by Agatha Frost
“Again?” John boomed. “Blimey, kiddo! You have a nose for bodies, don’t you? I’m not surprised you were in your previous line of work for so long.”
“Who was it?” Sandra asked, her hand drifting up to her mouth. “You poor thing.”
“Catherine Ford,” Liz explained. “The new gallery manager. She was killed in the same way as Katelyn Monroe.”
“A serial killer?” John exclaimed with a shake of his head. “What has this town come to? The world has gone mad, I tell you. First Brexit, and now this! We can’t get a break on our fair isles, can we?”
“Most people consider three murders to be the threshold to become a serial killer,” Liz said before even realising it. “But that’s not what’s important.”
“Should we still go to bingo, John?” Sandra whispered as she hooked her arm around her husband’s. “A woman has died.”
“We didn’t really know the poor lassie, did we, Sandra?” John said as he patted her arm. “Besides, it’s big money tonight, and you’ve got your glad rags on.”
“It has been a while since we went out,” Sandra said with a distant nod. “Ellie’s already in bed. Poor thing was exhausted after today’s calving. They’re coming out like bullets at the moment!”
With that, Sandra and John bundled into their old and rickety Land Rover. They waved as they reversed out of the farm before turning and heading into the town.
“Are you okay?” Simon asked before they walked inside. “This can’t be easy for you.”
“I’ve seen more bodies than you’ve had hot dinners,” Liz assured him with a smile, even if the image of Catherine’s painted face had yet to leave the forefront of her mind. “What I want right now is a hot bath and a glass of wine.”
“Go and sit in front of the fire,” Simon said as he took her coat off once they were in the toasty kitchen. “I’ve got it covered.”
Simon kissed her on the cheek before heading into the back of the farmhouse. As the sound of running water drifted down from the bathroom, Liz pushed open Ellie’s bedroom door. Washed in the pink glow of her nightlight, she was fast asleep in her bed, her covers down by her feet. Liz crept in and tucked her back in. Ellie rolled over, her mouth opening, but she remained asleep.
“Keep your innocence as long as you can, kid,” Liz whispered as she brushed Ellie’s hair out of her face. “Being an adult is tough.”
Leaving the little girl to sleep, Liz settled in the armchair by the roaring fire in the cosy sitting room. She rested her head against the back of the chair and stared into the flames, her mind racing. How had she not seen another murder coming?
“Your bath is almost ready,” Simon said, appearing from the shadows with a glass of white wine in his hands. “There’s more where this came from.”
“Thank you,” she said as she accepted the glass. “What’s going on, Simon? I can’t seem to get my head around it all.”
“If you can’t, none of us stand a chance,” he replied, perching on the chair arm. “Try and take your mind off it and come back to it fresh tomorrow morning. There’s always a new day.”
“Unless you’re Catherine,” Liz said after sipping her wine. “Or Katelyn. Perhaps it’s my lot in life to be surrounded by death.”
Lewis flashed through her mind for a moment; for the sake of not overloading her brain, she did not linger on the thought.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said as he looked down at her with his dimpled smile, his youthful face glowing in the reflection of the flames. “Go and have a bath. I’ve even put some of Ellie’s bubble bath in there for you.”
“Bubble bath?” Liz asked with an arched brow. “I can’t say I’ve had that since I was about Ellie’s age.”
“You’re never too old for bubbles,” he replied with a wink. “Now go. That’s an order, Liz Jones.”
Leaving the warmth of the fire behind, Liz took herself and her wine into the bathroom. Like the rest of the farmhouse, it was without fuss or ceremony, its mismatched furniture purely functional. The freestanding white bathtub with gold feet, which was brimming to the top with bubbles, had been pushed up against the far wall. The toilet was olive green, the sink was pale pink, and the cream and brown tiles looked to be from the 1970s. Overgrown green plants filled the empty spaces in the huge room, reminding Liz of a garden centre.
She removed the funeral clothes before pulling out the pins that were holding up her hair. When she felt her bushy hair fall around her shoulders, she felt a little more like herself. She dipped a toe into the soapy water, the heat sending a pleasant shiver up her leg. Holding onto the gold handles, she lowered herself into the middle of the bubbles. After dunking her hair in the water, she sat upright in the water, her knees tucked close to her body, the fluffy bubbles acting like a blanket.
Her mind wandered to Catherine, and then to the art group. They had all been there, and they all had the opportunity to commit the crime. Debbie, Lance, Trevor, and Nancy had all been hanging around the office in the run-up to the second murder.
A soft knock on the door brought her from her thoughts.
“Is pasta okay for dinner?” Simon called through the door. “We don't have a lot in, but I can make a mean tomato sauce.”
“That's fine,” Liz said, running her wet hands down her face. “Come in for a minute.”
Simon opened the door, popping his head around the edge. His eyes averted from her seated position in the bathtub, not that anything was on display thanks to the bubbles.
“I need a sounding board,” Liz said, hugging her knees tighter to her body as she smiled at Simon. “I have so many thoughts racing around in my head, and I know they won't go until I say them aloud.”
“And talking to yourself is out of the question,” Simon said as he crept into the bathroom after closing the door behind him. “That would be weird.”
Simon sat on the bath mat. He rested his arm on the edge of the tub, his eyes locked on hers. Instead of asking questions, he waited for Liz to speak.
“I know it was the art club,” Liz started, her eyes glazing over. “They were all there, and they all had the opportunity and the motive.”
“Who is your prime suspect?”
“Catherine was,” Liz said with a harsh laugh. “I thought she had killed Katelyn to claim her job for her own. Unless she painted her own face and stuck a letter opener in her own neck, she's out of the question.”
“And the rest?”
“Well, there's Lance,” Liz continued, breathing in the steam from the hot water rising around her. “He has unresolved issues when it comes to Katelyn. His love for her warped when she ended things. Turning to alcohol was a coping mechanism, and he's slipped right back into that. What if he's not drinking because Katelyn was murdered but because he murdered her?”
“And Catherine?”
“I haven't figured that out,” Liz said, her brows knitting together. “But he was leaning against the door right before I found her. He was there, and you saw how drunk he was. What if he didn't realise what he was doing? What if there's seriously something wrong with his mental health? A split personality, or psychosis. He might not even realise he has it.”
“I know him,” Simon said with a shake of his head. “As you said, it's a coping mechanism for pain. He's just Lance. He's a good guy under it all.”
“He threw a bottle at the door seconds after I walked out of it,” Liz said. “I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to say anything to him because quite frankly, I don't think he remembers doing it, which means I couldn't ask if he'd meant to hit me, or if he knew I'd already closed the door. Either way, it's hardly the actions of a rationally-thinking sane person, is it?”
“Well, no,” Simon agreed with a shrug. “But if you take out the split personality or psychosis theory, he has no motive to kill Catherine. Katelyn, yes, but Catherine? They don't even know each other as far as I know.”
“Exactly,” Liz said. “As far as we know. There's a lot that goes on that w
e don't know about. A motive for murder could be right under our noses, and we could be missing it.”
Simon thought about Liz's comment for a moment as his fingers danced across the surface of the bubbles.
“Who else?” Simon urged. “Lance isn't your only suspect.”
“There's Debbie too,” Liz said. “She's had a vendetta against Katelyn since her college years, but that doesn't explain why she would choose to kill her now of all times. And she wasn't Catherine's biggest fan, but again, why kill her then?”
“There could be more to the story there too.”
“I know,” Liz said. “But I can only use the facts in front of me. She's as much a suspect as Lance because she was there both times, but by that logic, you and I are suspects too.”
“How exciting,” Simon whispered with a wink. “I could be a wanted man and I wouldn't even know it.”
Liz chuckled as he brushed her wet hair back. She slipped into the bubbles, lying back in the hot water.
“Let's not forget Trevor,” Liz continued after the water had warmed her chilly shoulders. “Katelyn sold him those paintings, which is motive enough. I overheard Trevor threatening Catherine in the office not long before the murder. He was demanding the money back, but she claimed it wasn't a gallery matter. I believed her, but I also believed his threat too. If I've learned anything about Trevor, he's not a man to mince his words.”
“Well, there you go!” Simon said. “If he threatened her, he did it. Why didn't you tell that to the police in your statement?”
“Because I have no proof,” Liz said. “I didn't record his threat, and they would only have my word for it. Trevor isn't going to admit the conversation, which will cast doubt on my accounts of everything else. They'll start to question other things I've said, and then they’ll wonder if I’m to be trusted. I know how this game works. If they can't prove it, they won't use it, and then I could end up being the prime suspect for knowing too much.”
Liz paused, wondering if she should share the next piece with Simon. Not because she did not think he would believe her, but because he would not want to admit how incriminating it looked.
“I saw Nancy in there too,” Liz said. “Right after Trevor was in there. She was digging through the paperwork. She said she was looking for a record of her dismissal. I told her to leave the office, but then the dogs tripped you up, and I came running. I left her in there, and I don't know when she left.”
Simon thought about the information for a moment, his jaw gritting.
“That doesn't look good,” Simon admitted. “Do you think she -”
“Killed Katelyn and Catherine?” Liz jumped in so that Simon did not have to say it. “She's our friend. You've known her for years, and I've known her for six months. I love her, but I can't ignore the facts. She has as much motive as the others. What if Catherine came in and disturbed her rummaging? What if Nancy did find the letter she was searching for? What if Catherine took the letter from her and read it, so Nancy repaid her by sticking a letter opener in her neck?”
Simon gulped hard, his eyes dropping to the floor. Liz took a moment to take a sip of her neglected wine. Her hopes that vocalising her thoughts would settle them had been in vain; they were racing louder than ever.
“Have you started cooking?” Liz asked, her nose wrinkling. “I can smell smoke.”
“Not yet,” Simon said as he stood up. “I can too.”
Simon stood up with the support of the bathtub, leaving Liz behind in it. When she was alone, she pulled the plug, climbed out, and quickly towelled off. She climbed into her fluffy black dressing gown, which Simon had hung on the back of the door for her.
Knotting the tie around her waist, she checked in on Ellie, who was still sleeping soundly. Simon met her in the hallway, his brows low over his eyes.
“I checked the fireplace,” he said. “Nothing wrong there. Sometimes the logs spit out onto the hearthrug, and a piece of fluff catches fire, but nothing.”
They both walked into the kitchen together, where Paddy was sound asleep in his dog bed. Liz pushed her feet into Simon's wellington boots, which were two sizes too big for her. As they both headed to the front door, they heard the sound of tyres crunching on the gravel outside.
“Parents must be back early,” Simon said as he glanced at the clock. “The smell is even stronger in here.”
When they heard a deep cry escape Sandra's throat, they headed outside. It only took seconds for their eyes to dart down the lane to the bright orange flames.
“That's Lance's cottage!” John cried pointing to the flames as thick, dark smoke filled the night sky. “Do you know if he's home?”
Liz and Simon looked at each other, both of their mouths seeming to dry out at the same time.
“Mum, Liz, stay here with Ellie,” Simon ordered. “Dad, come with me.”
“I'm not staying anywhere!” Liz said adamantly, stepping off the doorstep in the too big boots.
There was no time to argue, so they left Sandra on the doorstep as she called for the fire brigade and an ambulance. Simon and John sprinted down the lane, but Liz stayed close behind, clutching the front of her dressing gown. Somewhere along the way, the baggy boots sank into a muddy puddle and did not come back, leaving her to run barefoot down the lane.
“Crikey!” John cried, covering his face when they reached the blazing cottage. “Are you sure he's in there?”
“We put him in there,” Simon cried as he shrugged off his suit jacket. “Dad, give me your shirt.”
Without questioning his son, John shrugged off his tweed jacket before ripping open his shirt. He passed it to Simon, who wrapped it around his nose and mouth without a moment's hesitation.
“Simon!” Liz cried, grabbing his arm. “Don't be stupid! The fire brigade’s on their way.”
“The nearest station is ten miles away,” he said through the cloth around his mouth. “This is my fault. It was my idea to put him in there like that.” Simon paused before kissing Liz firmly on the forehead. “I love you.”
Liz knew she was screaming as Simon ran towards the blazing building, but she could not hear herself. She felt John's hands tighten around her arms, but it did not stop her thrashing against him. Somewhere in the distance, sirens blared out, but they were still miles away.
“Where is he?” Liz cried, looking back at John. “What has he done?”
The front window shattered, sending shards of glass flying towards them. They covered their faces, but the heat was indescribable; Liz's kitchen fire paled in comparison to the blaze in front of her.
“C'mon, Simon,” John roared through gritted teeth. “Don't do this to us.”
Liz knew the statistics surrounding fire, not that she could bring any of them to mind. All she could feel were the sands of time slipping away, every crucial second mattering.
When she was sure she could not take another second of the torture, a dark shadow emerged through the smoke. When Liz saw Simon dragging Lance along the floor, she let out a cry she had only heard leave her mouth once before.
Seconds later, the frame surrounding the door collapsed inwards. It sent up a cloud of dust and ash as the flames licked at every inch of the ancient cottage. Simon dragged Lance far enough away from the building for safety before he collapsed onto the ground, his face blackened from the smoke. Liz dropped to his side, her arms wrapping around him as he coughed until he could not cough anymore.
“The ambulance is here,” John cried, the relief loud in his voice. “And I can see the fire engine too!”
Liz stared down at Lance, his head resting on Simon's knees. He looked as out of it as when they had left him, but this time he was not moving.
Seconds later, two uniformed paramedics rushed over. One of them tended to Lance, while the other dragged a reluctant Simon over to the ambulance. Liz stepped back, feeling completely useless as she stared at the burning building. One single thought controlled her mind, causing tears to tumble silently down her cheeks. She knew
she had been close to losing another man she loved.
12
Liz woke with a start the next morning. Nightmares of Simon being engulfed in flames had swarmed her mind all night, knocking her in and out of sleep at irregular intervals.
After calming her erratic breathing, she wiped the sleep from her eyes. She looked down at Simon, who was peacefully asleep next to her in his cottage, snoring and unaware. There was a slight rasp to his breaths, but nothing that would not clear up according to the doctor.
Smiling down at him, she pushed back the urge to brush his messy hair out of his face, not wanting to wake him. After last night, she was grateful to see another day with him, and she wanted to soak up as much of it as possible. She peeled the covers from herself as delicately as she could, careful not to disturb him.
She had been so exhausted from the stress of last night that she had fallen asleep in the jeans and shirt she had dressed in after showering off the mud in the farmhouse. She had been out like a light as soon as her head hit the pillow on Simon’s bed. She scrabbled for her jumper and slid it over her body. Thanks to the clock ticking away above Simon’s bed, she knew it was just past six in the morning. As she scratched her frizzy hair, she decided to head to the main cottage; she was awake now.
The morning air was dewy and cold, so she wrapped her arms around herself as she quickened her pace. She tiptoed through the vestibule and peeked her head around the corner hoping not to disturb the quiet house. She saw no one in the kitchen, and as silently as she could, she crept across the kitchen. She almost made it to the hallway before a head popped out of one of the rooms.
“Simon, is that you?” Sandra called. “Ah! Liz! An early bird like me, I see.”
“I couldn’t sleep,” Liz said as she returned to the kitchen to sit on one of the mismatched chairs situated around the table. “Bad dreams.”
“I’m not surprised after what you saw last night,” Sandra said, her hand resting on the back of Liz’s head like she was a little girl. “I only had my John’s description, and even I was restless last night. I wouldn’t trade my early mornings for anything though. When you live on a working farm, it’s the one time of the day when I can go about my business uninterrupted!”