The Noble Murder (The Barrington Patch Book 5)

by Emmy Ellis

  Shirl drank some tea as though she wasn’t really that interested—Nan was likely to talk more that way. If she’d already started yapping about Francis, Shirl wouldn’t have to probe too much either. “Was she a nasty bitch then?”

  Nan nodded. “You have no idea. As a young woman, before she had Cassie, she was as bad, if not worse, than Lenny. When she was about twelve—coming up to a teen anyroad—she was such a little… Mardy, sullen, scowled all the time. I said to your grandad, God rest his soul, I said: ‘There’s a kid who needs the mood slapped out of her and no mistake.’ You could smack a kid back then, see, and no one was bothered. Her mam, Peggy, she didn’t know what to do with her. There was talk, you understand.”

  Shirl perked up but hid it. “Talk?”

  “Yes. About that Lionel fella being at their house.”

  Shirl had trouble remaining calm. “Lionel?”

  “Oh, you wouldn’t know him. Lionel Smart. It was all over the bloody papers.”

  Shirl frowned, well out of the loop. “What was?”

  “How someone had finally killed the kiddie fiddler. That’s what we called him, like.”

  This Lionel was a fiddler? But…

  Nan waffled on. “There were whispers going round that he was into little girls, if you catch my drift. Disgusting. And him an ice cream man, too. Had a van and everything. Peggy wasn’t aware to begin with, but Lionel used to babysit Francis of a Sunday morning. Peggy was at church, same as me, and her husband was supposed to be at the market. Well, here’s the thing. He did go, but he also diddled a woman on the side.”

  “Diddled? What, like he scammed her?”

  “No that kind of diddled, you daft baggage. He showed her his trouser snake.”

  “Oh…” Shirl blushed. She wasn’t naïve, but this wasn’t a subject she wanted to discuss with her nan. Sex. God.

  “Hmm. Peggy didn’t know about that, but she’d did know about Lionel being at her place, alone with the child, although she thinks it was only once. She turned up from church early. If I remember right, old Mr Formby went all funny when we were singing ‘Abide with Me’—remember I sang that to you as a nipper? Anyroad, he’s clutching his chest, and there’s us thinking he’s just enraptured by the Lord, as was his way, when all along the poor sod was suffering. The next week, Peggy mentioned to the vicar about Lionel being at hers. I was listening by the hedges.” Nan gave one of her smug smiles.

  She’s a sod. “Didn’t anyone tell her it was more times than that—Lionel being at the house, I mean?”

  Nan fluttered her eyelids. Guilt? “No.”

  What? “Why not?”

  “It wasn’t the sort of thing you spoke about at church, lass.”

  “So why not outside it, or at the shops or something? Or someone could have gone round her place.”

  “We would have—I say we because me and my friends were aware—but Peggy, she wasn’t the sort to approach like that. Don’t get me wrong, she was nice enough, but she had her nose stuck in the air a bit, and once we found out a while later that Lionel wasn’t going there anymore, we left it.”

  “How long was it going on before she found out?”

  “What, Lionel babysitting? About two years, give or take.”

  “Did he…did he mess with Francis?” Shirl felt sick.

  “Most likely.”

  “Nan! You could have stopped it.”

  “We had no proof, just hearsay. He was a tad handsy at his van, and someone saw him touching a kiddie at the park, but it could have been innocent.”

  “Touching how?” Shirl’s skin went cold.

  “Rubbing her leg when he put her on the swing.”

  It churned Shirl’s stomach, and she didn’t believe it could have been a slip of the hand. He was the sort to…to do stuff, and him being alone with Francis… Oh God. This is horrible. An image of her dream cornfield flashed through her mind, and she quickly switched her brain to something else. What was Lionel doing at the park with a load of children anyroad? Like you don’t know. “So who killed him, and when? How old was Francis at the time?”

  Nan stared at the roses, her eyes going glassy, as if she’d gone off in her head. “She was spoken to, you know, about the murder. It went all round the Barrington that they visited her house. Two coppers. She’d walked through the woods that day. He was found there by the great oak, stabbed in the back of the neck. Bled to death, the fat bastard.”

  “Nan! You can’t say that kind of thing anymore.”

  “Well, he was. All them pies and whatnot.” She blinked. “What did you ask me?”

  “How old she was. Francis.”

  “Thirteen or so, thereabouts. She said she didn’t see anyone on account of it being dark. We had a storm that afternoon. Handel Farm got flooded.”

  “Who found him?”

  “A dog walker.”

  “What else do you remember about her? Anyone she knew beginning with B?”

  Nan frowned. “She went quiet after the murder, then when she met Lenny, she came back out of herself. A bit too much, if you ask me. Gallivanting, threatening folks. The rest is history. I’ve got no idea about her friends or what they were called—then again, I don’t think she had many. People didn’t like her. Your mam might know more. She was at school the same time as Francis, although they were in different years. Get my phone up on that FaceTime wotsit and we’ll ask her.”

  Shirl set it up then sat on Nan’s chair arm. Nan held the phone up and squinted.

  Mam’s face filled the screen. “Everything okay?”

  “Shirl’s bought me some lovely flowers and those balls,” Nan said. “Mint. I told her about the strawberry ones.”

  “Right…” Mam raised her eyebrows.

  “We’ve been talking about that cow, Francis.” Nan pulled her sour face. “What do you remember about her around the time that pervert got killed? Lionel Smart, remember him? The ice cream man?”

  Mam shuddered. “I hated him. Always stroked your hand when passing the cones over. As for Francis, she was a moody bitch for years, then she was nice for a bit, before Lionel was stabbed. Well, as nice as you’re going to get with her. She went quiet, if you remember, then she met Lenny and got all gobby.”

  “That’s what I said.” Nan sucked her bottom lip. “Do you reckon that Lionel fiddled with her?”

  “I don’t bloody know!” Mam sighed. “It’s not like she’d have said, is it. What do you want to know that for?”

  “It was like old times, having a chinwag with our Shirl, that’s all. Will you be going to the funeral?”

  “Why would I?” Mam’s forehead crinkled. “I never liked her.”

  “It’s a day out.” Nan stroked her chin. “I’d like to attend. For Peggy.”

  “Who?” Mam asked.

  “Francis’ mother.”

  “Okay. Is there owt else? Because I’ve got arses to wipe here. I’ve come out to the staff loos to take this call. I thought something was wrong.”

  Mam worked in a nursery.

  “Go and wipe them then.” Nan prodded the phone to end the call. “She’s a silly beggar, that one, worrying.”

  “We all worry about you, Nan.”

  “You don’t have to. There’s still life in me yet.” Nan put the phone on her other chair arm. “’Ere, go down the road and speak to Mrs Cox. She’ll know a thing or two about Francis. Her big sister used to hang around with her and Lenny when they were about nineteen. Up The Donny and all sorts, they were, getting legless.”

  Shirl wasn’t sure she wanted to go full Miss Marple, not now she’d had such a shock about that Lionel fella, but would Cassie expect it of her? “I’ll just nip to the toilet.”

  Once she’d gone in and locked the door, she WhatsApped Cassie: Nan knows a few things, but she said her neighbour will know more. Mrs Cox with the seven kids. Shall I go and speak to her?

  Cassie: Okay, but tell her to keep her gob shut about it.

  Shirl: Will do.

  Cassie: Come r
ound Mam’s when you’ve finished. We’re busy, so I’ve left you a key under the flowerpot by my flat, near the garage door.

  Shirl: Okay.

  She flushed the loo, washed her hands for show, then went back to Nan. “I’ll be off then. To see Mrs Cox.”

  Nan grinned. “A girl after my own heart. I was a gossip queen in my day, but I handed the crown to whoever wanted it because—” She eyed the roses again.

  “Because what?”

  “Lenny told me off once.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I stepped over the line, Shirl. Just you make sure you don’t do the same with his daughter. I’m telling you, she’s madder than a box of frogs, that one.”

  “She’s nice to me, Nan. Good to Jimmy.”

  The old woman tutted. “Beware of the wolf in sheep’s clothing, that’s all I’m saying.”

  Shirl left Nan’s, uneasy. Confused. Unwanted memories swirling. Yes, she’d always been afraid of Cassie, but honestly, although the woman was an outright nutter, she had been kind to Shirl. The house on New Barrington alone was a lovely gesture. Okay, Shirl wasn’t stupid, she knew it was probably designed to reel them in, keep them on Cassie’s team, but not every boss handed you a posh pad, did they.

  She threw Nan’s warning out. It would be all right.

  So long as Shirl did as she was told.

  Chapter Eight

  Michelle stared at her ex-boss. What a state. He’d only been here for three days, and already he appeared unkempt, his hair greasy, his skin taking on a grey pallor. Bags under his eyes spoke of the sleepless nights, the pain from both of his ears being ripped off. His wrinkles were pronounced, and the ghastly paunch he usually sported, at odds with his skinny frame, had diminished a bit, less Space Hopper, more saggy balloon. That’d be the lack of posh meals in that new gastro pub in town, The Hare and Hound, the plates barely full and those silly streaks of sauce squirted across them in place of good old gravy. She’d bet he gobbled down smoked salmon and dauphinoise potatoes, a side of green beans that tasted of grass, and for pudding he’d have a biscuit the size of a ten pence piece, a blob of raspberry coulis on top that was really melted jam.

  Stupid twat.

  She suspected he’d never have imagined himself in this position. Who would? It wasn’t every day you were abducted, was it.

  Her anger regarding the termination of her employment had festered for weeks after she’d walked out of The Moorbury Times office that final afternoon. She’d carried it with her, a silent passenger that gnawed at her, egging her on to get revenge. Dreams had come, the vivid kind where she got proper justice, and she’d awoken one morning with the need to play a specific dream out: she’d kidnap him, slap him about a bit, and while he was incarcerated, his belly crying out for those grassy greens, she’d do some digging and find Marlene.

  With Cassie asking Michelle to work for her, she was closer to that goal than she would have been otherwise. All it would take was a couple of weeks to get on Cassie’s good side, and Michelle reckoned she’d have the address of the woman she sought in no time. Or maybe not. Michelle had kept her ear to the ground, and it seemed Cassie was a hard nut to crack. Still, Michelle had dealt with more difficult people than her in her time, wheedling information out of them before they’d even realised, so perhaps things would work out how she wanted.

  She stared at the object of her hatred, her pot of angst bubbling over, spewing into her blood, heating it to the point her skin itched. She resisted striking out with a foot and breaking his nose. What on earth did he think he was playing at? He’d shit himself and attempted to hide the stain on his trousers by closing his legs when she’d appeared at the newel post.

  “No point in doing that,” she snapped, bloody seething. “I can smell it, you filthy pig of a man. Do you expect me to clean you up?”

  He mumbled, looking so afraid of her she thought he might cry. That would be satisfying at any other time, but she wasn’t in the mood for hysterics. Her patience was slimmer than the After Eights she enjoyed at Christmas.

  “Fine by me.” She walked over to the hose she’d fed down from the kitchen and into a drain grate in the floor, water gushing. The grate had been installed by her father because of the flood that had occurred years ago after a massive storm. He hadn’t wanted to be caught out like that again, finding his wine cellar full of dirty water creeping a quarter of the way up the stairs.

  She picked up the attachment she’d bought from Amazon, a long metal pole with a shower head on the end. This saved her getting too close when she sluiced him. “This is called a shower lance, did you know that? Probably meant for washing cars.”

  She swung it so the side of the head hit him on the temple, a nice solid crack. He moaned, falling sideways to the floor, chains stretching, eyes scrunched, his glasses going flying, his stupid fingers flashing his hands into star shapes. God, she could just cut those off using her pruning clippers and mix them in with Fangs’ Pedigree Chum.

  “You’re such a wimp. Now sit up, you lazy git.” She prodded him with the other end of the lance, the belly flab beneath his shirt seeming to gobble it up.

  He struggled to rise at first but managed it in the end. Michelle placed the lance down and had the disgusting job of yanking his trousers and budgie-smuggler pants to his ankles (the latter an alarming shade of daffodil yellow, and every time Easter rolled around and the flowers sprouted on the verges, she’d always be reminded of this terrible, smelly moment). She shoved the lance onto the hose and blasted his meat and two veg, going up close so the pressure hurt, each spear of water pushing his skin and distorting his bollocks until they rose, trying to climb into his body away from the cold. He cried out, the pitiful wretch, and she smiled at the thought of the freezing water creating more discomfort, then positioned the head so it got to the place it was needed most.

  A bidet of the torturous kind.

  “This really is nasty.” Michelle angled the water to shoo the mess down the drain, then, as an added layer of spite, she soaked his face.

  He gasped for air, the cloth in his mouth drenched, water going up his nose.

  “Waterboarding, that’s what this is like,” she said. “Remember that story I wrote about the man who’d been held captive abroad? He got out from government intervention, came back home to Moorbury, and said out of everything he’d been through, the water torture was the worst.” She grimaced. “Of course you remember the story, because you fucking stole it from me.” She sprayed his eyeballs. “You thieving bloody bastard!”

  It sounded as if he mumbled ‘please’ behind the cloth.

  Michelle took the lance off, throwing it behind her. Reached for a scouring pad from a bucket she’d brought down. Held the water to the area where Fangs had bitten the ear off last night, then scrubbed the remaining wound so all the crusted blood came away. He screamed, the noisy so-and-so. The wash set it off bleeding afresh, diluted claret rivers crawling down his neck, but what did she care? The more he hurt, the better she felt.

  She’d enjoy watching Marlene kill him. If she didn’t get to meet her in time, you know, if he starved to death, she’d have to dispose of him herself. Unfortunate, that. She’d have to figure out how to haul him upstairs, where to dump him. The dream she’d had hadn’t shown her that bit. Perhaps water would be enough to keep him alive. She’d have to Google it.

  Hose back down the drain, she ordered him to lift one leg at a time so she could remove the trousers and pants. She shoved them in a carrier bag and tied it using the handles.

  From the bucket, she produced a bath sponge and snatched the cloth from his mouth, dropping it to the floor. “Now then, do you admit you made a mistake in ‘letting me go’?”

  His mouth flapped with his desire to speak, but he remained silent save for the clacking of his tongue.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” She smiled. “Are you hungry?” She thought about what she’d crave if she hadn’t eaten for days. “Would you like a full English? Bacon, sausa
ges, fried eggs…”

  He managed a nod, his eyes wide with hope.

  “Well, that’s tough, because you’re not fucking getting it.”

  The power that went through Michelle was like nowt else, a filling of the veins, her bones strengthening so she stood rigid, her skin tingling. This must have been what he felt like when he’d denied her requests to cover certain stories, when he’d lapped up all the praise for the pieces she’d written. And he’d won an award off the back of her words. What a dreadful man.

  “I’m not feeding you at all, and the only reason you get a bit of water is so I can keep you alive long enough to visit Marlene.”

  His eyes went even wider. “N-no. Noooo.”

  “Yes,” she hissed. “Yes. Once I’ve found out where she lives, I’ll be putting in a request. I’ll have a regular weekly wage now, so I can pay her a chunk of that hush money you fobbed me off with. I wonder if she lets you choose the manner of death. What do you fancy? A stabbing? A bullet to the head? Decapitation? Asphyxiation?”

  He wailed, so she stuffed the sponge in his mouth, pushing it to the back of his throat, smiling at the thought of it soaking up all the moisture from the water. His lips stretched so much the edges turned white.

  “Oh, behave. Anyone would think you’re chained up to a wall.”

  She laughed, scooped up the bucket in one hand and the carrier bag in the other, and left him to sink back to the floor. She’d bet it would be cold on his bare arse. Would he try to lean over and suck the water off the concrete? That set her off roaring, and by the time she got to the top of the stairs, tears streamed down her face and her ribs hurt.

  Who knew kidnapping someone could be such fun?

  She closed and locked the door, the hose fitting beneath the gap at the bottom, then stashed the bucket under the sink and turned the tap off. The bag she placed in the hallway to be disposed of later. The River Idle would carry the clothing away.

  She glanced into the living room. Fangs stared at her from his bed beside the sofa, his stubby tail wagging, his teeth on show. Aww, he was smiling.