“I hear you two are having a spat,” Ashley remarks. “Did you know she has a caution for assault?”
“You checked up on her?”
“Knowledge is power, Kent.”
“Is that why you don’t tell me anything?”
She grins. “Maybe you need to probe a little deeper. If you do, you’ll discover that Miss Haynes rode her horse at someone who complained about the droppings. She also whipped him with her crop. If she gets in your face, jog her memory.”
“I will if you’re there to arrest her when she blows a fuse.”
“If only I didn’t have a backlog of bicycle thefts, damage to farm buildings and a dangerous quad bike, loose on the public footpaths of the South Downs.”
“If you solve the cold case, will it get you back into the Major Crime Team?”
She shuffles closer. “I’ve had an idea. Gina’s taken a shine to you. If you encourage her, she might reveal some of Birchill’s secrets.”
“I hope you’re not suggesting I seduce her.”
“Cultivate her friendship. Pop round when he’s out. Tell her you called to talk about the grand opening of your sanctuary. You’ll be surprised how much she knows about Birchill. Then you can ask her what she knows about the murder.”
“If she knows.”
“She will after you ask her.” Ashley face is inches from mine. Her musky perfume fills my nostrils. “She’ll want to know why Birchill never told her.”
She brushes her lips along my cheek. Her breath purrs in my ear. While her lips make their way towards mine, her fingers resume their journey along my thigh
That’s when the draft hits my ankles. I look up and spot Freya, wrapped in a duffle coat, staring at me. Then she pushes back through the door.
I pull away from Ashley, ignoring her protests. I slide out from my chair and crash my way between tables, ignoring the complaints from customers. As I reach the entrance, the door swings open, forcing me to wait while four people stride in.
Outside, in the cool evening air, I take the steps in two bounds. I scan the car park, looking for Freya’s van. When I don’t see it, I trot to the road and round the flint wall, crashing into her.
It takes her a few seconds to regain her balance and push me away.
It takes her a moment to slap my face.
Thirty
“That’s for making me feel like the fool I am.”
Freya’s breathing hard, her hands trembling. Shadows mask her face, but I can hear the tears in her voice. “This useless bra doesn’t help.” She groans and reaches under her arm as if she intends to rip the bra off. “When I get home, it’s going straight in the bin.”
I grab her hand as she spins away. “Let me explain.”
“I should never have come here.”
“Why did you?”
She stops pulling. “I came to tell you about Jonathan Wright, but what’s the point? If your girlfriend doesn’t come between us, he will.”
“What do you mean, he’ll come between us?”
“Wrong answer, Kent. You’re supposed to be interested in me, not him.”
She hurries to her van, her heels thudding on the pavement. The headlights flash when she clicks the remote, briefly illuminating her skinny jeans and duffle coat. She tugs open the door, flings her bag inside and ducks into the van without a glance back.
I notice Ashley walk up beside me, her expression as emotionless as her voice. “You have some explaining to do.”
“Not to you I don’t.”
“Pristine Pooches,” she says, watching the van drive past. “Rather ironic, considering she looked like she tumbled out of bed. Is that where you left her?”
“Had we been in bed, I wouldn’t have left her.”
I walk away, letting the darkness swallow me. I should never have agreed to meet Ashley. Had I stayed at home, Freya would have found me when she called. Instead, Niamh or Frances directed her to the Eight Bells, where Ashley was trying to slide her hand inside my trousers.
I look back, but Ashley’s gone, rejected for an impetuous woman with a lethal forehand and the saddest eyes.
I’ve always kept a tight hold over my emotions, afraid my feelings would make me vulnerable. Even though I loved Gemma, I was afraid I would do something stupid and lose her. As our relationship intensified, the fear grew, fuelled by arguments about whether we should ‘go public’, where we should live, or more accurately, where we couldn’t live. Finally, when I thought I might be losing her, I told her how much I loved her, how I’d loved her from the moment I first saw her, eight years earlier.
Two days later she was gone.
I groan, realising my stupid mistake.
That’s what happens when I let emotion take control. I need to give myself a good kick up the arse and make my peace with Ashley. We have a murder to solve.
Trouble is, I’ve lost my only lead.
At the turning for Meadow Farm, I hear a car approaching from behind, going too fast as usual, headlamps on full beam. When the driver jams on the brakes and veers towards me, I dart around the corner. The squeal of rubber on tarmac chases me, the headlamp beams bouncing into the sky.
My foot strays into a pothole. I veer towards the centre of the lane. Somehow, I keep my balance, brushed by the car as it swerves to a halt, lurches and stalls.
Only it’s not a car.
Freya swears, tangled in the seatbelt as she tumbles out. Once free, she rushes over and throws her arms around me, almost knocking me to the ground. She cups my face in her hands and looks into my eyes.
“Are you hurt? Are you okay? Of course you’re not okay. I almost killed you.”
She bites her lower lip, looking so guilty, so scared. I pull her close. “I’m okay,” I say, stroking her hair. “You?”
“I’ve wet myself.” She pulls back and covers her mouth. “TMI.”
“TMI?”
“Too much information. When I’m nervous I open my mouth and the wrong words come out.”
“Maybe you should stop talking,” I say, my breathing ragged, my heart still thumping. “Or drive slowly.”
“I was angry.”
“I know. I’ve got the imprint of your hand on my face.”
“I felt humiliated. Everything that’s wrong with my life seemed to converge when you walked into me.” She looks up at me. “Does your face hurt?”
I nod.
Her gentle fingers stroke my cheek, making me tingle with pleasure. “Is that better?” she asks, gazing into my eyes.
“A little,” I reply, my voice almost hoarse.
I slide my hands around her waist. Her breathing deepens. Her eyes widen, inviting me to kiss her, to explore her. Not that I need an invitation. I want her so much, it hurts.
When she slides her arms around my neck, she cries out in pain.
“Damn this bloody bra!”
She pulls away and tears at the toggles of her duffle coat. “No,” she cries when I offer to help. Once undone, she wriggles out of the coat and hurls it onto the roof of the van, prompting more anguished cries.
She reaches under her baggy sweater, covered with white dog fur. She seems to take forever to unhook her bra, grimacing and cursing almost non-stop. When she does, she relaxes with a huge sigh, closing her eyes in relief.
“That’s almost orgasmic,” she says.
She reaches inside the baggy sleeve of her sweater. With a few wriggles she eases the shoulder strap down her arm. She repeats the process with the other arm, maintaining eye contact throughout. Then, with a flourish, she reaches under her sweater and pulls out a black, lacy bra.
“Farewell, Blunderbra!” She hurls it over the adjacent hedge. Luckily, the strap snags, saving me an excursion into Miss Trotter’s front garden.
“I’d better retrieve it before anyone gets the wrong idea,” I say.
“Keep it,” she says, rotating her arm. “I have enough reminders of what’s wrong with my life.”
“Let’s go inside. You can fre
shen up while I make a cup of tea. I’ve got ibuprofen somewhere, if you need it.”
“I’d best get home,” she says.
“Columbo would love to meet you,” I say, hearing his bark in the distance.
“What about your girlfriend? Won’t she be wondering where you are?”
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
“You always snuggle up to strangers, do you?”
“I chased after you, didn’t I?”
“Why? Look at me, Kent. Three husbands and a bra that doesn’t fit. Not much of a recommendation, is it?”
“A moment ago you wanted to kiss me.”
“I wanted to kiss you the moment I set eyes on you, but it’s complicated. Not the kissing,” she says, brushing a tear from her cheek. “That’s lips and tongues. But if I kiss you I’ll want to spend the night with you. Then it gets complicated.”
“Why?”
She pulls a crumpled tissue from her pocket. “I want what I can’t have and get what I don’t want. That’s the story of my life.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
She shakes her head. “I came over to tell you about Jonathan Wright. When your stepmother said you’d gone to meet someone at the pub, I knew you’d be with a beautiful woman, making her laugh, seducing her with your dreamy eyes.” She gives me a wistful smile. “That’s why I couldn’t go home.”
“You’re not making any sense.”
“I had to see you with someone slim, attractive and sophisticated to remind me how foolish I was to think you’d be interested in me. Look at me,” she says, holding her arms out and wincing. “My clothes are as weary and clapped out as my boobs. No,” she says, cutting off my protest, “let me tell you what I came to tell you. You owe me that.”
I perch on the bonnet and nod.
“What did Dad say to you about Wright Choice Foods?”
I look back, distracted by Columbo’s barking, which sounds close. “Your father said Malcolm Wright went off one morning and never returned.”
“Did Dad say anything about Jonathan?”
“Bit of a ladies man, liked gambling.”
“Did he tell you that Jonathan and I married – that the marriage only lasted five days?”
Thirty-One
Columbo saves the day, or evening to be precise. He ducks under the gate and hurtles down the lane to greet me. After a brief fuss, he turns to Freya, tilting his head as he looks at her. She drops to one knee and he rushes over, tail creating enough draft to power a wind turbine.
“You’re gorgeous,” she says, letting him leap onto her leg and smother her face in kisses. She slides an arm under his tail to stop him falling and ruffles his fur. When I spot Frances running towards the gate, I walk over.
“He must have heard you,” she says, regaining her breath. “He’s never run off before. Columbo, here!”
He ignores her. He ignores me too, enjoying the attention from Freya. She scoops him up and brings him over, unable to stop him licking her face.
“Freya, meet Frances, who runs the sanctuary.”
Freya passes a reluctant Columbo over. “Your dreadlocks look amazing. How long did it take to grow them? And I love your beads. Do you get them online?”
“There’s a shop in Brighton.” Frances attaches Columbo’s lead and he darts behind Freya’s legs, tail wagging as if he senses a new game. “I think you’d better bring him.”
Freya declines the lead. “I need to get going.”
“I don’t think Columbo’s going to let you off that easily.”
He looks up at her and barks before pawing her leg.
“You haven’t finished telling me about Jonathan Wright,” I say, taking the lead. “You can freshen up while the kettle’s on. We don’t bite.”
Freya gives us a puzzled look. “Am I missing something? Not that it’s any of my business,” she adds, fishing for her keys. “I’d better move the van in case someone wants to get past.”
Columbo strains, eager to follow her.
“I’ll put the kettle on,” Frances says. “Give me five minutes to tidy up.”
I nod and wait for Freya. When she drives up to the gate and turns, I wonder if she’s going to drive off. She stops and reverses up. “I don’t want to intrude,” she says, lowering the window. “I really should be getting back.”
“Frances and I share a place. I’m a temporary guest while I wait for permission to convert one of the barns into a flat.”
Gemma gave me a similar look when I told her. “Why didn’t you get two homes?” she asked.
Freya checks her watch. “I need to get back. He’ll be wondering where I am. Dad, I mean. I moved in while the divorce was going through. Rick, my husband moved back one afternoon while I was at work. He was lounging on the sofa as if he’d never left. It’s my own fault. I should have changed the stupid lock, I should have made him leave his key.”
“You didn’t know he’d come back to bother you. You should have told him to go, to walk out the door.”
“You can’t be a Gloria Gaynor fan.”
“It was my mother’s favourite song. She used to play it when she got drunk and maudlin.” I stop, realising I’ve never told anyone before.
“Did she survive?” Freya asks.
My mother survived on lies, deceit and hatred, fuelled by gin. I haven’t seen or spoken to her for 25 years and she hasn’t contacted me. “Phone your father and let him know you’re okay.”
She switches off the engine and climbs out of the van, much to Columbo’s delight. “You glance left before you fib,” she says. “Did you know that?”
“I do?”
“That’s what you say at weddings.” She gives me a helpless shrug. “Sorry, it’s not that funny when you’ve said it as many times as I have. Rick also looks left before he lies. That’s why he was rubbish at poker. You looked left when I asked you if your mother survived. When you’re thinking, you often give your earlobe a gentle tug. Then there’s the enigmatic smile when you’re lost for words.”
I give her my best enigmatic smile.
“I have a degree in Psychology,” she says. “It’s difficult to believe, I know. It didn’t help me sort out my inadequacies either, but I enjoy watching others.”
“I can imagine what you thought when you saw me with Ashley. She’s a detective inspector with Sussex Police. We’re working on a case. Whatever you saw .... forget her. I’m here with you. And you,” I add when Columbo barks. “Would you like the guided tour?”
“There’s not much to see in the dark.”
“Then you’d better stay close.” I grab the Maglite I keep by the gate and aim the beam at the path. “And use your imagination.”
A cool breeze slides off the South Downs, hidden in darkness. The only other light comes from Niamh’s house and the mobile home in the distance. Columbo trots beside Freya, diverting into the bushes from time to time. He’s heard the plans for a café and visitor centre so many times.
“You should sell only Fairtrade products, organic fruit and vegetables,” Freya says, staring into the dark. “Cut out single use plastics ... Sorry, you’re way ahead of me already, aren’t you?”
“I have an environmentally aware stepmother, who lives there.”
“She didn’t look pleased when I asked for you.”
“You probably interrupted her baking, that’s all.” I go on to explain about Fisher’s Fancies. “Frances and I are chief testers and tasters.”
“I go up a dress size if I look at a cake.”
“No problem. It means more tiffin for me.”
“Tiffin? Proper tiffin?”
“Niamh’s own family recipe, handed down the generations.”
“I suppose I could go to spin class in the morning.”
We walk on and I explain about the barns, the isolation facilities we’ve installed, the new kennels. Freya wants to see the dogs. She fusses each one, a seemingly endless supply of treats in her coat pocket.
“How can anyone
abandon and mistreat such lovely dogs?” she asks, tears in her eyes. “What’s wrong with people?”
I slide an arm around her shoulder. “Don’t go there. Why waste all that emotion on anger and hate when you can use it to love and care for the animals?”
She looks into my eyes, taking my breath away. I can feel my pulse racing, my heart thudding in my chest. I pull her close, sliding my hands around her waist. She wants me too. I can see it in her eyes, battling the hesitation and fear.
“No,” she says, pushing me away with gentle hands. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“Then let me find out.”
“Don’t three failed marriages tell you all you need to know?”
“I’m interested in now, not the past.”
“You’ve released Jonathan Wright from the past. He was dead and buried – not literally. I meant I’d forgotten about him until you walked into my salon. Is he linked to this case you’re working on?”
“Until I speak to him, I won’t know.”
“He’s in America, gambling away everything he has, I imagine. He and Rick are like peas in a proverbial. They’re full of bull, consummate liars, living on the turn of a card or the roll of a dice, betting on anything that moves. Jonathan will have a woman, who believes she can cure him, as I did. He’ll bleed her dry and then find another, blinded by his charming smile, flash clothes and that edgy sense of danger which makes him irresistible.”
She rests her face against the wire, smiling at the lurcher cross. “Jonathan took me to Las Vegas. He treated me to new clothes, a makeover, the works. Then, while I slept, he spent the night at the slot machines, sliding into bed in the morning, sleeping till noon.”
“Did he lose?”
“He maxed out his cards. I paid for almost everything as the days went by, but he always had money to play the slots. Then, on our last day, he said he’d had a big win the night before. We went out, ate too much, drank too much and found ourselves at a drive thru wedding chapel.”
No More Lies Page 12