A Village Murder Read online

  She sat back, relieved to reach the end of the story.

  The policewoman glanced at her colleague. He gave a tiny nod.

  ‘Now,’ she said, ‘tell us about the last time you saw your husband.’

  Imogen’s stomach lurched. She’d relaxed too soon. She licked dry lips and glanced at her solicitor, but Sheila Brooks chose that moment to turn a page in her notebook.

  ‘Did you quarrel?’ the policewoman asked, eyebrows raised politely.

  The solicitor’s head jerked up.

  Imogen fought to stay calm. Should she tell the truth? Wouldn’t that make her look guilty?

  ‘No. It was a normal day. I went out early, to a stately home, Haselbury House. I was working in the gardens there. I planned to stay overnight, so I could work late and start early. They gave me a room…’ her voice faded. That was too much information. ‘Just answer the questions,’ Sheila Brooks had advised.

  The police officer nodded. ‘Good. Now, did you speak to your husband, that morning, before you left?’

  Imogen reflected. Greg had been asleep, waking only as she came back into the bedroom after her shower. He’d opened one eye. ‘Make a cup of coffee, Immy,’ he’d muttered, their quarrel apparently forgotten.

  Imogen had no idea what time he’d returned home the night before. He’d slammed out of the flat after the row, muttering about going ‘out with the boys’. ‘Boys’ was Greg’s word for a bunch of men in middle age, every spare evening spent drinking beer together and arguing about football.

  It seemed the previous evening’s argument was forgotten. Imogen had bitten back a sharp retort and clattered round the kitchen, making coffee and toast. She’d left the food on a tray beside her husband.

  He’d grunted.

  She’d shrugged into a warm jacket. ‘See you tomorrow night,’ she’d called as she’d left.

  ‘I made breakfast and said goodbye,’ she told the officer.

  ‘Did you kiss him goodbye?’

  Imogen hesitated. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘You can’t remember?’

  Imogen couldn’t meet her eyes. ‘Well, I didn’t kiss him. I was in a rush. I grabbed my keys and ran.’

  ‘You didn’t kiss your husband, although you were going to be away for a couple of days. But you say you didn’t quarrel?’

  Imogen gulped. She opened her mouth to tell the truth, but before she could reply, the solicitor sat up straighter and sighed.

  ‘My client has already answered your question.’

  Imogen tried to breathe slowly. This was even worse than she’d expected. The police had lulled her into a false sense of security.

  The officer took her through the story again, querying every detail. What had she been wearing that day? Where was Greg going? Had they spoken on the telephone?

  Imogen tried not to squirm. She’d lied about her argument with Greg. The police couldn’t know that, could they? It was too late to change her story.

  She kept the rest of her replies simple, desperate to avoid more gaffes. The last thing she wanted was to be clapped in irons and led to a cell.

  The tension mounted. Just as Imogen wondered whether her head would explode, the officer smiled. ‘That’s all I need, for now. If you think of anything else, give me a call.’

  Imogen stifled an urge to cry with relief. At least, she was still at liberty. She shivered. That was the only bright side. She must be at the very top of the police list of suspects, and she’d made matters worse by lying.

  It took all her strength to make a dignified exit. At least the officers couldn’t hear the thudding in her chest.

  Her legs felt far too weak for driving. Maybe she should have taken the liaison officer up on her offer of transport, after all.

  She would find somewhere to have a late lunch in town and give her body time to stop shaking.

  The weather had suddenly turned unseasonably warm for late April, and Imogen’s suit felt hot and constricting, her heels uncomfortably high. She tottered along the main street, past branches of Marks and Spencer and Boots, turning into the department store on the corner. The air-conditioning cooled her burning cheeks.

  As she rode the escalator, her stomach rumbled. She’d be happy to eat sausage and chips. She needed a good dose of fried food this very minute.

  Her tray loaded with artery blocking fat, she queued behind a woman bearing chocolate cake, blueberry muffins and a maple pecan slice. Someone needing a sugar rush. At the counter, Imogen ordered a cup of tea, craving a hot, dark brown brew, strong enough to stand a spoon in, as her grandmother used to say.

  ‘Immy Jones. I don’t believe it.’

  Imogen swung round. The woman looked familiar.

  Imogen stared, struggling to place her. Middle-aged, like Imogen, she wore an elegant light blue coat with style. Blonde-streaked hair curled around her cheeks. Imogen sucked in her stomach.

  The name popped into Imogen’s head. ‘Toni Jackson.’

  ‘That’s me. How long is it since we bumped into each other? Must be thirty years.’

  The boy behind the counter was waiting, hand on hip, foot tapping, for Imogen to pay.

  ‘Oh, sorry.’ She fumbled in her bag, dragged out her card and swiped it over the machine.

  Toni Jackson said, ‘Come and sit with me. I was just about to leave, but it’s been so long since I’ve seen you…’

  Hardly knowing whether to be pleased or horrified to meet Toni again after so many years, Imogen followed her across the room to a table overlooking a small park. She wished Toni had chosen a different table. From here, she could see the flat she’d shared with Greg.

  Instead, she focused on Toni Jackson. They’d been in the same crowd at school. Never best friends, they’d rubbed along well enough. Toni – Antonia – Jackson had left Camilton to go to university and never returned, so far as Imogen knew. ‘What are you doing here after all these years?’

  Toni laughed, the low, gurgling sound Imogen remembered. ‘My parents lived nearby, so I’ve been back a few times for a weekend, but my mother died and now Dad’s got Alzheimer’s. We’re moving him into a care home, nearer to Birmingham.’

  Imogen frowned. ‘I remember your mother. She knitted your stripy jumpers. I’m sorry to hear about her – and your father. We’re getting old, aren’t we? My father died a few weeks ago.’ Real tears threatened for the first time since her father’s death. She rubbed at her eyes. ‘I’m sorry. Oh dear.’

  She scrabbled for a tissue in her bag, finding only old bills, furious at herself. She’d always been proud of her resilience. When she was little, her mother had called her ‘feisty’ – her father, ‘obstinate’.

  Toni offered her a clean tissue, sliding a neat packet from her Mulberry bag. ‘I saw the local news this morning. About your husband’s death at the hotel. It must have been terrible, especially finding him yourself. I’m very sorry.’

  Imogen fluttered her fingers, not yet ready to speak, horrified by her loss of control in such a public place.

  Toni went on, ‘It must be dreadful for you. Have you come out for a little retail therapy?’

  Imogen sniffed. That made her sound like a hard hearted shrew of a wife. Still, better that than admitting she’d been with the police. ‘Greg and I had split up,’ she confessed. ‘But it’s been a shock, all the same.’

  ‘Well, I know something that might cheer you up.’ Toni took a pair of oblong reading glasses from a small case, settled them on her nose, extracted an envelope from the leather bag and read it aloud. ‘Please come to a reunion of St Alban’s school, class of ‘79. Bring family photos and anyone else who was there. Nisi Dominus Frustra.’ Toni shrugged, ‘Never did know what that Latin motto meant.’

  ‘It’s from a psalm. Something about not building things without God’s help, I think.’

  ‘I forgot you did Latin. Helpful for the names of plants, was it?’

  Fancy Toni remembering she was going to study horticulture. ‘Slightly.’

&n
bsp; ‘Well, can you come?’

  Imogen leaned across to see the date. ‘I don’t know. It’s rather short notice. And with my father, and Greg…’

  ‘Well, come if you can. I’m expecting Kate Lyncombe – remember her? And maybe,’ her nose wrinkled, ‘even Steph might make an appearance. It’ll take your mind off – you know – Greg and everything.’ Toni lifted her sleeve to examine a sleek, gold watch. ‘Good Lord, is that the time? I have to go – an appointment with the estate agent. Selling Dad’s house, you see. Those nursing home fees…’

  In moments, she was gone, leaving Imogen puzzled. Had that meeting truly been accidental, or had Toni sought her out on purpose to invite her to the reunion?

  She sat for a while, remembering her schooldays. Not the happiest time of her life, despite the popular saying. Her father, his business empire already growing fast, had sent her to a small public school full of wealthy girls from the minor aristocracy, with a smattering of doctors and lawyers’ children. Imogen, tall, clever and self-contained, was one of a trio of friends.

  For the first time in years, she missed the others – Kate and Steph.

  She’d never been close to Toni, so extroverted and confident, wearing all the latest fashions to Queen concerts and Glastonbury, and so full of confidence she’d hardly seemed to study at all for a place at university to study architecture.

  After the exams, the small group had split up. They kept clear of each other. None of them had tried to meet – not after that one dreadful night, when their stupid escapade had gone so badly wrong.

  Why would they want to meet now?

  8

  School

  Imogen retrieved her car and drove home, almost on automatic pilot. Meeting Toni had set off a series of memories she’d tried to forget.

  A single day at school played, like a video, in her head. The sun had shone constantly that May. Imogen and her friends were about to take their A levels, and the weather had been gloriously hot. She’d sunbathed on the grass in the school grounds with Kate, her best friend, a maths student. Kate would be called a geek, these days, but the word hadn’t been invented then.

  The girls had stretched out under an ancient oak tree, pretending to revise for the upcoming exams, distracted by the weather.

  ‘My knees are burning,’ Imogen complained, trying to cover them with her bottle green uniform skirt.

  ‘It’s your fair skin. You shouldn’t sunbathe at all.’ Kate pushed across a bottle of Ambre Solaire.

  Imogen read the instructions on the back of the bottle Apply one hour before sitting in the sun.

  ‘Too late. I’ll just have to put up with lobster legs and freckles.’

  Kate’s legs were beautifully smooth and brown. Imogen sometimes wondered why Kate had chosen to be her friend. Petite, pretty, with ash-blonde hair that framed her face and swung gently in the breeze, Kate owned one of the brightest minds in the school.

  ‘Hey, you two,’ Steph Aldred plopped down beside the girls, hitched her skirt high and lay back on the grass. ‘This is the life. I’m getting a suntan if it kills me. Budge over, Immy, you’re blocking the sun.’

  Imogen rolled obligingly onto her stomach. ‘Serves you right if you burn.’

  She stretched and yawned. ‘It’s far too hot to work, today.’

  Steph threw a handful of grass at her friend. ‘Who’s working? I’m going into town. We need supplies for tonight.’

  Imogen struggled to sit up. ‘Tonight? I thought we were waiting until after the exams?’

  Steph sniffed. ‘People are starting to talk. Toni Jackson knows what we’re planning. She grabbed me this morning and she wants to come along.’

  Kate groaned. ‘Trust her to get in on the act. Don’t let her, Steph.’

  Steph shook her head. ‘We can’t keep her out, now she knows, and we have to go tonight before she spreads it around. She’s such a gossip.’

  Imogen joined in, excited that the day had finally come. ‘We can’t trust her. If we wait, she’ll tell everyone. Steph’s right, we’ll have to go tonight. What do we need?’

  Their expedition had begun as a vague idea, conceived when their form tutor, Mrs Hall, lectured them on their first day in the sixth form. The basement of their common room, where supplies were stored, was strictly off limits. No one was allowed to venture down there.

  According to rumour, a door in the basement opened on to a secret tunnel, leading under the hill to an old, ruined castle.

  Steph, always adventurous, had sneaked down to the basement one morning when the whole school had been in assembly, and discovered the rumour was at least partly true. There was indeed a door, and it wasn’t even locked. She’d pulled it open and discovered piles of books, paper and stationery.

  Now, she chuckled. ‘We need to bring the books and things out, then we can get into the tunnel. Good job Greg and Daniel and the others from the boys’ school are coming. They can help.’

  Kate pulled a sheet of paper from a file marked ‘Applied maths’ and started to read. ‘Torches…’

  ‘I bought those, last week.’ Steph said.

  Kate clicked her tongue. ‘Don’t interrupt.’

  Imogen hid a smile. She’d known Kate for years, since primary school, but she could be a bossy madam.

  She went on reading aloud, ‘Food, the map – you copied it in the library, didn’t you, Immy?’

  Imogen nodded, and Kate continued.

  ‘Sleeping bags, toothbrushes and wellingtons in case part of the tunnel is flooded.’

  She finished reading and beamed at the other two.

  ‘So, how many of us are going down tonight?’ Imogen asked.

  Steph pointed to each in turn. ‘Us three – and now, Toni. And the boys, of course.’

  Kate struggled to her feet. ‘Well, she’d better bring some decent food with her, that’s all I can say. Immy, how about some of that posh smoked salmon your dad serves in the hotel? Could you sneak some out?’

  Steph giggled. ‘I’ve never had smoked salmon.’

  Imogen nodded. ‘And I’ll bring a bottle of wine if I can. Otherwise, it’ll be cider.’

  Steph rubbed her hands together. ‘I’ve got a lesson in five minutes. Meet you all in the White House at 9 o’clock, and remember, don’t tell anyone.’

  If only they’d changed their minds.

  9

  Andrews

  DCI Andrews’ visit early the next day took Adam by surprise. The officer called at The Plough, unexpected and unannounced. ‘I was passing.’

  Seriously? No one ever ‘just passed’ Lower Hembrow.

  ‘Gregory Bishop’s death – I’d like to know more about the circumstances,’ he began, as soon as Adam opened the door, not bothering with small talk.

  ‘I gave a statement—’

  ‘Your previous involvement with the police means you may have an insight or two.’ Andrews spoke formally, through gritted teeth. ‘As a courtesy, I came myself.’

  ‘Not sure how much I can help,’ Adam admitted.

  He’d hoped for more fellow feeling. No doubt Andrews knew most of the details of Adam’s last case. For a moment, he longed to discuss police matters, man-to-man, with someone who’d understand.

  The DCI was talking. ‘I can’t share much information with you, Mr Hennessy, but I will tell you this. We’ve had a report from the medical examiner, who believes we have a deliberate poisoning on our hands.’

  Adam instantly forgot his old case. ‘It’s murder, then?’ He felt the old buzz of excitement. ‘Any idea what poison?’

  Andrews gave a bleak smile. ‘Not yet. The pathologist won’t commit himself this early on, of course, but preliminary tests suggest rat poison.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Adam blinked. ‘Rat poison? I haven’t heard of that for a while.’

  ‘Turns out you can buy the stuff from Amazon. Brodifacoum, it’s called. I think that’s how you pronounce it. It’s an anticoagulant and the victim died from internal bleeding. The medical examin
er noticed some blood in the chest cavity and that gave him the clue.’

  Adam took a moment to digest the information. ‘Do you know when it was administered?’

  Andrews shook his heavy head. ‘There were traces in the bottle of champagne at the scene, so that’s straightforward enough, and leaving the body in the orangery suggests an attempt to delay finding him. There was no key on him, by the way. Someone locked him in.’

  Adam thought for a moment. ‘It’s easy enough for anyone to get into the hotel garden from the car park, which was full because of the funeral, so an alibi is going to be tricky.’

  ‘That’s an understatement.’

  For the first time, DCI Andrews smiled. ‘It’s going to be a problem for the grieving widow, isn’t it? Champagne from her hotel. Easy enough for her to slip the poison in, at any time, and give it to her husband.’ He frowned. ‘Haven’t got a motive yet, but it shouldn’t take long to find one.’ He grinned, showing wolfish teeth, the first sign of informality. ‘It’s a miracle more people don’t finish off their husbands and wives, if you ask me.’

  Adam asked, ‘Any detail on the time of death?’

  ‘Sometime on the day of the funeral. That’s the closest we can get at the moment. The grounds were closed off for the afternoon and the hotel guests given discounts on their bills. Clever move by that little manager. That explains why no one saw the body sooner.’

  ‘Very clever.’

  Whose idea had that been. Emily’s or Imogen’s?

  ‘Did your men find anything useful at the scene?’

  The detective looked at his watch, talking fast, as though he’d already wasted too much time. ‘Nothing to speak of. Grateful if you let me in on any of your famous bright ideas. Might be useful.’ He scowled, the brief moments of camaraderie over. ‘We’ll talk to Mrs Bishop again, soon.’

  Adam watched him drive away, unsettled by the visit. Andrews seemed halfway to certainty that Imogen had killed her husband and keen for a rapid solution to the case. That was dangerous. Once an officer believed he’d found the killer it was difficult to maintain an open mind. Andrews’ ego might prove to be a problem.