Rough And Deadly (A Much Winchmoor Mystery Book 2)

by Paula Williams

  The general consensus of opinion around the village was that Gruesome Gerald had got off lightly last year. But Fiona still looked very pale and neither Mum nor I were about to contradict her.

  “Anyway, I’m sure the police will soon realise their mistake and arrest the real murderer,” Mum said. “If, indeed, it was murder. Katie has a tendency to dramatize things, Mrs Crabshaw. She always has done. You wouldn’t believe the stories she used to come out with when she was little.”

  “I do not…” I protested, but she went on as if I hadn’t spoken.

  “Besides,” this was accompanied by one of her ‘don’t you dare say another word’ looks. “As you so rightly say, the police have been known to make mistakes before.”

  I cleared my throat. It was now or never. “I’m doing a piece for The Chronicle, Mrs. Crabshaw. You know, just general background stuff about Margot. And I wondered if you’d like to comment?”

  “Me?” She gave a startled gasp. “But why on earth would I?”

  “Well, there won’t have to be a parish council election now. You’ll be elected unopposed. I thought perhaps you’d like to pay tribute to your rival, something like that?”

  Fiona’s head shot up so quickly, she almost knocked Mum’s comb out of her hand.

  “I hardly think it’s appropriate for me to comment, given the circumstances,” she said coldly as she pushed the chair back and stood up. “Thank you, Cheryl. That’s lovely.”

  Mum passed her a handful of pins. “But don’t you want to put your hair up?”

  Fiona took the pins, stuffed them into her pocket and handed Mum her credit card. “I’ll do it later, thank you, Cheryl. I’m in a bit of a hurry today. If you’d just make out my bill, please?”

  “Really, Katie,” Mum hissed as she passed me on her way to get the ancient card machine that looked as if it should belong in a museum. (None of that modern contactless payment nonsense in Much Winchmoor, thank you very much). “Have you nothing better to do than stand around here gossiping? Go and see if your father wants any lunch. Otherwise he’ll just munch his way through half a dozen packets of crisps then tell me he’s had his five a day because they were cheese and onion. There’s a very nice salad in the fridge.”

  “Dad doesn’t do salad,” I pointed out.

  She shrugged. “It’s in the round Pyrex dish. A new recipe.”

  My heart sank. Believe me, ‘new recipe’ was not something you wanted to hear in our house.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “It’s actually tofu and sesame seeds with soba noodles. But don’t tell him. He’ll eat it if he’s hungry.”

  I crossed Fiona Crabshaw off my list of possible interviewees and headed for the kitchen. But not before I’d seen the little flicker in those lime marmalade eyes, when I mentioned that her seat on the parish council must now be a done deal.

  It was only the briefest of flickers. Was it hope? Or maybe even triumph? And it was only there for a nanosecond before she ticked me off for my ‘inappropriate’ comment.

  Of course I didn’t seriously think she could have murdered Margot. But she was surely going to be one of the people who stood to benefit from her death. If only for an uncontested seat on the parish council. And then there was the damage that Margot’s holiday cottages had been doing to Fiona’s B&B business.

  Who else, I wondered, stood to gain from Margot’s death? I couldn’t believe it was her husband, as Mike had suggested. Unless, of course, he’d found out that she’d been carrying on with Gruesome Gerald? But, in any case, he’d been out of the country on business since Tuesday.

  I was puzzling over this as I went in to the kitchen, to see if I could persuade Dad that tofu and sesame seeds with soba noodles was really just a poshed-up version of mac and cheese.

  I pushed open the kitchen door but stopped dead in the doorway, unable to believe my eyes.

  Tanya and Dad were over by the sink, tangled around each other like tights in a washing machine.

  Chapter Eight

  “Dad? What the…?”

  As he whirled round I almost laughed out loud at the expression on his face. It reminded me of one of Will’s ewes when Tam, the sheep dog, had it cornered.

  Desperation bordering on sheer, blind panic.

  “Ah, Katie, thank goodness you’re here, sweetie,” Tanya cooed as she stepped away from Dad. As she did so, he sort of crumpled back against the kitchen sink and pushed his hand through his non-existent hair. It’s always a sign my dad’s under stress when he forgets he lost his hair twenty years ago.

  “This is so silly,” Tanya giggled. “I’ve got my hair caught in the zip at the back of my top. Your dad was trying to free it for me. But you know how useless some men can be when it comes to doing things with their hands. All fingers and thumbs he was. The way he was yanking at it, he was in serious danger of tearing my top clean off. Isn’t that right, Terry?”

  “Well, um, no. Not – um, not exactly,” Dad mumbled, as he reached once again for his long-departed hair.

  “Do you think you can be a love and free me, Katie?” Tanya went on. “It’s actually quite painful. I don’t know how it happened.”

  Her hair was, indeed, trapped in the zip at the back of her close-fitting jersey top. I was very tempted to give it a good, hard yank.

  “It’s well stuck,” I said. “Shall I get a pair of scissors? Or ask Mum to do it?”

  “Oh no, no need to bother her. Look, just see if you can ease the zipper down, there’s a good girl. Ouch! Not that hard. You’ll pull my hair out by the roots.”

  Talking of roots, up close I could see hers needed doing quite badly, but I didn’t think she’d appreciate me pointing that out. A few less-than-gentle tugs and I’d worked it free.

  While I was intent on doing this, Dad murmured something I couldn’t catch. The next thing, I heard the click of the back door.

  “There,” I told her. “That’s got it.”

  “Thanks.” She ran her hand along the back of her top then fluffed out her hair, like a chicken having a dust bath. “There you go, no harm done.”

  No harm done? That wasn’t what Mum would say when she came in. Because while Tanya and I were fiddling around with her hair, the click I’d heard was the sound of my father escaping, faster than Cedric used to whenever Gran Latcham brought her dog round. The arrival of the dog was the only thing that ever got that cat out of crawler gear, as he leapt for the safety of the shed roof where he’d stay, mouthing cat curses until Gran and the dog left.

  Dad, however, was not heading for the shed. He was, without doubt, on his way to the pub. And that was the problem. Because once he’d had a couple of pints at lunchtime, particularly before he’d had anything to eat, that would be him finished for the rest of the day. He’d come home, relaxed and at peace with the world, sit down in his chair and fall into a such a deep sleep, his snores could be heard from one end of the village to the other. And nothing or no one would be able to wake him.

  And that was the end of Mum’s afternoon out.

  …

  “Where’s your dad?” Mum asked, the minute she came into the kitchen. “Was that the back door I heard just now?”

  If I was quick, I reckoned I could nip along to the pub and drag Dad out before he reached for his second pint. I was about to mutter something about not being sure where he was, but Tanya beat me to it.

  “He said something about wanting a lunchtime pint. I’m thinking about joining him. What about you, Cheryl? Shall we go now you’ve finished in the salon?”

  “I have better things to do,” Mum said crisply as she crossed to the fridge and took out the round Pyrex dish containing what only she would ever describe as a ‘very nice salad.’

  She slapped it down in the middle of the table. It smelt like wet dogs. It looked like something even Prescott (whose idea of a tasty snack was rabbit poo) would turn his pointy little nose up at.

  “And while you were out, Tanya,” she went on, “Richard rang. In fact
, he’s been phoning all morning. I said you’d call him back when you got in.”

  “Thanks for nothing,” Tanya muttered.

  Mum picked up a serving spoon and began ladling dollops of the ‘salad’ into three bowls. “You can’t avoid him forever, you know. If you take my advice, you’ll sit down and talk to him. I know it’s none of my business, but I always find nothing’s so bad that it can’t be talked through, quietly and calmly.”

  “You’re absolutely right, Cheryl,” Tanya flashed, two vivid spots of colour high on her cheekbones. “It is, as you say, none of your bloody business. Perhaps you should sort out your own marriage problems before you start commenting on mine.”

  For a second, the sudden stunned silence was broken only by the ticking of the kitchen clock. I held my breath. Then Mum let the spoon clatter to the table. Her head shot up and she and Tanya faced each other across the ‘nice salad’, like two boxers waiting for the bell.

  Mum was the first to look away.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.” She stared down at the ‘nice salad’ as if committing every detail of its ghastly grey gloopiness to memory. “I was upset. I’d been looking forward to going out this afternoon. But now Terry’s taken himself off to the pub, he’ll be fit for nothing except sleeping in his chair when he gets back.”

  What was the matter with her? She wasn’t usually so meek and mild, particularly on the occasions when Dad went AWOL. It was like she was scared of upsetting Tanya. Which was weird. I mean, they’d never exactly been best buddies, any more than Dad and Uncle Terry were, even though they were brothers. In fact, Mum always used to say Tanya was a sight too ‘up herself’. Why, then, wasn’t she just telling her to pack her things and go?

  Tanya flicked her hair back and gave a soft, low laugh. “Tell you what, why don’t you go and join him in the pub and I’ll stay here? You know I don’t like playing gooseberry. Whether it’s here in your village pub or in that bar in Bournemouth, remember?”

  She turned to me, her eyes narrowed, her smile as false as her sparkly purple fingernails.

  “Did your mum ever tell you, Katie, about the amazing weekend she and I had in Bournemouth a while ago? I kid you not, you wouldn’t have recognised her. She…”

  “That’s enough!” Mum snapped. “You can stop that right now.”

  I felt like applauding her. She looked furious. In fact, I don’t think I’d never seen her so angry, not even on the day when I backed her precious little pink car into a five bar gate. For one glorious moment, I wondered if Tanya was going to end up wearing the gloopy grey noodles.

  But Tanya just laughed. “Well, well, I wondered what it would take to make the worm turn.”

  “I’ve had it with your hints and innuendoes.” Mum snatched up the spoon, gripped it like an offensive weapon and advanced towards Tanya. “This stops right now.”

  But Tanya stood her ground.

  “You reckon?” she sneered. “I’ve only just begun. And here’s something for you to think about. I’m opening a salon of my own right here in this precious village of yours and when I do, it’ll wipe you clean off the map, Cheryl. I’m going to bring this place screaming and kicking into the twenty-first century.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Mum said. “You don’t have the financial backing, for a start. Not without Richard. Your divorce settlement won’t be that good, from what I hear.”

  “I don’t need Richard. I’m going to see someone who, I reckon, will be a more than willing partner, once I explain my plan. In the meantime, I’m off to join Terry. I could do with a drink.”

  “Tanya, I’m warning you,” Mum called out as Tanya headed for the door. “If you say anything to him, I swear I’ll kill you.”

  Tanya laughed and slammed the back door behind her. As she did so, a small quavery voice called out, “Hello? Is that you, Cheryl? Oh dear, I hope I’m not interrupting but have you forgotten my 2.15pm appointment? Or have I got the wrong week again?”

  There was a startled silence. Mum didn’t move but stared at the elderly lady in the shabby grey coat who stood framed in the doorway that led from the kitchen into the salon.

  “Um, it’s er – it’s Mrs Yarcombe, isn’t it?” I said, when it looked as if my mother was going to stay rooted to the spot for the foreseeable future. Doris Yarcombe lived over the road from us. A retired school teacher, she’d become increasingly frail following her husband’s death a few years earlier.

  “That’s right, dear,” she gave me a sweet twinkly smile. “I’m sorry to intrude but there was no one in the salon. I called out but couldn’t make anyone hear. Then I heard voices.” Her smile was replaced by an anxious frown. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  Mum’s appointment book was on the kitchen table. I picked it up and turned to today. The afternoon, as Mum had said earlier, was completely clear after Fiona Crabshaw.

  “Did you say you had an appointment?” I said. “Only I’m afraid there’s nothing in the book. Not for this week, at any rate.” I flipped forward to next week. “It’s next Friday. At 2.15pm.”

  Her small, wrinkled hand fluttered across her mouth like a moth looking for somewhere to land. “Oh dear, I am so sorry. There I go, getting things muddled again. Last week it was the dentist and now this. You won’t tell my son, will you? He worries about me, you know. Says I’m not safe to live on my own. And sometimes, dear, I think he might be right.”

  “Of course I won’t tell him.” I smiled at her, trying to reassure her. “As for getting dates muddled and forgetting things, I do it all the time. Don’t I, Mum?”

  Doris Yarcombe glanced across at Mum, who gave no indication of having heard me.

  “I’m so sorry to have troubled you, Cheryl,” she said. “I’ll see you next week.”

  She turned to go but as she did so, the movement seemed to snap Mum out of her trance.

  “What? Oh no, no. Mrs Yarcombe.” She rubbed her hand across the back of her neck. “Please don’t go. I’m sorry. I’ve just had a bit of a – well, it’s all been…”

  “I’ll see you next week, Cheryl,” the old lady said gently. “I can see you’re not quite yourself, my dear.”

  “Oh no. It’s all right. I’m fine, I promise you. I’ve just got the start of a headache, that’s all. Nothing a cup of tea and a couple of paracetamols won’t cure. And seeing as you’re here now, I might as well fit you in. It’s not like I’ve anything planned for the afternoon.”

  I preferred it earlier when she was angry. Now, she sounded defeated and sad.

  “But Mum,” I protested. “I thought you and Dad were going to—”

  “Go on through to the salon, Mrs Yarcombe. Katie here will get you gowned up.”

  She gave me another of her looks. Other people’s mothers communicated with words. Some even used texts and messages. Mine used a variety of looks. It was getting to be her communication method of choice.

  I took Doris Yarcombe into the salon, assured her that she really, really was no trouble and stayed chatting to her until Mum was ready.

  Then I settled at the kitchen table to jot down some notes for my piece about Margot. I thought I’d start by Googling her for some background stuff. But the only things I could find were her website and the Facebook page for her holiday cottages. The Winchmoor Manor Estate, as she called it, making it sound as if the Duckett-Trimble family had owned the Manor and most of the village from the year dot.

  But, in fact, they’d only moved into the Manor a couple of years ago. They’d bought it at auction, after the previous owner, an old man who was virtually a recluse, had died. He’d left the house to a distant cousin in Australia who, very wisely, had stated that he had no desire to move from the beautiful city of Melbourne to a dreary little English village in the middle of nowhere, and had promptly put the place up for auction.

  It was the same with Margot’s Facebook page. It was all about the cottages and nothing else. No personal stuff, just loads of happy family snaps from satisfied custo
mers and pictures of chic cottage interiors that looked as if they belonged in smart, urban apartments, not Much Winchmoor High Street.

  “Had a totally wonderful time, living the simple life in the Old Bakehouse,” cooed one couple, under pictures showing iPads, a wide screen TV and a bottle of Moet, artfully arranged with the label showing. Another commented on a picture of two boys, who had lifted their heads from their phones just long enough to scowl at the camera: “Tarquin and Josh loved Bluebell Cottage and so enjoyed their taste of real country life.”

  I really, really hoped Tarquin and Josh were here the week Will opened up his silage pits for the first time of the year. The all-pervading stench of fermented grass that enveloped the entire village at this time would have given them a ‘taste of country life’ that would remain burned in their psyche forever.

  I gave up on Margot and tried Googling John D-T to see if I could work in a bit about his background, but turned up blank. But that’s the problem with Internet searches, isn’t it? It’s fine about coming up with answers – as long as you ask the right questions. And I was obviously not asking the right questions.

  I was getting nowhere with my background stuff. Google had let me down. But I knew someone who was Much Winchmoor’s answer to Wikipedia.

  I didn’t dare disturb Elsie now. It was her time for her pre-Countdown nap. So I put it on my to-do list for tomorrow and went back to my potholes.

  I worked steadily, if boringly (it’s difficult to do otherwise when you’re writing about potholes, particularly when Mike had warned me against any padding to liven things up ) until I heard Doris Yarcombe leave.

  “He’s not back yet, then?” Mum said as she came back into the kitchen.

  “What? Oh, you mean Dad?” I tried to sound all casual, like I hadn’t been itching for him to come back before she finished with Doris Yarcombe, so that I could have a go at him about being an idiot.

  I did, at one point, think about slipping out and having a quiet word with him in the pub, but Mum has the hearing of a bat and she’d have heard me go. Besides, the story that I’d been sent down the pub to get him to come home would have gone around the village faster than our so-called high-speed broadband (which is anything but). She’d have thanked me for that! Not.