by Issy Brooke
“What do you mean?”
“I believe in Upper Glenfield!” he declared passionately, returning to his rhetoric. “But we are sabotaged by those in our own ranks who don’t pull together as they should. We need to sing from the same hymn sheet! There is no I in team, and I know that’s a cliché, but clichés are true, are they not? Luckily, Glenfield is changing. It’s slower to happen out here in the country but the modern age of globalisation is the best thing that has ever happened here. The old, the chaff, the run-down garages and the shoddy markets, will be swept away.”
Crikey, thought Penny. I had better stop him before he jumps up on the reception desk with a loudhailer and a flag, and starts some kind of rally. She nodded politely at him and looked around the entrance lobby. “Well, you’ve done a good job here,” she said neutrally.
Steven appeared from a door behind the reception desk, drawn by the sound of voices. He nodded at her, and at Brian, and began to tap at a computer that was half-hidden by the high counter.
Penny heard a cough and noticed that the pale, thin Polish girl that Drew had bantered with was lurking in a doorway at the far side of the foyer, holding a plastic tub of bottles and cloths and cleaning sprays. She shifted from foot to foot, as if she wanted to cross the hallway but didn’t want to disturb her boss.
Brian spotted her too, and jerked his head, indicating that she should go through if she wanted to. She scurried past them, shoulders rounded. Penny caught her eye and smiled, but Agnes didn’t smile back. And then she was gone.
“Is she okay?” Penny said quietly.
“Oh, they never seem to smile,” Steven said.
“They?” Penny said, letting an oubliette open in her voice. Go on, she thought, step right in…
“Incomers,” Brian said swiftly. She wondered what phrase Steven would have used if he hadn’t been spoken over by his politically-correct boss. “Incomers. They don’t really fit in.”
“Well,” she said, her light tone masking her uncomfortable emotions, “I’m an incomer, too. And so was Owen Jones. Is it different because we’re English?”
“Well, that Owen was Welsh, for a start,” Steven muttered.
“Oh, had he come here to the hotel? Did you meet him?” Penny asked, her curiosity flaring.
Brian coughed and then laughed. He ignored her question and instead said to Steven, “Have you the meal plans printed out yet?”
“I’ll just go and get them.” He disappeared.
Agnes had appeared at the far end of the lobby again, and was polishing the brass work around the stairs that rose to the first floor. Brian shot a dark look in her direction but she had her back turned to them. Penny stepped towards the stairs, and he was immediately at her side, his hand once more on her elbow. This time, his grip was firm and it had the instant effect of making her blood pressure shoot through the roof. He held her back, preventing her from approaching Agnes.
“Do come on through to my office, where you can wait while I seek out Drew for you. Is he expecting you?” As he spoke, he propelled her towards a small door by the reception desk.
She wrenched her arm free with force and venom. “No, thank you,” she said firmly.
“I do apologise. Sometimes my chivalry gets misinterpreted,” he oozed smoothly.
Chivalry? I don’t think so, she thought. “Really. No, Drew’s not expecting me. I think I’ll take a stroll outside…”
“The gardens at the back are for residents only. It’s a security issue, as I am sure you understand,” he called after her as she made for the front door.
“Of course. I’ll text him and wait on the front steps. Thank you for the lift,” she said through gritted teeth, rubbing her elbow. It was the very worst sort of man who would say lovely things while behaving like a cad, she reflected, leaving you with little argument against him. If she spoke up, she would sound like a harpy. It was hard to call someone out because of how they made you feel, when women were already always dismissed as being too focused on feelings.
But if she got the chance, she vowed, she was going to go back in there and do something unspeakable in his office. She could sew prawns in the curtain linings. That would be an excellent start.
Chapter Nine
She crunched her way over the gravel and strode through the wide entrance that was flanked by stone lions, and out onto the pavement. Although the path ran all the way back to Upper Glenfield, it didn’t extend much farther east than the hotel. She could see where it ran out, on her left, ending in a scrubby verge of dried-out weeds and lank grass.
And in front of her was the tree-dotted wasteland, the protestors’ camp, and beyond that, the now-familiar fields of Lincolnshire.
She didn’t want to face Brian again. She crossed the road, so she was now on the same side of the road as the protestors’ camp. She pulled out her phone and sent a quick text message to Drew: “Hiya, how busy are you this week? Want to meet? Drinks on me.”
There was no immediate reply, but she hadn’t expected one. When she pushed her phone away in her pocket, and looked up, she met the steady gaze of a red-haired young woman with a wind-blown chapped face and bright green eyes. As the woman smiled, her face folded, all lines and creases, yet her eyes showed her youthfulness. Her hair was well-brushed, not the stereotypical dreadlocks Penny imagined, and it was tied up in a bright, colourful bandana of African-print fabric.
“How do you feel about this field being destroyed for the short term gain of a heartless property developer?” the red-headed woman said, without greeting or preamble.
“I don’t honestly know,” Penny said. “It looks like a wasteland, and this area definitely needs more housing.”
“Does it, though? There is a derelict mill on the upper edge of town that can be converted into flats without having to rip up this ecosystem. Why don’t you come and see the newts?”
“The, er–”
“Great crested newts! They are quite rare. Come on.” The woman was still smiling, and she extended her hand. “I’m Sal.”
“I’m Penny. Well, okay. Let’s see these newts, then.”
She followed Sal through a broken wooden gate and into a field. Up close, she noticed that the land she’d taken for scrub was actually rather marshy, and flourished with a profusion of wild plants. Drew would know what all of these are, she thought. I wonder what side of the argument he’s on?
Sal led her to an algae-scummed pool in the shade of a stumpy willow, and motioned for her to crouch in silence by the muddy edge. With a sun-browned finger, she pointed across the murky water.
Penny squinted and waited until eventually a warty dark shape coalesced out of the shadows.
“Where’s its crest?” she whispered. “You said great crested newt.”
“They only have them in breeding season,” Sal whispered back, but something – maybe her voice – alerted the newt and it disappeared with a flash of its tail. Sal laughed and stood up, her tone back to normal. “And there it goes. We were lucky. They are mostly nocturnal.”
“Is it a protected species? You said it was rare.”
“It is. In fact, all our native newts are protected. That’s in our favour, you know, for trying to stop this development.” Sal sighed and her smile faded as she looked at the mess of tents and trailers. “I know,” she said, in answer to what Penny hadn’t said aloud. “It looks shabby. And we’re not against housing and development, you know. Please don’t think that we are. People have to have somewhere to live, of course they do. We simply feel that this is not the right place to do that.”
“I can see your point,” Penny said. “I didn’t know there was a derelict building. But surely redevelopment can be as costly as building from scratch, especially with all the regulations and standards that would have to be met.”
“But that’s just it, don’t you see?” Sal said in frustration. “Those arguments are all about money and business and that’s all about short-term gain. We can’t keep on thinking like that, or we’ll li
terally destroy the planet. We can’t focus on the money. We have to focus on community.”
Brian Davenport was banging on about community, too, Penny thought. But I like this woman more than him.
“I can’t see an easy answer,” Penny said glumly. “I get what you’re saying but the world works in a different way, and to be honest, I feel a little helpless even suggesting anything might ever change.”
Sal’s voice dropped. “I know. Still, it’s important for me to try.”
“I admire that. And I wish you all the very best of luck.” I am still not sure about what’s right, here. “By the way, do you have a guy called Gaz staying here still?” It was a long shot, as the police would have already spoken to him.
“Ah yeah, I know the man you mean. No, he’s Ed’s friend.”
“Is he staying with Ed?” Penny asked, remembering that Edwin had picked him up in his car on the night of Owen’s death.
“Yeah, I think so. He’s not really one of us. Why?”
“No reason. I know Ed. I might go and pop over, and say hello.”
Sal nodded, uninterested in what Ed or Gaz was doing. “Right, then. Look, you – and anyone from the town – are always welcome here. Will you tell people that? You do live in the town, right? We’re not here to be a nuisance, and we’d love to have people come up and talk to us and find out what we’re about. We’re here to support you all.”
“Thanks,” Penny said. “I will.” She checked her phone but there was no reply from Drew. It had been a long shot, anyway.
She walked away in the direction of town, mulling over the tensions at play.
And what did Sal mean that Gaz wasn’t ‘one of them?’
* * * *
Penny had got to know Edwin Montgomery when she first moved to Glenfield, although the circumstances hadn’t been ideal. It had been an awkward business, and her first murder, although Penny knew that sounded inappropriate. After their shaky start, however, she had met him on a number of occasions through her walks with the rambling club. She didn’t go out with them often – Kali was still too reactive to cope with so many other people, and possibly other dogs, too – but he had always been reserved yet friendly to her. His intense passion for the environment could be overpowering but she admired it.
She was surprised to find he wasn’t part of the protest group.
She walked up to the rows of old cottages that were behind the High Street. These low-ceiling properties had been built for local workers, and now she saw the brick building to the north which Sal had referred to as a derelict mill. It didn’t look like the Northern mills she was familiar with; it was only two stories high and quite squat. She wondered what it had produced; something linked to agriculture, no doubt. Now, with its blank empty holes where windows had been, it looked small and unremarkable.
She knew the street that Ed lived on, but not the house number. She wandered slowly, hoping to see some clues. She remembered his car, and when she saw it, she used that to guess the rough area of his house.
She looked at the neat cottages. It is probably the house with the Stop Trident sticker in the front window, she thought, and the mass of green plants crowding the glass. She took a deep breath and knocked, reminding herself that nothing bad would happen if she was wrong – nothing worse than a little light embarrassment, that was all.
She hit the jackpot. She had to knock twice, and she heard a shout and some slapping footsteps. Finally, the door opened to reveal the slight, wiry figure of Edwin, his bare feet flat and solid on a red tiled floor. He didn’t smile in warm greeting, but that wasn’t his way. He was always serious. He did look puzzled, however.
“Now then, Penny May. What’s up?”
“The sky,” she said as a joke, but it took him a second to get it. He frowned and then shook his head, smiling briefly.
“Can I help you? I’m nothing to do with your latest murder.”
“It’s not my murder,” she said and she mustn’t have been able to keep the glum frustration out of her voice, because he stepped back and invited her in.
Or, not in, so much as through. They passed right through the house along the hallway that ran front to back.
“Come into the garden,” he said. “Have a lemonade with us.”
She was keen to see the way that this green warrior lived. Did he knit his own muesli? She was disappointed, initially, that the hallway took her straight from the front door to the back yard and she wasn’t able to take a sneaky peek into any of the rooms she passed. The doors were closed.
But the back garden made up for all that. She gasped, and laughed. “This is amazing! It’s like a jungle and a cottage garden all at the same time.”
The long, thin garden seemed to be bordered on each side by high, white-painted stone walls but it was hard to tell, the walls were so obscured by vegetation. There were climbing plants, tubs on the floor, planters attached to the walls with foliage tumbling down, and a wooden framework overhead from which dangled all manner of flowers and fruit – even grapes, which she hadn’t thought could grow in the UK.
It was only as she swept her gaze further down the garden that she noticed the cropped head of the man from the night Owen was killed: Gaz. His black eye had faded now. He was sprawled back on a threadbare red and white striped sun-lounger, half-hidden by a tall wooden box that seemed to be growing potatoes. Hey, she thought, randomly, Drew’s crop-identification lessons must be paying off.
Or are they peas?
Gaz nodded at her, but said nothing. Just like Edwin, she thought. They both linger in the shadows, observing.
Edwin went to a small wooden table and poured a glass of cloudy lemonade for her. She accepted graciously. “I love your garden,” she said.
“Thank you. It’s as organic as possible. I use companion planting to try to keep the pests to a minimum, and generally, it works. Anyway. So, how are you? I haven’t seen you on any walks lately.”
“No, things have got difficult, and it’s sort of why I am here.” She sighed and then took a deep breath. “I am not from the police, okay? They don’t want me to meddle or ask questions or get in their way of the murder investigation, but–”
“It was definitely murder, was it? Some people are saying it was a terrible accident. He was crushed by his van. I have heard of things like that happening,” Edwin said.
“It wasn’t his own van that crushed him,” she said, and he stiffened.
“Was it a hit and run?” he asked.
She shrugged and went on. “Perhaps … But I don’t think so. I am the victim’s wife’s sister, though, and I do want to know what went on that night.” She looked over to Gaz, who hadn’t changed position. He continued to lounge, but he was watching her intently.
“You were there that night,” she said. “You’re Gaz, is that right?”
“Gareth Dickenson,” he replied. “Gaz, yeah. But look, I already spoke with the police. I’ve had a few interviews with them. And they don’t have me pegged as a suspect, so if they don’t, neither should you.” He shifted slightly, and dipped his head dismissively. “Anyway, they won’t get any proof to link me, so I’m not worried.”
“I thought people like you didn’t trust the police,” she said. Cath had said that Gaz was a suspect – had it changed? And why, and when?
He laughed. “People ‘like me’? Horrible phrase. I’d be annoyed that you said that, but it’s true. I don’t trust them, the police. But I do trust forensics and I do trust science.”
“Science?” She was taken aback.
Gaz grinned, and Edwin was smiling. “What, did you think this garden grew this good through pixie dust and crystals? It’s permaculture, and it’s still science, you know.”
“Well … wow.” She sipped at her drink, and it was sharp and refreshing. “I apologise. I have this habit of making assumptions based on appearance, and it’s a habit I’ve got to break.”
“That’s science, too,” Gaz said. He sat forward. “You know, evolutionari
ly-speaking and all that, way back when we were blundering around in a jungle somewhere, we needed to be able to spot a difference and make a snap judgement on what to do. The strange patch of unfamiliar shadow in the bushes might be a lion about to eat you, so you had to react on assumptions.”
“On the other hand,” Edwin said, “she’s right that it’s not a great trait to be having in the modern world.”
She felt chastised and comforted at the same time. All she could do was smile and nod.
Gaz sat back again, and stroked his chin. His hair was all spikey and unruly and in need of a good cut; it had been short when she’d seen him before, but he was obviously letting it grow. She wondered why. After a moment of contemplation, he said, “Okay, so listen. You wanted to know about that night. I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, and I am kinda aware that he was family to you. Do you really want to hear this?”
“I hardly knew him and what little that I did know, I didn’t like,” she confessed, feeling somewhat awkward about the admission. “Please. I am asking on behalf of my sister.”
“Okay. So yeah, we did fight, that night, me and him. But I wasn’t the first to have a run-in with him. There was a queue of folks wanting to have a chance to belt him one. He was one of those men that just could not shut up. And he was antagonistic. I mean, if I said the sky was blue, he’d be prepared to get into a fight just to make me admit it was pink with glittery bits. He was downright nasty and contrary. I’m sorry to say it, but there it was.”
“Did you know him well?”
He flashed her a dark look. “You mean, how can I say so much about a man who was new here? I’m new here too, of course. And he didn’t have any depth to him. He had hidden shallows, in truth. He was a mean sort and I’ve met guys like him before, and I am sure I will again. He liked a drink and he liked to gamble and he would have betted on a snail race if someone set one up. The problem is, that night, I’d had a drink myself. Otherwise I would have walked away. As I should have done.”