A Village Murder

by Frances Evesham

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me coming over – I’m not here for sympathy. Of course, I’m sorry Greg’s dead, but we’d split up and the marriage was over ages ago.’ She pursed her lips. ‘That sounds callous. A liaison officer talked to me earlier today. She was so kind, I felt like a hypocrite. I hoped you might not judge me.’

  Was that a compliment?

  ‘I won’t, but you might have to weather a bit of gossip. Have you been to the village shop yet?’

  She grinned. ‘Not since I moved back last week, but I can imagine. I bet Greg’s death is a hot topic.’

  ‘That and my new friend, this dog – both events of equal interest to the proprietor. She tells me I need a companion. A full bar every night isn’t enough – and I don’t think Mrs Topsham approves of drinking.’

  She laughed. ‘Useful warning. The dog’s a new arrival, is he?’

  ‘Picked me out. I’ve no idea why. I’ve never owned a dog in my life.’

  By the time Adam finished the story of the dog’s sudden appearance at The Plough, colour had returned to Imogen’s face.

  He risked a few questions. ‘Sorry if I’m being nosy, but did your husband plan to come to your father’s funeral? He was wearing a suit.’

  ‘Not nosy at all. You discovered the… the body with me. You earned the right to know more.’

  Should he tell her he used to be a police officer?

  Too late, she was already talking.

  ‘I didn’t know whether or not he’d come. It was awkward – people asked when he’d be arriving.’ She bit her lip. ‘He was probably out there all the time, in the orangery – dead.’

  ‘Where were you living?’

  ‘I have – we had – a flat in Salisbury. It’s up for sale, now.’ She shrugged. ‘I moved over to the hotel when my father died. It seemed right. I couldn’t leave it without an owner, although I know precious little about the business.’

  She managed a lop-sided grin. ‘To be honest, I’ll be glad to get rid of the flat. It’s never been the same since Greg and I split up.’

  Adam said, ‘Do you have more family? Aunts? Grandparents?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not really. My father was the last of his generation. A couple of distant cousins live in the Lake District, but they couldn’t get to the funeral.’

  ‘What about friends?’

  An odd expression flitted across her face. Guarded.

  ‘Plenty of acquaintances – other gardeners, people in the business. Not close friends.’ She drained her coffee cup and sat up straight. ‘This is a great building. A Somerset longhouse, isn’t it?’

  ‘I keep this end for myself, and the bar and restaurant occupy the rest of the building. It works well.’

  She pointed across the room. ‘That painting over there?’ She got up and moved closer. ‘The one of the lake, with the rushes. It’s the pool at The Streamside Hotel, isn’t it? Local artists often used to paint it – my father was proud of the garden. Where did you get it?’

  ‘You’ve discovered my guilty secret – it’s one of mine. I’m a keen amateur – very amateur, I’m afraid. I paint in my spare time. Not that I have much of that, running The Plough.’ He laughed, suddenly awkward. ‘I’m a beginner. That’s the only example of my work I consider successful enough to put on the wall. Your father let me play at painting the hotel gardens.’

  ‘Clever you. I love the way you’ve suggested the light on the water.’ She turned to face him. ‘What did you do before you came here?’

  Confession time. He braced himself. ‘I was a police officer.’

  ‘What?’ Her eyebrows shot up.

  ‘In my defence, I told the DCI last night.’

  ‘Did you? I didn’t hear.’ She paced from the wall to the chair and back. ‘Well, how very odd.’ She trod the same route again. ‘You must be bursting with curiosity about my husband, then,’ she said.

  ‘A little,’ he admitted.

  She took another turn round the room.

  ‘Could you sit down?’ Adam begged. ‘You’re making me giddy.’

  She resumed her seat. ‘Are you going to investigate Greg’s death?’

  ‘Not my job.’

  ‘Come on. How can you resist? Why don’t you ask me questions? Get them out of the way? Surely, you want to know whether Greg committed suicide, or whether he was murdered? I know I do. You might even think I killed him…’

  She sounded calm. Was she angry? Hard to tell. He’d take her at her word.

  ‘Very well, tell me about Greg.’

  ‘I’ll give you the unvarnished truth. It’s depressing.’

  He waited.

  ‘Well, as I said, we’d split up. Unfortunately for me, he emptied our joint bank account at the same time. We’d quarrelled, you see, about three months ago. I had to work away overnight, starting up the Haselbury House project, and he objected.’ She shrugged. ‘To be honest, I think he was jealous, because I love my work and he was struggling.’

  Her face cleared, as though she’d discovered an unexpected kernel of truth. ‘Greg’s business was under pressure. He sold various things across the south and west of England – different items he picked up cheaply – sometimes, I’m almost sure, off the back of a lorry. He travelled a lot and lurched from one business idea to another. I found it refreshing when we first married, but the businesses never prospered.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘His brand of feckless charm wore off years ago.’ She moved the cup in its saucer. ‘I’ve known for years that Greg had other women. He was,’ she smiled, ‘very attractive to women. I’d grown tired of pretending I didn’t notice when he stayed out late, or when he took secret phone calls.’

  She took a gulp from her cup. ‘The final straw came when I found a receipt in his pocket. I wasn’t even snooping – he’d asked me to put his trousers in the wash. I don’t think he cared whether I knew or not. The receipt was from a jeweller.’ Her laugh rang harshly through the room. ‘Such a cliché. He hadn’t bought jewellery for me for years. We had a huge row and told each other a few home truths. Apparently, I have a few personal faults of my own.’

  She gave a wry smile. ‘The next day, we were very polite to each other. I left to start work at Haselbury House, thinking we would both cool off and maybe patch things up, but he disappeared without even the courtesy of a note. When I came home next day, he’d gone, taking very little except his clothes and, as it turned out, our savings. He did love clothes.’ Her smile was wistful. She’d obviously been fond of her husband once. ‘He didn’t, so far as I could see, keep any other reminders of our marriage.’

  She rose and stretched. ‘I promised to go the police station to give a statement – a bit more private than having more police in the hotel and I want a solicitor with me.’

  ‘You don’t need one at this stage.’

  ‘Still – Greg would insist. He didn’t trust the police.’

  The stray dog rushed into the room.

  She knelt down to the animal’s level. He licked her face. ‘Aren’t you beautiful?’ she murmured. She grinned up at Adam. ‘I think you’ve made a friend.’

  Adam’s head buzzed with questions after Imogen left, but his fingers itched to paint. He’d come to this quiet backwater with its sleepy pub and rural views, planning to run The Plough and spend his leisure time painting. So far, the plan had worked. He relished the late nights of chatter, and didn’t mind early starts, cleaning up after the night before. He had no ties, no wife, no partner, no children. No family at all, just slight regret that love had never blossomed. Or at any rate, had flared up only once, briefly, with a woman who’d used him as a meal ticket before moving on.

  He’d never felt bitter. At least Yolanda had granted him a few months of one-sided affection.

  He retrieved the last old canvas from under his bed and lugged it down to the sitting room.

  Better pick up some more recycled canvases soon.

  He loaded his brush with grey paint and smothered the canvas with a wash, sweeping stroke
s overlaying the uncertain still life underneath, but for once, the magic wouldn’t happen. His mind could not let go. Suspicions, questions, and observations whirled in his brain.

  He put down the brush. Who was he trying to fool? He couldn’t ignore a sudden death just across the road.

  He cleaned his brushes, packed the tubes of paint in their box and reached for his phone.

  James Barton, a forensic medical examiner from Adam’s old days, yawned in Adam’s ear.

  Adam winced. ‘It’s Adam Hennessy here. I’ve picked a bad time, by the sound of it. You’re on call?’

  ‘Twenty-four hours on the trot – but I’m getting to the end of the shift. Don’t expect any sense from me…’ James stopped talking. When he spoke again, there was a note of curiosity in his voice. ‘Haven’t heard from you for a while. Not since… Well, how are you?’

  Adam pictured James at home in bed, catching up on sleep, only half awake. ‘Not as tired as you, at least. Busy time?’

  James groaned. ‘Two drunk drivers and a battered wife. Nothing unusual. What can I do for you?’

  ‘It’s personal, James. I was hoping to run some things past you. Face to face if possible?’

  ‘No problem, if you’ll come here. How about lunch tomorrow? The Slug and whatever-it’s-called?’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  6

  James

  The Slug and Lettuce was one of a chain, situated in the middle of Birmingham, in an area Adam knew well. He shot a glance around the bar, automatically checking out the other drinkers. He could relax. No one he knew was in today.

  He ordered a soft drink, and chose a table tucked away in reasonable privacy. The dog curled under the table, keeping an eye open for scraps.

  ‘I thought you were a cat person,’ James dwarfed the room as he burst in, bought a diet coke, scraped back a chair opposite Adam and collapsed into it. ‘Good job they let dogs in here,’ he said, as a young waiter arrived to take their orders.

  Adam told the tale of the dog’s arrival. ‘You wouldn’t like to take him on, would you?’

  ‘Not me. I have enough bother from the kids.’ He jerked his head at the rows of tables. ‘Not quite like the pub you’ve taken over.’

  Adam raised his glass. ‘You’ve done your homework. Or the grapevine’s still working. I haven’t seen you since…’

  ‘Since your retirement do. What a night that was, mate.’ James had stuck with determination to his North London roots and the slang to match, although he’d lived in the West Midlands for over thirty years.

  ‘Can’t imagine you remember much about it.’

  James snorted. ‘True enough. But judging by the headache next morning, it was one of the best.’ They paused as two plates of burgers and chips arrived.

  James took a break from dosing his chips with salt and vinegar and smothering the burger with tomato sauce, to peer at Adam through narrowed eyes. ‘You’re looking good, Adam. Retirement suits you. You look twenty years younger, apart from the hair. That’s still on the retreat, I see.’ He slid one hand through his own carefully trimmed salt-and-pepper thatch. ‘Anyway, tell me about your pub.’

  ‘Sixteenth century, quiet village, not much happening. At least, not until yesterday.’

  James’ long, battered face creased in a smile. ‘I smell a mystery. But first, what about you? You disappeared like a puff of wind; you know. Not a word for your mates for a year. We all thought you’d emigrated.’

  ‘Well, you know how it was…’

  ‘I remember.’ James paused. ‘Sorry about your cat.’

  Adam nodded. That had been the worst part of the whole business. His beloved cat, an ancient tabby, his companion for more than sixteen years, had been the victim of a revenge attack by a gang of Cypriot thugs. Adam found the animal, throat slit, in a pool of blood on his living room carpet.

  ‘Couldn’t go on living there, so I sold up and bought the pub. No ties, you see. A taste of relaxed village life. Although, after yesterday, I’m not so sure it’s as quiet as I expected.’

  ‘Intriguing.’ James wrinkled his forehead, black eyebrows aloft. ‘Oh, for the single life with no one to please but yourself. A pub of your own. I can only dream.’

  ‘And how are the kids?’

  ‘One word. GCSEs.’ James’ face fell.

  ‘I’m not sure GCSEs counts as one word. Is it your youngest taking them?’

  James raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘And the oldest is doing A levels ready for university so she can cost us a small fortune in handouts…’

  ‘And Jenny?’

  ‘Still a nurse manager, full of suggestions for how the government should be running the NHS. So, no change there.’ James swallowed half his pint of Diet Coke in one mouthful. ‘Can’t wait to have a proper drink later. This stuff rots your teeth. Now, let’s get to business. Is it a woman?’

  ‘When is it ever a woman with me?’

  ‘Right.’ James grunted. ‘Come on, man. Do I have to drag it out of you? You ring out of the blue and tempt me to this spectacularly unattractive hostelry, to eat burgers made from the worst bits of some poor animal’s carcase. I assumed you had some juicy case to talk about.’

  ‘I’m retired.’

  ‘Of course, you are, and I’m a ballerina. You’ll never retire, my son. You’re a detective to the core.’ He wagged a bony finger in Adam’s face. ‘That’s why you wanted to meet in person – so you can watch my reactions. It’s what you do. Body language, human behaviour, lies and secrets are your specialities. Now, spill those beans while I finish these chips.’

  Adam told him about finding Gregory Bishop dead in the garden of the Streamside Hotel. James nodded and frowned, waving chips in his fingers. At the end of the story, he pushed his plate to the side, wiped his mouth and fingers, sighed and leaned his elbows on the table, his chin in his hands.

  ‘So, this woman’s husband left three months ago and she hasn’t seen him since, or so she says, until he turns up on the very day of her father’s funeral, dead.’

  He raised his eyebrows and Adam nodded. ‘That just about sums it up.’

  ‘Well, what do you think is going on? Suicide? Accident?’

  Adam swirled the last drop of orange juice and lemonade around in the bottom of his glass. ‘Could be any of those things, but the suicide idea doesn’t ring true. The man was dressed for a funeral, he was expected, but he never arrived. Would you put your suit on if you’re planning to take pills and drink yourself to death in the garden? And wouldn’t you leave some sort of note?’

  ‘Not necessarily, although people usually do. And, it’s hard to die by accident sitting in a posh conservatory. You said there was a bottle nearby? Are we talking poison, by any chance?’

  ‘It’s no more than a possibility. There are a few possible motives. According to his widow, Gregory Bishop has been involved in some shady businesses. He could have trodden on someone’s toes once too often. Or it could be an elaborate attempt on his wife’s part to get rid of her husband, hide the savings she claims he took, then come up with a perfect alibi and get away with it all.’

  James hooted. ‘Remind me not to get into crime while you’re around. But Avon and Somerset’s finest will be on the case. Why do you want to get involved? DCI Andrews; isn’t he the local guy? Big chap, spectacular eyebrows? Bit of a plodder with one eye on retirement?’

  ‘Truth is, I’m worried about the wife. She’s a strong woman, but she’s lost her father and now her husband. She’s independent – won’t even let the liaison officer help. I think she needs to have a few answers, and quickly. Always supposing she didn’t murder her own husband.’

  James finished his Coke, grimaced, and dumped the glass back on the table. ‘Fancy her, do you?’

  ‘N-no. I like her, and my gut tells me she’s innocent, although the whole ‘taking me to the orangery’ thing could be an elaborate double bluff, I suppose. Still…’

  ‘You have your eye on someone else? I knew it.’
>
  Adam ignored that. ‘I wondered if you could help – maybe pull a few strings, find the cause of death?’

  ‘So you can solve the case for her?’ His face the picture of lugubrious sorrow, James shook his head. ‘Once a detective…’ He checked the time, wiped his mouth and lumbered to his feet. ‘I have to go. Don’t leave it so long, next time, mate. I’ll see what I can do.’

  As his friend drove off in a mud spattered Range Rover, Adam pulled out his phone and googled the number of the local police.

  He did not get through to DCI Andrews himself, of course. ‘Please make a note that this is former DCI Hennessy calling.’

  ‘Hennessy?’ The young man at the other end of the phone sounded suddenly interested. Adam’s heart sank. ‘Not… not DCI Hennessy from the Andiron case?’

  ‘Just pass on the message, lad.’

  7

  Invitation

  Imogen, the two police officers explained, was being interviewed as a witness. At least they weren’t calling her a suspect. She braced herself, glancing at her solicitor for support. Sheila Brooks gave a half-smile, her lips tight as though gestures of sympathy did not come easily.

  One of the officers, a young woman, said, ‘Please tell us what happened on the day of your father’s funeral in your own words, Mrs Bishop.’

  Imogen wanted to laugh. Whose words did they think she might be using? She squeezed her hands until the nails dug into her palms to gain control.

  ‘Mrs Bishop?’ the officer repeated.

  Imogen took a breath, and the interview began.

  A male officer took copious notes, and in the corner of the room, the red camera light gleamed. They weren’t going to miss a syllable of her story.

  The female officer nodded, encouraging Imogen with an occasional, ‘Go on,’ and, ‘What happened next?’ Imogen’s heartbeat slowed as she explained how they’d discovered Greg’s body. She’d been worrying about nothing, imagining the police were going to set traps for her. Maybe she’d watched too many police procedurals on television.