‘Oh sure, I’d do that all right.’
‘Then what’s the problem?’
‘Let me ask you a question. Do you agree with Mitch that Vic’s up to some sort of scam?’
‘Mitch doesn’t make many bum judgements about people.’
‘But have you noticed anything?’
Chris shrugged. ‘Wouldn’t know what to look for, would I?’ He slowed, changed gear and turned into the lane leading to Melissa’s cottage, but instead of driving on he pulled off by the entrance to a field. Still looking straight in front of him, he said, ‘I tell you this. Will Foley was no fool either, and he thought he was on to something.’
Without thinking, Melissa remarked, ‘Mitch seems to inspire great loyalty among his friends.’
‘Too right. You know why?’
‘Tell me.’
‘Because he’s never done a dirty deal and because he sticks by his mates. Look at me … I came out of the army to find my wife had been screwing with some rich bookie. Did six months for breaking the bastard’s jaw. Couldn’t get work when I come out of the slammer, hit the bottle, was on the point of ending it in the river. Met up with Mitch by chance when he was visiting his Mum and Dad. He got it all out of me, gave me the bollocking of a lifetime and then offered me a job.’
‘You knew one another as kids?’
‘At school. Mitch was always the bright boy – everyone knew he’d go a long way.’
For a short while they sat in silence in the warm darkness of the car, surrounded by their own thoughts. Then Chris said, ‘Maybe I’ve said too much. I just wanted you to know, that guy’s pure gold. If you take it on, and you need back-up, you can count on me.’
‘Thanks. As I said, I’ll have to think it over.’
‘Oh, sure.’ He said nothing more for the rest of the way, and only a brief ‘Good-night’ as she got out of the car at her door.
Nine
‘Stay out of it,’ was Iris’s predictable reaction.
Melissa put down her knife and fork and began fiddling with the stem of her wine-glass. ‘I’m very tempted,’ she said. ‘It’d be a great opportunity to get the atmosphere just right for my book …’
Iris tilted her head and looked down her nose. ‘Stop kidding yourself,’ she said bluntly. ‘Plenty of other pubs in the county with a tame spook – try one of those for atmosphere. Folks love helping writers with research, or so you keep telling me.’
‘Yes, but chatting to someone over a bar isn’t the same as actually staying in a place.’
‘Treat yourself to a weekend in one of them. No strings, no funny business.’
‘It wouldn’t be the same. Mitch has promised to let me see round the oldest parts of Heyshill Manor and show me some of the old documents and things he got when he bought the place. And Janice is full of stories …’
‘Nothing you couldn’t get in the library. Talk to Dittany if you want to research local history.’
‘That’s not a bad idea. More quiche?’
‘No, thanks. What’s for pud?’
‘Blackberry and apple crumble.’
‘Super.’
It was Saturday evening and the two friends were eating supper together, as they often did when neither had an engagement, taking it in turns to cook the vegetarian dishes upon which Iris insisted. It had been a fine, sunny day, perfect for gardening, but as the afternoon wore on and the sun began to sink, a chilly breeze brought a reminder that summer was past.
‘I suppose it won’t be long before you’re off to France,’ Melissa remarked as she served the crumble. Iris owned a small house in Provence, where each year she took refuge from the Cotswold winters.
‘Couple of weeks.’
‘So soon? You don’t usually go till November.’
‘“Patterns of Light and Shade” starts at Les Châtaigniers, on the twentieth. Not much point in coming home for a few days – might as well go straight on.’
‘I suppose that makes sense.’
Iris’s annual departure marked the advent of short days and long nights, when gales roistered through the valley bearing rain that turned fields and gardens into quagmires. There were times when frost made rope ladders out of spiders’ webs, when the drive to the cottages became a skating rink and snow was liable to block the lanes for days at a time.
Normally, Melissa found plenty of compensation in the beauty of the winter landscape, exhilarating walks in the cold, clean air, seasonal events at Upper Benbury village hall and invitations to the homes of nearby friends. Although she missed Iris’s company, the absence of daytime distractions and the enforced solitude did wonders for her creativity.
Today, however, her friend’s announcement brought to mind thoughts of grey days when the sun cowered beneath spongy clouds; of homecomings in the dark to an empty cottage with no friendly light behind the next-door curtains; of black shadows and creaking branches and the moan of the wind through the ruins of a long-abandoned shepherd’s hut. She was not a nervous woman, but she felt a pang of dismay and desolation. She had once, for a short period, been a dog-owner; now, recalling the warmth of Khan’s powerful body leaning protectively against her, she thought what a comfort it would be to have him as a companion.
Then she pictured Iris’s reaction to such a possibility and her mood lightened.
Iris saw her smile. ‘What’s so funny?’ she demanded.
Melissa explained. As she expected, Iris’s first thought was for her beloved half-Persian cat. ‘Can’t do that. You know how Binkie hates dogs!’
‘Would Binkie rather I was mugged by an intruder?’
‘No muggers round here.’
‘You never know.’
Iris glowered and Melissa laughed. ‘Don’t worry, it was just a thought. I’m not serious.’
‘Should hope not. Unreliable creatures, dogs. Know where you are with a cat.’
Melissa decided against an argument. Iris could be set in her ideas at times, and in any case there were more important things to think about. She was relieved when her friend got up to go home.
At the door, Iris remarked, ‘Suppose you’ll do it?’
‘I haven’t made up my mind yet.’
‘Heard that one before!’
As she went about the nightly routine of locking doors and checking window fastenings, Melissa found her thoughts returning yet again to the previous evening. It was all as clear in her mind as if she were watching the scene on film: the comfortable room with the glowing remains of the fire; Mitch holding her shawl and wrapping it round her shoulders; the short walk across the hall to the front door with the dogs padding at their heels. It had seemed perfectly natural, after shaking hands with Mitch and promising to be in touch soon, to give Khan a farewell pat. ‘He’s your mate for life,’ his master said, and there had been quiet satisfaction in the smile that puckered his mouth, the smile of a man used to getting what he wanted and confident of doing so.
But it was the drive home, with Chris so unexpectedly communicative, that she relived again and again. A man of few words, almost a total stranger, he had revealed a painful episode in his life out of simple loyalty. It must have cost him a great deal; to refuse to help the man to whom he owed that loyalty would be to undervalue it. If she had had doubts, that realisation was enough to tip the balance.
She glanced at the clock. It was gone eleven, too late to telephone Mitch this evening. And tomorrow was Sunday. Well, it wouldn’t do him any harm to wait another day or so. In any case, there was something she wanted to do first.
It was some time since her last contact with Detective Chief Inspector Kenneth Harris. He sounded both surprised and pleased to receive her call.
‘How nice to hear from you, Mel,’ he said. ‘Committed any good murders lately?’
‘Not exactly, but I’m working on it. May I pick your brains for a few minutes?’
‘With pleasure. Why don’t we meet for a noggin – or a spot of lunch, maybe?’
She was taken aback. They ha
d had the odd drink together in the past, but never before by prior arrangement.
‘That’d be nice,’ she said.
‘Twelve thirty at the Grey Goose in Stowbridge?’
‘You’re on.’
He was there before her, standing at the bar with a tankard of ale, head turned towards the door as if watching for her. For a moment she hardly recognised him.
‘You’ve lost weight. Has Isobel put you on a diet?’
‘In a manner of speaking. What’ll you have to drink?’
‘A St Clements, please.’
‘That’s orange juice with lemon, isn’t it? Sure you wouldn’t prefer a gin and tonic?’
‘And have you book me on a drink-driving charge?’
He chuckled, bought her drink, tucked a menu under his arm and led the way to an empty table by the window. In the diffused light filtering through the frosted glass, she studied his face.
‘There’s something different about you and it’s not just the weight loss.’
‘Don’t you think it suits me to be lean and fit?’ His grin compressed his cheeks into cushions of pink flesh.
‘I wouldn’t describe you as actually lean,’ she teased him. ‘You’ve lost a chin or two, and the chair didn’t groan when you sat on it, but …’
‘But what?’
His eyes, on the small side but shrewd and candid as ever, met hers over the rim of his tankard. They held an expression she had not seen before and found difficult to fathom. Hitherto, their relationship had been that of professionals whose jobs now and again impinged – once or twice when they had become involved in a case of murder, but more often by no more than a telephone call when she needed to check some point of police procedure. She was curious to learn what lay behind the invitation.
‘I know,’ she said, affecting a flash of inspiration. ‘You’ve been punching iron at that new health studio in Stowbridge. Whose idea was it – yours or Isobel’s?’
The smile faded. He put down his half-drained beer tankard and handed her the menu. ‘Isobel left me six months ago for the pro from her golf club,’ he said, and his voice, which she had once in conversation with Iris likened to oily sandpaper, was grittier than usual. ‘What d’you fancy to eat? The lasagna’s pretty good – they use fresh pasta.’
‘Ken, I’m so sorry.’
‘Forget it. We’d been drifting for a long time – and you were right about the diet. She’s a superb cook and loves rich food.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘The irony is, she never put on an ounce. ‘I’m the one who got fat.’ Another laugh, this time with a harsher edge. ‘Maybe that’s why she went off me. Well, have you chosen yet?’
‘The lasagna will be fine.’
She gave him back the menu; he snapped it shut, drained his glass and stood up. ‘Want a refill?’
‘No, thanks. Maybe later.’
She studied his back as he went to the bar to give their order. His hair, greyer than she remembered, was neatly trimmed. His suit fitted his slimmer shape so well that it had to be new. He had certainly not been crushed by the breakdown of his marriage, but she wondered how badly he had been hurt.
‘So what skulduggery are you working on at present?’ he asked when he came back with a fresh pint.
‘I have this idea for smuggling stuff in a car fitted with a false silencer.’
‘What sort of stuff – drugs?’
‘Not drugs – I’ve done that before and anyway it’s old hat. I thought perhaps stolen jewellery, or art treasures – small stuff, of course, miniatures or statuettes, or maybe counterfeit money.’
‘Why ask me? An art dealer or museum director would know more about it.’
‘I’m talking about the actual modification to the car. Do you know anyone who could tell me if it’s feasible?’
Harris thought for a moment. ‘You might try Stumpy Dart.’
‘Who?’
‘Real name, J. Edgar Hoover Dart.’ He gave a chuckle. ‘The men in his mother’s family were all in the force and she was a great admirer of American police methods. It nearly broke her heart when her son never grew tall enough to follow the family tradition.’
‘And he knows a lot about cars?’
‘You could say he’s a lifelong enthusiast. He trained as a mechanic; a few years ago he bought an old Morris Cowley and rebuilt it. When he’d finished, someone offered to buy it for a ridiculous sum and he went out looking for another. If he’d branched out, taken on a partner maybe, he could have made a fortune, but he was always a bit of a loner.’
‘He sounds just the man I need. Where will I find him?’
‘He’s got a small workshop out on the Evesham Road. If you want to get on the right side of him, don’t let on you know what the initials stand for. Ah, here’s our food.’
They ate in silence for a few minutes. Then Melissa remarked, as casually as she could, ‘That was a nasty business at Heyshill Manor the other night.’
Harris’s eyes met hers over the rim of his tankard. ‘I wondered when you’d get round to that.’
‘I heard there was to be a post-mortem.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And?’
‘It wasn’t a stroke or heart attack.’
‘So what was the cause of death?’
‘They don’t know yet.’
‘They must have some idea, surely.’
‘They’re running more tests, that’s all I can tell you. How’s your lasagna?’
‘Good, thanks.’ She hesitated for a moment before asking, ‘Ken, do they suspect drugs?’
‘They have open minds at present – they’re just following standard procedure.’
She shook her head in bewilderment. ‘I can’t believe it of Will – he was an ex-copper, a very steady sort of chap.’
‘How come you know him?’
Without revealing her particular interest, she explained. Harris gave an ironic laugh. ‘Everyone to their own amusements, I suppose. I’d rather spend my birthday with just one special person.’
‘I dare say Mitch would as well,’ she replied, thinking of Dittany. ‘I imagine this shindig is mainly for his business cronies.’
‘You reckon it’s still going ahead, then?’
‘So I understand.’ She finished her meal and laid down her fork. When she looked up from her plate, she caught Harris looking at her with a hint of uneasiness.
‘This fellow Mitchell, you aren’t … involved with him, are you? Not that I’ve any right to ask, I know, but …’
‘But what?’
He shifted in his chair and toyed with a pepper pot. ‘People with his sort of money … who move in that sort of milieu … are liable to have some funny friends.’
‘Oh, Ken, you sound just like my agent,’ said Melissa reproachfully, but she spoke with a smile to let him know there was no offence taken.
He glanced up at the clock on the wall and said, ‘I’ll have to leave you, I’m afraid. I hope I’ve been some use.’ As he helped her on with her coat, he said, ‘Maybe we could do this again some time. One evening, perhaps?’
‘I’d like that.’
‘I’ll call you.’
‘Do that. And thanks for the lunch.’
When she reached home, she rang Mitch to let him know her decision. All he said was, ‘I told Vic to keep a room for you from tomorrow.’
‘But you didn’t know I’d be coming.’ She pictured his smug grin as she added, ‘A gut feeling, I suppose.’
‘Got it. Feel free to order whatever you fancy. I’ll pick up the tab.’
‘Wouldn’t it be better if I settled the bill myself and you paid me later? Vic might think it’s an odd arrangement.’
‘Not a bit. I’ve told him it’s by way of compensation for the shock you had, finding Will – and a “thank you” for writing the script of Innocent Blood Avenged. You’re working on your latest blockbuster and you’re in search of local colour. Poke around as much as you like.’
‘All right. I’ll keep in touch
.’
‘Better not call from the hotel.’
In case the enemy overhears, I suppose, she thought as she put the phone down. Really, the whole enterprise might be an adventure story for schoolkids, something straight out of a comic paper … except for the disturbing fact of Will’s unexplained death.
October was in a mellow mood. When Melissa opened the window of her room at Heyshill Manor Hotel, the air had a softness that was almost springlike. The outlook, however, was wholly autumnal. In the distance were brown fields on which the first shoots of winter crops made narrow bands of tender green, and patches of woodland arranged in abstract patterns of yellow and bronze. In the foreground, beds of chrysanthemums and dahlias, untouched as yet by frost, bordered a well-tended lawn.
Close to the house, an elderly gardener was plodding to and fro behind a machine that noisily sucked up the day’s scattering of fallen leaves. He was working on a section that Melissa guessed was the Bellamys’ private corner of the garden, since it was separated from the rest by a low box hedge that ran without a break to a stone boundary wall. In an angle of the building, almost immediately below her window, was a small patio. Pots of winter-flowering pansies made a bright splash of colour at the feet of a stone shepherdess who gazed, shading her eyes like Bo-peep, into the distance.
Melissa turned to take another look at the room. It was evidently part of the original building and had all the period features so beloved by tourists: beamed ceiling, bulging whitewashed walls and a fine old oak door, complete with iron latch and hinges and secured with a massive key. The furniture was mostly reproduction but of good quality and carefully chosen. The polished wooden floor, liberally scattered with rugs, looked original but probably wasn’t, and she was relieved to find on inspection that the bathroom facilities were modern.
Kim Bellamy had personally shown her up, falling over herself to be obliging. ‘I think it’s ever so exciting, having a famous writer staying with us,’ she had gushed. ‘Mr Mitchell has told us to help you in any way we can.’
While Melissa was unpacking, the telephone rang. It was Mitch.
Murder at the Manor Hotel Page 9
