The man holds up a hand. “Look, can I get your name and see your ID, sir? Then we’ll get this sorted out with the guys back at base.”
I have no idea who ‘they’ means or where ‘base’ is but I keep quiet, pray I don’t get arrested, and wait to see what Jack’s going to say and do about the requested ID. He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a slim leather wallet and opens it, flashing the contents of it at the officers.
“Special Agent Jack Smith,” one of the guys reads from the card. “I had no idea they’d called in the specialists.”
Jack flips the wallet closed and tucks it back in his pocket. “Yeah, well, they have. The victim being a celebrity means this case is high profile and they want people solving it, and fast. People who know how to tackle this kind of thing.”
“Of course,” the man says. He looks over to me, raising a questioning eyebrow as he does so. “And the lady?”
“She’s an employee of this restaurant and is helping me with my search and enquiries,” Jack immediately responds. “As I requested.”
“Name?” the man asks, clearly not ready to leave us to our ‘specialist’ investigating just yet.
I open my mouth to speak, but Jack is quicker. “She’s been extremely helpful with this case. I’ll be putting all the details in my full report which I’ll file through my division as soon as I’m done here. Which will be a hell of a lot faster if I can be left to get on with my job.”
The man looks from me to Jack, and I begin to think he’s not going to buy all of this. Eventually he nods at both of us and turns, moving towards the door. “Let’s get out of here,” he says to the other man. “We’ll come back later.”
“Fantastic, thanks,” Jacks says tersely.
In the doorway one of the men pauses and turns back to face us. “Why were you conducting your search in the dark by flashlight?”
Ahhh. Busted.
“Because we were being discreet. I didn’t want to cause concern or attract attention amongst the locals. I think they’ve been through enough already, don’t you? A little place like this and someone gets murdered, it’s traumatic for everyone. If they had spotted lights on in a dead guy’s flat, well… they might have panicked about what was cracking off now.”
I stand perfectly still, not daring to breathe.
The man nods and leaves the room. I continue to hold my breath until I hear the slam of the front door downstairs and the sound of a car starting up. Jack, however, strolls to the window. Presumably to check that all of the men have indeed got into the vehicle and left.
“Have they all gone?” I ask in a whisper as I hear the car pull away.
Jack nods. “Yeah. I think we should get out of here sharpish though. They’ll get my ID checked out. That guy in charge wasn’t entirely convinced about my credentials, I could tell.”
He starts to walk for the door of the flat, and I scurry after him. “You mean when he checks out the ID, he’ll find out there’s no such person?”
“Yeah, there’s probably a special agent called Jack Smith somewhere along the line, but it’s doubtful he’s been authorised to work this case.” He clatters down the stairs and heads back towards the kitchen.
“So that was a false identification?” I ask the question even though I know the answer.
Jack holds the door open for me to follow him through to the kitchen. “All I’ll say is that the less you know the better.”
“Was it pulling stunts like this which got you suspended?”
He stops in the middle of the kitchen and flashes me a cheeky grin. “No. Worse than that. Much worse.”
I try not to let my imagination run riot about the kind of things he did to get himself suspended. I just hope getting him involved in the investigation into Armand’s murder isn’t a huge mistake and he isn’t going to land me in jail rather than help to keep me out of it.
“Now what?” I hiss once we’re back in the car park and, thankfully, on the way to retrieve Daisy.
“Now you go home and try to get some sleep. I’ll continue with my investigative digging and see if I can come up with anything to point us towards who stabbed your boss.”
Like a gentleman, which I very much doubt he is, he walks me to Daisy and stands close by while I unlock her and climb inside. All of the time he’s glancing around us, obviously on alert.
“OK?” he asks, leaning down to speak to me through Daisy’s now open window. I nod and start her up. “Go straight home. Do not stop anywhere,” he instructs.
Yeah, right, like I had any intention of going anywhere other than home. I want to be back at Eskdale, the doors all locked and bolted, sitting on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket with a large glass of wine in my hand. Or maybe brandy. Then I remember the power is off and I’ll be all alone up there in the dark. With only my scary thoughts for company. Briefly I contemplate asking him to join me at the farm but tell myself not to be such a wimp. Everything will be fine. Whoever murdered Armand was targeting him and him alone. It’s not like there’s some serial killer on the loose.
Is it?
There aren’t many properties on the road between the village and the farm, but the few properties which are scattered along the way all, I’m pleased to see, have lights flickering away in their windows now. That means the power is back on, and much sooner than expected. Phew. That’s a huge relief. It’s also taken the scariness factor down a notch or two. My nerves are still all of a jitter though, so I park Daisy as close to the back door at Eskdale as I can and almost leap from her and into the farmhouse. I’ve only had time to pop the kettle on for a restorative hot chocolate and a comforting hot water bottle when the phone rings. I grab it, worried it might be Jack telling me something is wrong. Well, even more wrong than it was before. “Hello?”
“Hi, Lizzie.”
“Stella! How are you?” The voice of my best friend from London reaches down the line and goes some way towards soothing my nerves. Stella is a part of my old life, but a good part. She’s like the sister I never had. We became friends in London but found out, amazingly, we’re both from Cumbria. Her parents still live up here, in Carlisle, about an hour away from Eskdale.
“I’m brilliant,” she enthuses, making me smile and dissolving a teeny bit more of the tension inside of me. “Great news, David and I are coming up to Cumbria for the weekend. We need to see my parents about something anyway and we’d love to come and stay with you and have a look around your grand residence.”
“Grand! You know it’s a wreck, Stella.” Stella, busy with her job, hasn’t had chance to visit yet. She works for a big bank, one of those with a posh name, years of history behind it, and astronomical bonuses for those who put in one hundred hour weeks.
“Yeah, I know, but it’s still a detached house with loads of land which is all yours. Gosh, I’d be so excited if it was me that had inherited the place.”
Stella’s obvious excitement is contagious and a very welcome distraction. “Would you? Really? Surely you wouldn’t give up your high-flying career to come and live in the middle of nowhere.”
“Well, not just at the moment,” she edges. “But maybe, before too long. David and I might want to jack it all in and become self-sufficient or something.”
Somehow I can’t picture Stella, all designer clothes and weekly visits to the salon, as being the self-sufficient farming type. “You do remember how far farms are from things like designer clothes shops, don’t you?”
“Of course! David thinks that would be a good thing – stop me spending loads of money every month on designer bags and shoes!”
“Well, he does have a point there…” I agree.
“So? Is it all right if we come up and stay with you this weekend?”
“Yes, absolutely,” I reply, pushing aside the fact I’m in the middle of a murder investigation. “I’m looking forward to it already.”
“Oh good. I thought it should be OK. I mean, not much happens up there, does it? You’re probably suffering fro
m perpetual boredom.”
Ah. Right. Ask Stella when the new season must-have designer handbag is out and she’ll know to the hour. As far as general news goes, she doesn’t tend to follow world events. Or even UK events.
I clear my throat. I really should tell her. “I take it you haven’t heard.”
“Heard what, sweetie?”
“About the murder.”
There’s a beat of silence, and I wonder if we’ve lost the connection. “Stella?”
“What murder?” she asks, her usually effervescent tone now sombre.
“Well, you know I said I’d got some waitressing work at a local place run by a celebrity chef?”
“Yes, the Vegetables.”
“Close. It’s known locally at the Veggies. The chef patron is Armand Seville, the guy who won the big Culinary Cook Off competition on TV a year or so ago.” What am I saying? Stella rarely watches TV, she won’t know the show at all. “Anyway,” I push on, “Armand has been murdered. Stabbed in his own kitchen at the restaurant late one night.” I neglect to mention I was the last one to leave that night and that I’m on the police suspects list. I think I should probably break the news to her in stages.
“Oh my goodness! Who found him?” she gasps.
“One of the cleaners when she turned up the following morning. It’s all totally horrible. It’s probable that the killer was specifically targeting Armand for some reason, so it’s not like we’ve got a serial killer on the loose up here but even so, everyone is in shock and can’t believe something like this could have happened.”
There’s more silence on the other end of the line and I wonder if Stella, in light of my revelation, is about to change her mind about visiting me this weekend. “Stella?”
“I’m speechless,” she replies. “I mean, it’s all dreadful stuff and everything, of course it is, but… well, I’m just thinking, you left London to get away from trouble and were in search of a quiet life and then this goes and happens. Not just a murder, which is bad enough in itself, but the victim is your boss, you knew this man.”
I swallow and nod, which is ridiculous because, of course, Stella can’t see me. “Yes,” I say, eventually finding my voice. “So, have I scared you off visiting or not?”
“Of course not,” she replies, though I think I still detect an uncertain tone to her voice. “We’ll be there. You can tell me all about it over a bottle of wine.”
“And what about David, you said he was coming up too, right?”
“Oh, David can read or watch TV while we have our catch up. He’ll be fine. Look, I’m sorry but I’ve got to go. I’ll see you soon and take care won’t you?”
“You too. Bye, Stella.”
David and Stella have been together what seems like ages but, in reality, is probably just over eighteen months. They’re well suited. He works at the same bank and is a decent guy who adores Stella. Much as I’m looking forward to seeing them again, I know that there’s a good chance we’ll end up reminiscing about the past and why I left London and that’s something I’m definitely not looking forward to.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A decent night’s sleep is difficult to get when the weather continues to bombard the old farmhouse for hours on end. As the wind swirls and batters Eskdale, pulling at the slate roof tiles and rustling through the barns, I try to forget every scary film I’ve ever seen and instead force my mind to think happy thoughts. Eventually I fall asleep downstairs on the sofa, a soft fleecy throw wrapped around me for warmth and comfort.
The stormy weather has moved on by morning and now bright sunshine is illuminating the beautiful landscape that surrounds the farm. This is more like it. With the sun shining things don’t seem quite so bad. I wonder if those guys who turned up at the Veggies last night have discovered Jack’s false ID yet. If so, they’re probably on the lookout for us. Great. Something else to worry about. Today is the day of the meeting at the village hall about the store campaign. Preparing for that should hopefully help distract me a little.
At breakfast I draw up a list of things I want to get done, inside and out, ready for Stella’s visit at the weekend. After washing up a plate (for the toast I’d nibbled at and then threw away) I set to on the cleaning. I know I have a heap of jobs to get done out on the farm but, despite the lovely weather, this morning I feel like some therapeutic cleaning.
The dirt and dust in the previously unused spare room is getting up my nose, making me sneeze and scratching at my throat, so for some relief I make myself a mug of coffee and head out into the garden to enjoy the sunshine – well, this is Cumbria after all, you have to make the most of it when the sun does put in an appearance. Pushing back some of the foliage, which is still steadily engulfing the garden seat, I sit down and sip my drink as I take in the view spread before me. There’s no escaping the fact that when the sun shines on this little corner of Cumbria it is truly stunning. In the field across the way, I spot a red quadbike zipping around. It must be Frazer or Jack. I squint in the bright sunlight. Yes, definitely Frazer, and now I can see Frazer’s dog Cinnamon sitting on the back of the bike, its ears flapping in the breeze. I wave, but he doesn’t see me and a feeling of loneliness engulfs me. Time to get busy and occupy my mind.
Today should have been my day off from the Veggies anyway so nobody has been in touch about whether the place is open for business again or not. I wonder if I should ring them, see if anyone answers, so I know whether or not to turn up for work tomorrow. In the meantime, there’s not much food in the house, so I finish my cleaning, grab the revamped campaign materials and take them, along with my hastily scribbled shopping list, down to the village store.
Amswick consists of one lane which is home to the store, two pubs, the village hall and clusters of houses of various descriptions, from stone terraces to whitewashed grander detached abodes, each one sporting a locally-quarried slate roof. There’s a scattering of hanging baskets on some of the lampposts, the current colour scheme reflecting the autumnal yellows and golds of the trees dotted about the village. The Cumbrian fells tower over the whole scene, there sheer sides more grey and rocky here than the ones back at Eskdale. The Veggies is on the other side of the village. Well, technically, it’s just outside the village boundary, but as there’s nothing else outside the village for a good way, everyone just says the restaurant is in Amswick. It’s easier. Usually there’s a distinct sense of rural idyll to the place but thanks to recent events that’s gone, replaced by a heavy air of apprehension.
I find a parking space right outside and climb out of Daisy, remembering at the last moment to grab my empty shopping bags. The store is set back slightly from the road, its black tarmac forecourt dark from a recent shower. Bags of logs and kindling are stacked off to one side, and tucked beneath the store’s green and white striped canopy are a row of boxes on a wooden table. Each one contains a collection of enticing fruit and vegetables.
When I step inside, Brenda’s busy serving a customer, so I pick up a basket and wander around the traditional metal shelving displays, enjoying the mouth-watering smells of cheese, breads and cakes and sorting out my groceries. Brenda has generously arranged some small squares of a new cake on a tray for customers to try and I gratefully slip a gooey chocolate piece into my mouth. My aunt used to bake cakes for Brenda and George to sell in the store. Nowadays most of the baked goods come from a woman over in Derwentbeck, a place nearby which is too big to be a village but too small to be called a town. As I snaffle another square of the yummy cake, I go about filling my basket and idly listen to the chatter of the other customers. Of course, the topic of conversation with everyone is Armand’s murder. I loiter near the shelves of freshly baked bread and listen as two women I don’t recognise chatter away.
“I’m not surprised somebody took a knife to him,” the older of the two says, clutching a packet of chocolate biscuits to her chest as though they’re protective armour. “Never could keep his hands to himself. My daughter had more than one run in with him,
let me tell you.”
Her daughter? Who is this woman’s daughter? Is it one of the girls at the restaurant I confided in about Armand’s behaviour?
“Poor poppet,” the woman with a blond ponytail replies, her face full of concern. “He took advantage in more ways than one. He knew those girls were short on job opportunities around here so he must have thought there was a good chance they’d say nothing. He thought he was God’s gift, all because he’d been on the TV and won that reality show, what was it called again?”
“Culinary Cook Off,” Biscuit Woman replies.
“Yes, that’s the one. Just because he’s been on there, he thinks he’s some kind of celebrity and all the women want him.” Ponytail Woman lowers her voice and leans in close, meaning I have to stay stock still and hold my breath to be able to hear her next words. “Makes me wonder if he hadn’t pushed his luck too far and one of the girls decided she’d had enough and grabbed a knife and went for him.”
Biscuit Woman looks horrified. “I hope you’re not suggesting that my…”
“NO! Of course not. Your girl would never do anything like that,” the other woman gasps.
Why can’t one of them just mention the daughter’s name, for goodness sake? I’m desperate to know who Biscuit Woman is the mother of. Clearly offended, Biscuit Woman now stalks off and the two of them go about their food shopping in opposite directions. This place isn’t just the only decent shop for miles around, it’s also a place for people to meet, the focal point of several village communities that all nestle at the foot of the fells in this part of the county.
“Hello, my dear.” I turn to see Brenda standing next to me now that she’s finished serving at the counter. Her face is full of concern. “How are you feeling? I don’t know what I was thinking; you’ve all of this dreadful business with Armand going on, and I’m asking you to revamp flyers. So selfish of me, but, well, George and I, we’re terrified at the prospect of losing the store, and the campaign was doing so well with Armand’s celebrity support and now...”
Murder On The Menu: A Romantic Comedy Culinary Cozy Mystery (A Celebrity Mystery) Page 8
