A Village Murder Page 9

‘Fancy us meeting in town like that. How do you like being back home?’

  Home? The hotel felt nothing like home. ‘It’s… strange. My father’s things are still there. I haven’t finished going through them yet.’

  As the awkward conversation with Toni stalled, Imogen heard her name bawled above the hubbub. Kate, her oldest and best friend, hardly changed at all, was waving like a maniac from the other side of the room.

  Imogen waved back, her hand freezing mid-air as Kate’s companion turned, glass of red wine in hand, and smiled. Imogen knew that lop-sided grin so well.

  ‘Daniel?’ Her heart thudded rhythmically. He looked exactly as he had when he came to paint the hotel garden so long ago.

  Ignoring Toni’s vocal admiration of her shoes, Imogen crossed the room, knowing the only reason she’d come to this excruciating event was the hope of seeing Daniel again.

  Kate hugged Imogen. ‘It’s been so long. We need to catch up. I promised to take a glass of wine to Mrs Hall, so give me just one moment and I’ll be back…’

  She drifted away.

  Daniel hadn’t changed at all. Grey speckled his hair and lines radiated from his eyes, but the handsome man under those sharp cheekbones and wide mouth was exactly as she remembered.

  ‘Imogen.’ Daniel’s brown eyes glowed. ‘I’m so sorry about your father.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And your husband, too. You must be devastated.’ A frown line surfaced above Daniel’s eyes. ‘Suddenly, you’re on your own.’

  Imogen had to swallow hard to keep tears from her eyes. Trust Daniel to understand.

  ‘I wish I’d been a better daughter.’

  The babble of conversation in the room died away as they talked. Familiar tunes played in the background, but Imogen could hardly hear them. Her world contained only Daniel.

  In the days to come, she would remember so little of their conversation. It was nonsense, mostly; life’s small successes and failures. They talked about Imogen’s career, her big commission at the stately home and her love of getting her hands dirty.

  Daniel talked about painting. He was poor but happy. He’d had some exhibitions, made enough to live on, married a French girl he’d met while studying in Paris. He had a son. ‘Amelie and I drifted apart. She’s still in France, in the south. Pierre lives with her and I visit when I can.’

  As they talked, Imogen watched those familiar brown eyes, sure she was about to drown in them, wondering if this was the moment – that one, special moment – when her life would change, miraculously, and she would spend the rest of it in a glow of happiness.

  Marriage, growing old together; the whole dream beckoned. It was late in life, but not too late. She felt young again, tonight, as though she’d only just left school.

  Someone squeezed past and touched Daniel lightly on his back. ‘Can I join you two if you’re gossiping about old times?’

  Daniel turned and pulled Imogen’s old friend, Steph, close, his arm around her shoulders. ‘We’re just catching up on the news. We haven’t even started on “do you remember” yet.’

  Someone must have punched Imogen in the stomach, for suddenly she could hardly breathe. Daniel and Steph? Together? Look, he was smiling into her eyes…

  With a shaky hand, Imogen raised her glass, gulping down wine, not tasting a drop. ‘I see you two have kept in touch,’ she managed.

  Steph laughed. ‘I bumped into Daniel last year.’

  ‘I’ve been out of the loop.’ Imogen spoke through numb lips, knowing she sounded distant. ‘And I need to catch up with everyone.’ Desperate to escape, she searched the crowd. ‘Kate,’ she gasped. ‘There you are.’ Her friend was still talking to Mrs Hall.

  Without another glance at Daniel or Steph, fighting to maintain the few shreds of dignity that remained as her dream crashed at her feet, she lifted her chin and strode across the room. ‘Thank heaven you’re here.’

  The two old friends hugged again; Imogen close to tears. At least she had the excuse of two recent bereavements. No one would be surprised if she were tearful. She wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and hugged Kate again.

  ‘Why didn’t we keep up with each other? It’s been years. What have you been doing? Maths, that was your thing. Maths and art.’

  ‘I trained as an architect. It took years.’

  Imogen glanced at her friend’s hand and Kate laughed.

  ‘No, I never married. I’m a career girl.’

  ‘Me too. I’m a landscape designer.’

  ‘Really – we should work together.’

  ‘We should.’

  A brief silence took hold, the two women avoiding eye contact. They were both thinking the same thing. The elephant in the room loomed.

  ‘We all lost touch, didn’t we, after…’ Kate’s voice trailed away.

  ‘After that horrible night.’ Imogen grasped the nettle. ‘You know, I was never sure exactly what happened.’

  ‘Me neither. I mean, I remember us all scrambling down the tunnel, lighting candles and opening bottles of wine. I think I drank so much I passed out…’

  ‘Me too.’

  They stopped talking. Imogen tried to recall that night, as she had so many times over the years, but everything was blurry.

  Kate broke the silence. ‘The boys spiked the drinks.’

  Imogen nodded. ‘That was it. Everyone was high. We didn’t know what was happening. One minute we were laughing and dancing, and the next, that fight broke out and we ran all the way back to the school.’

  ‘Except for Julian.’

  Imogen closed her eyes. ‘Poor Julian. Concussion, they said. He fell against the wall when we all ran. Hit his head.’

  ‘That’s right, concussion.’ Kate’s face was pale.

  Imogen murmured, under her breath, ‘And now, Greg’s dead.’

  But it was Julian’s face in her head. Small and skinny, the butt of people’s jokes, tagging on to the popular lads who hung around Imogen’s group. Well, hung around Toni, mostly. Julian had always been nearby, a bit of a swot, too earnest, a terrible dancer. He’d been tolerated, but no one had really cared if he’d been there or not.

  Until, suddenly, he wasn’t anywhere.

  The boys had stopped hanging out with the girls, then. Everyone buried their heads in their books, pretending they had to work, had no time for parties.

  Except for Greg. He’d called at the hotel one day, asked Imogen out to the pictures. It had been a relief to be with him. He was a joker. He made Imogen laugh, and that meant she never had to think about Julian, or how he’d asked her out that evening in the tunnel, or how she’d laughed at him and his big spectacles.

  They never, in all the years they were married, referred to that night. Nor did they mention Julian. It was as though nothing had ever happened, and Julian had never existed.

  18

  Tearoom

  Adam sat in the Copper Kettle, nursing a cup of coffee and munching on a slice of home-made fruit cake with appreciation. This tasted better than the average teashop fare. Over the years, he’d spent many hours in far less pleasant eating places, from greasy spoons and motorway service stations to backstreet pubs.

  A quiet afternoon in a little coffee shop felt precious, despite the gingham tablecloths and ever-lasting – by which he meant plastic – flower arrangements. A couple of elderly ladies sipped from patterned china cups, pouring refills from surprisingly capacious teapots and nibbling at Victoria sponges.

  Adam looked again at the address Imogen had scribbled. Sure enough, she’d met her husband here, for the last time. ‘Odd,’ Adam muttered under his breath. This wasn’t at all the place he’d choose to host a showdown between a separated couple. For one thing, the acoustics were terrible. He could hear every word the ladies nearby uttered. In fact, much of his energy was spent trying to tune out the story of one lady’s unfortunate contact with the local hospital.

  ‘And I said to him, I’ve never been one for taking pills, but if you insist, I’ll hav
e a go. After all, I’m too old for it to matter much. Got to die of something, haven’t we?’ She cackled and took another bite of cake.

  ‘My Edward died because of his heart,’ her friend rejoined. ‘Gave out, it did, one day. There he was, halfway up the ladder – and I told him he was too jolly old for climbing ladders, but did he take any notice of me? Did he ever…’ She paused for a sip of tea. ‘Now, where was I, dear?’

  ‘He were up the ladder…’

  ‘That’s right, Joan. I was inside, making a cuppa, when I heard the crash. Shocking, it was, made me drop my cup. Fell right on the geraniums, he did, and he’d nurtured those plants.’

  ‘Ladder wobbled, did it?’

  ‘Don’t really know what happened. Heart gave out, that’s all I know. The doctors said it was shock, but whether his heart stopped and that’s why he fell off the ladder, or whether it was the shock of the fall that did the trick, they couldn’t tell.’

  ‘An accident, then.’

  ‘I’d told him.’ She wagged a finger in the air. ‘Accidents happen as you get older, and he should have known better. Silly old fool.’ She sighed, ‘I miss the old beggar, though. It’s too quiet around the place on my own.’

  Her friend sighed in sympathy. ‘What you need is a cat,’ she pronounced. ‘Cats are company. And what’s more, they don’t answer back.’

  The two friends chortled happily.

  Adam shot them an admiring glance. Resilience, that’s what those women had, in buckets.

  That made him think of Imogen. She had a similar quality. Close family members dying all around, but she soldiered on alone. Always supposing, he remembered, she hadn’t killed her husband. The lack of fuss half convinced Adam she was innocent. A murderer would make sure to show considerably more distress. Imogen kept her emotions private.

  Adam stopped eating. The elderly ladies had finished their tea and were gathering up handbags and shopping, ready to leave, but he no longer noticed. What was it they’d said? Accidents happen as you get older.

  An accident.

  The councilor, Imogen’s father, had died in an accident.

  Accidents happen all the time and no one had questioned that one.

  Adam dragged his phone from a pocket and googled the newspaper reports of the councillor’s crash. No other car had been involved. He’d been driving along the road when a tyre exploded. Apparently, the treads were old and worn, and one had picked up a nail from the side of the road. Police had examined the nail, for they found several nails and screws on the roadside, along with a couple of old planks. The road was notorious for fly-tipping; Adam had seen a pile of old mattresses more than once; fly-tipping in the countryside was a constant nuisance.

  No witnesses, and the source of the planks and nails unknown. Not many clues there.

  The councillor, the newspaper pointed out, had failed to take his car for its annual service for a couple of years. Worn tyres could be killers, the police emphasised, warning the public to take care.

  Adam remained still for a long time, letting his coffee cool, wondering how many people knew the councillor never bothered to take his car for a service. The staff at the hotel, perhaps, and maybe his daughter.

  Was it worth opening up a whole can of worms when chances were the accident was genuine?

  Once a police officer… Adam picked up the phone again. He wouldn’t be able to rest without investigating, and he knew a man who might be able to help.

  Once Adam had made the call and the ladies had left, he showed Gregory’s and Imogen’s photographs to the waitress. She’d been working that day but shook her head. ‘We get all sorts in here. Can’t remember them all. Don’t have much of a memory for faces, I don’t.’

  ‘These two were quarrelling.’

  She laughed. ‘That happens all the time. Mind you, it’s usually about the shopping. You know, how long it takes the wife to choose a dress and how bad-tempered the husband gets. Since I started work in the cafe, I stopped taking my old man shopping – it just leads to trouble.’

  Adam drove home, his head full of exploding tyres. Those ladies had been worth their weight in gold – and it was a considerable weight. He wished he’d bought them more cake. His afternoon at the Copper Kettle had turned out to be a most useful hour or two.

  He hummed along to Bonnie Tyler, breaking into loud, tuneless singing when Abba came on, singing ‘Waterloo’. Pop music was his secret guilty pleasure.

  He turned the corner to The Plough, his home. Who wouldn’t want to live here, in this picture perfect village, surrounded by fields of blinding yellow rape, and young, green barley? The few neat houses seemed to doze, as though nothing could ever happen here, but human nature in the countryside could be as dishonest, violent and unpleasant as in any town. At least, in Lower Hembrow, there were plenty of folk as caring, warm and cheerful as Alfie’s mum.

  Just now, though, Adam needed to deal with Harley. The dog had settled in happily enough at The Plough, but Adam had thought of a much better place for him. He hated leaving the animal at home, but he wasn’t used to taking a dog everywhere he went. Harley needed a proper dog person.

  As he slipped through the gate leading to his private entrance and unlocked the door, Adam heard the familiar clatter of Harley’s toenails on the wood floors, followed by his ear-splitting howl. He pushed the door open and the dog leapt in the air, thrilled to have more human company.

  Adam glanced beyond, to the trail of mild destruction that culminated in a heap of half-chewed slippers.

  ‘That’s it, Harley. You’re a lovely fellow, but you need someone who understands your doggy ways. Tomorrow, we find you a new home.’

  19

  Harley

  Imogen slept fitfully after the reunion. She’d drunk little more than that single glass of wine, but her head ached as though she’d emptied a bottle. Through the night, a series of dreams had shaken her awake, time and again, her pulse beating fast and her stomach churning.

  The reunion had been even worse than she’d expected.

  In her dreams, the pallid, bespectacled face of Julian had haunted her. How had she managed not to think about him for so long, as though he’d never existed?

  She caught her breath. It was Toni’s fault. She’d tracked Imogen down, purely to make sure she attended the reunion; she’d wanted to make trouble. That had always been Toni’s role at school. She hadn’t even been involved in the plans for the night picnic. She’d heard about it and forced herself on Imogen and her friends.

  Imogen should have known better than listen to her when they met in the department store. Toni was untrustworthy, sneaking around, listening and watching, and using people for her own ends.

  Then, there was Daniel. Reluctantly, Imogen tried to face facts. She’d been a fool to let her emotions run away with her, just as they had when he came to paint her father’s garden. Daniel had thrown his arm around Steph, and she’d smiled into his eyes. They were an item, and Imogen must accept it and move on.

  She caught sight of herself in her mirror and groaned. Her face was white, her hair stuck out like a holly bush, grey roots showing under the auburn, and her mascara had run under her eyes. What a sight.

  She ran her hands through her hair to tame it. It was time to take control of her life.

  Look at Adam Hennessy. He always had a smile on his face. Imogen would follow his example.

  She’d start by solving Greg’s murder. She had a lead, after all.

  She’d left the restaurant bill from that miserable evening with Greg on her dressing table. She washed her face, scrabbled in her bedroom drawer, pulled out a lipstick and painted her mouth bright red. She dressed hurriedly, stuffed the bill in her pocket and drove to Georgiou’s.

  She hammered on the door. A short, weary looking youth with a sparse moustache mouthed at her through the glass, pointing at the sign on the door. The restaurant was closed. She hammered again, and he dragged the door open.

  ‘I said, we’re closed.’ He car
ried a broom in one hand and wore a grubby apron.

  ‘I’m here to speak to Joe Georgiou.’

  The youth’s eyes flickered from side to side, as though searching for help with this unreasonable woman. He looked nervous.

  Imogen put on her most authoritative voice. ‘Now, please.’ She tapped her foot.

  It was too much for the young man. He shouted over his shoulder, ‘Uncle Joe. Someone to see you.’

  His uncle hurried into the room. ‘This is your last warning, Spiro. Only those with appointments come into my restaurant in the morning—’ He broke off and looked Imogen up and down, eyes narrowing. ‘I recognise you.’ He frowned. ‘I never forget a face, although hundreds come to this, the premier dining venue in town.’ He smoothed his moustache, a far more luxurious affair his nephew’s. ‘I have it. You are the wife of my late friend, Gregory. Mrs Bishop,’ he almost bowed. ‘I am so sorry to hear about his death, and that of your dear father. I would have come to the funeral myself, but, alas, there was an important function in this very restaurant at the same time. A gathering of producers and actors, discussing a forthcoming Netflix series of mysteries. You would have recognised some of them – Sam Henderson, the producer? The actor, Ron Wolf?’

  Imogen shrugged and his face fell. He reeled off the names of a few more minor celebrities.

  ‘Mr Georgiou,’ Imogen interrupted. ‘I’m here to find out why my husband was such a good friend of yours.’

  ‘Gregory and I had a friendly business relationship.’ He shifted from one foot to the other. ‘He supplied me with computer equipment.’

  ‘At a special price?’

  He jabbed a finger in her direction. ‘I’m not about to discuss commercial matters with you.’

  She changed tack. ‘How did you know my father?’

  He threw his arms wide. ‘We were in the Rotary Club together. Two successful local businessmen. That cannot be a surprise?’