by Poppy Blake
‘No, I don’t! That guy is totally useless, he couldn’t organize a party in a winery, let alone plan a crime!’
‘So, do you have any other suggestions?’ urged Rosie, keen to exhaust their enquiries so they could leave the hospital. Not only was a wave of nausea climbing through her chest, but she really didn’t want to spend any longer than necessary in Rick’s spiteful company.
‘Well, much as it pains me to say this about people who are supposed to be my friends, I reckon it could be any one of them, apart from the fact that they’re all cowards. But if I had to single one person out, then it would be Brad. I’ve uncovered some very disturbing information about the theft of ancient artefacts and if I wasn’t incarcerated in this place, I would be demanding that the police arrest him immediately! In fact, have you finished with this ridiculous interrogation? Because if you have I’m going back to the ward to call them right now!’
Rick swivelled round in his wheelchair and glanced down the corridor that had emptied of patients and visitors.
‘Where’s Helen? Helen! Helen!’
‘It’s been good to talk to you, Rick,’ said Rosie, as pleasantly as she could before linking her arm through Matt’s and all but galloping from the hospital and back to where they had left the SUV. ‘My God, Matt, broken ankle or not, I thought he was going to punch you at one point.’
‘So did I. I have to admit that I have a boatload of sympathy for Phil and Brad having to share their club with a man like Rick Forster.’
‘Me too! Not to mention how horrible it must be to be married to him! However, it looks like we’re still searching for the person who put the sedative in our bedtime drinks on Sunday night – which leaves us with three possible suspects. I’ve also remembered something else we need to look into.’
Rosie hopped into the passenger seat and took out her phone, feeling one hundred per cent better now they had left the hospital and Rick’s oppressive personality behind.
‘I’m no expert, but whoever shot Rick managed to score a direct hit with their second arrow which means they must be a fairly accomplished archer.’
‘I see where you’re going! Archery is a regulated sport with formal rules and regulations and codes of conduct. Why don’t you google every Archery GB registered club in the North West and make a few calls to see what you can find out about their membership whilst I drive us back to the windmill?’
Rosie spent the next hour trawling the internet, speaking to local archery club presidents, some more willing to chat to a potential new member than others. She managed to glean very little until she stumbled on a residential course run by a club in North Wales. The guy in charge regretted that he was unable to put her in touch with any fellow archers to regale her with all the fun times they had whilst shooting, but he did point her to a Facebook group with a public profile where their members posted photographs of competitions they took part in and the trophies they won for their respective clubs.
‘Matt! Stop! You have to look at this!’
Matt pulled over to the side of the road and took Rosie’s phone from her, his expression serious.
‘My God, Rosie, I think you’ve cracked it! I think we need to talk to the police immediately.’
‘There’s just one more thing I need to do to confirm what I think could be the motive. I’ll give my Uncle Martyn a call; he has friends in a Manchester law firm who’ll be able to take a quick trip to the Town Hall and we’ll have the proof we need to bring this mystery to a conclusion.’
‘I don’t know about your childhood dream to train as a criminal defence solicitor, Rosie, but you’d make an amazing Crown prosecutor or private investigator. Maybe Freddie is right; perhaps we should set up a new business together – especially if Rick is still intent on closing me down even after we have delivered the person responsible.’
‘I’m confident that once Rick hears what we’ve found out, the last thing on his mind will be pursuing a claim against Ultimate Adventures. Even the most comprehensive risk assessment couldn’t contemplate the possibility of being shot by an arrow!’
‘Thanks, Rosie. For saving my business, for everything. You are absolutely amazing!’
Rosie turned to Matt to offer a smile, but the intensity of his gaze whipped the air from her lungs. The atmosphere in the SUV was suddenly charged with electricity and her heart beat a cacophony of excitement and attraction against her ribcage. Her nerve endings tingled as she inched towards Matt, anticipating the sensation of feeling his lips on hers, his hands curled at her neck…
‘God! Who’s that!’ grumbled Rosie, grabbing her phone and glancing at the caller ID. ‘Oh, it’s Uncle Martyn. He was always a quick worker – thank God!’
Rosie would always be grateful to her father’s older brother who had come to their rescue when her mother had buried her head in the sand after her father’s death. Her childhood home had been repossessed, but her uncle had managed to sort everything out, pay off their debts from the proceeds, and help them buy their cosy flat above a bakery.
‘He’s emailed the document through – and look, I was right!’
‘We need to call the police right now. I’ll ask DS Kirkham to meet us at the Windmill Café, and this time you can do the honours of explaining what we’ve discovered to everyone, Mademoiselle Poirot.’
Chapter 20
The next morning, all eyes rested on Rosie as she stood behind the marble counter in the Windmill Café, a place where she had often demonstrated the intricacies of her recipes. She wished that was what she was about to do now – showcase the best technique for producing a delicious Victoria sponge or a perfect apricot roulade, for her a much more inviting proposition than revealing the identity of the person who had shot Rick.
Swallowing down on her anxiety, she cast a quick glance around the gathering. Rick sat by the French doors in his wheelchair, like a king on a throne, his back straight, his leg elevated, a grim expression in his eyes. When DS Kirkham had arrived, Rick had vociferously insisted with his habitual arrogance that he should be furnished with the details surrounding his shooting, as well as the identity of the perpetrator, before everyone else. Rosie had to admit that he did have a point, until he’d continued with a demand that he should also be permitted to perform the role of raconteur himself and both demands had been promptly refused. At that moment, Rosie wished DS Kirkham had relented and Rick was standing in her shoes.
Helen sat in one of the white-washed chairs on the other side of the room, her ankles crossed daintily, steadfastly refusing to meet Rosie’s eyes. When she had been told why they were congregating in the café, Helen had asked DS Kirkham if Tim Latimer could join them but he had refused her request. Without her friend by her side for support, she was clearly worried about what would happen when their relationship was disclosed to the group.
Phil huddled next to Steph on one of the leather sofas, holding onto her hand as if his life depended on it. The sunlight filtering through the window behind him made his sparse hair seem even thinner and his pallor paler. Steph, on the other hand, looked almost serene.
On the remaining sofa sat Emma with her toes resting in Brad’s lap. The young couple were clearly unconcerned that they had bagged front row seats for the denouement of a crime perpetrated against a friend whose generosity they had been more than happy to accept.
Matt and Mia sat separate from the group on a couple of bar stools at the end of the kitchen counter. Rosie appreciated the encouraging smiles and vibes of positivity they were sending her way. When she had spoken to her sister that morning to tell her about what she and Matt had uncovered, Georgina had begged her to delay the ‘big reveal’ until she drove over to Willerby, as though it was some kind of DIY makeover project. Rosie had smiled at her excitement and promised to recount every tiny detail when she arrived with Jack for the Autumn Leaves party on Saturday night.
Thanks for coming over to the café this morning, everyone,” began Rosie, nerves gnawing at her abdomen and causing her to feel
lightheaded. For a moment, she wanted to hand over the revelation baton to Matt, until she looked at the two police officers, their eyebrows raised as if to say ‘Get on with it’.
‘Well, come on then! We haven’t got all day. I want the scumbag who did this to me arrested and removed from my sight!’ snapped Rick, sending Helen a look of pure malice for choosing not to sit next to him whilst the revelations took place. Every eye in the room swung towards Helen who didn’t help her case by turning a vivid crimson.
‘Mr Forster, please,’ snapped DS Kirkham, his deep voice booming through the café. ‘If you are unable to control your emotions, I shall have to ask you to leave. Miss Barnes, if you wouldn’t mind?’
Rosie experienced a sudden surge of confidence, her brain cleared of all ancillary clutter and she was able to see the scene she was about to paint as focussed and as clear as a photograph. Just as Matt had urged, she channelled her inner Poirot, sent up a quick message of thanks to her father, and launched in.
‘At around seven-thirty on Monday morning, Rick was found unconscious in the cloister of the Garside Priory with an arrow imbedded in his ankle. To begin with, we thought the person responsible had to be a random stranger – possibly someone who had taken umbrage over our invasion of the medieval site – because no one from our wild camping group could have left without one of us noticing their absence. However, we realized there was an explanation for why we didn’t see Rick, or anyone else, leave the site.’
Rosie shot a look at DS Kirkham who stepped forward, his notebook open.
‘We analysed the mugs that were used for your final coffee on Sunday evening and found traces of a very strong sedative. Someone in the group needed to make sure everyone slept through Matt’s wake-up call.’
‘At first, we suspected it to be the work of Rick himself,’ continued Rosie, getting into her stride.
‘Slander! I must protest in the strongest…’
‘Mr Forster, this is your final warning.’
‘…that he decided to do it either as a practical joke, or as a selfish act to exclude everyone in his party from witnessing the amazing experience of seeing a new dawn break through the ancient stone arch. But we now know Rick is innocent and the sedative was administered for a much more sinister purpose – in preparation of his murder.’
Shock ricocheted through the café as the group looked at each other and drew closer to the person they were sitting next to for support.
‘Are you serious?’ asked Steph, her voice quivering in disbelief.
‘Absolutely serious. Our intrepid archer was careful to ensure that no sedative found its way into Rick’s drink because they knew he intended to set his own alarm an hour earlier than everyone else’s. It’s no secret how devious he is, how he enjoys getting one over on the rest of the group, especially Phil and Brad, and they played this to their advantage, waiting until he’d left the camp and then following him whilst everyone was out for the count.
‘Rick was shot in the ankle, but we can assume because it was a second attempt, that the assailant was aiming for the chest. Of course, the police recovered both arrows, but after an exhaustive search, there was no sign of the bow. This was found yesterday in a hollowed out oak tree in the woods surrounding the camp site by a group of amateur detectorists. Clearly the perpetrator had meticulously planned their assignment in advance, visiting the site to conceal the weapon days, if not weeks, before the wild camping trip. Again, any one of you could have done so.’
‘DS Kirkham, correct me if I’m wrong, but is Rosie suggesting that we all could have gone out, purchased a bow and a quiver full of arrows, and simply turned up to kill Rick?’ asked Phil, speaking for the first time since he’d arrived at the café. ‘Because I can assure you I wouldn’t know one end of a longbow from the other.’
‘It wasn’t a longbow that was used. It was a recurve bow which can be dismantled into three pieces – a riser and two limbs – and easily secreted in a small space. But you are correct, Mr Brown, it does take a great deal of skill to hit what was a moving target. Our perpetrator would have had to train for months to gain the necessary expertise. But that’s exactly what they did do.’
‘Well, that counts me out then, doesn’t it?’ said Phil, folding his spindly arms across his chest. ‘Sports have never been my forte, unless you count word sprints, which I assume in this case you do not?’
The police officer allowed his gaze to linger on Phil for a while, refusing to confirm or deny that he was on his list of suspects. Phil’s eyes swung to Rosie, his spectacles hanging on the end of his nose giving the impression of an anorexic owl as he silently beseeched her to discount him.
‘I really must…’ began Phil, but when he saw the look on the sergeant’s face, he pursed his lips, surreptitiously removed his notebook from one of his many pockets, and started to jot down notes, his leg swinging to and fro over his knee.
‘So, is someone going to get to the point and tell us who did this to Rick?’ asked Helen, her appearance as polished as always despite the stress of the situation. That morning she had chosen to wear her honey blonde hair in a knot on the top of her head, secured with a diamante clip that glinted in the shards of sunshine spilling through the window behind her. Her powder-blue cashmere sweater reflected her eyes, the colour of bluebells, but her lips were drawn into a narrow line as she waited for the inevitable sword to fall, her hands clutched in her lap, knees and heels drawn together.
‘All in good time, Mrs Forster. I’m sure you’ll agree that it’s important to understand why this happened to your husband, for it is his previous conduct that lies at the crux of the shooting. You, for instance, have a strong motive for wanting him out of the way, don’t you?’
Rosie was happy to step back and allow DS Kirkham the floor when Helen squared her shoulders and raised her chin in defiance. She liked Helen, sympathized with her for the years she had spent married to Rick, and didn’t want to say anything to upset her any more than was necessary.
‘That may be true, Sergeant. I admit that I have fallen out of love with my husband, but I would never wish him to come to any harm.’
‘Ah, but you stand to gain the most from his potential demise in several ways. Financially, you would inherit his sizeable estate. Three million pounds is not to be sneered at, is it?’
The collective intake of breath would have been comical had the matter not been so serious. Helen’s face and chest glowed with heat but she maintained eye contact with the sergeant, and refused to look in the direction of a gobsmacked Rick.
‘I have no interest in Rick’s money.’
‘Really?’ spluttered Rick, clearly unable to help himself.
‘Maybe not,’ DS Kirkham pressed on to prevent Rick from embarking on a diatribe of disbelief. ‘But Mr Forster’s death would certainly have saved you the trouble of becoming embroiled in lengthy and expensive divorce proceedings. Knowing the way Mr Forster conducts every other aspect of his life, I’m sure he would take a great deal of pleasure in dragging out any financial negotiations, maybe electing to have a contested hearing so that the details of your affair with his business partner could be aired in court. I know that isn’t something you want, especially if you are hoping to remarry quickly.’
‘My business partner? Remarry?’ Rick gasped, raising himself up from his wheelchair, his face flooded with thunderous fury. ‘What the hell is he talking about, Helen?’
DS Kirkham signalled to his detective constable to station himself next to Rick until he reluctantly slumped back down in his seat. Helen averted her eyes, suddenly finding her scarlet nail polish fascinating.
‘I’m sorry to be the one to inform you, but Mrs Forster has been conducting an affair with one of your partners, Tim Latimer. He is currently staying at a guest house in Willerby and they were together on Sunday night when you were shot.’
DS Kirkham paused to let the disclosure sink in.
‘Helen? Is this true?’
Helen nodded.
&n
bsp; ‘Oh my God! Wait until I…’
‘Mr Forster, I understand how difficult this is for you to hear, but do you think you could you bear with us for a little while longer?’
Rick stared at the police officer for several beats before nodding his head.
‘Maybe Mrs Forster is our perpetrator,’ suggested DS Kirkham, his silver eyebrows raised as he surveyed the room. ‘She could have easily driven to Garside Priory, recovered the bow she had concealed a few weeks earlier, and shot her husband – Mr Latimer giving her an alibi.’
‘I didn’t shoot Rick, Sergeant, and neither did Tim. As I’ve said, I’m not interested in my husband’s money. It means nothing compared to my craving for a child, which is something Rick has consistently denied me throughout our marriage. Tim, however, is keen to have a family and I hope I will be blessed with a baby before it’s too late.’
Helen’s emotions escaped their tethers and tears spilled silently down her cheeks. She dabbed at them with a scrap of lace until Steph crouched down at her side, took her hand and whispered soft words of understanding.
‘However,’ continued DS Kirkham at last. ‘My colleagues have found no evidence to suggest that either of your vehicles were in the vicinity of Garside Priory that night. Mr Latimer has been frank with us about the affair and his statement has checked out. I don’t think either of you are responsible for shooting your husband, Mrs Forster.’
Helen blew her nose loudly and inhaled several deep, rejuvenating breaths before refocusing her attention on the police officer.
‘Then would you mind telling us all who did?’
‘That is precisely what I intend to do, in due course.’
DS Kirkham’s gaze came to rest on the sofa where Brad and Emma were watching the proceedings, their jaws hanging loose in avid fascination. The smile on Brad’s face slipped and his eyes darted to Rick and then Phil. He removed his ankle from his thigh, unwound his arm from Emma’s shoulders and pushed himself to the edge of his seat, placing his forearms on his knees and tilting his head upwards to look Rosie in the eye.
