“You don’t seriously think Wilson’s going to take it further?”
“Alfie, it’s a hierarchy, and I’m at the bottom. The sarge will think he’ll look good if he can get me on a charge of insubordination. He’s livid about being stuck in Bunburry when he thinks he should be running Scotland Yard.”
“He couldn’t run a cake stall at a village fete,” said Alfie. “You’re the one who does all the work.”
“Don’t underestimate him,” said Emma. “Either his intelligence or his sense of grievance. Apart from him, I love my job – I’m going to have to grovel to him and beg him not to take it any further. Maybe if I can persuade Aunt Marge and Aunt Liz to say sorry to him as well.” She sighed. “No, I can’t do that to them. I’ll just have grovel enough for three. First left, after those trees.”
It took Alfie a moment to realise she was giving him directions. He left the A road to go on to a narrow local road, and then down a no-through lane. Ahead of him, he could see a large two-storey detached house, built of Cotswold stone, with dark grey tiles on the roof, and surrounded by mature trees.
But Emma had spotted something else.
“Stop,” she said urgently, and when he did so, she jumped out of the car and disappeared from view over a low wall.
Whatever she was up to, she hadn’t instructed him to abort the mission, so he continued driving up to the house. And as he got further along the lane, he saw what Emma had already seen. A police car parked in the courtyard in front of the house.
He considered turning and retreating, but it was too late. The front door opened and Sergeant Wilson emerged, his uniform straining over his paunch. He made a beeline for the Jaguar, his expression thunderous.
Alfie hastily got out of the car. He was taller than the sergeant, and he preferred to have this slight advantage in any discussion, rather than being harangued as he sat behind the wheel.
“What are you doing here?” Wilson demanded.
Alfie looked innocent. “I’m visiting a friend.”
“What friend?”
“Olivia.” He realised he had no idea what her surname was, and hoped the sergeant wouldn’t ask. “The chief bridesmaid. I met her in the Horse shortly after I saw you last.”
Wilson’s expression was a mixture of resentment and envy. He clearly found it entirely plausible that Alfie was calling on a girl he’d only just met in the pub.
“Better not let Hollis know you’re visiting Miss Browning,” he sneered. “Your new friend’s been most helpful. Confirmed the fudge as the source of the poisoning. It won’t be long before the lab confirms what we already know, and that fudge business will be closed down for good.”
Alfie couldn’t tolerate Wilson’s obvious glee at Liz and Marge’s misfortune.
“With respect, you don’t know anything of the sort,” he said. “Liz’s manufacturing process is impeccable, so I wouldn’t get your hopes up about that lab report. I think it would be wiser if you spent your time looking for alternative explanations.”
“Don’t tell me what to do!” shouted Wilson, his jowls wobbling alarmingly. His eyes narrowed. “This had better be a social visit. If I find you’ve been asking questions about the poisoning, I’ll have you for obstructing a police investigation.”
Alfie gave what he hoped was an infuriating smile. “I’m disappointed that you’re questioning my motives, sergeant. Surely you’ve noticed how attractive Ms Browning is?”
“I’m too busy looking out for criminals to notice that sort of thing, sir,” Wilson said sanctimoniously, still managing to make the word “sir” seem like a term of abuse.
“Don’t let me keep you,” said Alfie. “Would you like me to reverse so that you can get out more easily?”
“I’ll manage perfectly well without your help.” Wilson returned to the police car and ended up having to do a seven-point turn to get past the Jag. Alfie watched him every second, arms folded, trying not to smile, and gave him a cheery wave as he eventually headed down the lane.
A few moments later, Emma sprinted up to join him.
“That was close,” she said. “He would never have believed I was only here to visit my old schoolfriend. Did he warn you off?”
“He did,” said Alfie. “But fortunately, I managed to convince him that I’m slavering over Olivia.”
“And are you?” asked Emma in quite a sharp tone.
“Like you with Greg, not my type,” said Alfie. “So are you going to introduce me to the young marrieds?”
They walked across the courtyard to the front door, which was set in a stone archway. Alfie reckoned the property was worth quite a few million.
After a few moments, the door was answered by a woman in her fifties, dressed with conservative elegance in a checked woollen skirt with a chunky cardigan over a silk blouse. She wore small gold earrings, and a gold chain round her neck.
“Mrs Sutcliffe.” Emma took a step forward, her hand outstretched. “You won’t remember me, but I’m Emma Hollis. I was at school with Greg and Heather.”
Wise not to add “and I was one of the teenagers who trashed your house,” thought Alfie.
“Emma? Yes, I believe I remember the name.” There was no hint of a local accent. Mrs Sutcliffe was pure Home Counties.
“And I’m so very sorry to hear about what happened,” said Emma. “That’s why I’m here, to see them – only if it’s convenient, of course.”
It was an unfortunate word, given the circumstances. Alfie tried to stop himself thinking of conveniences. He must have had a suitably sombre expression on his face, because when Emma said: “This is my friend Alfie McAlister,” Mrs Sutcliffe said: “How very kind of you both to call. Please, do come in.”
She led them along a flag-stoned hallway into a sunny room whose French windows looked out on to a vast manicured lawn with occasional pieces of missing turf, presumably where the marquee had been standing. It was bordered by colourful flower beds, and a phalanx of flamboyant bushes. If not the scene of the crime, the scene of the effects of the crime, Alfie thought.
An empty cup and a plate with some biscuit crumbs on it sat on a small table beside one of the sofas. Sergeant Wilson wasn’t so busy fighting crime that he had no time for refreshments.
Alfie turned as there was a sudden flurry behind him. Emma, Olivia, and another young woman who must be Heather were in some sort of group hug. Standing in the doorway was a young man, his refined good looks revealing him as the son of the elegant lady who had let them in. He watched the embracing women uneasily and seemed relieved to spot Alfie. He walked across the room to him.
“Hello, I’m Greg Sutcliffe.”
Alfie shook hands with him. “Alfie McAlister. A friend of Emma’s. I hope we’re not disturbing you, but Emma was anxious to see you.”
“Any distraction’s welcome,” said Greg, with an attempt at a smile. “We’re all so worried about Grandad. Dad’s at the hospital visiting him now, and I’ll go later. Grandad wasn’t great healthwise before the wedding, but he insisted on coming. I really wanted him there, but I wish now I’d persuaded him to stay away.”
“I’m sure he’s getting the best possible care,” said Alfie. “Do you know yet what happened?”
Greg shook his head. “No idea. They’re doing tests, apparently.”
“And any idea how it happened?” Alfie kept his voice light.
Before Greg could reply, Olivia piped up: “It was the fudge. I didn’t even think of that until Emma started talking about it. It suddenly clicked that that’s what it must have been.”
Alfie saw Emma stiffen.
“It’s so dreadful,” said Heather, with a catch in her voice. “That Bunburry woman ruining my wedding day of all days. Mum says she’s going to sue her for every last penny. I blame the Saviles for recommending her. And now we’re stuck here when we’re supposed to be on honeymoon in t
he Maldives.”
“I’m not going anywhere until I know Grandad’s all right,” said Greg firmly.
“No, darling, of course you’re not. And neither am I. It’s my job to support you.”
Heather was pretty enough, Alfie thought, but her voice had a whiney quality. And it was interesting that her support for her new husband didn’t extend to saying “our” rather than “my” wedding day.
There was a new flurry as Mrs Sutcliffe came in with tea and cake and the younger women helped set out small tables by the sofas.
“Better keep out of the way and let them do their thing,” muttered Greg, motioning to Alfie to take a seat, and sitting down himself.
Heather took the cake plate from her new mother-in-law and gave a gasp of dismay. “Is that - ?”
“It is,” said Mrs Sutcliffe. “No point in wasting it, is there?”
With a choking sob, Heather rushed out of the room.
“I’ll go and see if she’s all right,” said Olivia, following her.
Mrs Sutcliffe calmly served tea and wedding cake as though nothing untoward had happened.
“Olivia has been a tower of strength, looking after Heather,” she said. “I really don’t know how we would have managed without her. Do you, Greg?”
Greg got to his feet. “Okay, okay, I’ll go and try to help.”
Once he had left, Mrs Sutcliffe said breezily: “Our dear Heather is still a little out of sorts. We must make allowances for her.”
Alfie felt Mrs Sutcliffe’s remark to Greg had been very pointed. She obviously thought he should have been the first person to run after his wife.
“I was very sorry to hear about your father-in-law, Mrs Sutcliffe,” he said. “I hope all goes well for him in hospital.”
“Thank you. That’s what we all hope for. Greg has been quite distraught about it. That’s why he and Heather are still here rather than going home, so that we can all support one another, and take it in shifts going to hospital.”
“I hope you weren’t unwell,” said Emma.
Mrs Sutcliffe gave a small grimace as she poured out her own tea. “Indeed I was, as was my husband. But it’s really not something I wish to dwell on.”
“Of course not,” said Emma. “Do you know yet what caused it?”
Mrs Sutcliffe added milk to her tea. “We all presumed it was food poisoning from the wedding breakfast, but Olivia thinks it was the fudge.”
Alfie noticed a muscle in Emma’s jaw twitch.
She said: “Since the fudge been manufactured successfully all this time, it seems unlikely that something would have gone wrong in the production process. I wonder if something could have gone wrong at the church?”
“Whatever do you mean?” asked Mrs Sutcliffe.
“Goodness, Emma,” said Olivia, who was standing in the doorway, “are you investigating this?”
“What do you mean investigating?” asked Mrs Sutcliffe sharply. “The police have already been here.”
“Emma’s in the police,” said Olivia and Mrs Sutcliffe turned a suspicious gaze on Emma.
“Yes,” Emma said easily, “I work with Sergeant Wilson in Bunburry, but this is his investigation. I’ve got absolutely nothing to do with it. Sorry for bombarding you with questions – it’s just force of habit, or habit from being on the force.” She gave a light laugh. “I find myself asking questions all the time, trying to get things clear in my own mind about what happened. And I just wondered whether there was a motive for what happened.”
“Motive!” Mrs Sutcliffe looked askance. “You’re surely not suggesting this could have been deliberate rather than incompetence? Good gracious, do you know something about the woman who makes the fudge? Is she unstable?”
“Not at all,” Alfie intervened. “She’s well known in the area for her competence and reliability. I think that’s what’s misled Emma into thinking something else might have happened. She does get a bit carried away sometimes.”
He gave Emma a tolerant smile which wasn’t reciprocated.
“This is obviously a bad time,” he went on. “We’re sorry for intruding. Perhaps we can come back once things are more settled. Please pass on our good wishes for a speedy recovery to your father-in-law.” He stood up. “Emma?”
He had only eaten half of the slice of cake, which had been delicious, but he didn’t dare ask for a doggy bag. Emma hadn’t yet touched either her tea or cake, but Mrs Sutcliffe didn’t insist that they should stay.
“I’ll come out with you,” said Olivia.
When they got outside, she said: “Do you really think something bad happened at the wedding?”
“Sorry, I’ve got an over-active imagination,” said Emma. “Comes from dealing with villains all the time. I hope I haven’t upset Greg’s mum.”
“Not as much as Heather crying all the time,” said Olivia. “I’m doing my best to cheer her up, but every little thing sets her off.”
They had crossed the courtyard to the lane and Olivia’s eyes widened as she saw the Jag. She whispered something to Emma that Alfie couldn’t hear.
“Let’s meet up properly soon,” said Emma. “Let me know when Heather’s feeling better.”
“Not sure I can wait that long,” said Olivia with a small laugh. “I’d better get back to her.”
The two women hugged, and Olivia kissed Alfie on the cheek before heading back to the house.
Emma didn’t speak as Alfie reversed down the lane.
“I didn’t see any point in staying,” he said. “I can’t imagine either Mrs Sutcliffe or your friend Heather was responsible, and all we seemed to be doing was making things worse for Liz.”
Emma was staring out of the side window and still didn’t respond.
“What do you think?” he asked.
She slumped back in the passenger seat with a groan. “What do I think? I think I’m a complete idiot. This is all my fault. If I hadn’t been talking about the fudge, Olivia wouldn’t have started thinking about it, and working out that it had to be the cause. Now Heather and Mrs Sutcliffe think it’s to blame as well. If they start blabbing, nobody will ever touch the fudge again.”
“I’m sure they won’t,” said Alfie, with a confidence he didn’t feel. “They’re too concerned about Greg’s grandfather right now. It will all work out soon.”
“How? The sarge isn’t carrying out a proper investigation. You heard Greg’s mum. He isn’t even considering that there could be a motive for what happened. He’s decided it’s the fudge, and that it’s Aunt Liz’s fault. Alfie, I’m scared that whoever’s responsible is going to get away with it.” There was a slight tremor in her voice.
“They won’t get away with it now that the Bunburry Parallels are on the case,” said Alfie. “Philip may have noticed something. I’ll ring you as soon as I’ve spoken to him at the hospital.”
He had a further reason for going to the hospital which he didn’t feel ready to share with Emma. He might meet Greg there. He felt sure the bridegroom was somehow mixed up in whatever had happened. The young man was obviously distressed about his grandfather’s illness, but that could be because of guilt rather than anything else. Alfie was certain he was hiding something.
“By the way, what did Olivia say to you as we left?” he asked.
Emma glanced at him. “Never mind,” she said.
10. A picture perfect wedding?
Alfie sat in Windermere Cottage’s brightly tiled kitchen, elbows on the large wooden table, hands round a mug of coffee, and gazed out over the fields. There was something deeply soothing about the view, and the quiet.
In the far distance, a cow was lowing. In the past, the sound would have unnerved him, but now he actually liked it – his bovinophobia had disappeared, ever since seeing the miracle of a calf being born. A calf that had been named after him, which Betty said was appropriate giv
en that it was skinny, had long legs and was “totally cute.”
That, of course, was before the disaster of the dinner party, when Betty’s view of him had changed radically. He had retreated to London, hurt, humiliated, and he might never have come back, had it not been for that frantic phone call from Marge.
But Oscar was right. This was where he should be. Here, in this peaceful – with a stifled exclamation, he tore his gaze away from the window. He wasn’t supposed to be sitting here admiring the view, he was supposed to be checking the wedding photographs. Emma had handed him the memory stick before she set off to examine the wedding video frame by frame.
He opened the laptop and set to work. Was it possible to take this many photographs in a single day? He recoiled slightly at an image of the bride and her bridesmaids showing substantial amounts of bare flesh as they helped one another into their dresses, followed by one of Heather in a can-can pose, fastening a blue garter round her thigh.
He didn’t need to see any of this. All he had to check was Bunburry parish church. Where every single guest seemed to have been snapped at the church’s picturesque wooden lychgate. There were the Saviles, Rosemary elegant in a turquoise silk suit and fascinator, David in a morning suit, top hat in his hand. This definitely wasn’t the everyone-muck-in wedding he imagined his parents had had. More men in morning suits, probably the mayors, the judge and the lord-lieutenant, women in vertiginous heels, with wide-brimmed hats that could double as flying saucers.
Some of the guests looked happy, some of them looked bored, and some of them looked pompous, but none of them looked like a would-be murderer.
He moved on to a picture of the groom and his best man. Greg was unsmiling, tense. Wedding nerves, or something more sinister? The five bridesmaids emerged from a wedding car in their pink dresses, Olivia clearly posing for the camera. Alfie had to admit she was photogenic even though he didn’t find her attractive. Heather seemed to have chosen her bridesmaids for their fragile femininity, and he could quite see that Emma would never have fitted in. She didn’t do fragile: she exuded competence. There had been a determined set to her mouth when she left to check the video. She was no longer upset by the attack on Liz’s business – instead, she was on a mission to unmask the perpetrator. Alfie could almost feel sorry for whoever it was. Almost.
Bunburry--Sweet Revenge Page 8
