A Village Murder

by Frances Evesham

  ‘Not really. But I’m afraid my own work awaits.’ James raised an appreciative eyebrow at Adam, jingled the metal roof fastenings in his pockets, and left.

  Adam served a couple of new arrivals and turned back, as Maria said, ‘The councillor was helping to fund our concert, but sadly, since he passed away, we’re dreadfully short of funds. We’re asking everyone to help out.’

  The blatant plea for money reached into even Jonathan Hampton’s thick head, and the man had the grace to blush. ‘Don’t get down here too often, I’m afraid. Not sure I can help.’

  ‘But your company? I hear you’re one of those successful bankers…’

  The man’s blush deepened, and he blustered, ‘Maybe, some of our charity funds might be available…’

  ‘Perhaps you have a business card?’

  ‘Not on me, I’m afraid. Sorry.’ He made a show of consulting his watch, a probably fake, Rolex. ‘Good lord, is that the time? Come on, Cecilia, we’ll be late for dinner. With the Smiths.’

  A bark of cruel laughter followed the pair as they left. ‘Good on yer, Mrs Rosti,’ the farmer crowed. ‘Don’t have two pennies to rub together, he don’t. Works in some tin-pot motor sales company.’

  ‘Oh, I do hope I didn’t embarrass the poor man.’ Maria’s smile was smug.

  Adam plunged glasses into soapy water. ‘You’re shameless.’

  She barely heard, for she was surrounded by awed locals promising to attend her concert and fighting to outdo each other with offers of help.

  DCI Andrews kept Adam and James waiting for half an hour, next morning, before seeing them. His face was a picture of disbelief, eyebrows rising and falling together and, at times, in opposition to each other. ‘Are you trying to tell me the councillor’s death was murder?’

  Adam exchanged a resigned grimace with James. This meeting was going to be difficult.

  ‘We’ve no real proof, but the signs point that way,’ Adam began. ‘There’s the coincidence of Gregory Bishop’s body turning up on the day of the councillor’s funeral, in the councillor’s garden.’

  The detective chief inspector grunted. ‘The killer could just have been taking advantage of the kerfuffle around the funeral.’

  ‘True, or maybe he’s trying to make the wife look guilty.’

  ‘Well, that’s not hard. She’s at the top of my list. Still, go on. What else have the two of you discovered during your little piece of sleuthing?’

  James took a deep breath.

  Adam hurried to head off the imminent explosion. ‘According to gossip in the village—’

  Andrews interrupted, his voice heavy with sarcasm, ‘I’m afraid local grapevine evidence is inadmissible in court.’

  Adam held on to his temper. ‘Of course, I know that, but it can sometimes point us in the right direction.’

  Andrews gave a heavy sigh. ‘Very well, what do the good people of Lower Hembrow say?’

  ‘There’s talk about the councillor’s businesses. Folks wonder how he got planning permission for the hotel spa, for example – maybe he was on the take, or one of his friends was?’

  ‘Skullduggery within the local council.’ Andrews scoffed. He turned to James. ‘What about you, Doctor? Anything to add? Made any deductions?’ Antagonism fizzed between the two men.

  James tossed the roof fastenings on the table. ‘The debris that caused the accident came from a newly demolished roof. An old roof. These fastenings aren’t made any more. Wherever they came from, it was built no later than the mid twentieth century.’

  ‘And knocked down to make way for some of these thousands of new homes being built?’

  ‘True,’ Adam said, ‘it’s a long shot. But it’s another lead, Detective Chief Inspector, even if not a great one.’

  The police officer fingered the metal fastenings. ‘These are no use as evidence, either. They could have been touched by the world and his wife. I can’t make any kind of a case out of these.’ He tossed them to Adam. ‘I’m not convinced, yet, and I’m not about to offend the mayor and the town council by putting in a report that someone killed Councillor Jones, based on some rusty old nails and gossip about planning permission.’ He glared at Adam. ‘If you want to waste your time on demolished old buildings, be my guest.’

  21

  Suspicion

  Harley careered round the hotel garden, stopping to sniff at every hedge and marking the occasional tree with his own scent. Imogen’s face glowed with pleasure. Her cheeks were a healthy pink, whether from the walk or from excitement, Adam could not tell.

  His plan had worked perfectly. If ever he’d met a woman in need of a dog, Imogen Bishop was that woman.

  He’d miss Harley. The Plough seemed oddly quiet in the mornings, before the hurley-burley of a busy working day began, but a dog had been one responsibility too many.

  ‘I don’t want to waste your time,’ she said, ‘but I’m at my wit’s end with finding Greg’s killer. I’ve discovered that investigation isn’t as easy as I expected. I went to visit one of Greg’s contacts, but I got nowhere with him; in fact, he showed me the door. I didn’t know what to ask.’ She bit her lip. ‘I know you’re busy…’

  ‘No more than you, with a hotel to run,’ he pointed out.

  ‘I have plenty of staff.’

  Adam broke into laughter, and after a moment, Imogen joined in.

  ‘Sorry, that sounds so grand,’ she spluttered.

  ‘I can’t think of a better way of spending my time than solving a murder,’ Adam remarked. ‘So, while Harley destroys your grounds, let’s sit down and run through our progress so far.’

  Imogen led the way to a bench overlooking the stream.

  Adam cleared his throat and bought time, pulling out his battered notebook and searching pockets for a pen.

  Time for the conversation he was dreading. ‘You told me Julian died, that evening at school. His death bothers me.’

  She flinched, as though surprised. ‘You and me, both. It was a terrible thing to happen, but what does it have to do with Greg?

  ‘Indulge me for a moment. You never know what connection one thing may have to another – even after thirty years.’

  She pushed her hair back from her face, still frowning. ‘Greg was killed because of his shady business deals, I’m sure of it. Honestly, Adam, you should see that restaurant owner, Georgiou. He gave me the creeps.’ She shivered at the memory. ‘I bet he’s involved.’

  Adam took a deep breath. ‘There’s something I haven’t told you. Something I haven’t proved, yet, but my gut feeling tells me I’m right. If I am, Greg’s death is not the only one we need to look at. We can’t ignore Julian’s, either.’ He paused, watching her face. ‘And then, there’s the other death.’

  Imogen’s face drained of colour. ‘What – what on earth do you mean. The other death? Who else died? I mean—’

  Her eyes darkened as realisation dawned. ‘Not, not my father? No.’

  She rose from the bench and took a stumbling step backwards. ‘That’s nonsense. You’re making it up. Dad’s death was an accident.’

  Adam waited for her to calm down and slide back onto the bench.

  It was the first time he’d heard her call her father ‘Dad’. That was good. It showed there was affection there, despite the years of bitterness towards her father.

  While she sat frowning as though collecting her thoughts, Adam reflected on her behaviour. She hadn’t tried to prove an alibi for herself. She’d told him the truth about her break-up with Greg, even though she’d lied about it at the police station, and she’d readily admitted she didn’t get on with her father. Small things, perhaps, but those contradictions weren’t the work of a cunning, cold-blooded murderer.

  And now, the shock, horror and affection in her voice as she spoke about her father were, Adam was sure, completely genuine.

  Relief flooded through him, along with a stab of anxiety. He might be sure she was innocent, but DCI Andrews was unlikely to see such tenuous indicators in
the same light.

  He said, ‘Let’s look at the circumstances of your father’s death. It happened so close to Greg’s murder that I couldn’t ignore it, even though it seemed totally accidental. But, two members of your family dying within weeks of each other? That’s a big coincidence. It kept nagging at me, so I asked my mate, James – he’s a forensic pathologist – for his opinion.

  He agrees the car accident could easily have been faked. That road’s out of town, with no cameras on the stretch where the accident happened. Nails in the tyre – we’ve all picked one up at some time, but there were three in your father’s wheel, from fly-tipping near the road. Just for a moment, take a leap of imagination. What if your father’s death was deliberately set up? It opens up a whole new area of investigation.’

  She remained on the bench, but her hands were clenched. She spoke slowly, with care. ‘If you’re right, there must be a reason – a motive. Who would want my father dead? Well, the police would say I did, of course. I inherited the hotel.’

  ‘True, but let’s put that aside for the moment.’ He was blunt. ‘I’m sorry, but your father may have been murdered, and we have to wonder whether there are other deaths to be taken into consideration.’

  There was a very long pause before Imogen spoke. When she did, her hands were at her face, muffling her speech so that Adam had to listen hard.

  ‘You mean Julian’s death,’ she whispered. ‘You think Julian and my father were both murdered.’ She shook her head so vigorously that strands of hair escaped from behind her ears and fell over her eyes. ‘No. No. I can’t believe it. They were both accidents. Dad was a rubbish driver, and he should have given up his licence long ago. And Julian – we were just teenagers, playing around with drugs and drinking too much. No one would kill Julian. Why would they want to?’ She raised her head. ‘Those were my friends at the picnic in the tunnel. None of them would dream of killing anyone.’

  ‘That’s what people always think. It’s like finding out your next door neighbour murdered his wife. You say, “They were a lovely family. Nice and friendly – he’d say good morning every day.” Yet, the friendly neighbour bullies his wife, and one day he loses his temper and hits her with a hammer.’

  Imogen’s shoulders gave a convulsive shiver and Adam fell silent. Had he gone too far?

  He spoke more gently, ‘Any sudden death is suspicious until proved otherwise.’

  She nodded, eyes narrowed, thinking. Finally, she struck her fist on the bench. ‘We have to know – I have to know. It sounds crazy – unbelievable – but you’re a professional. I trust you. If you think they’re all connected, then we must prove it, one way or the other.’ Her eyes shone with purpose. ‘What’s more, if there really is a link, it must have something to do with my school friends. If someone I know killed my father and my husband, I mean to find out who it is.’

  Everyone at the reunion was now under suspicion. Imogen tried to digest that fact as Adam questioned her in detail about the evening. Old addresses and new names – he listed them all in his notebook.

  The stream of questions continued, until Imogen’s head ached.

  ‘Finally, I need to know more about Daniel,’ Adam said, and her throat tightened.

  She breathed slowly, in and out, fighting a wave of nausea. Not Daniel. Anyone but him.

  Adam’s voice went on, reasonable and calm. ‘We need to look at everyone connected with the three of them – Greg, Julian and your father. We have to eliminate them all. Don’t forget Daniel spent time at the hotel and he painted those rare plants.’

  At that moment, Harley bounded up carrying an ancient tennis ball in his mouth, and dropped it with a wet squelch on Imogen’s lap.

  ‘He already knows he belongs with you,’ Adam remarked.

  Imogen kept her hand on the dog as she talked about Daniel, soothed by the warmth of the animal’s body. ‘Since we’re being honest about everything,’ she knew there was an edge to her voice, but she ploughed on, ‘I’ve talked to the gardener about the rare plants and he remembers them. The reason I’m telling you is…’ She stopped.

  ‘Because you think your father’s shady schemes might supply a motive for murder.’

  The look on Adam’s face sent a shiver up Imogen’s spine.

  ‘I want you to be very careful. Until we know why these three people died, you have to watch your step.’

  22

  Donkeys

  Adam drove to Ford, Daniel’s tiny village just outside Crewkerne, revelling in the June sunshine. The rain had kept away recently, and the sun shone bravely overhead, promising to grow even stronger. The trees had freshened up beautifully, with that brightest of greens seen only in the first half of the year.

  Adam ran through his suspicions. He was sure his instincts were good, although the police might disagree. Linking the three deaths was a stretch, but his gut told him not to ignore the possibility.

  It was just as well he enjoyed a challenge. There were lines of enquiry spreading in all directions, and he could hardly tell which were separate, and which lay in a tangled knot with the killer at its heart, pulling the strings like a puppeteer.

  Adam changed gear and swung around a corner, wondering about Imogen’s school friends. Were they just a bunch of thoughtless teenagers whose stupid prank ended in a death? They’d separated after Julian’s death and kept away from Lower Hembrow for years, only to meet up just as the councillor and Greg were killed. The timing shrieked design, but who had set up the reunion, and why?

  Perhaps Daniel, whom Adam was about to meet, could shed a little light on them.

  Adam turned on the radio, finding a cheerful tum-te-tum Andre Rieu waltz on Classic FM, and hummed along, out of tune, as he wound his way through pretty Somerset villages.

  The sign for Ford appeared, half hidden by branches. Adam screeched to a halt and turned down a twisting, muddy track. It narrowed as it descended, until hedges on either side scraped the sides of the car. Just as it seemed the track would go nowhere, it turned sharp right, ending abruptly at a long, low barn conversion surrounded by a network of paddocks.

  A pair of donkeys, sunning themselves in the paddock, treated Adam to an ear-splitting braying contest.

  The barn door opened, and a man appeared: tall, dark and handsome, dressed in jeans and a cable jumper and carrying a bucket of feed for the donkeys. He turned and waved. So, this was Daniel. Adam disliked the man on sight. Too handsome and too confident for Adam’s liking. He was also responsible for Imogen’s broken heart, all those years ago, if Adam had read her blushes correctly when Daniel’s name came up.

  ‘I’ll just give these to the creatures, or they’ll make that noise for hours. Here, boys.’ Daniel emptied the bucket into a trough, patting the animals’ necks. ‘Here’s your lunch. Enjoy.’ He wiped his hands on the back of his jeans before offering one to Adam. ‘Mr Hennessy. Or should I say, Detective Chief Inspector?’

  Adam sighed. The man had googled him after their brief phone call. It ruined his disguise. He’d been posing as a potential buyer of Daniel’s work. So much for subterfuge.

  ‘Nice place.’ He nodded at the barn.

  ‘Still a work in progress.’

  ‘Are you doing it up yourself?’

  ‘All the bits I can. I draw the line at electrics, but I can saw a plank of wood and hammer in a nail or two with the best of them.’ He waved for Adam to follow and led the way to a door at the end of the barn. It opened into a wide room with a glass roof. ‘My studio,’ he announced.

  Adam grinned. ‘Plenty of northern light.’

  Daniel raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you a painter too?’

  ‘Strictly amateur. A hobby.’

  ‘And you have other hobbies? Like sleuthing?’ Daniel gave a short laugh. ‘Such an odd word, don’t you think, sleuthing?’

  ‘I call it investigation.’

  The man infuriated Adam. Jealousy, he supposed. Some people had every advantage. Imogen’s face changed whenever he mentioned Daniel�
�s name. She glowed from within, a sure and totally unconscious sign of her true feelings.

  Adam told himself gilded men like Daniel had problems, too. He tried to keep an open mind, but that first spurt of visceral dislike still kicked in. This man had better not hurt Imogen again.

  Something in the sidelong look Daniel threw his way told Adam the negative vibes were mutual.

  ‘I bought one of your paintings,’ he said.

  ‘Did you? Now, that’s something I always like to hear. Where did you find it?’

  Adam named the gallery. He didn’t tell the artist his painting was sold as part of a job lot, to clear space. He wasn’t that cruel.

  ‘And, what did you think of it?’ Less sure of himself, Daniel busied his hands putting mugs on a tray and feeding capsules into a coffee maker.

  ‘It’s good, but I’m more interested in the subject. The Streamside Hotel.’

  Daniel’s hands stilled for a moment. He shot a quick look at Adam’s face before resuming coffee preparations. ‘You know the hotel?’

  ‘I own the pub across the street.’

  Daniel laughed aloud. ‘Whoever thought to build a pub right across from a hotel?’

  ‘You’d be surprised. The two work together well. Hotel visitors come to the pub for an evening of local colour. In fact, the two buildings used to be part of the same estate.’

  ‘So, you know the hotel owner?’

  Adam smiled at the undercurrents swirling around. ‘Both the previous owner, and the current one. And I believe you know the family well; from schooldays and painting the hotel garden?’

  Daniel took his time sliding a mug of coffee across the central table, avoiding splodges of paint, jugs crammed with dozens of brushes, and heaps of paper. The table, like the whole room, was surprisingly neat and tidy.

  Daniel had an organised mind. Judging by the man’s pursed lips, it seemed it was working hard.