A Killer Ball at Honeychurch Hall

by Hannah Dennison

  “I was going to talk to Ginny anyway,” I said coldly. “You seem to forget that this isn’t just all about you and your wretched reputation.”

  Rupert’s eyes narrowed. “You are no longer welcome at the Hall—nor is your mother. The sooner you move back to London, the better.”

  And with that, he turned on his heel and stormed out of the Carriage House. I heard the front door slam.

  I didn’t hear Mum come down the stairs. I didn’t even jump when she put her hand on my shoulder and pulled me into her arms.

  “I heard every word,” she said.

  “Oh, Mum.”

  “I wish I could make it better. When you were little I could wave my magic wand.”

  “I just feel so conflicted. I’m angry at being accused of something I didn’t do. I’m furious with Trudy for being so vindictive.”

  “Let me see the newspaper.”

  We sank onto the stairs and Mum started reading, muttering under her breath and getting angrier and angrier.

  “It wasn’t Ginny’s fault,” I said. “She came here to warn me that her article had been rewritten.”

  “Some women just don’t know when to let go. Even now Trudy can’t stop herself from putting in the knife.”

  “But there is truth to it all, isn’t there?” I said quietly. “The cover-ups, the secrets.”

  “Don’t we all have those, Katherine?”

  “I don’t.” And I didn’t—or did I?

  “The question is,” said Mum. “Who has been talking to Ginny? Who has been feeding her information?” She regarded me keenly. “Eric?”

  “No. He’s still very upset about having to take the fall for that railway fiasco. She told me that Eric wouldn’t even talk to her.”

  “Then who?”

  “Someone in Little Dipperton?” I suggested. “The newspaper is offering a reward for information. You said yourself that there were people from the village helping at the Hall on the night Pandora disappeared. What about Bryan Laney?”

  “It is odd that he is back,” Mum agreed. “And he hasn’t been to see me, either.”

  I got to my feet. “Well, I’m going to talk to Ginny.”

  “Shall I come with you?” said Mum. “I’m pretty good at wringing necks and throwing bodies into cellars.”

  “I think you’re in enough trouble as it is.”

  “I think that goes for the both of us,” she said darkly.

  Promising I’d be careful, I headed to my car. The one thing that I hadn’t voiced to my mother was my concern about Ginny’s safety. The article recklessly implied that she could know the person responsible for the “latest tragedy” and that could put her in danger.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Ginny rented The Granary, a one up, one down stone building that was part of a converted farm complex that now housed holiday homes for tourists anxious to visit the South Hams and neighboring Greenway, Agatha Christie’s summer home.

  The farm used to belong to the Honeychurch Hall estate and was one of several that had been sold off years ago to meet the excruciating death duties enforced following the fourteenth earl, Edith’s husband’s, death back in the 1990s.

  I liked the conversions. They had been very well done despite the twee-sounding names like The Piggery, The Cowshed and The Henhouse.

  The farm was on the other side of Little Dipperton. On a clear day, I could see it from Jane’s Cottage. Before Ginny had gone to work for the Western Times, she and I had joked about sending each other signals—a red tablecloth in the window would mean that it was time to come over for a glass of wine—but not anymore.

  During the drive over, I’d calmed down. There was little point in getting angry about what had already been printed. What’s done is done. The problem was, what to do about the future.

  And then all thoughts of that flew out of my mind as Bryan’s camper van shot out of a concealed driveway and pulled right across in front of me. I slammed on the brakes, fishtailing violently. I thought Bryan would stop—but he didn’t so much as slow down.

  All I saw was a grim look on his face as he sped past.

  It was then that I saw the sign: SUNNY HILL LODGE: RESIDENTIAL HOME FOR THE ELDERLY. Bryan must have visited Joan Stark after all and most likely not gotten very far.

  I thought of his camper van being hidden on the estate. I had intended to tell Rupert but not now. Let him deal with his trespassers. I’d interfered enough.

  I turned into the deserted farmyard. In the winter months it looked so dreary. The color scheme was a uniform brown with doors and windows, all matching perfectly. Each front entrance was flanked with wooden barrels filled with soil for summer flowers. I didn’t know the new owners of the farm who lived elsewhere, but I had heard that the village had fought—and failed—to stop the development.

  I parked my Golf behind Ginny’s black Peugeot and felt a sudden pang of anxiety. I hated confrontation of any kind but I had to sort this out.

  There was no response to my knock on her front door. “Ginny? Are you at home?” I shouted. “It’s Kat!”

  I took a few steps back to look upstairs and saw the curtains were still closed.

  A bitingly cold rush of wind sent a plastic bag skittering across the smart courtyard. I suspected in the holiday season the farmyard would be bustling with holidaymakers and children—but this afternoon, the place gave me the creeps.

  I tried the door, but it was locked. I walked around to the back of The Granary and called out again. I was positive she had to be avoiding me.

  “Ginny?” I cried. “We’ve got to talk. I’m not angry with you. I promise. Please?”

  I touched the back door and it swung open. I heard the blare of BBC Radio Devon and felt a rush of annoyance. She really was avoiding me.

  “I know you’re here,” I called out. “Come on, Ginny, I just want to talk.”

  The Granary was set up as a holiday cottage with the bare essentials. A small kitchenette with fridge, two-plate stove and kitchen sink, an open-plan living area with a spiral staircase leading upstairs where there was a bedroom and tiny bathroom. Ginny had added personal touches—photographs, one of the two of us drinking at the Hare & Hounds last Christmas—and books and fashion magazines. A copy of the Daily Post lay tossed on the floor.

  I walked to the bottom of the spiral staircase and called out again, but there was still no answer. In fact, it sounded very quiet. Tentatively, I climbed up and found her bedroom was empty. The clothes she wore the night before were pooled on a small chair. She was not in the bathroom, either.

  I spotted her handbag hooked over the kitchen chair. A half-eaten piece of toast and full mug of tea were on the kitchen table. But it was only when I saw Ginny’s iPhone peeping out from under the sofa that my heart missed a beat. Something was horribly wrong.

  I hurried outside to her car. It was unlocked and the keys were in the ignition. Trying to keep calm, I scanned the deserted courtyard. “Ginny! Where are you?” I yelled.

  Of course I could be overreacting. Maybe she was so afraid to face me that she tore outside and was hiding somewhere behind the farm.

  “Come on! Don’t be so childish. We’re friends, remember?”

  I took one more look around the yard and ventured into the surrounding woodland but there was no sign of Ginny.

  I called Shawn’s mobile but the number had been forwarded to Roxy—Shawn had taken the twins to a soccer game. I had hardly finished telling her what happened when she cut me off in midsentence—“I’m on my way”—and disconnected the line.

  During the fifteen minutes it took for Roxy to arrive, I was beginning to have second thoughts. Maybe I was overreacting—but it was seeing Ginny’s iPhone that worried me. Generation Y and their iPhones were inseparable. Then I thought of Bryan. He’d been in the area.

  Roxy barreled into the yard in her own car—a white Ford Fiesta—and scrambled out. She was dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt and hadn’t even put on her uniform.

  “Wha
t happened?” she said as she flew past me and straight to the front door.

  “It’s locked, but the back door is open.” I hurried after her as she jogged around the side of the house. “I found her handbag and iPhone…”

  “She’s never without that!” Roxy’s face was white. Her panic was contagious. It was so out of character that I began to wonder. Were the two women, in fact, friends?

  We stepped into the kitchen but Roxy stopped abruptly. “No, don’t go any farther,” she said. “Don’t touch anything.”

  “You don’t think—?”

  “Did you touch anything?”

  “Just the door handles but—”

  “We’d better get forensics in here. I’ve got to think. Got to get ahold of Shawn.” I could tell she was sick with fear and it made me scared, too. She turned away, running her hand through her thick red hair.

  She pulled out her mobile and left Shawn a message.

  “Did you check the other buildings?” Roxy demanded. “The woods behind?”

  “The buildings are all locked up. I did look in the woods but they’re huge. You don’t think she’d be hiding from me, do you?”

  Roxy shook her head. “If you think that, you don’t know her.”

  If I’d needed confirmation about their relationship, this was it. It would certainly explain how Ginny had gotten ahold of the details of Pandora’s death and Roxy had made no secret of her disdain for the upper classes—“a rule for them and a rule for us.”

  I was disappointed. Roxy was a good policewoman. I just hoped I was wrong.

  Roxy looked at me with suspicion. “What are you doing here anyway?”

  “I came to talk to her about her article,” I said pointedly. “The one in the Daily Post.”

  “She’s such a fool!” Roxy exclaimed. “I told her to be careful.”

  “So it was you who gave her the details about Pandora?”

  “Some but not…” Roxy swallowed hard. “Not what she wrote about in the papers—nothing like that! You have to believe me!”

  “She’s your friend, isn’t she?”

  “We’ve known each other since we were born,” said Roxy. “I just wanted to help, that’s all. I just gave her Pandora’s name. That was it. No details. Oh, God. Shawn’s going to kill me—oh!” She looked horrified at her choice of word. Her distress was so acute I felt sorry for her.

  I tried to stay calm. “Look, there could be a perfectly reasonable explanation. Her car is still here. She may well have gone for a long walk.”

  “I saw her wellies by the back door,” said Roxy miserably. “The woods are muddy at this time of year.”

  “Roxy—I have to ask you this,” I said. “Does Ginny have any idea who might be responsible for Pandora’s death?”

  “Of course she doesn’t!” Roxy shouted. “It’s a bluff, that’s all.”

  “I can’t believe she’s in any real danger,” I said. “I mean, this is Little Dipperton, isn’t it?”

  “You have no idea what these people are capable of,” she insisted. “They’ll do anything to protect their own. They close ranks. It’s as if the law doesn’t apply to them. They’re not like the rest of us. You know that’s true.”

  “All I know is that Ginny has vanished,” I said carefully. “And we’re going to find her.”

  Roxy bit her lip. She was practically in tears. “Ginny should have left well enough alone. I told her she was out of her depth.”

  A tap at the window startled both of us. Shawn waved and gestured to the front door.

  I let him inside.

  “Any news?” said Roxy.

  He shook his head. “A word, Roxy?” He took her elbow and gently steered her outside, into the courtyard and—unfortunately—out of earshot.

  I couldn’t hear their conversation but when the pair came back inside, Roxy seemed to have composed herself.

  “I suggest you go home,” said Shawn. “We’ll take it from here.”

  “But I might be able to help,” I said. “Ginny was also a friend of mine.”

  “Roxy said you came here to talk to her about the article—and yes, we’ve all read it. The village is talking about nothing else.”

  I was about to protest but Shawn raised his hand. “Don’t bother. Not important right now.”

  “She came to see me late last night,” I said. “She was very upset. Different. I’d noticed a change in her since she left the Dipperton Deal—”

  “Smart clothes,” Roxy chimed in. “New teeth—she told me those veneers cost her three thousand quid.”

  “Why would she come to talk to you?” Shawn demanded.

  “She knew that the article—her original article—had been heavily rewritten,” I said and went on to explain my relationship with the Daily Post’s Trudy Wynne and her personal vendetta against me.

  “Because you slept with her husband,” Roxy stated flatly.

  “They were separated—”

  “Carry on.” Shawn looked daggers at Roxy. “And I believe David and his wife are back together again anyway now so I assume the piece was just plain spite.”

  I felt my face redden but didn’t comment.

  “Look, I know it wasn’t Ginny’s fault,” I said. “I know how newspapers work; how they twist things out of context—”

  “But isn’t her exclusive an ongoing series?” Roxy seemed to have returned to her old self. “I’m sure you would have wanted to stop that.”

  “Oh for heaven’s sake!” I exclaimed. “Aren’t we wasting time talking about this when we should be out looking for her? Have you called her parents?”

  Both of them gave me a look that implied I was stupid.

  “They live in France,” said Roxy.

  “I know that,” I said. “But maybe she went there?”

  “Without her iPhone and her handbag?” Roxy shook her head. “I don’t want to frighten them. Not yet.”

  Shawn donned disposable latex gloves and started pacing around the room, poking into corners and drawers, studying walls and moving books around as if he were expecting the answer to jump right out.

  “What if someone came here and abducted her?” I suggested. “Kidnapped her. Right here.”

  “There doesn’t seem to be any sign of either a forced entry or violence, Shawn,” said Roxy.

  “Only the dropped mobile phone,” I pointed out. “I saw Bryan Laney drive by in his camper van. He’s been hanging about a lot.”

  Shawn picked up Ginny’s iPhone. He scrolled through the call log nodding silently until he said, “Ah, so you called Ginny this afternoon?”

  “Yes. I rang her on my way over,” I said.

  “And there are four unlisted numbers that last just a few seconds. Hmm.”

  “How easy is it to get Ginny’s number?” I asked.

  “She lists it with her byline and e-mail address,” said Roxy.

  Shawn carried on looking. “Nothing in her e-mail. But we’ll have our chaps take a look at it on Monday.”

  “Did you look inside Ginny’s car, Roxy?” said Shawn.

  “Not yet. I was waiting for you.”

  “I just found the keys in the ignition,” I said. “Nothing else.”

  We trailed outside and Shawn opened all four doors, removed his Mini Maglite and started inspecting all the corners, under the seats—even in the glove box. I watched him carefully as he zeroed in on the seat belt on the rear seat. It wasn’t sitting right. He lifted the lever and urged the rear seat back. It hadn’t been locked in place.

  “Someone had this down,” he said. “Roxy, open the boot.”

  Roxy’s face paled. She nodded. I found my heart was hammering in my chest as the hatchback slowly opened.

  Roxy gave a cry of dismay.

  “Is it Ginny?” I gasped. “Please tell me it’s not.”

  “No. But that’s hers!” Roxy pointed to a solitary Ugg slipper. “She got a pair for her birthday from her mum and dad.”

  Shawn removed a plastic baggy from inside
his voluminous trench coat, speared the Ugg slipper with his flashlight and handed it to Roxy. I watched him carefully examine the interior of the trunk.

  “What are those strange marks?” I said, pointing to deep scores in the paintwork on both sides of the door frame.

  “I have no idea.” Shawn stepped back and shone his flashlight along the bumper. “And here, too.” He turned to Roxy. “Did you call forensics?”

  “I wanted to wait for you.”

  I stood watching feeling utterly useless as Shawn made the call. “Yes,” I heard him say. “Right now.”

  “So you think Ginny was driven somewhere in her own car,” Roxy said to Shawn.

  “It looks like it.”

  I couldn’t put into words my biggest fear. That something terrible had happened to Ginny and her body had been dumped. I thought of Bryan again. Was it possible that he’d parked his camper van nearby, taken Ginny somewhere and returned? I shared my thoughts with Shawn, especially my misgivings about him claiming to be an expert at D-I-Y.

  “He told me he was going to call you,” I said.

  “He did call and left a message,” said Shawn. “We’ll be calling him back.”

  “Oh.” I had to admit that surprised me.

  “Did you get a license plate for the camper van?” Shawn asked.

  “No, but it’s very distinctive. It’s old—seventies, perhaps? Green-and-white VW,” I said. “I think he might be sleeping in it. It was parked in the field behind the walled garden.”

  “Trespassing, eh?” said Shawn thoughtfully. “I wonder what his game is?”

  Dick’s black Fiat 500 entered the farmyard.

  “Perhaps you’d better go home,” said Shawn. “If Bryan is our man, he may be wanting to see who else remembers that night in 1958.”

  “What … you mean…” I felt cold all over. “Do you mean my mother could be in danger?”

  “Unless she did it,” said Roxy.

  “Mum was with your grandmother this morning, Shawn,” I said. Roxy was becoming really annoying.