by Agatha Frost
“Not what you thought, right?” Em asked as they set off. “He’s a big teddy bear really.”
Claire might have agreed if not for his parting look. She smiled but decided not to agree or disagree. Em clearly loved her father, and right now she needed that.
“Let’s go for a cuppa at Marley’s.” Em linked arms with Claire as they set off down the steep hill. “My treat.”
Claire nodded, hoping her mother’s suspicions about Em were unfounded. As much as she was trying to stay rational, she couldn’t help but notice she was forming a brand-new friendship.
Chapter Nine
Northash’s police station sat at the top of Park Lane on the curved corner. The building blended in with the surrounding cottages, and if not for the row of police cars and the tiny blue ‘POLICE’ sign above the door, it would be easy to mistake it for just another house.
“Why would anyone choose to live up here?” Damon, still in his blue factory jumpsuit after a long shift, panted for breath when the steep lane finally flattened out. “They need an escalator or a lift or something.”
“Outside?”
“The technology exists.” Damon leaned against the low wall surrounding the cottage that had housed the local police station for the past hundred years, according to the centenary banner hanging above the door. “Maybe it’s a good thing that I’ll never be in the tax bracket that can afford houses up ‘ere.”
The small area beyond the top exit of the park was frequently referred to as ‘Upper Northash’, although the tone the person used depended on if they were residents of the place. Those who lived in the small cul-de-sac on top of the hill liked to think Upper Northash existed as a place separate from the rest of the village.
Claire’s mother was often the first to point out that it didn’t. Janet had once sent everyone in the cul-de-sac a letter on behalf of the post office ordering them to stop putting ‘Upper Northash’ as their address because it was confusing the people delivering the post.
Damon pulled back the spring-loaded gate, and Claire went first. The building felt overwhelmingly familiar, but being the daughter of a retired DI accounted for that. She stepped inside, where the scent of pine needles lingered in the air.
The inside was as quiet as the outside. Sergeant Maggie Morgan bolted upright behind the desk, her eyes half-closed as though she’d just awoken from a nap. She blinked groggily at them for a moment before seeming to realise where she was.
“‘Ello, love,” she said before stifling a yawn. “You caught me unawares. Lovely to see you again. How’s your dad doing?”
Maggie Morgan had been an officer at the station for as long as Claire’s father; they’d started in the same year. According to Alan, she’d been a whippet in her younger years, always the first to chase on foot. Now in her mid-sixties, she’d spent the last decade of her job happily behind the front desk. They’d offered a similar role to her father, but he’d reluctantly taken the idleness of retirement over the embarrassment of being put out to pasture.
“He’s good,” Claire replied, honouring her father’s preference of being vague about his health when old colleagues asked. “Fighting fit.”
“Aw, I’m glad to hear it.” Another yawn vibrated Maggie’s lips as she closed a sudoku book before pushing herself away from the desk. “I’ll go and fetch him for you. Help yourself to tea and coffee and take a seat.”
While Maggie shuffled to a door behind the desk, Claire and Damon settled into the small waiting area. So many old, mismatched chairs lined the walls, Claire was fairly sure everyone in Northash had donated the spare from their dining room set. Tatty magazines covered a low coffee table – a broad range, covering all interests. A children’s interactive puzzle filled one corner, and a clunky CRT television another. The teatime quiz show The Chase played on mute, with the subtitles revealing the answers at the same time as the question. If informational posters weren’t covering the top half of the textured walls and harsh, bright tube lighting wasn’t shining down on them, it could have passed for a strangely situated sitting room.
“Get these open.” Damon tossed a purple bag at Claire as he crossed to the tea and coffee station. “I’ll make us a brew.”
Claire caught them and chose a seat in the middle of the row of chairs next to the coffee table. She turned the bag over, pleased to see chocolate buttons. Damon knew they were her favourites.
“It’s not like you to have lunch leftovers,” Claire said as she pulled open the bag and the delightful scent escaped. “How is the old place?”
“Almost like nothing crazy ever happened.” Damon filled up the kettle with the bottled water from the fridge under the counter. “And I include Nicola in that madness. Graham is running it exactly like William did, although he has a better knack for keeping a steady stream of new clients coming through.”
Factory management had been chaotic from the moment Nicola took over after her father, William Warton, died. Somehow, things took an even worse turn after Nicola’s murder in the factory. Graham had talked about selling the factory in the aftermath of his wife’s death, so Claire was pleased to hear he’d turned things around. As much as she never wanted to don a lumpy blue jumpsuit again, the Warton Candle Factory still employed a large number of the ordinary working-class folk in and around Northash, and she was glad they still had jobs.
“I’ve been eating in the canteen,” Damon said as he carried over two milky coffees filled to the brim. “It’s not the same eating on the wall without you. I tried it a few times, but it’s too quiet.”
“I miss it,” Claire revealed, passing the bag to Damon after taking a small handful of buttons for herself. “Although eating lunch on the wall with you is probably the only bit I do miss. I much prefer sticking labels at my mother’s dining room table, and oh, the control! I can make what I want when I want. It’s great, and . . .”
Claire let her voice trail off, realising she’d done it again. Every time the factory came up, she couldn’t help but slip in how much better things were now, even if she still didn’t have an open shop to sell her candles in quite yet. Since Damon still had to work there, she hated rubbing it in his face.
“It’s alright.” He shrugged as he tossed some chocolate into his mouth. “Didn’t dare pull these out in the canteen, though. You know what they’re all like. Everyone would have had their hands in before I ate a single one.” He sipped his coffee. “How’s things going with Jane? Found any answers yet?”
“More questions than answers,” Claire admitted before taking her turn to sip. “Oh, you make a good brew.”
“Secret is two scoops,” he said, tapping the side of his nose. “What’s bugging you most about this Jane business?”
“Where do I start?” She drank again, desperate for the caffeine after the morning’s early start. “I thought solving Nicola’s murder was difficult, but this is another level entirely. I’m way in over my head. I still have no idea how Jane was shut up there. My mother, Ray Bridges, and Em all saw Jane at different times before midnight, and they all said she seemed a little under the weather.” Another drink. “Em said her mother had two suitcases with her; they seem to have vanished into thin air along with the key to the attic. And don’t even get me started on Em. My mother thinks everything about her is an act because she has the perfect motive for wanting her mother dead: becoming the next in line to own Starfall House. Never mind that she doesn’t want it.”
“Em?” Damon laughed as he shook up the bag. “She wouldn’t hurt a fly. Literally. I once saw her hugging a tree in the park, and that’s not even a joke. She’s nuts, but she’s harmless.”
“That’s what I said.” Claire sank into the chair, glancing at the TV; the second contestant had won their round against the chaser. “If more people gave Em a chance, they’d love her. But you know what people are like around here.”
“Small-minded,” Damon mumbled through a mouthful of buttons. “And if Em is putting on an act, she’s committed to it. The wom
an is covered in tattoos and has a shaved head. What kind of murderer wants to stand out that much?”
“Exactly.” Claire noticed movement behind the frosted glass of the door Maggie had gone through. “I don’t think for a second Em did it, but I could be wrong. I was convinced Graham killed Nicola before realising it was my uncle.”
“You got there in the end though, mate,” Damon whispered as he jerked his head at the empty desk. “More than this lot did.”
DI Harry Ramsbottom lumbered through the door, Maggie shuffling close behind. She plodded back to her desk and slumped in her chair, her eyes going back to her sudoku puzzle as another yawn leaked out.
“Don’t get up!” DI Ramsbottom announced as he headed over, his toupee shining more golden than usual under the unpleasant lighting. “I’ll join you.”
Ramsbottom sat across from them and slapped a clear, sealed bag on the messy pile of dog-eared magazines. It contained small vinyl records, each in a cardboard sleeve. Claire almost dismissed the bag entirely until the keys to the shop jumped out against Nat King Cole’s face. As briefly as she’d held them, she knew them instantly.
“These for everyone?” DI Ramsbottom asked, diving for the bag of buttons before either of them could say anything. “Never could turn down a chocolate button.”
Damon looked as though he might object, but Harry had already crammed his hand into the bag and pulled out a small pile, which went straight into his mouth.
“I have some news,” DI Ramsbottom said after forcing down the mouthful of chocolate; Damon snatched the bag from the table before he could take more. “I thought I’d let you know since it will be all around the village by tomorrow morning.”
Damon showed Claire the bag; Ramsbottom had taken all but a couple.
“News?” Claire prompted when the DI’s eyes drifted to the quiz show on the silent television. “About Jane?”
“Yes.” He sighed, eyes going to the bag with the records and the keys. “The results of the autopsy came back this afternoon. I’d been hoping she died of natural causes so we could put this whole thing to bed, but it seems she was murdered after all.”
Claire glanced at Damon, wondering how the detective inspector hadn’t come to that conclusion days ago. Everyone in the village accepted murder as the obvious cause of death, even if no one was admitting to knowing how or why.
“Poor woman was poisoned.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his red face. He missed the melted chocolate at the corners of his mouth. “Arsenic, so they’re saying.”
“Poisoned?” Claire echoed the word back with a frown. “I suppose that explains why people say she appeared to be ill the night before she was due to leave.”
“People are saying that?” he whispered, leaning in. “The position she was found in was consistent with a natural fall, so she died up in the attic, which makes her presence up there all the stranger. I don’t know how they can tell the difference, mind you, but I’m not the science man.” He paused, glancing at the TV before training his slightly narrowed gaze on Claire. “Don’t suppose your dad has said anything, has he?”
The penny dropped – this was why the DI was so forthcoming with information – but she played along and asked, “About?”
“The case.” The DI’s eyes lit up as he leaned in further, his voice low as if to prevent Maggie from overhearing. “Has he given it much thought?”
“Not that I know of,” Claire answered. “I think he’s just trying to enjoy his retirement.”
“Yes, I suppose he is.” He nodded, eyes drifting down to the records. “I suppose I’ll let you get on then. You’ll be wanting to get started on your bookshop.”
“Candle shop,” she corrected him, finally. “The records?”
“Oh, yes.” He scratched at the side of his toupee, and the thing still didn’t move. “We found them in a box up in the attic with Jane. Only thing in there. We thought maybe they’d give us some clues, but nothing came up when they were analysed, so they’ve been released. Since you’re the current tenant of the property they were taken from, they’re yours.” He heaved himself upright, eyeing the bag of buttons again. “Are they going begging?”
“None left.” Damon smiled tightly, fist closing around the bag. “Sorry.”
“No bother,” he said with a hearty chuckle, slapping his stomach. “Wife said I need to start watching what I eat anyway. Pass my love to your dad. Tell him I asked after him.”
DI Ramsbottom went back the door, leaving Claire and Damon to say their goodbyes to Maggie before leaving. Once outside, Damon opened the bag and pulled out the final two buttons. He handed one to Claire.
“You might not think you know a lot right now,” Damon said as he placed the last button reverently on his tongue, “but you clearly know a lot more than that guy.”
While they strolled down the lane, Claire let the news sink in.
“Who could hate Jane enough to spoil her retirement?” Claire mused. “If they just wanted her out of the way, she was leaving voluntarily.”
“Maybe they thought she was running away?”
“Maybe.”
They passed the row of four shops. Claire glanced through the estate agents’ window and locked eyes with Sally. She put down her cup of tea and shot across the shop.
“Good timing,” she whispered, glancing up and down the street. “I was just about to call you. I found a way for you to speak to Fiona without it seeming fishy.”
“How?”
“Come to mine tonight at eight,” she insisted, already retreating into the shop, “and bring money.”
Before Claire could ask why – or how much money she should bring, for that matter – Sally let the door close and hurried back to her desk. Earlier, over lunch, Claire had asked Sally to find a way for her to interview Fiona. Being the overachiever that Sally was, Claire knew it wouldn’t take her long to come up with something, but she hadn’t been expecting something to turn up this quickly.
“Drink?” Damon asked as they entered the square. “Still warm enough to sit out in the beer garden ‘round the back.”
Claire glanced at the empty shop. Someone had taken all the newspaper down, providing a perfect view inside. The sun streaked over The Hesketh Arms and past the clock tower, illuminating half the shop in golden light. The orchid was where she’d left it.
The shop might have looked inviting if not for the sagging floral tribute under the window and the blue and white police tape dangling from the doorframe. Even the large, white and red hand painted ‘Jane’s Tearoom’ sign looked more menacing than it ever had.
“Sure,” she replied. “A drink sounds good.”
Though Claire knew she should have been starting work on the shop, she wasn’t ready to reach into the bag for the key quite yet.
“Let me get changed first,” Damon said, cutting across the square. “I can only fight the gusset of this jumpsuit for so long.”
Claire chuckled. She definitely didn’t miss the factory uniform. Though Damon was a little taller than her, they were of a similar enough build that they wore the same size in the unisex jumpsuit. She might not work there any longer, but she remembered exactly how awkwardly they fit. After seventeen years, she’d been happy to hand hers over to Damon for spares.
They cut around the square, turning down the side street where Marley’s Café was located. Claire heard shouting the moment the café came into view, but it wasn’t until she reached the door that she recognised the voice. She hurried over, surprised to see her Granny Greta – her father’s mother – stood face to face with Agnes Reid.
Both women had bright red faces and their hands on their hips, although the height difference was startling; Claire had definitely inherited her short stature from her father’s side of the family.
“What’s going on?” Claire hurried in. “Gran, I thought you were on holiday until tomorrow?”
“I got my dates mixed up,” she said, breaking away from Agnes to give Claire a q
uick hug. “And it seems my return hasn’t come a moment too soon. Hearing this lot talking about Jane was hardly the way to find out such tragic news!”
Claire looked around the café, surprised to see the rest of Jane’s loyalists sat at tables behind Agnes. How ironic that it had taken Jane’s death to finally get them all into Marley’s Café for somewhere to gossip. None of them could quite look at her, and even DI Ramsbottom could have solved the mystery of their topic of conversation.
“It’s a free country, Greta,” Agnes shot back, smirking down at Claire’s gran. “Why don’t you scurry off to play with the other hobbits?”
Greta, ever a fiery one, looked as though she might launch herself at Agnes, so Claire pulled her back and stepped between them. A sudden rush of bravery swept over her, and though she wasn’t much taller than her gran, she puffed out her chest and stood up to Agnes.
“What’s your problem?” Claire demanded, folding her arms tightly. “You’ve been giving me that same look for weeks, and yet I think this is the first time we’ve ever spoken properly.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Agnes looked away and glanced at her nails. “I’m allowed to look where I want, aren’t I? Lived in this village my whole life.”
“As have I.” Claire ducked around to meet Agnes’ eyes. “I had nothing to do with Jane shutting her tearoom, and I had nothing to do with her death.”
“That’s what they were saying!” Greta called, wafting her finger at the group at the table. “The lot of them! Talking about how ‘that candle woman’ probably murdered Jane to get her hands on the shop! That’s exactly what they said. I knew they were talking about you, love, so I pulled them up on it!”
“We were having a private conversation.” Agnes shot her eyes at Marley and Eugene over the counter. “Would never have had this problem at Jane’s—”
