by Rachel Green
Meinwen poured her own and set the pot down again. “So who’s this girl your brother fell in love with? The one he mentioned in his last letter?”
“I don’t rightly know. I spent the night going through his things but there’s no mention of her in the house.”
“What about a laptop?”
“I don’t think he had one.”
“A desktop then. He must have had some sort of computer. Everyone does.”
“I don’t.”
Meinwen smiled over the rim of her cup. “You have a valid excuse not to.”
“I suppose.” Jimmy took a notebook from his pocket. “I did find this. It’s a record of his bank account, maybe. It’s a bit odd.” He handed it over.
She glanced through it. “Not a bank, I don’t think. The deposits are too irregular. A hundred pounds here and two there. There are entries for several hundred every week, followed by a drop to nothing. Every time he accumulates a thousand he takes it all out and starts all over again. How curious. There’s no money in the house, I suppose?” She flicked through the pages. “This has been going on for years.”
“He never mentioned anything about making extra money on the side. I haven’t found any money in the house. Not in those sort of amounts, anyway. I haven’t looked in the loft, mind, though I’m sure the police have checked every inch up there.”
“Is that where he...”
“Aye. From a roofing beam apparently.”
“I can understand your reticence then.” Meinwen put her cup back on the saucer. The scrape of china punctuated an awkward silence.
Jimmy reached across for the book again. “What do you reckon then? Betting? Money laundering?” He sighed. “John wasn’t the type to take risks with the law.”
“Not with such exact amounts. It was more like he was saving for something or salting it away. He was on the straight and narrow, I take it?”
“As far as I know, aye. Happy as Larry in his letters. All loved up, like I said.”
“But you’ve no idea with whom?”
“No. If I was in love I’d be shouting it from the rooftops. John? He was a bit more circumspect. Stayed on at school to do his A levels and went to university. Whoever his girlfriend was he was keeping quiet about her.”
“Perhaps she was married?”
“Aye. Maybe so. That would be a motive for murder, wouldn’t it? If the husband found out. It’s not like John was a gigolo.” He grinned and shook his head. “I did find some nice suits in the house, mind. Not your average Marks and Sparks affairs.”
“It certainly sounds like your brother wasn’t a man likely to commit suicide.” Meinwen reached across for his cup and saucer, carrying both across to the sink. She returned for the teapot and stood, staring down at the notebook. “Can I hang on to this for a while?”
“Sure.” Jimmy pushed back his chair and stood. “You’ll take the case then?”
Meinwen cupped her chin in her hand, tapping her lips with the index finger. “Let me have a nose about and see what I turn up. There’s certainly something unusual going on but whether there’s enough to persuade the police to reopen the case is another matter.”
Chapter 4
Meinwen stood at the doorway while Jimmy laced on his boots under the shelter of the portico. “I shall need to come round and look at the house for myself. What time would suit you best?”
Jimmy looked up, a lace between each fist. “Come round now if you like. I’ve nothing planned but a visit to the dole office.”
“I can’t right now. I’ve got to get my head down for a couple of hours. I’ve been up all night and can hardly think for foggy headedness.”
“Fair enough. This afternoon then? It’ll give me chance to have a bit of a tidy up.”
“Oh no. Don’t do that. I’ll have no idea what might be missing if you tidy everything away.” Meinwen drew her fingers across her eyes, rubbing the grit from the corners as she yawned. “Have a root about and see if you can find a clue to that money book. Then get in touch with your brother’s solicitor about his death. Do you know who he used?”
“No clue.”
“All right. There aren’t many in town so it won’t be too hard to track down. Ask the police for a release date for the body and a list of everything they removed from the house. I’d look into your brother’s insurance policies, too and make the funeral arrangements. That’s a good use of your time. Make it sooner rather than later and advertise it in the Laverstone Times. Let’s see who turns up to his funeral, shall we? It’ll give us a chance to look at the rats in their finery.”
“Aye I suppose it will at that. Do you think his lady friend will come?”
“I don’t see why not. I’d go to the funeral of a loved one who’d supposedly killed themselves.”
“You’re right. Is Oxley’s still in business?”
“I believe so. Chapelgate? Next to the butcher’s?”
“Aye. That’s the one. I’ll have a trot down there. See what the rates are.”
“As you wish. I’ll see you this afternoon. Do you have a mobile I can reach you on?”
“Surely.” Jimmy pulled out an old mobile. “Haven’t used this for a while. We’re not allowed them inside. It doesn’t work at the moment, mind. I’ve no charger for it.”
“I might have one.” Meinwen held out her hand and Jimmy gave her the phone. She went back into the house, leaving him to finish tying his laces. There was a box full of wires and rubbish in the cupboard under the stairs. She hauled it out past the vacuum cleaner and dropped it on the sideboard, shifting a couple of her landlady’s Royal Doulton figurines aside to make room. She rooted through old USB and modem cables, several plugs cut off the ends of defunct appliances, her first mobile phone from the nineties, which was roughly the size and weight of a house brick and a number of leads from assorted defunct mobiles. She pulled one out and checked the end fitted in the handset and plugged it in. It lit up straight away, allowing her to access the memory for its own number, which she wrote twice on two pieces of card.
“Here.” She handed the phone, the charger and one of the pieces of card to Jimmy, who was smoking a cigarette under the shelter of the portico. “I’ve written the number down for you as well, so you can give it the undertaker and the police.”
“Thanks.” John hefted the charger. “How much do I owe you?”
Meinwen shook her head. “Nothing. It was for a phone I don’t even have any more. Just useless clutter to me. You could get a new one for a few quid.” She gave him a smile. “I’m just glad it’s going to a good home. Waste not, want not.”
Jimmy laughed, his brown eyes reflecting the light and matching the exact shade on the tea cups she’d just stacked next to the sink. “Our mam used to say that.”
“Then she was a wise woman.” Meinwen stepped forward and held out her hand. “I shall see you this afternoon then, Mr. Fenstone.”
“Call me Jimmy.” He shook her hand. “All my friends do.”
“Then you can call me Meinwen.” His hands were rough, the inner edges of the fingers calloused and the mounts of Jupiter and Saturn-like miniature gobstoppers of hardened skin. Whatever they’d had him doing in prison had not been kind to him. “Is there anything you need before you go? Are you all right for money?”
“For a while yet, thanks. There was a few quid in the house and I’ve a post office account the police never got wind of.” He winked. “I just have to convince them I am who I am and I’ll have enough to tide me over until the dole comes through.”
“Would you like me to look out for work? You never know what you can come across.”
“That’d be kind of you, love, but I doubt there are many willing to give a job to an ex-con.”
“Nevertheless, I shall put the feelers out. I have a lot of contacts in town. I’m sure someone knows someone who wants someone.”
Jimmy looked out into the drizzle. “Easy for you to say.”
“Would you like an umbrella to borrow? Yo
u could give it back later, when I visit.”
He shook his head. “Thanks all the same, but umbrellas are for toffs and sissies. There’s never been a bit of rain that’s hurt me.”
“An admirable proclamation, albeit a damp one.” Meinwen took a step backward into the house. “Well then. I must get on.”
“Aye, as should I.” Jimmy turned his collar up and strode off toward the gate. He gave a final wave as he stepped through and then was gone. Meinwen closed the door thoughtfully. It would be interesting to investigate something again. She’d have to pull her collection of Agatha Christies out from under the bed to see if Monsieur Poirot could give her any tips.
She crossed to the house phone and called the police station. “May I speak to Detective-sergeant Peters, please?”
“May I ask who’s calling and what it’s in connection with?”
“This is Meinwen Jones. It’s about the suicide of John Fenstone.”
“That’s not a serious crime, madam. Can I put you through to the civil liaison officer?”
“I’d rather talk to Peters, if you don’t mind.” Meinwen took a deep breath and smiled. She could tell when someone was smiling on the other end of a telephone line. “I helped his wife give birth to their first child, you know.”
“Ah, I see. Just wait a moment then, while I see if he’s in.”
“Certainly.” Meinwen dropped the smile. She’d told a lie there. Only a little white one but still. The help she’d given Julie Peters had been more of the phone- for-an-ambulance variety rather than actually assist in the birth. She hadn’t even known it was the sergeant’s wife at that point either, just a poor woman’s water breaking in the pasta aisle at Sainsbury’s.
The line clicked and the woman returned. “Miss Jones?”
“Yes? Still here.”
“DS Peters isn’t in the office at present. May I take a message for him?”
“No, it’s fine, thanks. I’ll try his mobile.”
“I’m afraid we can’t give out an officer’s mobile number.”
“It’s all right. I have it.” Meinwen put the phone down, mentally kicking herself for not using his mobile number in the first place. She fetched her phone from the kitchen and found his name.
“DS Peters.”
“Sergeant? It’s Meinwen Jones, here.”
“Ah. I was expecting a call from you. I sent a lad round. James Fenstone?”
“About the death of his brother, yes. I wanted to ask you why it was ruled suicide.”
“I didn’t deal with the case myself, but I had a glance through the file this morning after he came in. As far as I’m aware it was an open-and-shut case. There was no sign of a break-in, nothing was missing and he’d taken a lot of trouble to give himself enough of a drop for a broken neck. No foul play assumed. The autopsy listed it as death by asphyxiation.”
“Not from a broken neck?”
“No, but that doesn’t mean the neck wasn’t broken as part of the death.”
“That’s unusual, surely? If he hung himself, his cause of death would be the broken neck? If the break occurred after death, you’ve got murder on your hands.”
“Look, don’t get excited, Meinwen. It wasn’t a murder. You’ve been watching too much television.”
“I don’t have a television. You should know that.”
“Reading too many books then. Laverstone has more than its fair share of murders, I’ll admit, but John Fenstone isn’t one of them.”
“All right.” Meinwen dropped her voice low. “What if I asked you very nicely, though? Could you find out if the neck was broken at the time of death or afterward?”
“Oh, don’t...” Peters laughed. “You’ll have me thrown off the force. I can’t ask for a second autopsy without a damned good reason. White would have my guts for garters for squandering police resources.”
Meinwen sighed. “Very well. Why did you send him to me if you’re so convinced his brother’s death was suicide?”
She heard the hiss as Peters drew his breath through his teeth. “There were a few things odd about the report.”
“Such as?”
“Well, his shoes for one. He was only wearing one shoe. Now before you interrupt, it’s common in a slow hanging, one where the neck doesn’t break and the victim dances on the end of the rope, for him to kick his shoes off. It’s even possible for a shoe to fall off at the end of a long drop but this bloke’s shoe wasn’t under the body. It was in the hall below. It’s possible he kicked it off down the stairs but not very likely.”
“I see.” Meinwen frowned. She had to stop herself from smiling. Jimmy was right. His brother was murdered, she was sure of it. “What else? You said there were a few things.”
“Yeah. No recent pictures in the house, either. There were a couple of obvious gaps, according to the SOCO report. Again, could be an innocent explanation.”
“No pictures? That’s strange. Jimmy said he had a girlfriend, too.”
“No evidence of a girlfriend. Bloke kept a candle for his mother, according to Josh the SOCO. Still had her things in the bedroom and she’s been dead years.”
“Some people never get over their mothers.” She thought back to her own mother. Despite all the shouting, the arguments and the beatings with a hazel withy, she still missed the old harridan.
“I suppose not. Was there anything else?”
She mentally reviewed the conversation she’d had with Jimmy “Not yet. I sent Mr. Fenstone back to the station, though. Death certificate and body release. Also, a list of what your lads had removed from the house.”
“Okay. I’ll make sure he gets it. I’ve got to pop back to the office, anyway. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about blood in the cemetery, would you?”
“No.” Meinwen’s mind raced, trying to make a connection between the death of John Fenstone and this new information but couldn’t think of any. “Has there been some foul play I should be aware of? Especially as I live in the vicinity.”
“I just wondered if you’d been conjuring devils or something.”
“I’m a pagan, Sergeant. What would I be doing in a Christian burial site?”
“Fair point. Must be kids, then. We used to get a lot of that when I first joined the force.”
“Well it’s nothing I know of, but I’ll keep my eye out. If I see anything I’ll let you know.” She tried to think of her recent customers at her pagan supplies shop but there had been no bulk purchases of black candles or myrrh.
“Appreciate it. ‘Bye then.”
The phone went dead, leaving Meinwen staring at the lump of red plastic. She put it down and yawned. She needed a shower and a kip before anything else.
She went upstairs. There were only two rooms up there. There would have been three but the owners had elected to extend the bathroom into the second bedroom for which Meinwen was very grateful. She rarely had visitors and on the odd occasions her brother came she put him up on the sofa in the study.
She turned on the shower and let it heat up while she stripped, dropping her clothes into the washing basket and judging there was enough of a load to wash. She hoped it was dry later. She hadn’t got a tumble dryer and had to rely on a washing line and radiators when it rained.
She stepped into the shower and let the hot water run over her like the caresses of a water nymph, turning in a slow circle to get every part of her wet. Pouring a generous amount of shampoo into her hands, she massaged it into her lengths of red hair until it was a single, soapy mass. While it soaked in she picked up the bar of honey-scented soap and began to wash her body, running it over her breasts, her stomach, her mound...
Her nipples hardened as she ran the soap over the deep cleft of her sex, imagining those strong, calloused hands holding her, brown eyes boring into hers, forcing her down, his lips hungering for her breasts, demanding she take his cock into her mouth and tease it to full size with her tongue until he pushed her over and forced himself into her dripping cunt.
M
einwen pressed the soap inside her, using her fingers and pelvic muscles to simulate a great, wet cock while the ball of her palm thumped and ground against her clitoris until she peaked, her spasm sending the molded soap clattering against the shower drain.
She leaned against the wall of the shower to catch her breath, shampoo dripping over her breasts.
Chapter 5
Meinwen was woken by the tiger-rumble of her stomach. Apart from the cup of tea with Mr. Fenstone, she’d had nothing to eat or drink since the cheese sandwich during her vigil for the Holly King. The momentary thought of Jimmy prompted a rush of heat to her loins but, tempted though she was to dally under the warm sheets, she bridled her desire and rose, pulling fresh clothes out of her chest of drawers and trotting downstairs with the washing basket.
In the kitchen she was faced with the mud all over the floor and the sodden blanket. She kicked it into the corner and put her clothes in to wash at the ecological thirty degrees. She made herself a cheese and mushroom omelet with the shaggy ink caps, a pot of fennel and raspberry tea and headed into the tiny conservatory with the morning’s Laverstone Times. The headline today was “Cat rescued from Heating Vent.” Sometimes she missed living in cities. When she first moved to Laverstone she’d seen a headline about a cyclist prosecuted for speeding. The strains of Radio Three filled the air with Mozart and Debussy in an effort to compensate for the pendulous nimbostratus currently soaking Laverstone. The inclement weather made her wonder if she could rain check the visit to John Fenstone’s house. She was worried her fantasies about him might affect how she dealt with him. After a minute’s thought she decided the pros of going outweighed the cons of girlish infatuation.
When she finished lunch, she carried her plate back into the kitchen and went into the study for her laptop. All that remained of the tower system she’d come to Laverstone with was the hard drive, now mounted in an external USB case. Harry Prosser, who lived by the bus station, did computer work. Not publicly, for there was no shop front and not even a brass plaque next to the door but he’d do small things for friends.