Murder My Neighbour

by Veronica Heley

  Further Titles by Veronica Heley from Severn House

  The Ellie Quicke Mysteries

  MURDER AT THE ALTAR

  MURDER BY SUICIDE

  MURDER OF INNOCENCE

  MURDER BY ACCIDENT

  MURDER IN THE GARDEN

  MURDER BY COMMITTEE

  MURDER BY BICYCLE

  MURDER OF IDENTITY

  MURDER IN HOUSE

  MURDER BY MISTAKE

  The Bea Abbot Agency mystery series

  FALSE CHARITY

  FALSE PICTURE

  FALSE STEP

  FALSE PRETENCES

  FALSE MONEY

  MURDER MY NEIGHBOUR

  An Ellie Quicke Mystery

  Veronica Heley

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First world edition published 2011

  in Great Britain and in the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  Copyright © 2011 by Veronica Heley.

  All rights reserved.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Heley, Veronica.

  Murder my neighbour. – (The Ellie Quicke mysteries)

  1. Quicke, Ellie (Fictitious character)–Fiction.

  2. Widows–Great Britain–Fiction. 3. Missing persons–

  Investigation–Fiction. 4. Detective and mystery stories.

  I. Title II. Series

  823.9'14-dc22

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-080-7 (ePub)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8050-5 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-360-1 (trade paper)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  ONE

  It came naturally to Ellie Quicke to look after her family and friends, and she’d always thought, in her modest way, that she was rather good at it. But there were no easy answers to the problems of those around her, and one of these was about to get out of hand.

  Monday morning

  One shock followed another. Rose screamed and fell off the ladder.

  Prompt on cue, the front doorbell rang.

  First things first; Ellie rushed out into the garden only to find her dear friend and housekeeper lying on her back in a flower bed.

  ‘Rose, what happened? Let me help you.’

  Rose tried to get up and failed. ‘Aargh! Just . . . minute.’

  The doorbell rang again.

  Ellie knew there was no one else around to answer the door, but Rose must be her first priority. ‘Don’t move.’

  ‘I’m all right. Nothing broken.’ Rose levered herself to a sitting position. ‘Just . . . a minute.’

  The doorbell rang again.

  True, Rose didn’t seem to have broken anything, but she was bleeding from some deep scratches, nursing one wrist and trembling. She held out her good hand for Ellie to help her to her feet.

  ‘What on earth were you doing up the ladder? The gardener comes tomorrow.’ It’s natural to scold when you’ve been frightened.

  ‘Tying back that rambling rose. Then I saw . . . and it gave me such a fright that I . . .’ Rose gestured to where a neighbour’s house could be glimpsed in the distance over the garden wall. ‘A face . . . floating in mid-air at the top window. Oh dear, I’ve wrecked some plants. I don’t believe in ghosts, do you?’

  No, Ellie didn’t believe in ghosts, either. Of course she didn’t. She helped Rose to the garden bench, and the doorbell rang again, this time with a longer, insistent peal.

  ‘You see to the door. I’ll be all right in a minute,’ said Rose, who hated to make a fuss and would have said she was all right even if she’d broken her wrist – as looked likely.

  Ellie dithered. If only her husband hadn’t gone out early! But he had, and Ellie must decide what to do.

  ‘Go on,’ said Rose. ‘Answer it.’

  Ellie dashed back through the conservatory and into the hall to open the front door.

  A strange young man pushed past her into the house. ‘Took your time, didn’t you? Mrs Quicke, please.’

  Ellie put a hand to her throat to calm her breathing. ‘I’m afraid this is a bad moment. Can you come back later?’ Was that Rose crying out for help? From where she stood, Ellie could see the bench where she’d left Rose, but there was no little brown woman sitting on it. Did that mean Rose had got herself up off the seat and moved – where?

  The newcomer danced around on his toes, eyes into everything. Hard eyes. A brutally short haircut, a single earring, piercings through lip and eyebrow which looked most uncomfortable. He was casually but expensively dressed.

  ‘Done all right for herself now, eh? Change of fortune?’

  Ellie blinked. ‘Who are you and what do you want?’

  ‘The name’s Pryce. To see Mrs Quicke.’

  ‘I’m Mrs Quicke, but I’m rather tied up at the moment. If you could call back later—’

  Colour surged into his face. ‘Don’t waste my time!’

  Ellie took half a step back. ‘I’m not . . . Look; our housekeeper fell off a ladder just before you came and I’m afraid she may have broken something. I need to get her to the doctor’s.’

  He controlled himself with an effort. ‘All right. Check her out if you must. I suppose I can wait a few minutes.’

  Ellie looked back through the conservatory, but the garden was empty of all but sunshine and flowers – and their marauding cat Midge, stalking a butterfly. ‘Rose, dear. Where are you?’

  A faint voice came from inside the house. ‘In the kitchen, Ellie.’

  Ellie opened the door to the kitchen quarters. ‘Rose, you shouldn’t be—’

  Down the corridor came Rose’s voice, wobbling a bit, but not as faint as it had been when first she fell. ‘I’m all right, having a little sit down. I’ll make myself a cuppa in a minute.’

  Ellie hovered. If Rose had got herself indoors and was convinced there was nothing broken, then she must be all right. Or almost all right. Perhaps she could be left to rest for a moment while Ellie got rid of the intruder . . . who had opened the door to the dining room and was looking in. How dare he!

  Prioritize, Ellie. Get rid of the stranger. ‘I can only give you a few minutes, Mr . . . er. I need to look after my friend. You wanted to speak to Mrs Quicke, and I’m Mrs Quicke. So how can I help you?’

  ‘Don’t give me that.’ A sly twist to his lips. ‘I know what Mrs Quicke looks like. My great-aunt told me. You’re nothing like her.’

  Ellie switched her eyes to the phone, because the man was clearly insane. She must call for help. Only, he was between her and the telephone, he was a lot bigger than her, and he projected an air of – well, almost of menace.

  ‘I think you’d better go.’ Oh dear, could he hear her voice tremble?

  He barked out a laugh and moved along the hall to throw open the door to the sitting room. ‘There’s no point trying to hide her from me.’

  If only Thomas hadn’t h
ad to go out today! If only it had been one of the days that the cleaning team came! Or their gardener. If only their sort-of adopted daughter hadn’t gone out to meet a friend! Neither Ellie’s part-time secretary nor any of her business colleagues were due to come in today.

  Whatever was she to do? Had this horrible young man come to rob her? Incredibly, he walked into the sitting room and looked around him. Ellie had been about to tidy up in there when her difficult daughter Diana had arrived earlier that morning with news of her latest disaster . . . don’t think about Diana now . . . and no sooner had Diana swept out than Rose had fallen off the ladder.

  The young man said, ‘All this must have cost a penny or two.’

  Well, yes. Antique furniture, well polished. The summer breeze shifted the curtains at the French windows, stirring the petals of some peonies which had been placed in a cut-glass vase on an occasional table. There was a tasteful display of silver in the display cabinet, a square of Turkey carpet on polished floorboards, and gilt-framed paintings on the walls. The only modern notes were struck by Thomas’s huge slimline television, stereo and La-Z-Boy chair.

  The young man sat in Thomas’s chair, swinging it around. ‘I don’t mind waiting but let me make myself clear: I’m not going till I’ve spoken to Mrs Quicke.’

  Ellie told herself she wasn’t prejudiced by young men who pierced their eyebrows and ears – though she wondered how he could manage to eat with a ring through his lower lip – but she did deplore his lack of manners. And it was quite unnecessary to be frightened. Wasn’t it?

  ‘As I said, I’m Mrs Quicke.’

  He leant back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other. ‘Oh, please! My great-aunt said she used to meet Mrs Quicke regularly, that she often picked her up from this house and gave her a lift to board meetings. She described her to me, so there really is no point your pretending to be her.’

  ‘Ah.’ Light dawned. ‘You are referring to my aunt, Miss Quicke. She was indeed active in the world of finance. I’m sorry to say she died some months ago.’

  That wiped the smile from his face. He sat upright, annoyed. ‘But you are—’

  ‘Her nephew’s wife. Frank died some years ago and his aunt left me this house. I have remarried but I keep the Quicke family name.’ She glanced at the clock – was that really the time? Was Rose coping all right? Even if she hadn’t broken anything, it would be wise to get her checked out at the doctor’s.

  ‘But you know my great-aunt? Flavia Pryce with a “y”. She lives over there.’ He went to the French windows and pointed towards the multi-gabled mansion which could be glimpsed over Ellie’s garden wall.

  Ellie followed him. Yes, there was the attic window in which Rose swore she’d seen a face – which is why she’d fallen off the ladder. Although why she was on the ladder in the first place when they had a perfectly good gardener . . .

  Ellie didn’t believe in ghosts. Certainly not. Pure superstition. Whatever it was that had upset Rose, it had not been a ghost.

  ‘I never knew the people in that house,’ said Ellie, ‘because it faces on to the next road. So far as I know, it’s been empty for some time. I heard that the old lady who lived there—’

  ‘My great-aunt, Flavia Pryce.’

  ‘Left some time ago. I suppose I might well have seen her around but I can’t put a face to her name. I only know she’s gone because one of my cleaners used to work for her and told us about her cats being collected. At least, I think it was that house she was talking about, though I wasn’t listening properly because I didn’t know the lady. So I really must ask you to go.’

  Why wouldn’t this impertinent young man go away? Oh, if only Thomas hadn’t had to go up to town today.

  He couldn’t seem to stand still for a minute. ‘I suppose I shall have to ring the police.’

  That caught her attention. ‘Mm? Why?’

  ‘I used to drop in to see her every now and then. All right, I missed a couple of months what with this and that, but when I last saw her she told me she was going to try out a retirement home. Naturally my dear Aunt Edwina was furious, because it was going to be expensive . . . Not that that matters, of course. It was Flavia’s money to do what she liked with, wasn’t it?’

  He didn’t sound impartial. Ellie wondered whether he’d visited Flavia because he’d liked her, or because he hoped for something from her will. ‘Retirement homes can be costly, yes; but as you say, it was her money.’

  ‘She told me she was putting the house on the market. She said that when it was sold she’d let me have a little something to be going on with; I’m setting up in business with a friend—’

  Ellie immediately found herself wondering if the ‘friend’ might be gay. She couldn’t understand why that idea had popped into her head, and it wasn’t at all like her to think such thoughts, but popped it had.

  ‘And she gave me the address of the place she was moving to. So yesterday I went down to see her. It’s not far away, very luxurious, all artificial flowers in the foyer and cleaners from Poland. They deny all knowledge of her.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I made a fuss. Finally they trundled out the Paki who runs the place, and he said they had no one there by that name.’

  Ellie was taken aback by his use of the word Paki. The sooner she got rid of this man, the better. ‘So she didn’t like it there and tried another one?’

  ‘That’s what I thought. But which one? I asked dear Edwina. She doesn’t know. Bitter, she is, about it. Says she offered to have great-aunt live with her – which made me die laughing, to think of our grand lady Flavia slumming it with that sourpuss.’

  ‘Well, someone must know.’

  ‘That’s it; but who? I went round to the house, and she’s very much not there. I don’t have a key but I’ve looked through all the windows downstairs at the front and the rooms are empty.’

  Rose said she had seen someone – or something – at an upstairs window, which had caused her to fall off the ladder. Was that Flavia? But . . . why on earth should she be up in an attic? No, ridiculous.

  ‘The house has been stripped of its furniture, the grounds are going to pot. So where is she?’

  Ellie tried to think straight. ‘At the home, of course. Only, for some reason, she told the people there that she didn’t wish to see you.’

  He kicked a low stool. ‘If it had been Edwina, yes. Or anyone else from my ghastly family. But she doesn’t mind me. I take her her favourite Liquorice Allsorts. She loves them. I’ve got the box in my car now.’

  Ellie regarded him with disfavour. If she’d been his great-aunt, she wouldn’t particularly have wished to see him either. He smelled rotten. Not dirty, but too much aftershave can be off-putting. And he was back to dancing around on his toes. Jittering. She seemed to remember her mother talking about ‘jitterbugs’. Was that a kind of jive? Or had he – she tried not to smile at the thought – got ‘ants in his pants’?

  She said, ‘Your aunt must be at the home. If for some reason she’s moved on from there, they’ll have a current address for her.’

  ‘They said not.’ He took out a pack of cigarettes and a disposable lighter.

  ‘Please don’t smoke in here.’

  ‘Oh, keep your hair on.’ He walked out through the French windows into the garden and lit up.

  She followed him, seeing the garden ladder lying on the herbaceous border under the rambler which Rose had been trying to deal with. Catty-cornered to her garden were the spacious grounds of Flavia Pryce’s multi-gabled house.

  Her visitor was looking up at the big house, too. ‘Great-aunt said Mrs Quicke hadn’t a penny, was always asking her for lifts, but I see you’ve had this place done up nicely. Come into some money, have you?’

  ‘Sort of.’ It was too complicated to explain that Miss Quicke had been a miser who’d tried to make everyone believe she was a pauper, while sitting on a million or so of the readies and a lot of expensive rental property. It was only in the last
couple of years of her life that Miss Quicke had had the house done up – and now it was Ellie’s to maintain and enjoy.

  He ground his half-smoked cigarettes into the lawn. ‘The thing is that I’m in a bit of a fix. Flavia promised me some money, was going to let me have what she’d intended to leave me in her will. You see? And now, my sister’s in a spot of bother, needs to leave her husband, but there’s the kid and he’s threatened her with everything if she leaves him. I said for her to go to the police, but she tried that once and they brushed her off, said she should go to some counselling service, you know? And then he beat her up . . .’

  Ellie felt her eyes grow round. She was usually a sucker for a sob story. Even her loving husband thought she was sometimes a trifle naive, taking everything people said at face value. But two sob stories were one too many, even for her. Besides which, this rigmarole sounded off-key. It was too pat, too easy. Too practised? Had he learned a case history off by heart, to trot out whenever he needed the sympathy vote?

  He was still talking. ‘So I said I’d rent a flat where we could all live together for a while, and I could look out for her.’

  Except that he didn’t look the selfless, caring type. He looked the type who’d kick a cat or a dog who got in his way, or laugh if an old woman fell off a ladder.

  ‘But I must admit I can’t at the moment lay my hands on enough money to make a down payment. I wouldn’t ask if I weren’t desperate . . .’

  He was certainly desperate about something. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead. The thought that he might be high on drugs came into her mind, which terrified her not a little. Everyone knew people on drugs were beyond reason.

  She forced the words out. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you. Now, would you please go?’

  ‘Oh, but you can. You have so much –’ and here he swept his arm around to encompass the large garden and well-maintained house – ‘and I have so little . . .’

  ‘What, no job?’

  He reddened. ‘Well, of course. I’m deputy manager of the bedding department at a big department store, but I have outgoings, you know, the flat, the car. And the credit cards have been maxed out for months. I need a spot of help here.’