by Rebecca Tope
Gladwin looked at her, and then said, ‘There’s another line at the bottom, in a different pen. Different writing. It says, “I love you, George”.’
‘So that’s it then, is it? Tony found the letter on Friday morning, went to George’s house, found Bunny’s body, chucked her in the ditch and then went for George. But why dispose of Bunny like that? And take her phone – I assume that must have been him?’
‘Well, it’s not here, but yes, I think we can make that assumption. But Thea… George didn’t kill Bunny.’
‘What?’
‘She had a blow to the head which didn’t kill her. The pathologist had his doubts, but had to do tests first. Now he says she was alive for several hours, and was then choked to death. Possibly smothered. Tony didn’t find her dead – he deliberately killed her.’
Thea’s eyes widened. ‘Bloody hell,’ she said.
‘Indeed.’
‘It’s so unfair, though, don’t you think? Two men who seem altogether decent, both driven to the end of their tether by a thoroughly nasty woman.’
‘Since when was anything fair?’ said Gladwin.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Saturday afternoon was spent with the animals, as usual, everything imbued with a sense of sadness and futility. Gladwin had gone off with her Exhibit A to arrest Tony Newby, in the process further compounding poor Simon’s problems. Outside it was drizzling, in that maddening English fashion which was neither one thing nor another.
Then Lucy’s phone rang, and Thea braced herself to explain yet again that no, there was nobody here who could fix their computer.
‘Thea?’ came a familiar voice, crystal clear. ‘It’s me, Janina.’
‘Hey! Hello. Did you get home all right?’
‘Oh yes. In spite of twenty centimetres of snow. In Bulgaria, snow is not a problem.’
‘Right. And how’s your mother?’
‘She is not well, but quite cheerful. Of course, her treatment will cost us all our money – everything I earned in England will be gone in a week. My father has been trying to borrow from his friends, but nobody has much.’
‘That’s awful.’
‘Yes. Many things are awful. How are Simon and the boys?’
‘A lot’s happened since yesterday,’ she began tentatively. ‘They know who killed Bunny now. They arrested him a little while ago.’
‘Not Simon?’ The voice was hollow with dread. ‘Please not Simon.’
‘No, not Simon. It was Tony. Because Bunny was being so rotten to George. I expect you knew about that?’
‘Poor George. She was afraid of him, you see. The way he looked at her. He could not hide what he thought.’
‘What did he think?’
‘That she was a fool. That she did not deserve those sweet boys. That she could do nothing but harm in everything she touched.’
‘And you thought the same, didn’t you? You said so, the first time I met you.’
‘We all did. Tony, too. And even Ben was beginning to see that she was not worth very much.’
‘How ghastly for her,’ said Thea. ‘Don’t you see that? You all pushed her into a corner, and made her worse. She had to find a scapegoat, to make her feel better.’
‘Yes, I understand it now. I understand why George might take the force of her feelings. But I don’t see why Tony—’
‘Because he loved George, and hated what she was doing to him. And it got a bit more complicated than that, at the end. She made very specific accusations.’
‘Oh, I understand. That came from the Philippa woman, her friend who left her children, and then blamed everyone else for her own behaviour. She is the one who first talked about paedophiles. She made Bunny see everything even more darkly.’
‘It’s all so sad,’ said Thea.
‘Yes,’ agreed Janina, speaking from snowy impoverished Bulgaria. ‘Yes, everything is sad.’
Sad, but no longer frightening, Thea realised, at the end of the day. The sensations of fear had subsided so gradually that she did not notice they’d gone until bedtime. When she got up on Sunday, the baby rabbits were all still alive, and had begun to nibble tentatively at the shreds of cabbage she gave them. Outside, the sun was shining, and the temperature had risen to a heady five degrees. Around the edges of Jimmy’s toilet patch there were daffodil spikes poking a full four inches above the ground. Under an apple tree at the end of the garden a semicircle of snowdrops had produced fat buds as if by magic. Tony Newby would be receiving fair treatment at the hands of the police, encouraged to disclose the full truth of what had happened over that snowy night. Simon’s children would be given as much cherishing as was humanly possible, women emerging from amongst family and friends – and perhaps a new nanny as loving as Janina had been. Like the little rabbits, they would survive and grow, which was at least a start.
All of which left her with her own life to consider. Where would she go next? Would she find the courage to embark on a fresh house-sitting commission, or had this wintry experience deterred her from ever doing it again? She thought back over the places she had been – Blockley, with its tilted streets and ancient field systems; Frampton Mansell, with its historic canal and mysterious woods – places she would never have got to know without the house-sitting work. But there were no fresh jobs in her diary – she had advertised during November, but nothing had come of it. People were cutting back on holidays, and the cost of a sitter on top of the other expenses was less affordable now that money was tight. Perhaps, after all, she would find herself a proper job, become self-reliant and in the process acquire something closer to normality in the eyes of people like Old Kate.
Jessica and her mysterious ‘friend’ were due to arrive soon. The prospect of this diversion was entirely welcome. She could lose her worries in the maternal role for a while, taking them to lunch and encouraging them to talk about their own concerns.
The car came warily down the track, as if unsure whether it had taken the right turning. Hepzie gave her single someone’s coming bark, and went to the door. Thea let her out, following slowly, and watched as her daughter drew in beside her own car. From the passenger side, a man emerged, standing uncertainly, looking over the car roof at Thea.
He was tall, with broad shoulders. And he was black. When he smiled, his teeth shone bright against the dark skin. ‘Hi,’ he said.
‘Mum, this is Paul. He’s a detective sergeant.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Thea, with a smile. ‘Come in and have some coffee.’
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Hampnett is a very small place – even smaller than I have made it appear in this story. I have stretched distances slightly for dramatic effect. As before, all the characters are products of my imagination, as are the farms and houses in which the action takes place. The church, however, is very much as described.
About the Author
REBECCA TOPE lives on a smallholding in Herefordshire, with a full complement of livestock, but manages to travel the world and enjoy civilisation from time to time as well. Most of her varied experiences and activities find their way into her books, sooner or later. Her own cocker spaniel, Beulah, is the model for Hepzibah, but is unfortunately ageing much more rapidly.
www.rebeccatope.com
By Rebecca Tope
IN THE COTSWOLD SERIES
A Cotswold Killing
A Cotswold Ordeal
Death in the Cotswolds
A Cotswold Mystery
Blood in the Cotswolds
Slaughter in the Cotswolds
Fear in the Cotswolds
A Grave in the Cotswolds
Deception in the Cotswolds
OTHER TITLES
The Sting of Death
A Market for Murder
Grave Concerns
Copyright
Allison & Busby Limited
13 Charlotte Mews
London W1T 4EJ
www.allisonandbusby.com
Copyright © 2009 by REBECCA TOP
E
First published in hardback by Allison & Busby Ltd in 2009.
Published in paperback by Allison & Busby Ltd in 2010.
This ebook edition first published in 2009.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from
the British Library.
ISBN 978–0–7490–0845–1
