Copyright © 2019 by Paula Williams
Artwork: Adobe Stock © Dmitry Ersler
Design: soqoqo
Editors: Alice Cullerne-Bown
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Crooked Cat Books except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously.
First Black Line Edition, Crooked Cat Books. 2019
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and something nice will happen.
To my family, friends and neighbours who have all appeared in my stories
at one time or another (although none of them are murderers - as far as I know).
But a special dedication goes to my husband who tries not to look too worried when I exclaim: “That would make a great place to hide a body!” and when my bedtime reading is my well-thumbed Crime Writers’ Handbook, the one
with the subtitle “Sixty five ways to kill your victim”….. my love, thanks
and apologies to him.
Acknowledgements
My sincere thanks to Laurence and Steph at Crooked Cat Books for believing in me enough to take a chance on this, my second book with them. And to my fabulous editor, Alice Cullerne-Bown for her kindness and encouragement, not to mention her infinite patience over All Those Capital Letters I still seem to be Addicted To!
My thanks once again to the people of Somerset and those from my small village in particular for providing me with such a rich source of inspiration. Although it goes without saying, I only used them for the ‘goodies’. The ‘baddies’ are complete figments of my over active imagination.
My thanks, too, goes to all those lovely readers who took a chance on my first book, Murder Served Cold, read it and left such lovely reviews. You’ve no idea how those kind words helped and encouraged me.
But the biggest thank you of all goes to you, the reader. Without you, none of this would be possible. My sincere and grateful thanks.
About the Author
Paula Williams has been writing since she was old enough to hold a pencil but she's been making up stories since she was old enough to speak, although her early attempts were more of the "It wasn't me, Mum, honest. It was him" genre.
Her first 'serious' effort was a pageant she wrote at the age of nine to celebrate St George's Day. Not only was she the writer, but producer, set designer and casting director, which was how she came to have the title role. She also bullied and blackmailed her three younger brothers into taking the supporting roles, something they still claim to be traumatised by.
Many years later, this pageant became the inspiration for her first publishable short story, Angels on Oil Drums, which she sold to the UK magazine Woman's Weekly. Since then she's had over four hundred short stories and serials published in the UK and overseas and has a number of novels in large print which are available in libraries.
Following the success of her first full length novel, Murder Served Cold, Paula has gone on to write a second in the series and is looking forward to writing many more. A proud member of both the Crime Writers' Association and the Romantic Novelists' Association, she also writes a monthly column, Ideas Store, for the UK writers' magazine, Writers' Forum and blogs at paulawilliamswriter.wordpress.com She can be found on her author page on Facebook at facebook.com/paulawilliams.author and on Twitter at @paulawilliams44
She has two grown up sons, two beautiful daughters-in-law and three gorgeous grandchildren. She lives in Somerset with her husband and a handsome rescue Dalmatian called Duke who is completely bonkers and appears frequently on her blog. (The dog, not the husband!)
Rough and Deadly
Chapter One
The barn door screeched like a soul in torment as Margot dragged it open and peered into the darkness. She gave a quick glance back at the still-empty yard and smiled. Great. She was here before him. Chance to go in and have a good look round before he tried covering things up.
The stupid man hadn’t even bothered to lock the door. Yet another black mark against him. What sort of security was that? Anyone – including children – could just waltz in here and help themselves to the disgusting stuff.
She stepped inside, felt around for the light switch, then cursed as she caught a fingernail on the rough breeze block wall. That manicure had cost a fortune, too. She fumbled inside her bag for her phone to give herself some much-needed light.
“Damn it!” She tossed the completely dead phone back into her bag. She was sure she’d charged the wretched thing this morning. She hoped John hadn’t been trying to call her. He’d kill her if he found she’d let her phone die again. He got really uptight if he couldn’t get in touch with her while he was away.
It was quite sweet, really, the way he worried about her. Still, she’d make a point of charging the phone the minute she got home.
She took a deep breath, then wished she hadn’t as the stench of decay filled her nostrils and hit the back of her throat.
“Get a grip, Margot,” she told herself sternly. It was a cider farm, after all. The sickly, cloying odour was just rotting apples, nothing more sinister. Even so, she wouldn’t be sorry to get back into the fresh air again. The smell was getting deep into the pit of her stomach.
Gradually her eyes became accustomed to the dim light. She could make out the outline of two large vats against the far wall. That must be where the cider was kept during the fermentation process. Next to that was a cluttered bench where, she imagined, the bottling process took place. Not a hand basin nor a sterilising unit was anywhere to be seen, as far as she could make out.
She knelt down and felt the floor. Her fingers slid across the soft, dust-laden surface. Either it hadn’t been swept in years or, even worse, it was just compacted earth. Once again, she cursed her dead phone but she’d seen – and smelt – enough to confirm that her suspicions had been correct.
Even in this poor light, she could see the place was a hygiene horror scene. The Environmental Health department would shut the place down in a heartbeat. And not before time.
She stiffened at a sound in the farthest, darkest corner, behind one of the vats.
“Mr Compton? Is that you?” she called. But there was no reply. As she moved, she heard a scuffling, not big enough to be human. Then silence.
Rats! It had to be. She’d heard stories about how cider makers would throw dead rats into the cider vats to speed the fermentation process. She was never sure if this was actually true, or if it was yet another story the regulars of the Winchmoor Arms told her to wind her up.
But having now seen and smelt this place, she could well imagine Abe Compton taking part in such a disgusting and unhygienic process.
“Rough cider, this be the proper stuff, this be,” he’d said, in the thick, Somerset accent that she had difficulty following. His round, red face beamed with pride as he went on. “Not that fizzy lemonade they do sell in them gastric pubs and clubs. You should try some, missus. ’Twould put hairs on your chest.”
Try it? She wouldn’t even use the stuff to unblock her drains. As for his foolish wife, advising her to serve it to her dinner guests – well, she’d set her straight on that.
“I wouldn’t be seen dead drinking it,” she’d said. And she’d meant every word.
She glanced down at her slim gold watch. By a
ngling it towards the sliver of light from the partly open door, she could see it was ten past seven. Where was the wretched man? How dare he keep her waiting? According to the message on her answerphone, he’d particularly wanted her to be here no later than 7 o’clock. The cheek. And now he didn’t even have the courtesy to be on time.
Well, she’d given him long enough, and now he’d missed his chance. Tomorrow she’d be contacting the Environmental Health Officer to make an official complaint about the place. She hadn’t been that bothered when he was making the cider for his own consumption. It was none of her business if he chose to poison himself. But now he’d persuaded that foolish woman in the Winchmoor Arms to stock it and sell it on to unsuspecting members of the public, that was a different matter entirely. She’d been planning to give him fair warning about cleaning up his act. But it was too late now.
Somebody had to do something. And that somebody was her. As the newest member of Much Winchmoor parish council, it was her civic duty. And it would earn her some much-needed Brownie points with the other councillors.
Of course, she hadn’t actually been elected yet, but that, she’d been assured, was a mere formality.
She’d told John she was going to a meeting of the Floral Arts Society tonight. She’d always been a great believer that what you don’t know can’t hurt you.
She’d seen enough and turned back towards the open door, looking forward to getting back into the fresh air. But as she moved towards it, the door closed, plunging the place into total darkness.
“Mr Compton? Is that you?” she called again. Completely disorientated by the pitch black, she strained her ears for sounds of movement. “For pity’s sake, man, put the light on. I can’t see a thing. It’s as dark as the grave in here.”
She heard a sound behind her. A footstep. A rustle of fabric. A waterproof coat maybe? Then a sudden swish of movement. A rush of air. Then no more.
No more light. No more movement.
Only darkness. As black and as permanent as the grave itself.
Margot Duckett-Trimble would never see, hear or feel anything. Ever again.
Saturday evening, six days earlier
“OK. Let me get this right,” I said, trying hard to keep my cool. “You’re standing me up on a Saturday night? For a sheep?”
On the other end of the phone, I heard Will sigh. And I didn’t need to see his face to know he’d be wearing his favourite, long-suffering expression.
“Oh, for pity’s sake, Katie, you’re such a drama queen. Of course I’m not standing you up.”
“Oh no? I have tickets for the Bad Cowboys in concert, the hottest gig in town and one that I’ve been looking forward to forever. Then you tell me, half an hour before we’re due to leave, that you can’t make it. What do you call that, if it’s not being stood up?”
“I call it earning a living,” he said, all quiet and po-faced. Believe me, Will can be very po-faced when the mood takes him. “And, what’s more to the point, I also call it animal welfare. I’ve got a couple of young ewes who are looking a bit panicky. They’re due to lamb at any moment and I’d rather not leave them. I could meet you in the pub later for a quick pint, if all goes well.”
“Forget it,” I said waspishly. “A quick pint and a packet of prawn cocktail crisps is not my idea of a fun Saturday night. And I’m quite capable of going to a concert on my own, Will Manning. I don’t need you to escort me.”
“Oh really? And how are you getting there? Your Mum’s lending you her car, is she? Only, if I remember right, the last time you borrowed it, you managed to wrap it around a metal gate while attempting a three – or was it a ten? – point turn. And as I further recall she said she’d never let you borrow it again.”
“I didn’t wrap it around a gate. It was only a little dent and I—” I began, but he cut in.
“Sorry, Katie. Got to go. Don’t go doing any more ten point turns, will you?”
“Don’t call me Katie…” I said, but he’d already gone.
“Problems?” Mum asked.
I nodded. “Mum, I don’t suppose I could borrow your car, could I?”
…
Monday morning
Have you ever had one of those days that start bad and get progressively worse? Saturday was one of those. I worked freelance for the local newspaper, The Dintscombe Chronicle, which meant I got to do all the rubbish jobs that the staff reporters didn’t want to do. That was how I came to be covering the Longmoor Parva Fun Dog Show (at least that’s what it said on the poster) in the afternoon.
Only the fun, if there ever was any, stopped when the heavens opened in the middle of the grand parade and turned the playing fields into a quagmire. After which I had to cycle home, all five miles of it, in the driving rain.
This was followed by Will and his no-show in the evening. Days didn’t get any worse than that. Or so I thought, until I reached the Monday from hell.
Being stood up for a pregnant sheep is not funny. But being up to my armpits in perm lotion while a gaggle of old ladies wittered and giggled about it like I wasn’t in the room, is about as un-funny as a banana skin on a tightrope.
I vowed it was the last time I’d let myself get strong-armed by my mum (the Cheryl of Chez Cheryl, ‘Your hair, our care, perms a speciality’) into working in her salon.
“It’s no good, Katie,” she’d said over breakfast that morning. “You’ll have to help out. I’m booked solid because of the funeral. How Sandra could do this to me, today of all days, I don’t know.”
She shuddered as she forced down a second spoonful of prune and bran compote. This was her latest wonder diet, where the only food you were allowed was so disgusting you never wanted to eat anything ever again.
“You should have some,” she mumbled as she struggled to swallow. “Much better for you than chocolate Hobnobs.”
I didn’t think it would go down well if I pointed out that she was the one who couldn’t fit into last year’s clothes, not me.
“As for poor Maurice…” She gave up and pushed the bowl away with a sigh. “Can you imagine how he must feel? His wife running off with a chiropodist called Clint? At her age, too.”
Sandra is Mum’s assistant, sixty going on ninety and a martyr to her feet, or so she’d have us believe. And yes, I should have known better than to make ‘corny’ jokes about Sandra knowing her ‘bunions’ and how Maurice should have put his ‘foot’ down. Mum doesn’t have much of a sense of humour on a Monday morning, when she’s faced with a full appointment book and no assistant. Particularly when all she’s had for breakfast is a couple of spoonfuls of prune and bran compote.
Chez Cheryl is Much Winchmoor’s top hairdressing establishment, or so it says on the sign on our gate. Although that isn’t quite as impressive as it sounds, seeing as it’s Much Winchmoor’s only hairdressing establishment and is established in our front room (closed Mondays, Wednesdays and Sundays, special rates for OAPs).
But it wasn’t closed that Monday, more’s the pity. Because that afternoon there was a funeral in the village and if there’s one thing this place enjoys, it’s a good funeral. Everyone was going, hence the stampede to get their hair done. “As a mark of respect to dear old Albert,” was how they put it.
There’d be more nice tight curls at Albert’s send-off than in the poodle section at Crufts, or the Longmoor Parva Fun Dog Show. All courtesy of Chez Cheryl.
“But Mum,” I protested, “I’m busy today. I’ve got my write-up on the Dog Show to do for the Chronicle, and then I was going job hunting. I’ve found this new recruitment agency which looks promising.”
“That’s what you said about the last one, and the best they could come up with was a shelf stacker in a supermarket twenty miles away,” she said. “So for now, you don’t have to go job hunting because this one’s found you. I’ll pay you the going rate. And when the rush dies down I’ll see if I can do something to tone down your hair colour.” She gave a puzzled frown as she peered at my hair. “What shade did
you say you used? It’s not anything I recognise.”
It wouldn’t be. I hadn’t exactly intended to end up with purple hair. But I’d been experimenting with some of Mum’s colours, mixing a bit of this and a bit of that, and although I’d been aiming for a slightly more subtle shade of aubergine, I quite liked the way it had turned out and thought it looked cool with my short, spiky cut.
The other thing I liked about it was that Will would absolutely hate it. Which would serve him right.
Mum stood up, patted her own neatly trimmed curls and glanced up at the kitchen clock. “Right then. I’ll see you in the salon in ten minutes,” she said, even though I couldn’t remember actually agreeing to do it. “And make sure you’re wearing something decent that doesn’t show everything you’ve got. How you don’t catch pneumonia beats me.”
How about that? My mother telling me what to do, wear and eat, like I was six years old. She’d be checking my homework next.
But I was twenty-four, with a degree in Media Studies. Fifteen months ago I’d had a life – and a head full of dreams of how that life was going to turn out.
I’d had this really ace flat, not too far from Bristol city centre, perfect for hitting the clubs and bars, which I did most weekends. I’d had a job I loved as dogsbody with a local radio station, and a long term relationship with this dead gorgeous bloke who looked like a young Brad Pitt.
Oh yes, and I’d had a cool name back then, too. Everyone called me Kat.
Now, I was back home living with my mum and dad and sleeping in the same small bedroom I’d had since I was a little kid. All the mates I used to know were either married, had moved away, or both. I had debts the size of Manchester and I’d have to live to be a hundred and twenty-seven before I finished paying off my overdraft.
Rough And Deadly (A Much Winchmoor Mystery Book 2) Page 1
