s not here to keep an eye on me. Is that it?’
Matt made a gesture of capitulation. ‘I told him you’d see through it,’ he admitted. ‘Don’t be angry with him, Mel … it’s only because he cares about you. He—’
‘He wants me to ask him for an exeat every time I go out of the house.’
‘Oh come on, that’s a bit of an exaggeration.’
‘All right, it is, but I’m not going to have him – or you – telling me what to do. Anyway, what’s the problem with this particular case? You’ve got your killers … all I’m saying is you should be concerned for the safety of the man the girl ran away with and—’
‘… and if we don’t throw every available man into the hunt for him, you’ll try and track him down yourself,’ he interrupted. ‘That’s what you have in mind, isn’t it?’ This time, his eyes met hers squarely and accusingly.
‘I never said so.’ It was her turn to hedge. She glanced away from Matt and her eye fell once more on the man opposite. He was in th
e act of refolding the newspaper the barmaid had given him and as she watched he got up and left, dropping it on the bar in passing with a curt word of thanks. It struck her that he appeared put out, as if something in the paper had upset or annoyed him. It was just such an idly observed reaction that would normally set her imagination on the track of a new twist to a plot, but at the moment she was feeling too irritated at the apparent conspiracy between her lover and his former colleague to give it a second thought. She picked up her glass and drained it. ‘Well, you’ve said your piece. Shall we go?’
‘You’re angry, aren’t you?’
‘I don’t like being told what to do. You can tell Ken you did your best …’
‘… and got a flea in my ear.’ Matt gave a rueful grin and stood up. ‘Okay, Mel … but do be careful. At least, promise me one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘If you do happen to stumble on something, let us know at once.’
‘Of course – don’t I always?’
Shortly after they turned out of the car park and headed back towards Upper Benbury, Melissa noticed a man standing at the roadside, leaning over a gate. She had only a fleeting glimpse of his back, but there was something familiar about the hunched shoulders and lowered head. She was almost certain it was the man she had noticed in the bar.
Ten
Julie Wilkins set out for the meeting of the organising committee of Carston Village Hall in an uneasy frame of mind. The way Rocky’s mouth had set in a hard, sullen line when she not only declined to have sex with him immediately she arrived home, but also announced that she would be going out after supper, meant that he would probably spend the evening in the Golden Bell, most likely pouring out his imaginary troubles to that awful brassy blonde who was old enough to be his mother but who made eyes at him whenever he set foot in the place. Not that Julie could blame her in a way; her Rocky was good-looking enough to turn any woman’s head … but really, at her age … you’d think she’d save it for someone a bit older. Still, there it was, some women seemed to enjoy flashing it around, although what the attraction was in what Julie’s mother had always delicately referred to as ‘The three Es’ – or, if she was feeling daring, ‘Ess Ee Eks’ – was a mystery to her. The other girls on the deli counter at the supermarket where Julie worked made out they enjoyed it and seemed to think there was something odd about anyone who didn’t. For her part, she simply couldn’t understand what they found so attractive in a few seconds of clumsy pawing of their private parts followed by a man’s dead weight half crushing the breath out of them while he heaved and shoved and grunted for a few minutes before rolling off and falling into a catatonic slumber.
Marriage, as envisaged by Julie before her wedding, would be an extension of her favourite childhood game of playing house. Domesticity delighted her; her one ambition as she grew from adolescence to womanhood was to have her own home where she could clean and polish, bake and sew, wash and iron and generally keep everything spick and span. She had resigned herself to Rocky’s demands in bed, looking on them as the price to be paid for the fulfilment of her dream. Right from the start he was earning good money as a driver with a local haulage company; what he gave her plus what she earned in her part-time job meant that they had a comfortable home and wanted for nothing. And once he had his own outfit and began landing contracts that took him farther afield, they were even better off. It also meant that he was often away for several days, sometimes a couple of weeks on end. Although at such times Julie missed the cooking and cleaning and waiting on him that she enjoyed so much, it was bliss to have the bed to herself.
She missed the evenings out as well. Rocky loved company and it gave her enormous pleasure to be seen with him because his good looks and his charm meant that other women envied her. She had to keep an eye on him, though. Quite often she had to step in sharpish when some wannabee Armani model with a couple of vodka and tonics inside her started fluttering her eyelashes at him. She hoped there’d be no unattached females in the Bell this evening. Rosie would be behind the bar as usual of course, but she was only an irritant, not a serious threat to anyone’s marriage. With an effort, Julie dismissed the matter from her mind in order to concentrate on ideas for the harvest supper.
When she reached Carston Village Hall she found her fellow committee members clustered round a table on which someone had spread that evening’s edition of the Gloucester Gazette. They were peering down at it, shaking their heads, making tutting noises and – almost reluctantly, it seemed – declaring that they had ‘Never set eyes on her’. As Julie approached the group, the chairwoman, Mrs Grantley-Newcombe, was saying with a sigh, ‘Well, it doesn’t look as if she ever came to Carston.’ Then she spotted Julie. ‘Ah, there you are, Mrs Wilkins. That’s fine, we can start our meeting now we’re all here.’
‘I’m sorry I’m a bit late. Rocky just got back from a trip up North,’ Julie explained. ‘Had to give him his supper before I came out. He was none too pleased at being left on his own, but I told him I couldn’t let the committee down. What’s all the excitement about?’
Mrs Grantley-Newcombe reopened the paper, which she had been in the act of refolding, and held it out to Julie. ‘There,’ she said, jabbing at the page with a bejewelled finger. ‘The latest in the “Body in the Freezer” murder.’
Julie did not share the general penchant for the macabre and sensational, but out of politeness she took the paper and made a show of interest in the report, aware that everyone was watching her. Reluctantly, she glanced at the likeness of the dead woman that stared up at her, shuddering a little and screwing up her mouth in distaste. She was about to hand it back when something made her take a closer look. It was only an artist’s impression, but it struck a chord. She studied it, frowning, for several seconds, trying to think where she might have seen that face – or one very like it – before.
‘It says she’s been going round to people’s houses, trying to sell lace,’ said Mrs Grantley-Newcombe. ‘I don’t suppose she called on you, by any chance? The police are appealing for witnesses.’
At the mention of lace, Julie gave a little gasp and clapped a hand to her mouth. Immediately, she became the centre of attention.
‘You’ve seen her?’ ‘Where?’ ‘When?’ ‘You must tell the police!’ Questions and commands came thick and fast, tinged with a certain jealousy that someone who did not actually live in Carston, but in one of the outlying villages in the scattered parish, should have been so favoured. The only person who did not appreciate the turn of events was Julie herself. She hastily sat down, her heart thumping and her hands trembling.
‘I don’t know for certain … it may not be the same person at all,’ she said in an unsteady voice. Desperately she played for time. ‘It was a long time ago, several months in fact.’ Under eager questioning, she admitted seeing a woman in a scarlet shawl walking in front of her along the lane. ‘It was months ago,’ she repeated.
‘So what makes you think it was the same woman?’ someone asked.
‘I don’t know, really, I think it must have been the shawl … gipsies wear shawls, don’t they … and she was carrying a sort of hold-all. I just had the impression—’ Julie’s voice grew stronger as it became clearer in her mind what line she must follow, ‘—that she might have been selling something. It could have been lace … she might even have called at my house, only of course I wasn’t at home … I was just coming back from work, you see.’ But Rocky was at home, wasn’t he … and you know he spoke to her … and bought some of her lace.
‘But you’ll tell the police anyway, won’t you dear?’ said Mrs Grantley-Newcombe.
‘Yes of course, but as I said, it was a long time ago … some time last year now I come to think of it. It was probably someone quite different—’ Oh no it wasn’t, it was the same girl, you know it was.
‘Well, we’re all here so we can start now,’ said Mrs Grantley-Newcombe for the second time and the discussion, in which Julie forced herself to join
, turned to matters of more immediate importance such as whether they should serve braised pork or chicken casserole with the jacket potatoes, what choice of desserts they would offer and how many bottles of wine they should order. Somehow, she managed to get through the meeting without drawing any further attention to herself and to respond naturally when Mrs Grantley-Newcombe reminded her, as they were stacking the chairs and checking that all the radiators were turned off at the end of the meeting, of her promise to inform the police of her possible sighting of the murder victim. She exchanged cheerful goodbyes with everyone as they went their separate ways and her hands were steady on the wheel as she drove the short distance home.
It was not until the front door closed behind her that the fear of impending disaster, resolutely thrust into the back of her mind for the past couple of hours, rose like a tidal wave and all but overwhelmed her. She began trembling so violently that she could hardly undo the buttons of her jacket. In the kitchen, thinking that a cup of strong tea would help to steady her nerves, it was all she could do to hold the kettle under the tap and when the water boiled half of it missed the teapot and spilled on the floor. The house was warm, but when she at last held a mug of scalding tea to her lips, her teeth were chattering so much that it was several seconds before she managed to swallow a mouthful.
It was only ten o’clock; Rocky was almost certainly down at the pub and was unlikely to leave for at least another hour. It was only a few minutes’ walk away and normally she would have joined him there, partly for the company but also to make sure no woman was trying to get off with him. But not this evening, not with the terrible anxiety and doubt that was swamping her, driving every other thought from her mind. This evening she could only sit and wait, half desperate for him to come home and allay her fears, half in dread of what nightmarish revelations her questions might uncover.
Murder in Langley Woods Page 9