by Agatha Frost
“Two years.”
“You willing to wait for another two?”
Claire shook her head.
“Then talk to her.” Damon yanked open the door and nodded for her to go in. “Besides, she saw us looking. It’s hardly blackmailing if she knows we know. She might hand over a bag of cash just to shut you up.”
They walked through the quiet reception area and onto the large factory floor. The place was deserted. The jumbled-up chatter of conversations floated from behind the doors of the canteen.
They craned their necks to look up at Nicola’s office, which sat at the front of the building and had a large window to look out at the factory floor as everyone worked. A metal walkway ran along the edge of the open second floor, with a couple of offices dotted along each side before meeting at the opposite end in the central metal staircase.
“Damon, I can’t do this,” Claire whispered, jogging to keep up with him as he marched to the stairs. “It’s not—”
Before Claire could finish her sentence, the sound of smashing glass filled the empty, cavernous factory. Claire spun towards the sound. As though in slow motion, she watched Nicola fly from the office in a flurry of shattered glass and red hair, hands grasping for something that wasn’t there.
Nicola landed with a deafening thud on the production line, her back bent in an entirely unnatural way. She didn’t even cry out in pain; she lay like an abandoned rag doll, limbs limp, with sparkling shards of glass all around her.
Claire and Damon stared at each other blankly as the canteen doors burst open. Dozens of sets of eyes looked up at the frame where the window used to be, but whoever had pushed their boss to her death was already long gone.
CHAPTER THREE
Sat in the corner of her father’s shed at the bottom of the garden, the plant pot provided a firm seat for Claire. Hunched over, she didn’t fit as easily as she had as a child, but she still loved watching her father’s green thumbs working their magic as much as she had when she had to clamber atop the plant pot.
Stress usually led Claire to her candle workshop in the bedroom, or perhaps to her favourite candle shop in Skipton, but the current writhing in her stomach went far beyond stress.
She hadn’t been able to stop seeing Nicola Warton spread over the assembly line like an uncooked slab of meat every time she blinked her eyes.
“Done.” Her father presented the re-potted infant rosebush, his fingers caked in mud. “What do you think?”
“Lovely.”
“It’s for one of your mother’s Women’s Institute friends.” He cocked his head, examining his handiwork. “She said my roses were the best she’d ever seen, so we came to a little deal. One clipping to grow in her garden in exchange for four pots of that delicious raspberry jam she makes.”
Claire loved Mrs Knowles’ raspberry jam as much as her father did. They always stocked up when she sold it at the church fêtes. Despite her mother’s warning about sugar, nothing tasted nicer on hot buttered toast than Mrs Knowles’ raspberry jam.
But Claire couldn’t face the thought of eating. Few times in her life had her mood affected her appetite; this was one of them.
The clouds cleared, and the afternoon sun streamed through the tiny, streaky window. It landed on her father’s almost bald head, illuminating the large square scar on his scalp that had forced him into retirement.
Alan had gone to see the doctor because of his constant headaches. Three weeks later, he’d been on the operating table having a brain tumour removed. Benign, they’d called it, but not small enough to leave alone. Not small enough to stop their lives grinding to a screeching halt.
Claire hadn’t been able to eat much through that whole ordeal either.
Knuckles rapped firmly against the wood, and the door opened immediately. Claire’s mother stood in the doorway, arms folded, her apron covered in flour.
“One of your old work friends is here,” she said to Alan, nodding back at the cottage. “Detective something or other. Fat fella. Looks like he’s wearing a toupee.”
“That’ll be Harry Ramsbottom.” A smile pricked up the corners of his lips. They dropped almost immediately, and he turned to Claire with a sympathetic smile. “That’ll be for you, dear. Remember what I told you, and you’ll be fine. DI Ramsbottom is one of the nice ones.”
Claire forced herself up off the plant pot. She’d hoped she could spend the day hiding in her father’s shed. She glanced at her watch. 4:30 pm. If the factory hadn’t closed, she’d still be at work, applying labels to the latest batch of Sea Breeze candles for one of their large, south-coast clients.
DI Ramsbottom perched on the edge of her father’s favourite armchair by the fireplace, dunking a plain digestive into a cup of tea. The toupee was obvious, the top far too golden brown for the grey sides. Did he not know everyone could tell, or did he simply not care? Claire vaguely remembered him from some of the police functions she’d attended with her father, but she couldn’t recall ever speaking to him.
“Ah, Claire!” Harry wiped the crumbs from his chest, where his shirt buttons strained to contain his stomach. “How are you holding up, my dear?”
“As well as can be.”
“Terrible incident.” He motioned for Claire to sit on the armchair across from him. “Quite shocking, actually. Life can be so cruel. Killed your boss and your neighbour with one big stone.”
“We weren’t close,” Claire’s mother said, hurrying into the sitting room to push more digestives from the packet onto the plate. “Frosty woman. Never said much to us. Could barely raise a smile.”
Janet sat on the edge of the sofa next to Claire. She pulled Claire’s hand from her mouth; she hadn’t even realised she’d been biting her nails.
“Good to see you again, Harry.” Alan stood in the doorway, looking out of breath as he leaned against the frame. “How’s the old station?”
“Oh, you know.” Harry nodded his head from side to side; the toupee didn’t move. “Same old, same old – although, this murder has got everyone running around like headless chickens! Quite a change of pace.” He paused to shovel down another biscuit. “How’s the…” Harry’s finger wafted up to the toupee. “The … Oh, what’s the politically correct thing to say?”
“Brain tumour.” Alan always smiled the same tight smile whenever the topic came up. “Coping as well as I can. Left leg hasn’t been the same since. Had to get an automatic car. Can’t quite handle the clutch. The doctor said the removal must have caused a little nerve damage, but I’m sure I’ll be as right as rain in no time.”
“Terrible business.” Harry dunked another biscuit into his tea the way a chain smoker burned through cigarettes. “We all said it couldn’t have happened to a nicer bloke. Life can be so cruel, can’t it?”
“It can.” Alan’s smiled tightened even further. “Janet, dear?”
“Hmmm?”
“Why don’t you come and help me in the kitchen?”
Claire’s mother adjusted the hem of her apron. She sighed, slapped her knees, and stood, dumping out the last of the biscuits before she left. Nobody loved eavesdropping more than Janet.
“So,” DI Ramsbottom began, pulling a small notepad from his strained top pocket. “You saw it happen, is that correct?”
Claire nodded, wishing she had a cup of tea to reach for, if only for something to do with her hands. The ends of her nails found their way back into her mouth.
“And you told the officer on the scene that you didn’t see who could have pushed the woman?”
“That’s correct.” Claire forced her hands out of her mouth and into her lap. “Damon and I were—”
“Damon Gilbert?” He flipped back in his pad. “Your colleague?”
“And friend.”
“Colleague and friend.” He jotted down the detail as though it mattered. “You were coming from your lunch break, and you saw someone push Nicola.”
“Not exactly.” Claire inhaled, the image still vivid in her mind. “We wer
e walking into the factory. We eat our lunch outside when the weather is nice. Everyone else was in the canteen, so it was just us in the factory. We didn’t actually see that she was pushed because we had our backs to the window. We turned around when we heard the glass smash, and we saw her fall and … and land. When we looked up, nobody was there.”
“And you didn’t see anyone run out?”
Claire shook her head.
“And you didn’t see anyone in the office with her?”
Claire went to shake her head again, but she remembered what her father had said about telling the truth. She’d left out the kissing detail when she’d talked to the officer at the scene, more out of shock than anything. Her father had spent too many years in the force to give her bad advice.
“When we were outside, Damon and I, we saw Nicola with someone in the office,” Claire started, her nails back in her mouth. “A man. They were kissing.”
“And I assume from your tone that this man wasn’t her husband?”
“No, he wasn’t.”
Janet gasped in the kitchen.
“Do you know who the man was?”
“Jeff,” Claire said, watching as he scribbled the name down. “Jeff Lang. He works at the factory. Health and safety manager. Comes in once a week for inspections.”
“How well do you know Jeff?”
“Not at all, but I work across from his wife on the line.” Claire inhaled, twisting her hands in her lap. “Belinda Lang. She’s a nice woman. She just turned fifty the other week. The way she always talked about Jeff, I thought they were happy.”
“Hmmm.” Harry scribbled down the details before reaching out for another biscuit. “So, you saw Nicola kissing this Jeff fella, and then you went straight into the factory?”
“No.” Claire shook her head. “We talked outside for a couple of minutes.”
“We?”
“Damon and me.”
“What were you talking about?”
Claire thought about telling the truth, but she didn’t think Damon’s half-baked, slapped-together blackmail plan was relevant anymore.
“Work stuff.”
“I see.”
“We were still on our break,” she explained. “We get an hour.”
“More than most places.”
Most people said that. William Warton had always been very insistent about giving his staff an uninterrupted paid hour for lunch, even if the law said he only had to give thirty minutes. Everyone had expected Nicola to slash the breaks like she had the work hours, but she either hadn’t wanted to or hadn’t got around to it before her death.
“Well, you’ve given us some lines of inquiry to look into.” He slapped the pad shut and picked up the rest of the biscuits, which he wrapped in a handkerchief and secreted in his pocket. “If you think of anything else, I’m sure your father can tell you who to call.”
DI Ramsbottom forced himself out of the chair, the effort reddening his round face. He nodded at her, and she almost expected him to tip his toupee.
After a brief round of goodbyes and promises to catch up with Alan over a pint sometime soon, Detective Inspector Harry Ramsbottom showed himself out and struggled into a tiny two-seater Smart car. As he drove away, Claire couldn’t help but think he looked like a clown in a tiny circus car.
“Well, well, well.” Claire’s mother grinned ear to ear, foot tapping, arms folded. “Nicola and Belinda’s husband. I wonder what Graham would have to say about that.”
“The man has just lost his wife.” Alan rested a hand on her shoulder. “Let’s give him a few days to adjust before we start the gossiping, eh, dear?”
“I’m not a gossip.”
“And the Pope isn’t Catholic,” Claire said, almost to herself. “I – I’m going out for a walk.”
“A walk?” Janet cried, yanking her watch around her wrist. “There’s a cottage pie in the oven!”
Claire grabbed her light denim jacket and stuffed her feet into her comfiest trainers.
“You’re always telling me I should get more exercise.”
“This is no time to get smart, dear!”
“I’ll be back in time for the cottage pie.”
Claire didn’t linger, leaving before her mother could tie her to a dining room chair. Not that she wasn’t thrilled by the idea of her mother’s cottage pie – one of the few things Janet could make without burning – but she couldn’t face the inevitable barrage of her mother’s questions.
Claire wasn’t sure why she went to the empty shop, but that’s where she found herself, staring through the window, her bespectacled reflection staring back. Her thin mousy hair, cut just below her jaw, needed a trim, but she’d been putting it off so she could save as much money as possible.
She laughed.
It would take more than a few haircuts to save up the money she needed to put down a deposit and first month’s rent for the shop. And that didn’t even include how much it would cost to turn the place from an empty café into a fully stocked candle shop. Not to mention the lights, and water, and business rates, and tax.
“A pipe dream,” she muttered, locking eyes with her reflection. “Time to give it up, Claire.”
She turned away from the shop, not even knowing if she’d have a job to go back to. She was due in tomorrow at 9 am, but nobody had any idea if the factory would even open. The work’s group chat hadn’t stopped pinging all afternoon, but Claire didn’t have the energy to look at the stream of speculation and worry.
Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Damon exiting the fish and chip shop next door, a heavy-looking plastic bag in hand. He lived in the flat above the vegan café, in the opposite direction, but he looked up the street, catching her eye. He didn’t seem to think twice before walking over.
“I couldn’t face the thought of cooking.” He held up the bag. “I think I ordered one of everything. Don’t suppose you want to split it? Might make me feel better.”
“Mum’s got a cottage pie in the oven.”
“And just like that, life goes on,” he said, a sad smile lingering. “How are you feeling?”
“Strange.”
“Have the police been to see you?”
“Just now.”
Damon let out a relieved looking sigh. “I thought it was just me. They were asking all these questions like I was trying to hide something.”
“Were you honest?”
“Probably too honest.” He looked around the quiet square. “I told them about what we saw. The kissing. Should I have kept my mouth shut?”
“Don’t worry, I told them too. My dad said I should be honest, so I was.”
“You didn’t tell them that I—”
“Wanted to blackmail our now-deceased boss on my behalf?” Claire chuckled. “No, I didn’t see the point. We didn’t get that far, did we? And besides, we were together when she was pushed. We’re each other’s alibis.”
“Oh yeah.” Damon scratched the side of his head with his free hand. “I didn’t think of it like that.”
“But we’re the only eyewitnesses,” Claire explained. “Dad said they’ll probably keep asking us questions, hoping we’ll remember some forgotten detail so they can unravel the mystery.”
“And do you think he did it?” Damon gulped, looking around again. “Jeff?”
“I don’t know, but I’d guess he’s at the station right now. Since we both saw him kissing Nicola right before she died, he’ll be suspect number one.”
“You sound like you know what you’re talking about.”
“That’s what happens when you grow up with a dad in the police.”
“My dad’s a butcher, and I couldn’t tell you the difference between braising steak and fillet.” Damon glanced down at this bag. “I’ve always been more of a fish and chips man anyway. Sure you don’t want to ditch the parents for an early fish supper?”
Claire glanced at the lane that would take her back to the cul-de-sac. As tempting an offer as it was, she shook her he
ad.
“I can’t risk being made homeless as well as unemployed.” She sucked the air through her teeth. “We might not have a job to go back to, and any chance of that pay rise went out of the window with—”
“With Nicola,” Damon finished her sentence for her. “No pun intended, right?”
“Perhaps I should choose my words more carefully.”
“Why?” Damon rolled his eyes. “The woman still stole your candle formula!”
“We don’t—”
“Yes, we do.” Damon pulled his phone from his pocket. “I know you were worried about not having proof, but I saw this on my phone earlier.”
Damon tapped a couple of things before turning the phone to Claire. She looked at the picture of the final vanilla candle, remembering the image instantly. She’d sent it the moment she’d finished the winning batch a little under a month ago, knowing she’d finally achieved what she set out to do.
“Unless your phone has smell-o-vision, I don’t know how that helps me.”
“Look closer.” Damon pinched the screen, zooming into the dressing table behind the candle. “Your little black book of formulas is there, open to the vanilla page. Can’t quite make out the measurements, but you can see the title.”
“Since when did cameras on phones get so clear?” Claire squinted at the image. “That’s it.”
“Good, isn’t it?” Damon grinned. “You know me. I’m a tech geek. Only the best for me. The image data has the time and date on it too, which puts it two weeks before the new samples made the rounds at the factory.”
“So?”
“Claire.” Damon huffed. “It’s proof you came up with it. That’s your handwriting on an image pre-dating the samples. I’d bet my chippy supper the factory can’t pull up any proof dated earlier than this.”
“I lost the book a few days after I took that picture,” Claire confessed. “I have no idea how, but it vanished into thin air. The samples came out of the development lab less than a week later.”
“Exactly!” Damon tucked his phone away. “You can sue.”
“Sue, who? She’s dead!”
