A Death in the Woods

by M B Vincent

  ‘This is getting to you.’

  ‘It’s not. I’m just tired.’

  ‘What’s Eden doing about it?’ Rupert made an impatient face. ‘You haven’t told him? Jess, what’s the point of helping the police if you don’t—'

  ‘Please. No tellings off. Not today.’

  Their food arrived. They ate. The radio burbled.

  Jess felt the telltale tickle of somebody staring at her. She turned to see Squeezers at the next table, studying her.

  ‘No, don’t move,’ he said urgently, his pencil careering over his pad. He smelled of old things, dirty things. ‘The light falling on your pretty chops is excruciating.’

  Standing up to look over the artist’s shoulder, Rupert said, deadpan, ‘Gosh. Squeezers really has caught your likeness.’

  ‘Squeezers!’ shouted Moyra from the deep fat fryer. ‘I told you; stop annoying my customers. You put that last woman off her hash browns. And put Darling’s nappy back on.’

  ‘She don’t care for it.’ Squeezers covered the greyhound’s ears. ‘It inhibits her.’

  ‘What it inhibits is her pooing on the floor.’

  The door opened. Eddie barrelled in. ‘Sorry to be a pest, ladies. I’ve run out of fruit tea again, and I knew you two lesbians’d have some.’

  ‘This again?’ Meera emerged from the kitchen. ‘We have fruit teas because this is a café, not because—’

  ‘Not because you’re lesbians, I know. But do you have some, love? I’m expecting that Nic Lasco in again later, and I can’t take any more moaning about my beverage selection.’

  ‘This should shut him up.’ Moyra held out a handful of tea bags.

  ‘Cheers, love.’ Eddie fumbled for change.

  ‘No need, Eddie. You sorted us out last week with that lovely chipolata of yours.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ asked Jess, ‘have I stumbled into a Carry On film?’

  Eddie looked at his watch. ‘Gotta go. My Rob’s Skyping me in a few minutes.’

  ‘Give him my love,’ said Jess. ‘Last time I saw Rob he was doing his GCSEs.’

  ‘Ah, wonderful Rob.’ Squeezers looked up from his work. ‘Your son is a fine human. And surely becoming quite the young lad.’

  ‘He’s twenty-eight, Squeezers,’ said Eddie.

  ‘An excellent age. Though I never was twenty-eight myself.’

  Eddie hurried back out onto Fore Street, calling his thanks over his shoulder.

  Meera lowered her voice to say, ‘Eddie never really recovered from the divorce.’ She hitched her bra strap through her sari; she enjoyed feeling sorry for people. It was a hobby. She turned at the noise of the door. ‘Karen! What can we do you for?’

  ‘I’m not here,’ said Knott, folding herself into a seat. ‘You haven’t seen me.’

  Outside, Jess saw Maureen Davis, lollipop lady, doing her thing on the crossing outside the café.

  When Knott said, ‘Ah ha!’, it was the first time Jess had heard anybody use that expression outside of an Agatha Christie novel.

  The suspect was handing out lollipops. Bright red, wrapped in cellophane. The children from St Luke’s crowded around her, plump fists outstretched.

  Squeezers seemed to be drawing Knott. It involved a lot of rubbing out.

  The children safely across the road, Mrs Davis took off her cap and parked her big wooden lollipop against the window of the Spinning Jenny. ‘Hello me ducks!’ she called out as she came in. Her hair was permed and her cheeks were round. ‘How do, Karen dear. Your mum’s legs any better?’

  Karen put her notepad away. ‘They’re barely what you’d call legs at all, Mrs Davis,’ she said, her lips pursed.

  ‘Jess!’ The potential slayer noticed her. Mrs Davis had a favour to ask; when, she wondered, was Jess’s next shift at the charity shop?

  ‘Tomorrow. Why?’ Jess volunteered at Hooters twice a week. She did it because her mother had done it. She did it because she felt at home among the passed-on clothes. She didn’t do it because the profits went to an owl sanctuary, but that was a plus.

  ‘Could you set aside about twenty teddy bears and soft toys? The kiddies are all upset over this Kannibal. I want to cheer them up.’

  ‘That’s a lovely idea.’ Jess glanced at Knott, who looked as though she wasn’t buying this Kind Old Lady flim-flam. She noticed the clock. ‘Shit!’ said Jess, then, ‘Sorry,’ then ‘Shit!’ again. ‘I’m going to be late. Could you pay, Rumpole? Next one’s on me.’

  Rupert watched her dash out and dart across the road. ‘Sure,’ he said, quietly.

  ***

  The town hall’s eighteenth-century façade gave way to banal modernity as Jess pushed through the tall mahogany doors. Green emergency exit signs. A fire extinguisher.

  Jess headed for the Great Hall, where, according to the posters, she would find the ‘Mayor’s Q&A with celebrity chef Mr Nic Lasco’.

  It was standing room only. Traces of grandeur – ruby red walls, colossal chandelier – were swamped by the forest of stackable chairs and a mushroom cloud of perfume. A makeshift stage was set with a couple of chairs and a display of Cooking from the Heart, Lasco’s latest collection of recipes.

  Bogna sat right at the front, just one of many familiar female faces. Lynne, of Minimart fame, was taking a selfie with the owner of the Lady Jayne boutique; what that woman didn’t know about matching shoe’n’bag sets wasn’t worth knowing. Barbara Singleton – Castle Kidbury’s living proof of Abonda’s magical abilities – found her seat and folded up her white stick.

  No Mrs Heap. No Dandan Wong. The human cost of the murders, something Eden kept front and centre, sometimes ambushed Jess.

  ‘Hello Paul.’ Jess slotted herself in beside the only male in the room. ‘I’d have thought you were too busy to sit and listen to Nic Lasco.’

  Paul Chappell, editor of the Kidbury Echo, was big on stomach and low on hair. ‘I should be out there, chasing down leads on the second murder. But the public laps up this celebrity crap, so . . .’

  ‘People are nervous,’ said Jess. The atmosphere was brittle, emotions turned up to eleven.

  ‘A little bird tells me,’ said Paul, ‘they’ve found Wong’s entrails.’

  Jess kept tight hold of her reaction; the little bird hadn’t told her anything at all. That rankled.

  ‘Eden won’t let me anywhere near Kidbury Henge,’ he went on. ‘But I reckon his consultant must have had a peek at it, yeah?’

  ‘My lips are sealed, Paul. Sorry.’

  Looking, as he always did, as if he was desperate for a cigarette, Paul tried again. ‘Tell Eden I have to resort to gossip and nicknames if he won’t throw me a bone now and then. Hey up, here he comes. Monsieur le chef.’

  A burst of Tina Turner’s ‘Simply The Best’. Applause. Excited twitterings.

  Jess clapped politely. Her head was elsewhere. West of town, in a bleak clearing, with the twelve stunted stones known as the apostles. Legend was that they danced around Kidbury Henge when there was a death in the area; presumably they had a right old knees-up around poor Timothy Wong’s remains.

  A voice that was unmistakeably Bogna shouted, ‘Love you Nic!’

  It was hard for Jess to see what all the fuss was about. Nic Lasco – I bet his parents don’t spell his first name like that– was tall, overstuffed, with a head of floppy hair that suited his boyish face. His expression, however, wasn’t boyish. He was bored. Even in a room levitating with polite lust, Lasco looked as if he’d rather be elsewhere. He was, however, clearly relishing the adulation.

  You’re your own biggest fan, thought Jess.

  Patricia Smalls joined him, wearing her ceremonial mayoral neckchain, which was only a little more bulky then her usual costume jewellery. ‘Before we begin,’ she said, in those ringing British tones which had built an empire, ‘may I implore you to mute your phones.’ She turned to Lasco. She was coquettish. It was difficult to watch. ‘I daren’t ask them to switch them off, Nic. Everybody wants a photo of you!’

 
‘We can take pictures later,’ said Lasco, affably. ‘So long as you buy a copy of my new book, of course.’

  Everybody laughed but Jess knew he wasn’t joking.

  ‘My guest has baked his way into the nation’s heart.’ Patricia slipped on her glasses to read from her notes. ‘Flapjacks. Meringues. Cobblers. This man makes them all. Truly a genius in the kitchen, I know his fans here today will agree that his charm is a large part of his phenomenal success.’

  Jess knew – and presumably so did Lasco – that ‘charm’ was gentlewoman-speak for ‘shagability’. None of the ladies were here because of how he roasted a chicken. It’s all about his bum.

  ‘Not content with staying in the kitchen, Nic is a regular on our screens, whether skating in Celebrities on Ice, or saving elephants with Joanna Lumley, he’s more than a man, he’s a brand. Like Jamie Oliver.’

  ‘Or,’ Lasco butted in, ‘as I like to call him, Jemima Olive Oil.’

  Howls of laughter. Even from Bogna, who ignored jokes on principle.

  ‘First question,’ said Patricia, ‘is from Susannah Castle.’

  Up shot Jess’s sister-in-law. Her cheeks shone with a mixture of sweetness and libido. ‘Hello Nic,’ she squeaked.

  ‘Susannah, love,’ cooed Lasco.

  A happy sigh rose up from the room and broke on the chandelier.

  ‘Are you still in a relationship with Kelly McVeigh? I love her programme by the way, I always watch her on Wake Up West.’ Susannah sat abruptly, fanning herself with her programme.

  ‘Me and Kelly are still very much an item.’

  ‘Shame, isn’t it,’ said Bogna. Loudly.

  ‘Kelly’s a lovely lady,’ said Lasco. ‘The sort of girl you’d take home to Mother.’

  Jess had a particular dislike for men who called women ‘lovely ladies’. Kelly McVeigh was an experienced presenter, chatty and relatable. Lasco’s paltry praise diminished her.

  Lasco stretched out his not especially long legs. He was in jeans and a floral shirt, just a soupcon of hair peeping out of the poplin. ‘You’ve all seen the clip of Kelly that went viral, right?’ He surfed on the crowd’s schaudenfreude. ‘I mean, throwing up live on air! Fantastic.’

  Or humiliating, thought Jess.

  Lasco moved on to talk about his ‘drive’ and his ‘passion’. ‘Right from when I started out, peeling potatoes at Claridges, I knew one day there’d be a Nic Lasco cookbook in every kitchen. Music isn’t the food of love,’ he said, raising a risqué eyebrow. ‘Food is the food of love.’

  ‘Quite the wordsmith,’ snarked Paul Chappell to Jess. He stuck up his hand. ‘Nic! Do you come from a culinary family?’

  ‘Are you a journo?’ Lasco raised himself up to study what he could see of Paul over the sea of blow-dries. ‘Don’t misquote me, will you? Mum, bless her little cotton socks, was a terrible cook. And Dad . . . Dad didn’t get to share much with me. He died when I was a little kid. Now that I’ve got a little fella of my own,’ said Nic, ‘I’m trying to pass on my love of food. Trying to be the dad I never had.’

  The sympathy in the room could have powered a jet fighter. Each woman there was convinced that she, and only she, could heal Nic’s pain.

  With the honourable exception of Jess, who wouldn’t have touched his pain with a bargepole.

  ‘Now let’s go to another member of the audience,’ said Patricia. ‘Oh look!’ A terrible actress, the surprise was bogus. ‘It’s my good friend, Gillian Cope!’ When rows and rows of blank faces looked back at her, she said, irked, ‘The very famous entrepreneur!’ Nothing. ‘From Dragon’s Den!’ A ripple of applause. ‘Do stand up, Gillian dear.’

  ‘I want to know something.’ Gillian’s face, shoes and attitude were pointed. ‘How can you bear to work with sleazebags like Jolly Cook?’

  Nic opened and closed his mouth.

  Gillian kept talking. ‘The serial killer deserves a medal for all the bad publicity he’s giving them. I’ve been in talks with Jolly Cook for almost six months to buy them out and convert their premises into a chain of BigrKids, then they screwed me over at the eleventh hour and went into this half-baked venture with you instead. I lost a fortune. If I were you, I’d wriggle out of my contract as soon as I could.’

  ‘You’re not me, though.’ The veneer of good humour was thin. Nic asked for another question. ‘You,’ he said, pointing to somebody out of sight behind a pillar.

  The accent was fruity and familiar. ‘Do you promise not to change the Jolly Cook sundae? It’s a classic.’ There was a smile in Mary’s voice; Lasco was just the sort of sexist she regularly filleted. ‘And while we’re on the subject of the murders, do you have any idea who did them? Somebody with a grudge against you, maybe?’

  ‘I’m not here to talk about the murders.’ Lasco was brusque. ‘They’re ruining the biggest project of my career. If only the so-called cops’d get a move on and catch the bastard.’

  A violently loud bang reverberated in the room. The fireworks had begun out in the streets. A loud hiss followed, and the pastel atmosphere darkened. The audience wanted to love Lasco, but they didn’t feel able to applaud such anger. They looked at one another.

  ‘But,’ said Nic, who seemed to sense he was in danger of losing them, ‘the main thing is that I love this beautiful little town and I want you all to be safe!’

  ‘We love you too!’ shrieked a small woman who really needed to get out more. The lovely ladies of Castle Kidbury were once more in the palm of Lasco’s hand.

  ***

  The Q&A was over. A line formed. It was orderly, neat, full of middle-class oestrogen. Until Bogna barged to the front.

  As Jess inched past, a hand reached out and grabbed her wrist. It was a hand that smelled of Cath Kidston lotion and wore a Castle heirloom ring.

  ‘Sis!’ Susannah seemed to be wearing two pashminas; this happened during times of stress.

  ‘Kind-of-sis!’ said Jess, gamely trying to match her enthusiasm.

  ‘Let’s grab a selfie with the great man.’

  ‘I’m all right for selfies with great men, thanks.’ Jess always seemed to rain on Susannah’s parade. They had no tastes in common. She relented. ‘How are, um, things?’

  ‘Great, super.’ Susannah looked around her. Lowered her voice. ‘Things are terrible. I think Stephen’s gone mad. Or having an affair.’

  Neither seemed likely. Jess’s brother was the King of Normal. ‘Oh Suze, I don’t—'

  ‘There are new trendy clothes hidden in the spare room. Floral shirts.’ Susannah gave the phrase the same weight as ‘bondage gear’ or ‘women’s knickers’. ‘And a parka thingy.’

  ‘And you never see him wear these new clothes?’

  ‘Never.’ Susannah gulped. As if deciding whether to go further. ‘Yesterday, a woman recognised him in the street. She said hello. Just like that!’

  ‘It was just a hello.’

  ‘I know all Stephen’s friends!’ Susannah seemed horrified at the idea of Stephen going rogue and knowing a flesh and blood woman. ‘Then there’s his late nights out, with his phone off. He says it’s overtime but the night before last he didn’t get home until dawn. I was out of my mind with worry. Poor Timothy Wong was killed that night, and it could have been my Stephen! What the hell is he up to?’

  ‘Susannah, this is boring, reliable Stephen we’re talking about. He loves you.’ Doesn’t he? They’d had a wedding that triggered a tulle shortage in the area. They had the twins. It added up to love, didn’t it? ‘Try not to worry.’ She couldn’t escape the pleading look on Susannah’s face; Jess knew what was expected of her. ‘Look, I’ll have a word with him.’

  Susannah pulled her close. ‘You’re the best sister-in-law in the world!’

  From the Kidbury Echo, page 1:

  SPECIAL EDITION

  KIDBURY KANNIBAL STRIKES AGAIN

  Sources close to police: body parts were removed and eaten

  Turn to page 3 for our gruesome artist’s impression!

  Turn to pa
ge 8 for a chance to enter Castle Kidbury’s Got Talent and win a year’s free entry to Bigrkid!

  Turn to page 11 for an EXCLUSIVE interview with Nic Lasco:

  ‘Why I find the Older Woman so Alluring’

  CHAPTER 9

  SOFT PLAY

  Friday 6 November

  Jess was a patchwork of bad habits; they held her together.

  One newish habit, acquired since her mother’s death, felt like a good one. She was her father’s guard dog, protecting him from the talc-scented, predatory attentions of Patricia Smalls. Buckling up in the passenger seat of the Judge’s Jaguar, she advised him not to worry. ‘I know Madam Smalls has pressured you into attending the opening of BiGrKid but we can just pop in for a few minutes, and then escape.’

  ‘Might be fun.’

  Fun? Adult softplay fun? As far as Jess knew, the Judge was allergic to fun.

  The long curve of Kidbury Road.

  Over the bridge.

  Past the medical centre.

  Past the vet’s.

  There had been no grisly offering that morning. Jess had gone off to her stint at Hooters charity shop feeling nine parts relief and one part trepidation; this was far from over. Norris had become an almost supernatural creature to Jess; one who could dissolve into the mist. Really though, she reminded herself, he was a just a thug with absurd amounts of cunning and nerve. He would make a mistake. He would be caught.

  If it was summer, she would feel less fatalistic. Of all the spokes on the wheel of the year, these dark ones were the most suited to death. ‘Dad, who found him?’ she asked.

  ‘Him?’ The Judge took a sharp right into the car park.

  ‘David.’ There it was again. That jolt of electricity around his name. ‘After the accident. Was he badly trampled?’ Poor David. To fall off a horse and die alone in the woods was a horrible death.

  ‘How morbid you are, Jessica.’

  That was all the answer she got.

  ***

  The scene inside the old library outdid Jess’s worst imaginings.

  The mahogany bones of the venerable main hall were obliterated by the primary colours of an indoor play area. All of it scaled up, as per BiGrKid’s opus moderandi. There was an adult-sized seesaw. A cavernous ball pit. A paddling pool into which Squeezers must surely fall.