by H. Y. Hanna
“No. She was talking to a recruitment agency in London.”
Poppy sat back in surprise. “A recruitment agency? Was Ursula looking for a job?”
Suzanne frowned. “I’m not sure. It looks like Sergeant Lee didn’t speak to the woman who called Ursula—just to a colleague. But she confirmed that the call was about a position on the committee of a large charitable organisation in London.”
Suddenly, Poppy remembered the conversation she’d had with Ursula the first time she met the woman, as they were standing together in the marquee. She had complimented Ursula on the success of the fête and Ursula had said something about it being the first time she had organised an event of that scale. With charitable organisations relying on fundraising events, she’d said: “…this kind of organisational experience is crucial for someone who wants a position on a committee.”
At the time, Poppy had simply thought that Ursula was referring to the experience benefiting her role at SOAR, but now, in light of what Suzanne had just told her, she wondered if Ursula’s words had had a different meaning. Had she been referring to gaining good experience for her CV, so that she would be a more attractive candidate for a job in another charitable organisation? Perhaps one down in London?
Her thoughts jumped to Norman. Did he know that his “soulmate” was planning to leave Bunnington? He hadn’t mentioned anything when she’d spoken to him—only warbled on about him and Ursula being “together forever”. But in spite of his protests and pretences, Poppy was pretty certain that any romance between him and Ursula was only wishful thinking in his head.
So if Ursula hadn’t welcomed Norman’s attentions—maybe she had even found him annoying or repulsive—she might have been quietly making plans to leave Bunnington to escape him. A job in London would have been the first step…
“Poppy?”
Poppy came out of her thoughts to find Suzanne regarding her quizzically. “Sorry,” she said with an apologetic smile. “I… um… I was just thinking about Ursula’s murder.”
“Anything in particular?”
Poppy hesitated, unsure whether she should share her theory with Suzanne. The mild-mannered antique dealer was always the last person she’d imagined as being the murderer and she had no actual proof that he was involved. If he really had nothing to do with Ursula’s murder, then he had already suffered enough, and the last thing she wanted to do was add to his misery by encouraging the police to think that he had killed the woman he loved.
“Er… no, not really,” Poppy said. “Um… so you’ll be releasing Betsy now, won’t you?”
“Yes, although I’m not striking her completely off my list of suspects. But for the time being, I’m willing to believe her story that she was framed. Which means that the real murderer was someone with access to the manor and who was familiar with the place, such that they could find their way to Betsy’s room and hide the knife under her mattress.”
Again, Poppy’s thoughts returned uncomfortably to Norman, but she pushed them away and said out loud: “So will you be investigating other suspects now?”
“Definitely. I’ll be going through all of Ursula’s contacts—both at the manor and in the village—and examining her relationships with them.” Suzanne smiled grimly. “I know it’s a cliché but the statistics show that it’s true most murders are committed by someone known to the victim. I’m going to speak to Henry Farnsworth myself, and to Paul Kirby too, and, of course, to Muriel Farnsworth. She may be able to shed some light on her niece’s private life, which may give us a lead. I’ll also be interviewing the other members of the SOAR committee—as well as any other village residents that Ursula had frequent dealings with. The postmistress in the village has been very helpful and she’s given me a list of names.”
Suzanne rose from the table with a sigh. “Speaking of which, I’d better get going—I’ve got a ton of things to do.” Then she pulled a face and added: “At least I’m not having to deal with that gang of teenage vandals. My colleagues in Uniform are pulling their hair out on that one. It seems crazy to be outwitted by a bunch of teenage boys, and yet so far they haven’t managed to catch them. And in the meantime, they keep being inundated with reports about the damage the boys have caused. This morning, there was a flood of calls to the station from angry villagers who had been vandalised in the night.”
Poppy felt a stab of guilt. Perhaps if she had spoken up at Duxton House yesterday, the police would have caught the boys already. She remembered what Mrs Peabody had said, about petty crime progressing to something much worse, and asked anxiously:
“What did they do this time? They haven’t hurt anyone, have they?”
“No, no one’s been injured, but several houses in the village have had their rubbish sacks torn open and the contents tossed all over the garden and onto the street. Most people had a week’s worth of rotting food and other rubbish in their bins and now they’ve got a huge clean-up job. I can imagine the smell is quite horrendous.”
Poppy accompanied Suzanne out the front door and down the path, relieved that Nell wasn’t around to launch another barrage of personal questions on Suzanne. As they approached the garden gate, she remembered something else and asked:
“Have the police found Ursula’s phone? It was weird that it was the only thing that was stolen. I suppose that’s why Sergeant Lee thought her attacker could have been the mobile phone thief.”
“Yes, well, Sergeant Lee has been bit premature in some of his conclusions on this case,” said Suzanne in a tone which suggested that the sergeant had received a sound reprimand.
Poppy felt a childish satisfaction at the thought of the smug sergeant getting his comeuppance.
“As for the phone—no, it hasn’t turned up yet, although we are still searching. I understand that it’s fairly distinctive as it was in a custom case?”
“Yes, Ursula had a matching case for her iPad,” Poppy told her. “I saw it when I was at Duxton House—it’s really beautiful: rose-gold embellished with Swarovski crystals in the shape of swirls.”
“Well, that should be easy to spot. I’ll put out a call for it. Of course, the murderer may have simply destroyed it, in which case we may never find it. But just in case… we’ll keep looking.”
A few minutes later, Poppy stood at the gate and watched as the dark grey Audi glided away. She felt a huge sense of relief that Suzanne was back in charge and would now be leading the investigation. She could forget all about the murder now and leave everything to the police while she got on with her own life. There were plug plants to transplant, flower arrangements to deliver, two naughty runaway dogs to find…
And what about Norman? Determinedly, Poppy pushed her uneasy thoughts to the back of her mind. Suzanne had said that she was going to check out everyone that Ursula had had regular contact with, and that would definitely include Norman. Let the police deal with it.
She turned away from the gate and was about to start walking back to the cottage when something moved in the bushes to her right. She glanced across and was surprised when a skinny boy with a thatch of brown hair stepped out from behind a large shrub. She blinked. It was the boy she had seen at Duxton House the other day—the youngest member of the teenage vandals gang.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Poppy looked quickly around for the older boys, wondering if she was about to become the victim of some gang prank, but she could see no one else. It was just her and the young boy in the cottage garden. He was regarding her warily, much like a wild animal deciding whether to flee, and she found herself instinctively giving him a friendly smile.
“Hi.”
He hesitated, then muttered, “Hullo.” He took another step forwards, then said, in a rush, “I… I came to say thanks.”
Poppy looked at him in surprise. It was the last thing she’d expected to hear.
“For yesterday,” he added, misinterpreting her blank look. “When you saw me at the big house and… and didn’t say anything.”
“O
h… well… you’re welcome,” said Poppy, a bit inanely. She groped around for something else to say and came up with the tried and true British panacea for any situation. “Um… would you like a cup of tea?”
The boy shook his head. “Gotta go,” he muttered. But he didn’t move. Instead, he gave her an uncertain look from beneath that thatch of hair and asked suddenly, “Why?”
“Why what?” said Poppy, confused.
“Why didn’t you say something? Like, why didn’t you tell the police I was there?”
“Oh… well… I don’t know, really…” Poppy gave him a crooked smile. “I guess… I didn’t want you to get in trouble.”
He looked slightly stunned by her answer. “But… you don’t even know me. Why should you care?”
Poppy shrugged. “Sometimes you don’t have to know someone to do the right thing… and… and sometimes you care, even if you don’t know them.”
He looked at her for a moment in silent wonder. Then he ducked his head and said in a voice so low that Poppy could barely hear him: “We weren’t doing the right thing.”
“No, it’s not very nice what you guys have been doing around the village,” Poppy said severely. “And you were at it again last night, weren’t you? The rubbish at the houses?”
The boy nodded miserably. “I… I didn’t want to do it. None of it!” he burst out suddenly. “I knew it was wrong, like spray painting stuff and chopping things up—”
“Then why did you do it?”
“Because it was sort of exciting, you know? Like… like when we were hiding and sneaking round and then running away and nearly getting caught… it was cool. At least in the beginning.” He paused. “Then I started feeling bad about what we were doing. I told them we shouldn’t do it, but the big boys just laughed and said that was how they have fun… They said if I want to be with them—if I want to be in the gang—then I have to join in too.”
Poppy hesitated, then said gently, “Do you really want to be part of a gang like that, though?”
The boy shrugged and looked away. “It’s better than staying at home… with Mum crying all the time and stuff…” he muttered.
“Oh… well, what about hanging out with your other friends instead?”
He didn’t answer and Poppy realised belatedly that perhaps he didn’t have other friends. She kicked herself mentally for her insensitivity. There was a long awkward pause and she was hugely grateful when a familiar demanding voice broke the silence:
“N-o-o-o-ow? N-ow?”
Oren came into view, sauntering down the garden path from the back of the property. He was looking very self-satisfied (no doubt from his recent second breakfast, courtesy of Nell!) and his ginger coat was freshly groomed and gleaming. He came up to them and eyed the boy curiously.
“N-ow?” he said, flicking his tail in greeting.
“Wow, that’s a cool cat!” cried the boy, staring at Oren in admiration. “Is he yours?”
“No, he belongs to my next-door neighbour, although he seems to think he lives here half the time,” said Poppy with a chuckle. “His name’s Oren—would you like to pat him?”
The boy nodded eagerly and crouched down as the ginger tom approached him. He ran his hands over the glossy orange fur, then laughed as Oren headbutted him. Poppy was amazed by the transformation in him. Gone were the wary manner, the sullen voice and hunched posture—instead, his eyes were bright, his whole face open and smiling as he patted Oren and tickled him under the chin.
“I always wanted a cat or a dog,” he said, his head down, still busily stroking Oren. “But Mum always said no—pets are too much trouble.”
“I never had pets either when I was growing up,” said Poppy, crouching down next to him and reaching out to pat Oren as well. “Then I moved here and… well, Oren sort of adopted me,” she said with a laugh.
“Can I… can I come back to see him sometime?” asked the boy.
“Of course! Come whenever you like. He’s usually here in the garden somewhere, if he isn’t next door.” Poppy grinned at the boy. “Just knock on my door if you don’t see him—he might be inside, sleeping in his favourite spot. And that invite for a cup of tea still stands, you know.”
“Thanks,” said the boy gruffly. “You’re… you’re really nice.”
Poppy held her hand out. “My name’s Poppy. What’s yours?”
“Timothy.” He put his hand in hers and solemnly shook it.
Poppy was struck by how small his hand was and was reminded once again that he was just a child. Up close, he didn’t look any older than ten or eleven, although he had that slightly cynical air that was usually seen in adults and those who had suffered pain and disillusionment.
They patted Oren for a moment longer, then Timothy stood up and said regretfully, “I’d better get back. My Mum will be expecting me for lunch.”
“How did you get here?” asked Poppy, standing up as well and glancing around.
“Oh, I’ve got a bike.” He gestured to the lane outside the garden walls. “I parked it down at the bottom of the cul-de-sac. It’s only about ten minutes’ cycle from here to my house.”
“Do you cycle to school as well?”
He nodded absently. His mind seemed to be on something else. As he was about to go through the gate, he paused and looked back at her.
“You know what you were talking about just now, with that lady? About the murder and stuff?”
“You mean Suzanne—er, Inspector Whittaker?”
He nodded. “You were talking about this iPhone with a bling cover.”
“Yes, Ursula’s phone. It’s got a special cover in rose gold, decorated with crystals—why?”
He hesitated. “I think I saw it.”
“What? Where?”
“At one of the houses we were… you know, when we were going around last night…” he trailed off uncomfortably.
“You mean, you saw it in a house?”
“No, with some rubbish. We were taking black sacks out of wheelie bins, see, and ripping them open and then throwing the rubbish around. We started doing it at this row of houses, then a car with big headlights came up the lane and the other boys got spooked, so we ran. We never went back to those houses. But I cut open a sack before I ran and I saw this phone, like you said, in there. I noticed ’cos it seemed like a weird thing to throw away. You know, like it looked expensive.”
Poppy clutched his arm excitedly. “Do you remember which house it was? Can you show me?”
“Yeah. It’s on the other side of the village but I remember it.”
Fifteen minutes later, Poppy found herself following Timothy down a narrow lane on the outskirts of the village. It was an area that she hadn’t been to yet. Unlike the houses near the village high street or those near Duxton House—many of which had been renovated and extended by wealthy city-types buying a house in the country—the dwellings here were small and shabby, probably original workers’ cottages, with several in bad need of repair.
The lane they were walking down was not actually a main thoroughfare—it was a sort of back alley which ran behind the row of terraced houses and allowed easy access to their back gardens and the wheelie bins put out each week for the rubbish collection. Timothy didn’t stop until he reached the end of the row and pointed at the last house.
“That’s the one.”
Poppy stood on tiptoe to peer over the wooden fence surrounding the back garden. On the other side was a threadbare patch of grass, surrounded by some overgrown shrubs and a couple of bedraggled petunias planted in too much shade but still valiantly trying to flower. The house itself looked much like the others in the row—grey, nondescript, and in good need of a lick of paint.
“Where did you see the phone?” she asked Timothy, who was standing on tiptoe next to her.
“In there—see?” He pointed at a faded green wheelie bin tucked into an alcove beside the back door. “It was in a black sack, in there. I was supposed to do this house and the other boys were doing
one of the other houses each. But then, like I said, this car came down the alley and the big boys legged it. I only just started ripping my sack open—so I shoved it back into the wheelie bin and ran too.”
“How did you get in the garden?”
“Oh, that’s easy—this gate’s unlocked.” He reached down and showed her how part of the fence was in fact a concealed gate, which opened into the garden. There was a bolt but it was hanging loosely from rusty screws.
Poppy hesitated, looking up at the house. Was there anyone inside? It seemed to be completely silent. She glanced at her watch. It was mid-morning and most people would be at work. She knew she should go back and call Suzanne, notify the police, but now that she was here, the curiosity was overwhelming. She had to know if Ursula’s phone was really in that bin.
She took a deep breath and slipped through the gate, then hurried across the garden to the wheelie bin with Timothy at her heels. She lifted the swing-top lid up, wrinkling her nose at the pungent odour of rotting rubbish, and reached for the black plastic sack inside. She heaved it up and immediately saw the long tear down the side. Bits of rubbish—empty cartons of milk, lemon rinds, crumpled plastic wrap, soiled tissues, an empty packet of “sour cream and onion” crisps—spilled out from the gap. Poppy frowned. She couldn’t see anything that resembled a phone…
Then she saw it. Wedged between a withered apple core and a piece of cardboard was something that had a metallic gleam. Grimacing, she grasped it with the tips of two fingers and slowly pulled it out. It seemed to be stuck at first and she wondered with a sinking heart if she would have to reach her whole hand into the rubbish, but she managed to wiggle it out at last. She held it up to the light: it was a phone, all right—or at least part of one. Someone had taken a hammer to the phone and smashed it so hard that the case had cracked and detached from the body of the device. This was the main part of the case—and she assumed that the remaining section plus the rest of the phone was still in the depths of the rubbish sack.
