Paying Back The Dead (A Millerfield Village Cozy Murder Mysteries Series 3)

by Carrie Marsh

  “Thanks, Jay,” Laura said, and gave her a wan smile. She turned to her own stall and collected the few boxes and trays left there. One thing she knew for certain, she thought, as she walked out to the car with Janet, was that she had to speak to Judy. She had never seen someone quite that sad.

  If it was murder, she thought, biting her lip, I don't think she did it.

  She would have to find out more from Howard when he visited on Sunday afternoon.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  FIRST CLUES

  FIRST CLUES

  “Puncture wounds,” Howard said. He was sitting opposite Laura at her kitchen table, sharing her Sunday meal. The remains of the cottage pie, her latest cooking experiment, stood in the center of her kitchen table, entirely forgotten. The bowl of vegetables stood beside it, the sunlight streaming in onto the white tablecloth and bathing them both in its orange warmth.

  Laura frowned at him. “Sorry?”

  He sighed. “Sorry, Laura,” he said sadly. “I was miles away. I spend too much time in my head nowadays.”

  They had opened a bottle of red wine and Laura felt pleasantly mellow. She would have enjoyed herself more, but she could sense Howard was worried about something. He had been extremely quiet and brooding during lunchtime, and she knew something was plaguing him. She suspected it was the death in the village but didn't want to ask. She was sure he just wanted to switch his brain off and forget about it. Just for a few hours. But now that he had mentioned it, perhaps it would be better to talk.

  “What about puncture wounds?” Laura asked quietly.

  “That's what they think he died of,” Howard explained. He did not say who, but Laura guessed at once it was the taxman. It was the news she had waited for, but now that she had it, she wished she didn't know.

  “What? How?” Laura asked. It sounded horrible.

  Howard sighed. “A puncture, from something thin, like a wire. It was stabbed in through between his ribs, deep enough to puncture the lung. Old favorite with contract killing. If you do it right, the person will collapse before they know what happened.”

  Laura covered her mouth. She stared at him. “A contract killing?”

  The thought of such a thing happening in Millerfield Village was impossible. She refused to wrap her head around it. Even the sun-soaked garden in front of her cozy cottage seemed dangerous and full of menace. She felt herself shiver.

  “I don't know if it was a contract killing,” Howard said. He sounded exhausted. “I can't say anything about who did it. But I can say that Mason and I – the police got him to go over the body yesterday, and he called me to look over it together – found a wound like that. It matches with the other signs on his body: the cyanosis, the signs of trauma and asphyxiation.”

  Laura closed her eyes. It wasn't possible! Who would pay someone to murder Albert Hugh?

  “Would anyone else know about how to do that? Besides a killer, I mean?” Laura asked hesitantly. She didn't want to believe someone had hired someone to commit a murder. Not in Millerfield. “What if it was a bar-brawl?” It happened, after all. A bar-brawl with an unusual and sophisticated weapon, yes. But Laura would have been so much more comfortable with that. Anything else was just too sinister.

  “Well, I know about how to do it, so probably other people do too,” Howard smiled, though it did not reach his eyes. “But to actually do it, with enough skill that Mr. Hugh didn't feel something and defend himself until it was too late? I don't know. This was a thin entry wound, neatly done.” He ran a hand over his face, clearly trying to forget what he saw.

  Laura sat silently for a while, thinking. She did not know anything about Albert Hugh, except that he had many enemies. And that his son and his wife, from what Janet had told her, stood to gain from his death. Maybe they would have hired a killer? But this was cousin Judy! She couldn't believe it. She didn't want to think about it.

  “Did he defend himself?” Laura asked, distracted. If he had, it was probably a stranger.

  “Not by the look of it, no,” Howard explained again. “There was bruising on the left side of his body, but that looked to be from where he fell. He hit the floor in a faint and died afterward. There were no other signs of struggle.”

  “Does it take long?” Laura asked, not sure she actually wanted to hear his answer.

  “Well,” Howard sighed. “A pneumothorax, that is, a puncture in the chest, is a complicated thing. It isn't actually the air leaking out that kills you, as you might expect. It's air coming into the chest and filling it up that's the problem. You see,” he elaborated as he saw her frown, “the chest cavity is airtight – the lungs expand when the diaphragm moves down, because the whole system is closed. If air gets in, the “breathing in” part doesn't work, because there isn't any reason for the lungs to fill the space. As you know it only takes a couple of minutes without oxygen to kill a person. How long it takes to kill you varies. Could be up to twenty minutes before you collapse.”

  Laura sat quietly for a while, trying not to think about what a horrible way to die it must be. Not being able to breathe, even though you were conscious and your nose and mouth were free – breathing in just didn't work anymore. It sounded terrible, to say the least.

  “Who would kill someone like that?” Laura asked. “You'd have to really hate them to do that to them.”

  “People tend to do it because it's easy to get away with,” Howard explained. “You stab someone with a thin wire and they'll notice the pain – they might even call the police, if they're sober – but by the time they realize how serious it is, they're already in a faint. And which medic is going to think to check for that? I wouldn't either.”

  Laura thought about it. He was right. It was a way to escape detection. It explained why, as he said, it had been a tool of contract killers.

  “Do we know where he was, twenty minutes before he died?” she asked, mind racing to find new answers. Maybe he hadn't even been in the village! Maybe he had been walking in the surrounding fields and some crazy person had stabbed him? Maybe it was a bizarre accident.

  “We don't know, no.” Howard confirmed. “He was at work late at the tax-office, and he was seen to leave around eight o' clock. He went to the bank around ten past eight, and his wife called half an hour later. He didn't reply. Probably already dead.”

  “So,” Laura steepled her fingers. “He could have been stabbed in either place, yes? The tax-office, or the bank.”

  “Probably the bank,” Howard suggested. “If he'd been stabbed at work, and able to leave, he probably would have come to find me. It's difficult to judge the time of death well: It's heated in the bank. We could estimate roughly from how cold the body was that it must have lain there about half an hour.”

  They sat quietly for a while as they considered the implications of that.

  “But if you stabbed someone,” Laura continued, “surely they wouldn't just stay in the bank? I mean, if someone came up behind me and stuck a wire through me I'd run away!”

  Howard couldn't help a dry chuckle and nodded in agreement. “Always assuming you could, yes.”

  Laura paused. He was right. The thought of someone stabbing the man and then holding him captive in the bank until he fainted and asphyxiated was too awful, but it was not impossible.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “Always assuming he could.” She sighed. “So this is definitely looking like murder, then.”

  “I'm sorry, Laura,” Howard affirmed. “But yes, it looks that way.”

  Laura covered her face with her hand, suddenly feeling drained of energy. “I know it is,” she said in a tired voice. “I just really hoped it wasn't.”

  “I know,” Howard said quietly.

  Together they sat in her sun-warmed kitchen, hands clasped on the table, lost in thought. Howard's hands on hers were warm and comforting, and Laura wished they never had to move. As she sat there, her blood started to flow, pulsing in her veins, and a growing thrill of excitement spread through her as she remembered the oth
er reason for his visit.

  As she leaned closer a mobile made a message-tone, and Howard clicked his tongue in irritation and reached to his pocket, sighing. He reached over to stroke her hair, murmuring an apology. Laura missed his hands on hers the instant they moved, and sat back, reaching to clear the table of its dishes. He read the message and responded instantly, dialling whoever had sent it.

  “Hi? This evening?” He paused. “Okay. Yes. Yes. I'll be there.”

  Laura looked at him enquiringly from where she began washing up. “Who was that?”

  “Mason. From the police station. They want me to go down there. He needs someone to go over his work and corroborate his statements.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I wish I didn't have to do this...” he sighed.

  He looked so miserable that Laura felt sorry for him. His huge reluctance to leave her was also a pleasant thought, and she felt her heart beat faster.

  “Can I come with you?”

  Howard smiled. “That would make it rather nice. Yes.”

  Laura felt a slow flame of happiness burning in her chest at that statement. She gave him a small smile. “I'm pleased to hear it.”

  Howard chuckled and took her hands again. Within the horror and confusion, there was at least a small patch of happiness.

  Together, hand in hand, they walked out of the room, heading for his car. With any luck, the business would be concluded quickly. Then they might have some time to themselves, after all.

  CHAPTER SIX

  INSPECTOR BROWNE

  INSPECTOR BROWNE

  They reached the small station together, driving into the small car-park as the sun was setting, casting orange rays and black shadow over the pavement.

  “I have to go round the back to the morgue,” Howard explained as he gathered his bags and stepped out of the car. “If you want to wait in the car, that's okay,” he added gently. “I'll be about twenty minutes.”

  Laura paused, thinking about it. It was early evening, the trees in the churchyard across from them splashing tall shadows over the street. She shivered. She would, she decided, rather be inside than on her own in the car. There was a sense of eeriness about the place and she didn't want to be alone just then. She knew she was being silly, but she didn't feel safe.

  “I'll come with you.”

  “Okay,” Howard agreed, sounding mildly surprised. “I thought you'd rather avoid it – I know you don't like police stations.” He grinned. The enmity between Laura and Inspector Browne, the head of the police-station, was well known. “You could wait inside at the front desk?” he added. “They have some chairs there.”

  “Okay,” Laura agreed and together they walked into the station.

  Howard parted from Laura at the door and left her waiting, sitting in the small reception area, trying to pretend she was reading a magazine. There was a young officer at the desk, but the place was otherwise empty except for an elderly farmer reporting a missing trailer. Laura sat still and concentrated on the pictures in the magazine, which showed idyllic holiday scenes: Mallorca, Morocco, Egypt. She could almost feel the sunshine. At that moment, she wished she could walk through the page and into that world, away from the chill and the fear that surrounded her.

  Judging by the farmer's strident voice as he talked to the young officer, he felt the same way.

  “...I don't feel safe in this village anymore!” the old man was saying to the officer. “People dropping dead and now my blasted trailer missing. What's happening here?”

  “Now, Mr. Jackson – we don't know that the death was anything out of the ordinary,” the policeman was explaining patiently. “And I'm sure it didn't have any bearing on your trailer.”

  No. But we do know the death was out of the ordinary, Laura thought to herself. Perhaps you haven't heard it yet, but I have.

  “I don't know about that,” the old man was saying thoughtfully. “But I do know this place is restless. And people take advantage of restlessness, young man. People who steal trailers!” he added, jabbing a finger at the report he had just filed. “If there's no vigilance, people steal things.”

  “We don't know it was stolen,” the young man responded gently. Laura admired his calm attitude.

  “Well, I don't have it anymore,” the farmer said flatly. “So where is it? And, when you put it together with someone just dying in the bank, you have to ask yourself about robbers,” he said darkly. “Why would anyone do someone in, in the bank, if it wasn't about theft?”

  Laura leaned back, closing her eyes. If only she could believe that. The thought of a skilled contract killing being performed to rob a bank did stretch her imagination, and she listened to how the officer might respond to that idea.

  She watched as the man ran a hand through his hair. “There is no evidence the bank was robbed at the time of the death,” he explained patiently, which at least put Laura's own mind at rest on that front. “We will do all we can to locate your trailer as soon as possible.” He assured the man. He looked at his wristwatch, evidently trying to encourage the old man to leave without saying so.

  The old man regarded him sceptically. “I'm not sure of that!” he said darkly. “With people being scragged in the bank, how can I trust anything anymore?”

  He walked desultorily to the door, turning to Laura on the way out. “You need to watch these fellers, young lady,” he said quietly. “Couldn't catch a hare in a basket!” As he left Laura to contemplate this bewildering metaphor, another police officer appeared out of a door in the wall behind the front desk.

  “Private Stanton?”

  “Yes, sir?” the young man behind the desk who had just been harangued answered. Laura closed her magazine and looked up to watch the exchange.

  “What was that about?” The man asked. He stepped into the light and Laura recognized him with a sinking feeling. It was Inspector Browne. The chief-inspector, he had taken against her months ago for her “interfering” in another case. He was rude and cutting and made no secret of his mistrust and dislike for her. The thought of meeting him now and here made her feel uncomfortable.

  I'm not here, Laura thought firmly, wishing she could make the officer think it. You won't notice me. Go away.

  She had no such luck as, just as he walked out of the cubicle behind the reception desk, he noticed her.

  “Miss Howcroft?” he stared at her. “Tell me you're not here to snoop in my latest case?” From anyone else, the comment might even have been teasing, but the way he said it was cold and in deadly earnest.

  Laura felt her back stiffen. What a cheek! She and Howard had been responsible for finding the last murderer, though they had chosen to report it anonymously. She swallowed and tried to rein in her temper.

  “I do not snoop in anything, Inspector,” she said coolly. “I was merely here waiting for an acquaintance who is involved downstairs.”

  “You were, were you?” He seemed amused, and Laura wished she could slap him. “Why?”

  “Yes, I was,” she replied firmly. “Is there any reason why I shouldn't be here? This is a public place.” She raised her brow archly.

  “It's my station,” he said.

  Laura swallowed hard, feeling rage build up inside her. She could not argue with that, however. She fought to maintain her sense of perspective. “It is,” she agreed levelly. “And I am certain you have better things to do in it than argue with me.”

  She turned and walked away before he could answer. She heard him draw in a shocked breath behind her, about to retort, but she walked lightly down the stairs before he could give reply.

  She walked across to the car-park. When she reached the bench under the trees, she was still shaking. She sat down, feeling weak.

  “How can anyone be so rude!” she said loudly, trying to divest herself of her rage. She had never done anything! If she had not worked on the last case in the village, if anonymously, it would probably never have been solved. His comments were demeaning and unfair. She wasn't sure if she wanted to shout o
r cry, but her whole body was shaking with indignant rage.

  “Miss?”

  She looked up to see the young policeman who had been behind the desk. He was standing in front of her awkwardly, his hands clasped before him.

  “Yes?” she asked, looking up miserably. She felt humiliated enough and did not wish to see anyone else at that moment, especially not a policeman. She wished he would just leave.

  “You left this, Miss,” he said, passing her her handbag. Laura blinked, surprised she had not noticed. She must have been really angry, to leave that behind.

  “Thanks,” she said, smiling shyly up at him. He was younger than her, perhaps twenty-two or twenty-three, and he looked at her from earnest, wide eyes. His kindness and innocence touched her all the more because it followed the rudeness of his boss.

  “Pleasure, Miss. Stanton,” he added, introducing himself. “Private Stanton.”

  “Thank you, Private Stanton,” Laura agreed. She reached out her hand. “I'm Laura. Good to meet you.”

  “A pleasure,” he added. “And don't mind him, Miss Laura,” he added in a hushed voice. “You did very well. Very well indeed. I've never seen him look so shocked,” he added, biting back a grin.

  Laura wanted to laugh. She smiled, instead. “Thank you, Private Stanton.”

  “The name's Peter. And if you ever have any trouble, just ask.”

  Laura nodded, relieved. “Thank you.”

  She sat back on the seat, feeling marginally more peaceful than she had done a minute or two before. She might have an enemy in the police-chief, but now it seemed she also had a friend in the station. And she had some information to be going on with, however silly: it certainly wasn't a bank robbery, because nothing had been stolen.

  When Howard returned a few minutes later he looked surprised to see her outside.

  “Hello, Laura!” he smiled. “I thought you were waiting inside?”