Hate Bale

by Stephanie Dagg

  In the house he found Martha slumped in an armchair with Flossie’s head on her knee. She was ruffling the old dog’s grizzled fur. She looked drained. Beautiful, Philippe thought wistfully, but drained.

  “Well, you’re officially even more in the clear than you already were,” he announced, turning on the Nespresso coffee machine and slotting a capsule into it. He had always been good at making himself at home at the Bigglesthwaites’ house. “I have confirmation that you left here around quarter past eleven. Eleven thirteen, to be precise.”

  He glanced over his shoulder at Martha and was glad to see her brighten a fraction. There was a touch of amazement in her expression too.

  “Heavens, I really didn’t think she’d co-operate to help save my skin,” she exclaimed.

  “Oh, she didn’t.” Philippe burst her bubble. “The husband did. He’s getting an earful as we speak.”

  “Poor man,” said Martha. “He seems quite pleasant, but Carol… ugh.”

  “Yes, I got the ‘ugh’ vibe too,” Philippe nodded, then downed his expresso in one. “Now, are you going to be OK?”

  Martha shrugged limply. “I’ll be fine,” she said non-convincingly. “Well, in a bit,” she added, seeing Philippe’s frown. She pushed Flossie’s muzzle gently off her leg and stood up. “Seriously, I’ll be alright.”

  “Have a quiet afternoon,” Philippe advised her as he strode over to her, his gun and handcuffs bouncing at his sides. “You’ve had a terrible shock. And call me if you need to, anytime.”

  Martha forced a smile. “Thanks, I will. Now, go and find the bastard that killed Daniel.”

  “Already on it.” He took her firmly by her shoulders and kissed her on both cheeks. The comforting warmth of another human so close to her was just what she needed. She missed hugs desperately now that she was on her own. She and Mark both came from families of huggers and, if anything, they’d strengthened the tradition. Happy hugs, sad hugs, I love you hugs, I’m sorry hugs, just for the hell of it hugs – someone’s arms were always open. And so Martha just couldn’t fight the craving. She no longer cared if hugging a policeman was illegal. She slipped her arms around Philippe’s strong, solid body and laid her head against his chest. After a fraction of a second’s surprised, but, she suspected, flattered hesitation, she felt his arms slide around her. Martha sighed. For a delicious moment she felt protected and safe, the way she always had in Mark’s arms. Worries slunk off into the shadows. They’d come back, they always did, but they’d have lost some of their edge. Like a wilting flower refreshed by rainfall, she felt her coping mechanism strengthen and flourish, turn its face upwards and stretch out its leaves. Her world would never be completely right again, not without her soulmate, but it was definitely a much better place than it had been a few minutes ago.

  With another sigh, she pulled herself gently away from Philippe. She smiled at him.

  “Thank you. Now, go on, off you go.” She patted his chest. “Your colleague will be melting out there in the car.”

  Philippe gave a semi-snort, implying that he didn’t care if he did, but Martha was right. He had to get back to work.

  “Call me anytime,” he repeated, tucked a loose lock of Martha’s hair behind her ear, then headed off.

  Chapter 5

  In something of a daze, Martha made herself a cup of tea. She hadn’t bothered when she’d first come in, despite being instructed to do so by Philippe. Her legs had suddenly felt weak again. But now, post-hug, she felt altogether more robust. And thirsty. And maybe even peckish. Her brain was still refusing to properly process everything that had happened this morning. It had just shoved it all into a ‘pending’ tray for now.

  She sat at the table with her mug of tea and a hastily assembled cheese and salad sandwich. Flossie’s head was back on her knee, her drool soaking into Martha’s cargo shorts and leaving a dark patch. Martha absently fed her curls of grated cheese and lumps of crust. She glanced at the clock: half past two. Oh no! For the first time, ever, she’d not sent Lily a goodnight message on Facebook. There was a ten-hour time difference between France and Australia in summer. Martha went online around midday every day for a quick ‘chat’ with her daughter. But today she hadn’t. Lily would be worried. Actually, no, she wouldn’t. She was a pragmatic girl. She’d realise something had come up – a power cut, a farm-related job over-running, her mother nodding off – to prevent the communication.

  Martha reached for the phone in her handbag, which she’d dumped on the table when she’d first staggered in. Lily had thoughtfully installed WhatsApp on her phone, and, despite Martha’s initial scepticism and distrust, it was proving very easy to use and was a great way to keep in touch. She felt guilty to see there were a couple of vaguely anxious texts from Lily waiting for her: ‘Everything OK Mum? 43 degs here today, melting. Luv u.’ ‘Heading to bed now. J says as far as he aware u still alive. Talk tomow. Big hugs xxx.’ Martha quickly sent a message for her daughter to find first thing in the morning to say she’d had a totally crazy day but was fine. She would tell Lily all tomorrow. She finished with ‘Luv u too’. She sighed. If only Lily knew how much. Jared too. No child had the slightest clue how much they were loved until they had their own children, and thus that realisation only came after inflicting years of unintentional worry and suffering on their parents. And some intentional hurt too. Teenagers were the spawn of Satan.

  “I need another cup of tea,” she told Flossie.

  Flossie wagged her tail. She associated the word ‘tea’ with the fridge being opened. Flossie liked the fridge; it was full of nice smells. And, if her luck was in, treats.

  But as Martha stood up, she heard the crunch of tyres on the gravel outside. Was that Philippe returning? Or one of the other policemen who refused to believe the Cuthbertsons’ testimony and was here to arrest her? She peered out of the window and was relieved to see a colossal white, top-of-the-range Range Rover. It was glamorous, dripping with dazzling, expensive accessories, as was its occupant who stepped out daintily on dizzyingly high heels. Lottie Strangelove was here.

  Lottie was Martha’s best friend. Her only friend really. Martha had plenty of acquaintances, mostly other expats that she bumped into from time to time, and also a smattering of French locals. She’d have a pleasant chat with these people, and had done the odd favour for some of them and they for her in the past, but that was as far as it went. Apart from in Lottie’s case. They’d first met each other just over five years ago, and got on straight away, but hadn’t seen much of each other until after Mark’s death. Relatives had swamped the scene in the immediate aftermath of that ghastly event, but when they’d all cleared away and Martha hit rock bottom, not knowing if she could go on, or if she even wanted to, Lottie had come into her own. She’d appeared on Martha’s doorstep like a designer label fairy godmother on a particularly blue day, and held Martha while she cried her heart out. She’d encouraged her, or more like forced her in those early days, to come out to a café or go for a walk with her, and slowly Martha had learned to face the world again. Martha had been the listener and comforter in her turn to Lottie since then, many times. Lottie had a tendency to wind people up the wrong way which inevitably led to rows and tears and turmoil.

  But why Martha and Lottie were friends at all was something of a mystery. They were at the opposite ends of any spectrum you cared to choose. Lottie was smart to the point of glamorous in her attire whereas Martha spent most of her time in farm clothes (i.e. old tee-shirts and jeans so that it didn’t matter what farm and livestock-related substances got onto them) and wellies. In summer the wellies gave way to Crocs, although they weren’t practical: Martha had been stung by assorted insects whilst walking through the fields in them a few times now, and there had been a painful incident of a sheep trampling her toes. Lottie was Botoxed and made-up and dyed to the nines, whereas Martha rarely put any make-up on, apart from that all-important dab of powder on her nose. Her light brown hair was slowly fading into grey and she had more ‘laught
er lines’ than she’d have liked. Lottie was filthy rich. Her husband, Roger, had been something big in the city — something big and dodgy, Mark had always reckoned — and was generally reckoned to be a multi-millionaire, with the multi bit approaching three figures. Martha and Mark had occasionally had to dip into savings during the cottage’s long, non-earning period of October to March. Martha was a self-employed bookkeeper, helping some local small businesses and farmers keep on top of their accounts. However, that generally entailed only the occasional flurry of activity as year ends or tax reporting deadlines loomed. There’d been a small lump sum for Martha on Mark’s death from a life insurance policy, the one his mother had insisted he take out when he was sixteen and had started his first job. Thanks to that money, Martha was going to stop letting out the cottage, starting at the end of this season. Which couldn’t come soon enough.

  Lottie worked, but didn’t need to financially. She’d got bored after a year of swanning around doing nothing. Roger, fifteen years her senior, was content to play bowls and potter in their huge garden. He and Lottie lived in a beautiful old manoir on the outskirts of Aubussac, a picturesque town about twenty kilometres away. Lottie, however, had soon tired of the pool and shopping. Shopping locally, that was. She’d still drop everything at a moment’s notice to hit the top notch galéries in any of France’s big cities. And so she’d shelled out a significant sum to go on a course to train to be an immobilier, an estate agent, and then worked for an agency to gain the experience she needed. She’d taken to it like a duck to water, and since she could both turn on the charm with buyers and put the fear of God into vendors, she now ran her own very successful business.

  Lottie was a sight for sore eyes today. Martha flung open the door to welcome her friend in.

  “Dear lord, you look like crap!” were Lottie’s first and brutally honest words, once cheek kisses were out of the way. Martha had quickly adapted the silent French method of such kissing, but Lottie had stuck with the ‘mwah, mwah’ sound-effects routine. “Omigod, you’ve been crying! Whatever’s happened? Not the kids?” Genuine concern filled her face.

  “Gosh no, they’re fine,” Martha assured her hastily. “It’s just been a truly bizarre morning.”

  “Tell all,” instructed Lottie, making herself as at home with the Nespresso machine as Philippe had done earlier. “You want one?”

  “No thanks. I’ll stick with tea.” Martha flicked the kettle on. Her last mug of tea was half-finished, and lukewarm by now. She slopped that into Flossie’s bowl, then dropped a teabag and sugar into the mug and stood that next to the kettle.

  “I’ll make that for you,” said Lottie. “You sit and talk.”

  So Martha did. She began with the pig incident

  “Which reminds me, I’ve still got to find a way to stop Carol opening that door,” she said, in conclusion to that instalment of the day’s events.

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Lottie flapped a dismissive hand. “That’s not what’s upset you so much, so go on.”

  And so Martha recounted the next chunk of happenings. Lottie was staring at her open-mouthed when she’d finished.

  “Omigod, you poor thing! I’d never have coped with finding someone like that. Skewered to a sack of chicken food with a tractor spike? Poor old Daniel Frobart. Not a very dignified way to go.”

  “I’m not sure any way is particularly dignified,” Martha ventured.

  “I shall be dignified when the time comes,” announced Lottie, only half-joking.

  Martha believed her.

  “Sooo,” Lottie went on casually, “do you think Murielle Frobart will be selling the business now?”

  “Lottie!” protested Martha, but couldn’t help smiling. Trust her friend to see the business opportunity presented by Daniel’s unpleasant demise.

  Lottie shrugged, all innocence. “Just asking. Always good to have business premises in the portfolio. I’d be sure to get a good deal for Murielle.”

  “I’m sure you would, but I’ve no idea what her plans are. I don’t suppose she has either.”

  “No, poor woman. I do feel sorry for her. How are you holding up, Mar?”

  “About as well as I look.” Martha managed a thin smile. “I’m off the hook as a suspect, but I dare say there’ll be more questioning. And I do still wish I’d gone straight into that shed and found him sooner. Maybe their estimated time of death is wrong? Maybe he was still alive and I could’ve saved him?”

  “Stop torturing yourself,” said Lottie briskly. “You can’t be expected to do a sweep for possible dead bodies the minute you arrive somewhere.”

  “I know,” nodded Martha. “It’s just—”

  There was a loud knock at the door. Martha closed her eyes and groaned. It could only be Carol Cuthbertson.

  “Oh no, I really don’t need to see that woman right now.”

  “I’ll deal with her.” Lottie got up smartly.

  With only slight misgivings, Martha watched her go. She wouldn’t normally unleash Lottie on an unsuspecting public, but Carol deserved it.

  “Can I help you?” demanded Lottie, throwing the door open.

  The two alpha women stared at each other in dislike.

  “I wish to speak with Mrs Bigglesthwaite.”

  “She’s indisposed.” Lottie began to close the door but Carol stepped forward.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Lottie crossed her arms. “Oh, so I’m a liar, am I?”

  Martha almost started to feel sorry for Carol.

  “I demand to know what’s going on,” continued Carol querulously.

  “Nothing you need concern yourself about,” snapped Lottie crisply.

  “Well, I disagree. In my opinion it concerns me and my family very much. I have two children to think about.”

  “Don’t let me stop you,” riposted Lottie.

  Carol ploughed on undeterred. “First we see Mrs Bigglesthwaite being driven home with a police escort and now you, whom I suppose to be her lawyer, are here. I want you to know that I will not allow my family to be exposed to immoral influences.”

  “Would those be coming from me or Mrs Bigglesthwaite?” Lottie wanted to know.

  Martha smiled as Carol snorted.

  “If the woman’s a criminal, then I demand to know.”

  Martha rolled her eyes. With his truancy and underage smoking, Carol’s flesh and blood in the form of her grandson Zack had broken more laws than she herself ever had.

  “Not that it’s any of your business, and I assure you it isn’t, but Mrs Bigglesthwaite had the misfortune to witness a very distressing incident this morning. The police drove her home as she was suffering from shock. If there’s nothing else then I’ll wish you good day.”

  And the door thunked shut.

  “The cheek of the woman!” exploded Lottie.

  “I know, sticking her nose in like that,” agreed Martha.

  “Pfft!” Lottie flapped that away as inconsequential. To someone like Lottie it was. “Calling me a lawyer! I mean, do I look like a lawyer?”

  Martha could only shrug. “I haven’t met that many, and they were all male, so I couldn’t really say.”

  “Well, I don’t look like one.” Lottie answered her own question irritably, since Martha couldn’t. “Lawyers are dowdy and boring. Do I look dowdy and boring?”

  Neither of those were words anyone would ever dream of using in connection with Lottie. Martha scarcely knew one designer label from another so she couldn’t pinpoint who was responsible for the floral print viscose jumpsuit she was wearing today, but it was someone flamboyant. Not someone with lawyers in mind as clients.

  “Thanks for dealing with her,” smiled Martha.

  “You’re welcome. And you’re right, she is a piece of work, isn’t she?” That coming from someone as prickly as Lottie was damnation indeed.

  They chatted some more, then Lottie’s phone cheeped from inside her beige leather handbag. Even Martha identified it as Gucci since the buckle to
ok the shape of the company’s distinctive logo. This bag was new and no doubt as expensive as its many short-lived predecessors. Martha had looked a couple of them up on the Harrods website and seen that the ones Lottie went for were usually around the £1,500 price tag. Martha had only possessed five handbags in her entire life, and none had cost more than thirty quid. How the other half lives, she mused to herself, but then pulled herself up short. She had the lifestyle that many dreamed about, here in rural France running her own business surrounded by nature, and, when the guests weren’t there, serenity. True, she didn’t have Mark, and she’d give up all this in a flash to be anywhere, no matter how seedy, with him again.

  She suddenly realised Lottie had said something to her.

  “Sorry, I, er…”

  “You were away with the fairies. I have to go – I’m showing a retired English couple around some godawful dump in quarter of an hour.”

  “Godawful dump?” echoed Martha, eyebrows raised. “I didn’t think you dealt in those.”

  “Sorry. Quaint country residence with immense potential,” Lottie corrected herself with a grin. “It’s that old place in Le Grand Champ.”

  That hamlet consisted of two equally derelict houses with small amounts of land around them. It was about ten minutes away by car, twenty-five by bike. Martha and Mark used to do a cycle route that went through it on the way to the café at Rugnant, a few kilometres further on.

  “Actually, you were right first time. Both the houses there are godawful dumps,” she remarked.

  “Tell me about it,” sighed Lottie. “And the one I’m representing is the worse of the two. But, I’ll shift it.” She smiled smugly.

  “I know you will,” nodded Martha. “Thanks so much for calling by. You’re a brick.”

  “Anytime. Look, do you want to come round tonight?” asked Lottie suddenly.

  “Thanks, Lot, but I couldn’t face a late night. I feel shattered. It’s been a long, horrendous day already.”

  “No, I didn’t mean for food, drink and carousing. I meant to sleep. With other people around. Stay for a few days if you want. You’ve been through a dreadful ordeal, so you’re bound to feel shaky for a while.”