A Village Murder Page 10

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ she admitted. What had she hoped to achieve by coming here? Had she imagined this arrogant businessman was going to describe his deals? Especially if the deals were less than honest.

  She would learn nothing from him.

  She let Joe Georgiou take her hand in a brief, clammy handshake, and left.

  An hour later, she jogged alongside Adam Hennessy as he followed the stray dog, now named Harley, through the village.

  ‘Sorry about this,’ Adam panted, ‘but this animal has far too much energy. I can’t keep up with him, and he’s wrecking my home. He chewed my best shoes while I was away yesterday.’

  ‘You could keep him away from your things.’

  Adam stopped. ‘You’ve seen the size of my place. There’s just no room for him.’

  She laughed. ‘The Plough’s plenty big enough.’

  The dog made a lunge forward, possibly having caught sight of a rabbit in the hedgerow, almost pulling Adam off his feet.

  ‘But, I’m not, and Harley needs true love.’

  Imogen laughed aloud. ‘I knew you’d cheer me up.’

  ‘I’m glad my misfortune makes you happy.’ Adam’s sideways smile took the sting from his words. ‘But, seriously, this dog is too much for me. I need to make The Plough pay, and constant dog walking and furniture replacement takes far too much time. I should be ordering supplies right now, but here I am, scampering along behind this crazy animal. I’ll go bankrupt if this goes on. A police pension has its limits.’ He coughed, ‘In fact,’ he sounded uncertain, ‘I’m planning to send Harley to the animal shelter. I hear there’s a great one not far away. He’s a nice dog, and given a bit of discipline, he’ll be a good pet. I just don’t have the time or energy to train him.’

  Imogen stopped in her tracks, hands on her hips. ‘You’re joking, aren’t you? Every pub should have a dog.’

  ‘Not this one.’ Adam hauled on the lead and pulled Harley back. ‘Sit down,’ he admonished. The dog ignored him.

  Imogen raised her hand. ‘Sit!’ she commanded, and Harley sank back, tongue hanging out, panting expectantly. ‘Have you got a treat for him?’

  Adam delved into one of the pockets of his jacket. ‘Dog biscuits.’ He handed one to Imogen, who held it aloft.

  The dog’s eyes followed every move she made, until she announced, ‘There you are,’ and tossed it towards the animal. He caught and swallowed it in one bite. ‘You just have to use clear commands.’

  ‘I can see you know dogs,’ Adam threw her a sideways glance.

  ‘I grew up with them. Labradors, mostly, and once, a red setter.’ She took the lead from Adam’s hand. ‘Now, heel,’ she said, and Harley trotted beside her, so close he was almost touching her legs. ‘He’s been trained,’ she pointed out.

  ‘Still, he’s got to go. I’ve made up my mind.’

  Imogen took a long moment to reply. ‘You know, he loved running in the hotel grounds. Maybe…’

  ‘He did. Perfect exercise, I’d say. Just right for an animal like this.’

  Encouraged, Imogen said, ‘Maybe he’d like to stay with me for a bit. If you really don’t want him. And if we can’t find his owner.’

  ‘Seriously? You mean, you’d take him off my hands?’

  ‘If you can bear to part with him.’ She bent down. ‘You’re lovely, aren’t you, Harley?’

  Adam beamed. ‘You’ll be doing me the most enormous favour. I’ll never be able to repay you. Ask me for anything.’

  Imogen stood tall. ‘Find my husband’s killer.’

  Within half an hour, Adam and Imogen had collected all Harley’s doggy possessions from The Plough. ‘It’s tidier already.’ He ignored the pang of regret, handed over Harley’s lead and followed Imogen and her new companion across the road to The Streamside Hotel.

  ‘Let’s take him straight out into the garden,’ Imogen suggested. ‘I’ll explain to Emily and the others later that he’s here to stay. I’m sure they’ll be delighted.’

  ‘I hope you’re right.’ He wasn’t so sure.

  He followed her along the path they’d taken on the night of Greg’s death, towards the orangery.

  She stopped. ‘I’m not quite ready to go inside yet,’

  ‘Give yourself time.’

  ‘I might have to knock it down; replace it with a grove of trees.’

  ‘Like those?’ Adam pointed at the hawthorns lining the bank of the stream. ‘They’re magnificent.’

  ‘There’s a bench nearby– let’s sit there a moment while Harley chases imaginary rabbits.’

  They sat facing the stream where a family of ducks paddled serenely.

  Imogen said, ‘I meant it – about finding Greg’s killer.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.

  He thought hard, filling the pause by pulling out his notebook and making a show of finding the right page.

  How sure was he of Imogen’s innocence? Was he being trapped by friendship into ignoring facts?

  Speaking with care, he described his visit to Steph Aldred.

  Imogen’s head jerked up at the name.

  ‘I saw her, too, at the reunion,’ she said.

  ‘Well, she didn’t have much to tell me. Your husband visited her after your quarrel, looking for somewhere to stay, but she refused him and he left. She said she didn’t know where he went.’

  Imogen’s hands had stilled. ‘Was she living alone?’ she blurted, and a blush rose to her cheeks.

  ‘So far as I could see. She told me she was divorced and her daughter had left home. How about you? You were going to find Daniel.’

  The blush grew deeper. Jealousy?

  Adam waited for Imogen to speak.

  ‘He was at our school reunion. So was Steph, and my best friend from school, Kate. We talked a lot about the old days.’

  ‘Reminiscences not entirely happy?’

  Imogen’s words came in a rush. ‘It reminded me of something dreadful that happened just before we left school.’

  Words tumbling over each other, she told the story of the picnic in the tunnel that ended in disaster, and the death of the unfortunate, unloved Julian.

  ‘We all laughed at him because he was different. Too clever, hopeless at sport and not at all attractive.’

  Adam swallowed. She could have been describing him and his schooldays, always on the outside of every group.

  ‘I was the worst.’ She twisted her fingers together and heaved a huge sigh. ‘He asked me to go to the pictures with him, and I laughed at him.’

  Adam nodded. ‘Teenagers are cruel animals. Most of us improve as we grow up. You’d be kinder, now, and Julian would have found his own tribe – people who value him as he deserved. That’s the biggest tragedy of an early death. Julian never had the chance to become his real self.’

  Gaze still on her hands, she nodded. ‘You’re right. He was a good person, and clever. He’d been accepted by one of the Oxford colleges. But we didn’t really notice him, because we only cared about good looks, and being trendy, and so on.’ She gave an awkward smile. ‘Do people even say “trendy” these days?’

  Adam flipped to a clean page in his notebook and cleared his throat. ‘Tell me more about him.’

  ‘Why?’ Imogen looked startled. ‘He doesn’t have anything to do with Greg’s death. Greg was there that night, we all were, but none of us saw Julian get hurt. We found out later that he tripped and hit his head against the wall. It was just a freak accident – we were all either drunk or high. It could have happened to any of us.’

  ‘Are you sure?‘

  Imogen’s mouth fell open.

  Before she could speak, Maria Rostropova’s voice cut through the tension. ‘My darlings. I’ve tracked you down. Your receptionist said you would be out here, Mrs Bishop, with my dear friend, Adam, so I took the liberty of coming to find you.’

  ‘You’re very welcome,’ Imogen said, ‘though I don’t think we’ve met…?’

  ‘My darling, I came to your dear father’s fun
eral, although I could only stay for a few moments. He and I were great friends. The best of friends.’

  ‘Thank you,’

  Maria was still talking. ‘If he had still been here, he would have loved to help me with my concert.’ She peered into Imogen’s face. ‘Has Adam not told you about the concert?’

  ‘Seems to have slipped my mind,’ Adam said. He’d been trying not to think about it, regretting his promise almost as soon as he’d made it. He really shouldn’t let Maria twist him around her little finger.

  He explained their arrangement to Imogen. ‘I’m hoping it’s all organised?’ He shot a look at Maria, already anticipating the answer.

  She threw both her hands in the air. ‘Organised? Why, I was leaving all that to you – you promised.’

  ‘I’m sure I didn’t—’ He broke off and started again. ‘Maria,’ he said, ‘I’m happy for you to organise your charity concert in my garden—’

  ‘Your musical space.’

  ‘Quite. However, I need you to do the work. Do you understand? You must organise rehearsals, tickets, volunteers to manage the event…’

  ‘Me?’ Maria was shocked. ‘I have no idea how to find tickets, or who will volunteer. Remember, I am just a poor—’

  ‘Yes, a poor, immigrant widow. You told me.’

  Adam felt completely out of his depth with this beautiful woman.

  To his amazement, Imogen stepped in. ‘Emily, my hotel manager, is the most efficient person on the planet. I’ll ask her to help out.’

  Maria Rostropova’s eyes shone with triumph as Adam suppressed the urge to laugh out loud. It seemed it was Imogen’s turn to fall straight into the woman’s trap.

  Hands clasped as though she were in heaven, Maria sashayed elegantly over to the stream, turned and swept one arm wide, taking in the whole of the garden. ‘And these wonderful grounds…’

  ‘No,’ Adam said. ‘You cannot force Mrs Bishop to hold the event here.’

  ‘But I’d be delighted.’ Adam stared. Was she mad?

  ‘Do you have a date in mind?’ Imogen went on.

  ‘Three weeks. We plan to perform in just three weeks’ time. We have been rehearsing for months.’ Maria raised a pencilled eyebrow at Adam. ‘You see, I have already arranged all our rehearsals with our conductor. I am not so silly as you think, dear Adam.’

  As she drifted away, Adam rolled his eyes at Imogen. ‘And that,’ he said, ‘is manipulation at its finest.’

  20

  Shed

  ‘Thanks, mate.’ James took a long, hard pull at his pint. ‘This is on the house, right? Sorry I couldn’t talk when you rang. I was inside a drunk’s chest at the time. What can I do for you? You need my brains?’

  Adam rested an elbow on the bar of The Plough. ‘Thanks for pulling strings. The local DCI called round to tell me he’s pretty sure Greg Bishop was poisoned.’

  ‘A pleasure. And what else can I do for you in return for more free beer?’

  ‘I need some DIY knowledge.’

  James glanced round, sucking in his cheeks. ‘Making a few changes?’

  ‘Not me. I’m about as handy with a hammer as a snake with a spade. I like this place just as it is, and if I need to change things, I’ll get a builder in. No, it’s more forensic…’

  ‘Got a body handy?’

  ‘No, just a set of tyres with nails.’

  ‘You dinged your car?’

  Adam recounted Councillor Jones’ crash and the pile of rubbish that caused it. ‘The police took a quick look and wrote to the man’s daughter, saying there were no witnesses, and nothing suspicious, so they were closing the case.’

  ‘And you disagree. Wait a moment,’ James held out a hand, one finger raised. ‘I’m trying to connect the dots here. I thought you were investigating your girlfriend’s husband’s murder.’

  ‘Not a girlfriend – just a friend. And yes, I am. I’m also curious about her father’s death.’

  ‘Oh, ho. Now you’re talking,’ James crowed. ‘A double murder sounds juicy. What can I do to help? The body’s buried, I suppose. Are you going for a exhumation, because if you are—’

  ‘Nothing like that. It was definitely a car crash, and probably not murder at all.’

  James gave a snort of derision.

  Adam ignored it. ‘I went to the scrap yard and retrieved the nails from the tyres. I need to know if we can trace them – if there’s anything unusual. You’re a DIY freak. Can you give me an idea what they might be used for? It’s a very long shot, but worth a try. I hoped you’d have a contact.’

  ‘Not wanting to involve your old team?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Adam hated the idea of his former colleagues knowing he was dabbling in amateur sleuthing. He could imagine their comments. ‘And definitely not the local police. They’re not keen on talking to me.’

  ‘Scared of your reputation, I bet. The great Adam Hennessy, best clear-up stats in the region, put the biggest criminals behind bars—’

  The biggest of them all, the killer of Adam’s cat, was in prison swearing vengeance. ‘I think I cramp their style. So, can you help?’

  ‘Show me.’

  Adam pulled a plastic bag out of his pocket. Inside were three nails, each very different from the others.

  James poked them. ‘You didn’t take these from an evidence bag?’

  ‘Don’t worry. The police didn’t want them. There’s no evidence chain.’

  James finished his pint and pushed the glass across the bar. ‘While I’m working on it…’

  ‘You’re going to drink me dry.’

  ‘That’s the plan.’

  James laid the nails on the bar in a neat row, while Adam served a local young farmer getting a round in. He glanced at James; his brow was furrowed in concentration.

  Adam washed glasses and waited.

  It was early evening, and apart from the young farmers, the place was empty. A few bookings for food would be in later, and it was Wednesday, so there would be a few midweek walk-ins. He’d be rushed off his feet by the end of the night.

  He shot a glance at the healthy young farmers. The sleeves of their shirts, rolled above their elbows, looked in imminent danger of splitting, straining to cover muscles developed far from any gym. The country life looked pretty good. What could beat serving behind his own bar?

  James looked up.

  ‘What do you reckon these are for, then?’ Adam asked.

  ‘You remember when the wife insisted on a potting shed?’

  ‘You mean, when you wanted a place away from the kids.’

  ‘Who wouldn’t? My idea of gardening – a couple of chairs and a cupboard for whisky. Anyway, we went the whole hog, got the builders in and had a permanent structure. Needed planning permission and all sorts, but Pam handled all that side of it. Bear with me, I’m telling you this because of the roof. Proper slate. Going to outlast me, that’s for sure. Anyway, this stainless-steel affair,’ he held up a long piece of metal with an L-shaped hook at one end, ‘is a slate hook. And this,’ he pointed to a nail that gleamed with a copper glow, ‘this one’s called a clout nail, and again, it’s used in roofing.’

  Adam leaned across the bar and clapped his friend on the shoulder. ‘You’re a genius. Anything about the other nail?’

  James rolled a finger across the third item. ‘It’s a screw, not a nail, my ignorant friend. It’s big enough for a roof, but not necessarily. These others, though, they’re more conclusive.’ He went on in a fake French accent. ‘My little grey cells tell me the fly-tipped pile of rubbish was either from a slate roof – unlikely, as there were no slates mentioned in the reports – or it was left by a builder – or, more specifically, a roofer.’

  ‘Thank you, Hercule.’ Adam peered more closely at the three bits of metal. ‘Not sure where that takes us, but it’s good to know.’

  James reverted to half cockney and waved his glass in Adam’s face. ‘All that deduction’s thirsty work. Keep setting them up, my good man.’


  As the pub filled, Adam kept the drink flowing.

  Alison, the lively university student who waitressed in the evenings, scampered round, drawing appreciative stares from the regulars as she served.

  ‘Over here, when you’re ready.’ The imperious voice booming from the end of the bar belonged to Jonathan Hampton. His family had owned the manor estate, where the hotel and pub were situated, before running out of money and selling it all off. Jonathan lived in London but made regular trips to stay at the hotel and visit The Plough – ‘Need to make sure the place is doing us proud.’

  ‘What can I get you?’ Adam stuck to extreme politeness. The other man ordered a Manhattan cocktail for his girlfriend, a leggy blonde with a jarring accent and expensive handbag. James shifted a few inches along to make room for her at the bar.

  Alison, four plates of steak and scampi balanced on her arms, winked at Adam as she swept past. He kept a straight face and concentrated on perfecting the cocktail and drawing a pint of best real ale.

  ‘I hear the body in the Streamside garden was a murder.’ Jonathan licked his lips. ‘Bet it’s brought in a few punters.’

  A wizened farmer nearby chuckled. ‘Plenty of drama hereabouts. And they say nothing ever happens here in Somerset.’

  ‘Then, there’s the councillor,’ Jonathan continued at full volume. ‘Knew him well, of course. Thinking of getting into politics myself.’

  His girlfriend nodded, silently draining her glass and replacing it on the bar.

  ‘One more,’ Jonathan held up the empty glass. ‘Got to keep the missus happy, eh. Oh, forgot, you don’t have one of those. Lucky man.’

  Maria Rostropova made an entrance, but Hampton was too busy chortling to notice until she tapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘Slumming, Jonathan?’ she smiled, a malicious glint in her eyes.

  Jonathan, apparently impervious to irony, proudly introduced her to his girlfriend, Cecilia.

  ‘And you are?’ Maria turned the full force of her huge eyes on James.

  ‘One of Adam’s old mates. James.’

  ‘Ah. From his work?’