Murder in the Morning: An absolutely unputdownable cozy murder mystery novel (A Melissa Craig Mystery Book 2)

by Betty Rowlands

  Next morning, she went into the village to collect bread and newspapers. Eleanor was just coming out of Mrs Foster’s shop.

  ‘How are you this morning?’ enquired Melissa, holding out a hand for Snappy to lick and noticing with relief that some of the strain had lifted from her friend’s face.

  ‘Fine, thank you.’ Eleanor glanced from side to side and then said in a low voice, ‘It’s all right . . . what I told you about.’ She broke off as if afraid of being overheard and moved away with a nod and a wave. ‘I must get back and see to the washing. I think it’s going to be fine, don’t you?’

  ‘Well, she seems more like herself,’ said Mrs Foster as the door closed. ‘Been looking like death lately, she has.’

  ‘Yes, she does look better,’ replied Melissa, thinking that the return of Rodney’s jacket must have convinced Eleanor that he had at last been eliminated from police enquiries.

  ‘Mind you, it’s no wonder she’s been out of sorts after that dreadful business at the tech . . . and Major Ford tittle-tattling all over the village.’ If it was Mrs Foster’s intention to express disapproval of the Major’s predilection for gossip, the animation in her tone and the wild fluttering of her colourless eyelashes seemed rather to show an unhealthy interest in what he had to say and an eagerness to discuss it.

  Melissa had no intention of obliging her. ‘I take anything the Major says with a large pinch of salt,’ she said crisply. ‘If I could just have a wholemeal loaf and the papers . . . and I need a tin of tomatoes and half a dozen eggs.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Mrs Foster bobbed about collecting the items and putting them on the counter. ‘Any news about who did in that poor lady that you found, Mrs Craig?’ she asked as she took the money. Melissa shook her head. ‘Poor soul, what a way to go. I expect it’s made you feel a bit jumpy too, like?’ The eyelashes fluttered harder than ever, doubtless in anticipation of some highly-coloured account of the state of Melissa’s nerves.

  ‘It did shake me up, but I’m over it now.’

  ‘Yes, well I suppose in your line of business you get used to bodies and blood and things,’ said Mrs Foster, as if writing crime fiction was in some way akin to working in an abattoir.

  Melissa stowed her purchases in her shopping bag and picked up her change. ‘I really must hurry along, I’ve got a busy day in front of me.’

  Late that afternoon she had a telephone call from Joe Martin, just back from a trip to New York.

  ‘Hi, Mel!’ he said breezily. ‘I see you’ve been having more fun and games!’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I’ve been catching up on the week’s news, and who do I find hitting the headlines yet again?’

  ‘That was hardly my idea of fun and games.’

  ‘No, of course not. It must have been creepy for you, going into that empty house and finding something nasty behind the door . . . hey, that’d make a title, wouldn’t it? Something Nasty . . . ’

  Melissa was not amused. ‘You make it sound like part of a publicity exercise,’ she interrupted. ‘It was a very unnerving experience.’

  ‘I’m sure it was . . . poor old Mel. Still, talking of publicity, I hear demand for your paperbacks has shot up in the past week.’

  ‘I’m sure Sybil would be comforted to know that her death had helped such a worthwhile cause,’ said Melissa through her teeth. ‘Some of us have hearts where you keep your pocket calculator.’

  ‘Sorry, should have known better.’ His voice became furry with contrition. ‘Well, here’s a bit of good news: there’s a very flattering piece about Blow the Man Down in this week’s Publishing News.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ said Melissa bleakly.

  ‘You sound as if you need cheering up. I’m tied up for a couple of days but I could come down on Thursday if you like.’

  Something in his tone warned her that his motives were not entirely concerned with her peace of mind and she replied, a little too quickly, ‘I don’t want any visitors just now, thank you. I’ve had too many interruptions already and I’m behind schedule with Suspected of Being Innocent as it is.’

  ‘Suspected of . . . hang on! Is that your idea of a title?’

  ‘Don’t you like it? It’s a sort of double bluff. You’ll understand when you’ve read it.’

  ‘You mean, the prime suspect turns out to be the killer? Bloody useless title. Gives it away before you can open the book.’

  She had thought it rather clever and original and felt childishly disgruntled at his reaction. ‘Well, you suggest a better one,’ she said pettishly.

  ‘I already have,’ he pointed out, sounding smug.

  ‘Yes . . . well, it might do.’ Privately, she thought it quite promising but she wasn’t going to admit it.

  ‘Think about it. Well, if you’re sure you don’t want me around . . . ’ He was letting her know that he was taking her refusal personally.

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘But it’s what you meant, isn’t it? Okay, I get the message. I’ll be in touch.’

  Melissa put down the phone and glanced at the clock. It was almost five. She might as well pack up work for the day and start thinking about food.

  She ate her supper at the kitchen table, a book at her elbow. When she had finished she wandered into the sitting-room and picked up a newspaper. She felt bored and restless; she didn’t really feel like reading, there was nothing worth watching on television and Iris was down at the Craftworks studio giving free advice to her protégées. It looked like being a barren evening. Then the phone rang again.

  ‘Is that you, Melissa?’ The girl’s voice sounded hesitant.

  ‘Why, Lou! How nice to hear from you! How are things?’

  ‘Not very good.’

  ‘Oh dear, I’m sorry. What’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s Rick. We’ve split up.’ The voice was flat and carefully controlled but it had a tell-tale wobble. ‘Melissa, are you terribly busy?’

  ‘I’m trying to be,’ said Melissa wryly. ‘When I’m not getting caught up in murder hunts.’

  ‘Yes, I read about that in the papers. She was one of Angy’s students, wasn’t she?’

  ‘She was one of my students as well.’

  ‘And you found the body. Poor you, it must have been ghastly.’

  Despite her own problems, the girl was quick to show a real concern. Melissa found herself drawing comparisons with Joe. He too had expressed sympathy but it was a pretty thin veneer over his commercial and sexual preoccupations.

  ‘I hate to bother you with my problems,’ Lou went on, ‘but you’ve been so kind and I do need someone to talk to . . . ’

  ‘It’s no bother. Would you like to come down tomorrow, if you can get the time off?’ I need my head seeing to, Melissa thought to herself. I’ve just been fending off Joe because I need the time to work . . . but of course, that wasn’t the only reason.

  Lou jumped at the invitation. ‘Could I? That would be brilliant! I rang the office this morning to say I was sick so they won’t be surprised if I don’t show!’ She sounded almost cheerful. ‘Shall I get the same train as last time?’

  ‘Why not? I’ll pick you up at the station.’

  She had barely sat down when the phone rang for a third time. DCI Harris was on the line.

  ‘I wonder if I could call round for a few minutes,’ he said.

  ‘You mean now?’

  ‘If it isn’t too inconvenient.’

  ‘Of course.’

  As usual, his bulk seemed to dwarf his surroundings. Melissa steered him towards the most substantial chair in the room and he lowered himself on to it, tugging at the trouser legs that strained across his massive thighs. He pulled a folder from his briefcase.

  ‘The forensic boys have been pulling all the stops out,’ he said. ‘We’re 99 per cent certain now that we’re looking for one person in connection with both killings.’ From habit, his eyes, the only small feature in his round, lumpy face, did not leave hers for an in
stant. ‘I know you’ve already been questioned by Inspector Clarke but there are still one or two points where you might be able to help us.’

  ‘I’ll do whatever I can.’

  ‘First of all, would you mind showing me the shoes you had on when you found Mrs Bliss?’

  Melissa thought for a moment, then went and fetched a pair of flat-heeled black casuals. ‘I was wearing these.’

  He took one, turned it over and inspected the sole before handing it back. ‘Thanks. You’re sure those were the ones?’

  ‘Quite sure. Could I ask . . . ’

  ‘What about gloves?’

  ‘Gloves?’

  ‘Were you wearing any?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Absolutely. Ken, what . . . ?’

  ‘Do you happen to know if your friend is at home?’

  ‘You mean Iris? She was out earlier on . . . she may be back. Do you want to talk to her?’

  ‘When I’ve finished talking to you.’

  ‘I’m sure she’ll be more than willing to answer your questions, but I do think you might tell me what you’ve found,’ pleaded Melissa. ‘You know it won’t go any further.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I was going to tell you.’ The fleshy cheeks, pushed upwards by one of his rare smiles, almost obliterated the twinkle in his eyes. ‘There was quite a bit of dust on the floor in Mrs Bliss’s garage and we found one lovely impression of a shoe.’

  He handed over a couple of prints. The photographer had used all his skill to bring up the detail of the fine diamond pattern of the sole. ‘This was made by the murderer?’ murmured Melissa, feeling suddenly chilled.

  ‘We can’t be certain but it’s odds on,’ said Harris. ‘It certainly wasn’t yours, and we’ve already eliminated the two British Telecom boys and Mrs Bliss’s own shoes. There’s Miss Ash to check, of course, but after that . . . ’

  ‘Where exactly was the print found?’

  ‘Near the main door of the garage, close to the wall. We think he probably stood there looking out to see if the coast was clear before making off.’

  Melissa closed her eyes and pictured a furtive figure, probably wearing denims or a leather jacket with Sybil’s handbag stuffed inside it, huddled tense and trembling against the wall, waiting for his chance to slip away unobserved. He must have had blood on his clothing, yet no one had been there to see; he had vanished like a wraith into thin air, leaving behind him an innocent woman with her brains spilling out on the floor.

  ‘Are you feeling all right?’ asked Harris.

  She opened her eyes. ‘Yes, I’m fine. I was just thinking . . . it’s so strange that no one saw anything.’

  ‘Yes, we haven’t had a lot of luck with witnesses. What worries us is that there’s every chance he’ll strike again. We’ve issued a warning to the public to be on the look-out and keep their doors and windows secure.’

  ‘Was there money stolen from Angy’s flat? I don’t remember hearing about it?’

  ‘Her handbag was missing but as there were several people with possible motives for killing her, it seemed like an attempt to make robbery appear the motive. Now, it looks as if it really was someone after the money for a fix.’

  ‘You’re sure it’s drug-related then?’

  ‘It’s the line we’re following at the moment, but it’s like the proverbial needle in a haystack.’ For the first time since she had known him, he showed signs of despondency. The corners of his mouth drooped and his ruddy face seemed to sink into his squat neck like a cartoonist’s drawing of the sun going down.

  ‘You asked about gloves,’ Melissa reminded him. ‘Weren’t there any prints on the hammer?’

  ‘No, but there were some fibres which match the ones found on Angelica Caroli’s body. Those were so spread around and mixed up with her blood where she’d been thrashing around with her hands and clawing at the knife, it was difficult to establish exactly where they were to start with. Now, we’re pretty sure our man wears brown cotton gloves.’

  Melissa swallowed hard at the gruesome description. ‘Well, Iris doesn’t often wear gloves, except for gardening and church,’ she said. ‘She certainly wasn’t wearing any last Friday.’ She studied the prints of the shoe again. ‘This is a very ordinary pattern, isn’t it?’

  ‘There’s a bit of wear that might help with identification and a small round patch that could be something stuck to the sole. It’s a fairly small shoe so we aren’t looking for a heavily-built chap. Probably quite a weaselly little bugger.’

  There was the sound of a car outside.

  ‘That’ll be Iris,’ said Melissa. She half got up. ‘Shall I pop out and tell her you want to see her?’

  ‘No thanks, I’ll drop by when I leave here.’ He put the prints away in the folder. ‘I’m sorry to have broken up your evening.’

  ‘I wasn’t doing anything. By the way, have you found out any more about Delia Forbes?’

  ‘A little. I sent an officer round and he managed to find a more intelligent neighbour who said that Mrs Forbes left a key with a lady who comes round every now and then to check the house and pick up the post. She couldn’t remember the name. We’re taking steps to contact her.’ Harris stood up. ‘We’ve checked among Eddie Brady’s colleagues as well and there’s no talk of any lesbian triangles so I wouldn’t pin too much faith on that theory of yours, especially now we’re pretty sure Angy Caroli was the victim of a walk-in thief.’

  ‘But you must admit it’s odd,’ persisted Melissa, ‘taking someone else’s name just to join an art class?’

  Harris shrugged. ‘People do all sorts of daft things. It’s important to find her, though. If she really did call round at Angy’s flat, she might have seen someone hanging around . . . it could be the breakthrough we’re looking for.’ He heaved himself upright as he spoke, making for the door. ‘Now, I’ll just call in and see Miss Ash and then I’ll be getting home.’

  As she let him out, she said, ‘Remember Rick Lawrence’s faithful girlfriend?’

  ‘I remember. Nice kid . . . much too good for that greasy little sop!’

  ‘They’ve split up. She rang me this evening to tell me.’

  Harris grunted. ‘Good thing too. Tell her from me to be a bit more choosy next time!’ His small eyes searched Melissa’s like a dentist’s probe. ‘Seen anything of Willard?’

  ‘I had dinner with him on Saturday.’ She was conscious of the blood rushing into her cheeks and furious with herself for such a schoolgirlish reaction. She tilted her chin in an effort to appear belligerent. ‘I assumed we’d been given clearance!’

  He shrugged. ‘Nothing to do with me now.’

  He’s still feeling miffed . . . he really thought he’d got his man, she thought to herself. He was a first-class policeman and his hunches were usually right but he’d completely misjudged Barney. She couldn’t hold back a smug little smile. ‘You can’t win ’em all,’ she said consolingly.

  Lou had dark smudges under her eyes and her face was pale but she showed none of the nervous tension of her previous visit. During the drive from the station she hardly spoke, sitting with bowed head and a wan, wistful expression, but her body was relaxed and her hands lay loose in her lap in a pose of resignation and defeat.

  When they reached Hawthorn Cottage she got out of the car and stood for a minute or two looking at the view across the valley. A flock of rooks rose screeching from a clump of tall trees and scattered in all directions like flakes of charred paper whirling away on the wind. Lou dug her hands into the pockets of her red woollen jacket and shivered.

  ‘It’s a lot cooler here than in London,’ she commented, ‘but you’ve got a smashing view. Rick would love it,’ she added, her mouth drooping.

  ‘Come indoors and we’ll have some coffee,’ said Melissa. ‘Then you can tell me all about it.’

  It was a simple story: Rick’s family, staunch Catholics and fiercely proud of their cultural heritage, had refused to give their blessing to his
engagement to someone they regarded as an outsider. Rick had made it plain that he had no intention of defying them.

  ‘They want him to marry a nice Italian girl who’ll cook his pasta and give him lots of bambinos,’ said Lou, her lip curling in contempt. ‘They absolutely doted on Angy . . . thought she was the ideal mate for their precious son! Didn’t know her, did they?’ The old resentment had resurfaced. ‘They were absolutely devastated when she ran out on him and when he and I got together again they wouldn’t have anything to do with him. We thought it was just because of the ring and that everything would be all right once he’d got that back . . . but it wasn’t.’ Lou shut her eyes and screwed up her small pointed features in an heroic effort to hold back the tears but two bright drops squeezed out and hung on her lashes.

  ‘I’m sorry it didn’t work out,’ said Melissa sincerely, ‘but if you’ll forgive me for saying so, I never thought that Rick was quite the right one for you . . . and neither did Iris.’ She decided not to pass on DCI Harris’s comment.

  Lou’s eyes widened. ‘Why not?’ She showed no resentment, only surprise.

  ‘Too self-centred and too much of the Italian temperament,’ said Melissa. ‘All that posturing over the portrait – I’ll never forget the way he went barging past you that day – and then running away after finding Angy’s body, leaving you to face the music when the police caught up with you. Not exactly the steady, reliable type, is he?’

  Lou’s deep sigh and soulful expression suggested that steadiness and reliability had not been high on her list of priorities when she threw in her lot with Rick. ‘But I love him so much!’ she protested. ‘And he’s so good-looking!’

  ‘Yes, well, so was Guy, but I’m not sure he’d have been the ideal husband,’ said Melissa.