A Village Murder

by Frances Evesham

  Murder

  ‘We’d like to talk to you again.’ A young, moon faced detective constable with over-gelled hair, pointed shoes and a smug smile tapped his fingers on the desk in the hotel foyer. A mix of guests milled around, open-mouthed.

  ‘They think she murdered her husband.’ The eager whisper echoed through the space.

  Imogen had known this moment would come, but nothing had prepared her for the fear. Her throat filled with bile. Was she about to be arrested and charged with Greg’s murder? Had the police even looked in any other direction?

  A camera phone flashed.

  Time to move out of the public eye.

  ‘Please come into the office.’

  Emily scuttled out, pink with excitement. ‘Coffee?’ she offered.

  Imogen glared. ‘Not just now.’

  In the office, she sat at a desk and nodded at the constable.

  ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘We’d like you to come to the station again. Now, if possible.’

  ‘Couldn’t you have telephoned instead of making me a spectacle in front of all the hotel guests?’

  The constable’s smile faltered. ‘Sorry, just doing what the boss asked.’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Andrews?’ Imogen’s stomach churned.

  ‘Yes, ma’am. I can take you in the car if you like…’ Apologetic.

  Imogen shrugged. ‘How will I get home again? Or are you planning to lock me up?’

  ‘No, no – I mean, that’s not my decision, ma’am.’

  ‘Well, I’ll follow in my own car once I’ve spoken to my solicitor.’

  ‘Oh, that won’t—’

  ‘It most certainly will be necessary. Tell your boss I’ll be there in an hour.’

  He made for the door, his neck pink. Imogen regretted snapping at him. He was only a young lad.

  ‘Would you like that coffee before you go? Emily will get one for you.’

  He perked up as she waved Emily in.

  Imogen sped upstairs. In the privacy of her room, she telephoned the fearsome Sheila Brooks.

  The solicitor sounded breathless. ‘You’ve just caught me, I’m in and out of court today, but I can spare an hour.’

  Imogen tried to call Adam but reached his answer phone. ‘The police want me at the station. Can you come?’

  She clicked her tongue. That sounded pathetic.

  She rang again. ‘Sorry, I panicked. Don’t worry about it. I’ll tell you what happens when I get back.’

  If they let me go.

  Time crawled. The hard, tiled bench in the police station gave Imogen backache. She turned her coat collar up to shut out the ripe-smelling youth on her left. He rocked back and forth, in his own world, one finger exploring his mouth for food scraps.

  The young DC ushered Imogen into the interview room where Detective Chief Inspector Andrews and Sheila Brooks were sharing a joke.

  The DCI smiled, eyebrows under control. This wasn’t going to last long, he just wanted to clear up a few points.

  ‘I thought you’d prefer to come here again, to avoid a fuss at your hotel.’

  That was thoughtful – but a pity he hadn’t made that point to his constable.

  ‘When did you last see your father?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  She gathered her wits. So this wasn’t about Greg?

  ‘Boxing Day.’ Greg had been there with her, exchanging whisky and business gossip with her father. Imogen had offered a carefully chosen plant encyclopaedia as a gift in the hope of building bridges, but her father had barely glanced at it, dropping it on a side table like a hot potato.

  ‘Did you keep in touch by telephone?’

  ‘Texts, sometimes.’

  ‘And these were about…’

  ‘Nothing much. You know, when one of us went on holiday, or birthdays. That was about it. I’m afraid we weren’t close.’

  Sheila Brooks frowned. ‘Don’t volunteer anything,’ she’d said.

  The questioning turned to her father’s car, its service record and how often he changed it.

  Imogen blurted out, ‘You think he was murdered, then?’

  The DCI replied, speaking slowly, clearly choosing his words with care. ‘We have reason to suspect the car crash may have been less than accidental.’ He coughed. ‘I imagine you’ve discussed this with your neighbour, Mr Hennessy.’

  The solicitor sat up, suddenly alert. It seemed she’d heard of Adam.

  The DCI continued, ‘Please tell us where you were on…’ from his notebook, he read out the date of her father’s death, ‘on 20th March.’ She’d been at Haselbury House, that day.

  There were other questions, but she could answer very few.

  Did the police know about her father’s illicit import and export of restricted plants? She longed to tell them everything she’d discovered, to convince them she was holding nothing back, but she couldn’t. Daniel had painted the hotel garden and those flowers, and Adam knew it. Had he told the police? How much did they know? Could Daniel possibly be involved in her father’s death? She shivered. Surely not.

  At last, the DCI drew the interview to a close, reiterated his condolences for her losses, and asked her to sign a witness statement the constable was preparing, based on the interview. And that was all.

  Sheila Brooks gave her a nod and an unexpectedly friendly wink.

  She was free to go.

  Shaky, in need of the strongest coffee the hotel could supply, Imogen couldn’t wait to leave the police station. In her haste, she failed to notice Adam in the foyer.

  He called after her, ‘I got your message. Are you all right?’

  He took a long look at Imogen’s face and prescribed a hot drink. ‘The coffee in police stations is terrible, but it does the job.’ He pointed at a machine. ‘You wait here. I’ve organised a meeting with DCI Andrews. I’ll only be a minute.’

  ‘Well,’ DCI Andrews said, crossing his legs comfortably. ‘I see you’ve come charging in to your friend’s rescue.’

  ‘Not at all.’ Adam was too experienced a copper to let Andrews tweak his nose. ‘There’s new information.’

  ‘And, does Mrs Bishop know this? Because she’s giving remarkably little away, if so.’

  ‘Do you blame her? She knows she’s at the top of your list of suspects for her husband’s murder.’

  ‘She’s right, but that wasn’t what we discussed today.’

  ‘No?’ Adam let the word hang in the air, but Andrews didn’t elaborate. Adam leaned back in his chair. ‘Well, you might be interested in some gossip I heard. It’s no more than that, but it puts a whole new complexion on the councillor’s activities.’

  ‘Does it indeed?’

  Adam saw enthusiasm spark in the other man’s eyes. He thought for a moment. Imogen had told him about her trip to the stately home and the information she’d gleaned from the new owner, after Steph had left The Plough last night. Had she passed it on to the police? He doubted it. He’d be willing to bet she’d said as little as possible.

  ‘I run a pub and I listen to the gossip.’ Adam recounted the stately homeowner’s suspicions about property price fixing and mentioned the funds passing in and out of the hotel accounts.

  DCI Andrews laughed. ‘We’re on to that. It seems someone was blackmailing the good councillor. Trouble is, blackmailers don’t usually kill off their victims, so that doesn’t help much with our murder inquiry.’

  At least he agreed it was a murder.

  ‘But you’ve given us a few pointers. Like everyone else involved, you’re holding back, but we can find you if we need to talk further. We’d heard something of the councillor’s activities, and we may have enough to round up a few of his cronies soon.’

  ‘That’s great. What about the other murder?’

  A silence fell.

  The DCI blinked, frowned, coughed and fiddled with his pen. ‘Another murder? Your friend’s husband and father aren’t enough for you?’

  ‘We
ll, anything I can do to help, you just need to let me know.’

  Andrews’ eyebrows twitched. ‘What’s this other death? Why don’t I know about it?’

  ‘It’s a cold case from thirty years ago. It was dropped – the whole thing looked like a teenage prank, kids drinking and tripping over each other in a dark tunnel in the middle of the night. The investigation concluded the young lad’s death was no more than a tragic accident.’

  Adam searched for the right words. He needed to persuade Andrews to take Julian’s death seriously and reopen the case, but he was close to retirement and happy with a quiet life behind a desk. Much easier to brush a long-buried cold case under the carpet.

  ‘The people involved that night included your murder victim, Gregory Bishop, his widow, Imogen – who also happens to be the surviving daughter of murder victim number two – and a motley bunch of their friends and acquaintances.’

  He let the information sink in.

  ‘Now, to misquote Oscar Wilde, one death may be a misfortune, but a second is carelessness – and a third suggests something entirely more sinister.’

  DCI Andrews swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple jerking in his throat. ‘Are you seriously suggesting there’s a serial killer on the loose in Somerset?’

  ‘Not really. Not in the sense of a murderer who kills from a compulsion to do so, or from cruelty, or sadism, or any peculiar sexual motive. No, I believe these three murders were all committed by the same person for another reason. And, until we can understand that reason, we’re going to have all sorts of problems pinning down the culprit.’

  The DCI let out a long, low groan. ‘Where’s the evidence? I’m not moving scarce resources back to a closed case from thirty years ago without a watertight reason. Greg Bishop is our only definite murder. Unless you can convince me, without a shadow of a doubt, I’m sticking to the councillor’s death as either some kind of villainous tit-for-tat with his nefarious criminal colleagues, or an accident. This pie-in-the-sky ghost from the past you’ve brought me is an entirely unrelated accident, unless you prove otherwise.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ All Adam could do was hope this conversation set off a spark of interest with the DCI. Enough for him to look at the case file. Perhaps his mind would open by just an inch or two. The man was no fool.

  ‘If you find any real evidence, the kind we can show to the Crown Prosecution Service don’t hesitate to bring it to me.’ Andrews threw a long look at Adam and offered the tiniest nod.

  Adam understood. The DCI wanted him to keep on the case, unofficially.

  The DCI scraped back his chair and lumbered to his feet. ‘Thank you, by the way. You’ve been most helpful in this business of the councillor’s car crash.’

  Adam left, satisfied.

  He checked his watch. He’d been here longer than intended. Would Imogen still be waiting?

  There was no sign of Imogen in the reception area so Adam ran out into the car park. At that moment, Imogen backed her car into the busy main road outside the station. She reversed fast and a car horn hooted.

  Adam shook his head, opening his car door. Imogen did nothing by halves.

  An engine revved madly, and a black SUV sped up the road, overtaking the line of cars, avoiding oncoming traffic by inches, and settled into place with just a blue Peugeot between it and Imogen.

  Adam started his engine and roared into the road.

  33

  Chase

  Grimly, Adam pulled in behind the Peugeot. The SUV driver might be innocently going about his business, but no sense in taking a chance.

  The convoy left the main road and took a quieter route. The SUV dropped back. Now, there were two cars between Imogen and the SUV. Maybe Adam was worrying unnecessarily.

  The Peugeot turned off. Directly behind the SUV, now, Adam caught a glimpse of the driver. Yellow jacket. Black hair in a ponytail.

  The driver was a woman.

  Brakes squealed. Imogen skidded sharp left, no signal, leaving a puff of exhaust.

  The SUV braked hard, on Imogen’s heels, dropping any pretence of innocence.

  The new track wound through hedgerows, the road muddy but passable.

  Adam signalled, turned, and stood on the brake, screeching to a halt just inches from the SUV.

  Imogen leapt out, running towards the SUV, fury contorting her face. Adam flung open his door, yelling at her to stop.

  Too late.

  She’d reached the SUV and was hammering on the driver’s window. ‘How dare you?’

  Adam arrived seconds later, as the SUV’s door flew open and the driver emerged.

  Imogen ignored Adam. An accusing finger pointed at the other woman.

  The SUV driver muttered, ‘I wasn’t… I mean, I didn’t…’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Adam asked, bewildered.

  Imogen snapped, ‘Toni’s been spying on me.’ Anger flashed in her eyes. ‘Why are you trailing me?’

  The driver stammered. ‘Honestly, Imogen, there’s no need to overreact. I thought we should talk.’

  Imogen’s high-pitched laugh grated on Adam’s ears. Her hands were clenched, her body shaking with fury, as though a dam of self-control had finally burst inside, and she was on the attack. ‘Talk? What about? What do you want with me?’

  Adam raised a hand, his voice soothing, conciliating. ‘Let’s all take a step back and calm down.’

  With a visible effort, Imogen wrenched her gaze away from Toni.

  ‘You saw, Adam. She was chasing me.’

  ‘I agree, she was – but no harm done. Maybe she has an explanation?’

  ‘It had better be good.’

  Time to step in again before they came to blows. ‘Let’s get back to Lower Hembrow and talk this over.’ He spoke directly to Toni. ‘You have some explaining to do. I watched you follow Mrs Bishop. I presume you’re the Toni who invited her to that class reunion?’

  ‘And who do you think you are?’ Toni snarled.

  Imogen’s shout of laughter sounded close to hysteria. ‘Actually, he’s police. You picked the wrong time to chase me.’

  Toni’s face grew pale. Reality sinking in, perhaps.

  Adam would let the deception stand.

  They drove to the village, Adam leading the way, slowly. There had been enough Top Gear heroics for one day. They parked in The Plough’s car park and trooped in single file to Adam’s private entrance.

  Pans clattered in the kitchen. Adam closed the linking door. ‘Right, then. Let’s hear it all.’

  Toni had gathered her wits. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I saw you driving out of the police station and followed. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing.’

  ‘Like last time? A bit of a coincidence, isn’t it? You bump into me every time I visit the station.’

  Adam voiced a thought. ‘Someone tipping you off, are they? A friend in the station?’

  The flush deepened. ‘Well,’ Toni’s gaze ricocheted between Adam and Imogen. ‘You see – I know someone who works there, and he just happened to mention it.’

  ‘Then it’s a good job I’m retired, or your friend would be in serious trouble.’

  Toni gulped. ‘It’s my son, actually.’ Her eyes pleaded. ‘Please, don’t tell anyone. I know he shouldn’t have told me – he said no, at first, but I kept on at him until he agreed—’

  Imogen interrupted, acid in her voice, ‘And you’re his mother. He didn’t want to let you down.’

  Toni didn’t react to the sarcasm. ‘He’s worked hard to get where he is. He only did it to help me. I heard about Greg’s death, and I mentioned to Stephen – my son – that I’d been planning to invite you to the reunion, so he texted me when he saw you in the station – he’d seen your photo in the station as a…’ she stopped.

  ‘As a suspect in my husband’s murder? Thanks, Toni. So much for old friends. Why didn’t you just come to the hotel? It’s not difficult to find.’ She jerked a thumb in the vague direction of the hotel across the lane.

&
nbsp; ‘I didn’t know you’d come back – I mean, you and your father never got on, even at school.’

  The woman’s story made sense. Maybe she had just wanted to find Imogen and enjoyed speeding through the countryside.

  While Imogen digested Toni’s story, Adam seized his chance. ‘When did you last see Gregory Bishop?’ That made her jump!

  ‘What? Are you suggesting…?’

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything. It’s a simple question. You knew him, he was an old friend.’

  Toni folded her arms. ‘I haven’t seen him for years. I’ve been away – I only came back recently, to sort out a care home for my father.’

  ‘You’ve been in touch with the others.’ Imogen pointed out. ‘All our friends from school – Steph and Kate, and Daniel, too, not to mention Mrs Hall.

  Toni nodded. ‘We met up to plan the evening. The four of us and Mrs Hall. We thought it was time to… to lay the ghost, I suppose. It’s always haunted us.’

  ‘Me too,’ Imogen acknowledged. ‘None of us were covered in glory, that night.’

  Toni shrugged. ‘It was Julian’s own fault. He drank too much, fell over and hit his head.’

  Imogen exchanged a glance with Adam. Either Toni truly thought the death was an accident, or she was covering up the truth.

  They sent her on her way, and stood by the window in the bar, watching as the SUV negotiated the road from the village with exquisite care.

  ‘We’re no further forward, are we?’ Imogen commented. ‘We still don’t know why she was following me.’

  Time for a warning. ‘You need to take care. One of your old acquaintances is no real friend. We don’t know which, and if they’ve killed three times, they won’t hesitate to do it again.’

  ‘Toni, Steph, Kate and Daniel. All in the tunnel that day, and all back now. How do we narrow it down?’

  ‘We need the motive. Opportunity’s there for all of them and method: a bang on the head for Julian, debris on the road for your father, and poison for Greg.’

  Imogen’s frown lifted. ‘Isn’t poison a woman’s weapon?’