This area isn’t exactly riddled with employment opportunities; most work is in the aforementioned holiday hotspots and is seasonal, so getting a local job that lasts all year round is like finding gold dust in your breakfast cereal. With that in mind, people put up with working at the Veggies, keep quiet and generally try to stay out of Armand’s way as much as possible. Tonight though, I was in the unfortunate position of being the last member of staff to leave the kitchen. Armand had specifically asked me to stay back and help him with checking over some adverts and new menus he’d got a design company putting together for the Meat And Two Veg. He knows I used to work in promotion and advertising in London and is always out for free advice. If he knew what my former employees charged for that advice in my old life… Well, maybe he does know, which is why he’d told me the last hour had been 'off the clock' since I wasn't actually serving customers. Cheek of it!
As I navigate the potholed track down to the farmhouse that is now my home, my hands are holding the steering wheel so tightly that my knuckles are taking on a deathly white shade in the moonlight. As always the dreaded track seems to go on forever, but eventually we reach the yard. I park Daisy in a barn (I swear I hear her heave a sigh of relief) and head indoors to collapse into bed. Originally, I was planning to do a couple of quick jobs tonight, like mix the chicken feed, in an attempt to get a head start on things in the morning, but it’s later than usual and I’m exhausted. I’ll just have to get up even earlier tomorrow instead.
I wonder what tomorrow has in store for me. It can’t get much worse than today, surely.
Cows. Two of them. Staring right back at me, an interested expression on their black and white faces. I know, with everything else on my plate, I’m bone-tired lately but is my mind going now as well?
Backing up towards my car, I debate what to do. I’ve never seen a cow quite this close before. Who knew they were so big? What on earth are these two doing in my yard at Eskdale Top anyway? There are no animals on this farm other than the chickens which provide the free range eggs I sell to local bed and breakfasts, hotels, and cafés. Presumably these two have escaped from my neighbour Frazer’s place, but what should I do with them? Should I somehow try to stop them and catch them? Ah! As if!
The two cows trundle past me, and I hold my breath against the overwhelming stench which accompanies them. With another curious glance at me they head for one of the fields at the side of the farmhouse. I guess they must like the look of the lush grass - which I desperately need to cut. I’ll add that to my ever growing To Do list. The drone of an approaching quadbike becomes a roar, and I turn to see a red bike, complete with man and dog, enter the yard. Phew. Help is at hand. Frazer must be here to round them up and take them home.
Switching off the engine, the man climbs off the bike and heads towards me, casting a substantial shadow across the farmyard thanks to his height and build. He’s got closely cropped dark blond hair, broad shoulders and is wearing trendy sunglasses. Whoever he is, he certainly isn’t Frazer.
“Hi, you must be Lizzie, Joe’s niece.” He offers a hand to shake after first wiping it down the cargo shorts he’s wearing, which are teamed, rather fetchingly, with a pair of green wellington boots. “I’m really sorry about the cows; these two like to go off and have a wander around every so often.” He nods his head towards them. “I think they get a bit bored just standing around in our fields chewing grass all day. Maybe your grass tastes better.”
I shake his hand. It isn’t rough and calloused from outdoor work. The skin might be soft but his handshake is so firm that it squeezes my own hand tightly for a second before gently releasing it. “You’re from the farm next door? Well, the one down the lane.”
He nods and smiles. “Yes, I’m Jack. Frazer’s younger brother,” he explains. “I’m helping out on the family farm for a little while. Taking a bit of a sabbatical from the day job.”
Ah. Somebody else taking a sabbatical. Does that mean his life is as big a mess as my own?
“And your day job would be?” I can’t resist asking. My mum says nosiness is a family trait. She has it and so did my beloved Uncle Joe.
“I’m a special agent. Fighting crime in the world of celebrities,” he says nonchalantly, casually leaning against my car, right next to me, as though he’s perfectly at home here.
“Yes, right, of course you are,” I reply, annoyed he’s spinning me some line. This morning is getting more bizarre by the minute. First the unexpected bovine visitors and now a spy turning up on my doorstep. Why doesn’t he just tell me if he’s an accountant or something? I’m not one to judge. “And I’m Catwoman,” I retort grumpily.
He takes off his sunglasses and raises an eyebrow in interest. “You are? Brilliant. I’ve always had a thing for those skin-tight leather suits you wear.”
I tut. “Typical male.”
He leans closer and I spot the remnants of a black eye and a few cuts and bruises. Has he been fighting? I wonder if that has anything to do with this sabbatical he’s taking from his day job. Does that mean it’s more likely to be an enforced suspension than a voluntary career break? Without his sunglasses I can judge his age better. I’d peg him for being a couple of years older me. Probably in his early thirties.
“Sorry? What?” he asks, beaming me a cheeky smile. “Did you just say typical male?”
I shrug. “Well, you wouldn’t give me an honest answer, which is something I know from experience men seem to have a problem doing, so...”
“I did give you an honest answer,” he protests, swiftly putting his glasses back on.
“So, who do you work for then?” I have heaps of things I should be doing. Standing around gossiping certainly isn’t one of them, but there’s something about Jack which is…intriguing.
“The CCIA,” he replies. “Otherwise known as the Celebrity Crimes Investigation Agency.”
“There’s no such place!” I erupt with a splutter of laughter. “I’ve never heard of them.”
“That doesn’t mean they don’t exist. There is a CCIA, I swear.” He raises his fingers in a Scout’s-honour type gesture.
“So, if you’re some kind of secret agent…” I begin.
“Special agent,” he corrects. “Not secret agent. Well, except when I’m working undercover, then it’s a secret.”
“Then you must have some sort of official identification, a CCIA badge.”
He nods. “I do indeed.”
I make a beckoning gesture with my hands. “So, come on then, let’s see it.”
He shrugs. “I don’t have it with me right now. I carry it when I’m on a case, not when I’m chasing down wayward cows.”
“Don’t believe you.”
“Geez, you’re a tough woman to convince, aren’t you?” he says with a sigh and a shake of his head.
“So show me the badge and then I’ll believe you. You must have it back at the farmhouse, right?”
“Er... actually, no, I don’t.”
“See! I knew you were lying!”
Fiddling with the muddle of leather and plastic charity bracelets on his wrists he pushes forward off my car and surprises me by saying, “I’ll just round up the cows and get out of here.”
He’s not going to continue our little banter? Striding off across the disintegrating stone cobbles of the yard, he heads towards the cows which are munching happily on my grass, staring at the two of us as though we’re part of a scene from a soap opera they’re quite enjoying watching.
“I might need to talk to your brother Frazer about farm stuff,” I shout after him. “Is he on holiday or something if you’re covering for him?”
“No, but he probably wishes he was on holiday though!” he replies with a chuckle. “His wife Emma is in hospital, haven’t you heard? I thought everyone knew everything around these parts. They’re expecting their third child at any moment and she’s got high blood pressure, so they’re keeping her in. The hospital is quite a way from here. Better safe than sorry. ”
/> “Yes, I know Emma, of course I do. I just haven’t seen her for a few weeks. So, you’ve got childcare duties as well as sorting out the farm?” I quiz, reluctantly impressed as he vaults over a stone wall into the field where the cows are. He could have walked five feet to the right and strolled through the opening like the cows did, but no, he has to take the more challenging route.
He shakes his head. “Thankfully, no. Just the farm falls under my responsibility.”
“You don’t like children then?” I lean against the wall, curious as to how he’s going to round up the hefty bovines chomping merrily on my grass.
“Like them, yeah. I can do the whole fun uncle thing, no worries, but the everyday childcare stuff, not so much. I’ve had little to no experience of that, so leaving my niece and nephew in my care wouldn’t help Emma’s blood pressure problems. It would make them far worse. Plus, in my line of work, I’m not usually around very much anyway to have loads of family time – one of the perks or downsides of the job, depending on which way you look at it.”
“Oh, you mean your special agent duties,” I say with thinly disguised sarcasm.
“Yep.” He walks slowly round to the far side of the cows and raises his arms out to his sides, gently urging the beasts towards the field entrance. “Anyway, the kids are staying with Emma’s mum while she’s in the hospital. Better all round that way I reckon.”
“How did you know who I was?” I ask. “When you first arrived, you said, ‘you must be Lizzie’. How did you know that?”
The cows begin slogging their way out of the field and into the yard. “Well,” he taps the side of his head, “simple deduction really. My brother mentioned Old Joe had passed away a while back and left this place to his niece Lizzie. You’ve been up here a few months now, haven’t you?”
“Four months.” Jack mentioned being a fun uncle to Frazer’s kids. Well, Joe was my fun uncle. School holidays always found me up here, knee deep in mud, helping out. I still miss him, and my Aunt Molly. I was born in Cumbria but my parents uprooted us to London when I was six for Dad’s work. I left my parents behind in London to move back up here. I miss them too. My aunt and uncle never had children of their own, so, knowing my parents would want no part in returning to Cumbria, the farm was left to me.
“If you need a hand with anything around here just let me know,” Jack says, bringing me back to the here and now, as he manoeuvres my unexpected visitors out of the yard. “I’m pretty useful with a hammer and always happy to help a neighbour.”
Forcing a smile I say, “I can manage, thanks.”
Nodding towards the surrounding fields of crops and the ramshackle barns Jack adds, “This place is a lot to take on.”
Drawing myself up to my full height of five feet four inches I immediately realise that Jack’s six foot plus frame still towers over me. “I’ll manage,” I repeat.
He nods, kicking the mud off his boots against the wall of the yard. “Of course, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply you couldn’t. OK then. I’ll finish getting these cows out of your way. It won’t take long, Cin will soon have them sorted.”
“Sin?” I frown. “That’s an odd name for a dog.”
“Her name’s Cinnamon - she was named by my niece. When she’s working it’s quicker and easier to call her Cin, less of a mouthful.” He whistles to the dog who has already cornered the cows near to the farmyard wall and is standing guard, keeping a beady eye on them, from just a few feet away.
True to his word, within a few minutes the cows are out of the yard and heading home down the track, Cinnamon following along behind them, keeping the animals in check.
Leaping back onto the quadbike Jack starts up the engine. “If you do need anything, Catwoman, you know where to find me.” Revving the engine a couple of times he adds, “If I can help, I’d like to. See you around.”
I stand there for several minutes, pondering on what I make of Jack, watching the little procession of two cows, a dog and a man on a quadbike steadily making its way back down the lane. With his cuts and black eye, he’s obviously been in some fight. He lied about his job – special agent, hmm, I don’t think so. That guy has got trouble written all over him. Heading into one of the polytunnels, I locate some salad leaf seedlings which need planting out. OK, I concede, Jack’s tall, blond and rather handsome but I am so not looking for a man in my life right now.
And I’ve had more than enough trouble in my life lately, thank you very much. That’s why I’m hiding away in Cumbria trying to run this place.
CHAPTER TWO
After a morning toiling on the soil, I take a quick shower, change and head, once again, to my second job of the day. One of the other waitresses wanted to take her lunchtime shift off today as it’s her birthday and I said I’d cover for her.
As I attempt to steer Daisy into the Veggies car park, I see the area is cordoned off. That’s odd. What on earth is going on? I spot a few police cars and a crime scene investigation van in the car park and goose bumps break out on my arms. Only last night I was fretting about muggers and murderers… No, it can’t be. This is probably about a break-in. Granted, one of those is unusual enough in these parts, but not, thankfully, a matter of life and death.
A stern-looking policeman who looks vaguely familiar is standing guard at the entrance to the restaurant’s car park. He sees me, gestures for me to stop, and wanders over as I buzz down the driver’s side window.
“Sorry, the place is closed,” he says, leaning down to speak through the window.
“But I work here. I’m due to start my shift soon,” I reply, then nervously add, “Is something wrong?”
“The gossip being what it is around these parts, I’d have thought you’d have heard by now,” he says with a tut of obvious disapproval. “We’re expecting the TV and newspaper guys to turn up here at any second.”
“Heard what?” I ask, only just managing to keep the frustration out of my voice.
The policeman, who I seem to recall is named Mark and has been into the bar at the Veggies more than once, straightens up and looks important. “I’m afraid there’s been a suspicious death.”
“What?” I gulp, switch Daisy off and clamber out, my knees suddenly going jelly-like as concern races through me. Someone is dead? Who? When? “Suspicious as in…”
Mark nods, a suitably sombre expression on his face. “As in murder, yes.”
“You’re sure?” I ask, then realise how stupid that sounds.
“We might be in the back of beyond out here but I think we’re still capable of recognising a murder when we see one.” He shoots me an irritated look. “And unless the victim is capable of stabbing himself several times in the back with a knife then we’re definitely not talking suicide.”
My hands are all clammy. I know the answer but I still have to ask the question “He? Knife? Who’s been murdered?”
“You really don’t know?” he asks, sounding incredulous. “You work here, you say?”
I nod solemnly.
“Name?” he demands.
“Lizzie Carter. You know me. I live up at Eskdale. I’m a waitress here.”
“In that case, I’m sorry, it’s your boss who is the victim.”
“Armand is dead?” My mouth goes dry and now my knees feel as though they’re about to give way beneath me. Had I tempted fate by thinking of murderers when I’d left the Veggies last night? No, of course not. I know Armand wasn’t the most popular guy in Amswick, but, murder, well, it just doesn’t happen in places like this.
But it has.
Mark steps back and points towards the far side of the car park. “I think you’d best park up and report to the officer in charge of this investigation.” He nods towards a man standing next to the crime scene van who’s talking on a phone and pacing back and forth. “They’re working their way through interviewing all of the staff. He’ll want an official statement from you.”
“Who found Armand?” I ask nervously as I get back into Daisy, my hand
s shaking uncontrollably as I attempt to start her up.
“One of the cleaners, I believe. She turned up at about eight this morning and put in the code to open the back door. Went into the staffroom near the kitchen to make a drink and that’s when she saw him. Lying on the floor he was, with the knife still in his back.” I think I detect a hint of something akin to ghoulish glee as he recounts what happened. “Screamed so loud she did, it fetched the nearest neighbour from up the road and he called the police.”
My hand goes to my mouth and a wave of nausea washes over me. “That’s awful.”
“The forensic guys reckon he was killed late last night,” he continues. “Anyhow, I think you’d better get a move on. The Chief will be wanting to complete his interviews with all of the staff as soon as possible. Take my word for it, he’s not a man to get on the wrong side of.”
I nod and somehow manage to focus enough through my shock to steer Daisy to the designated area. As I’m climbing from the car, a worrying thought jostles into my head amongst the upset and whirl of emotions.
Mark said Armand was killed late last night.
As I was the last person to leave the Veggies at just after midnight, I was probably the last person to see him alive.
Does that put me on the suspects list? From my old life to this one, trouble still seems to unfortunately want to seek me out.
CHAPTER THREE
“What time did you leave the establishment after your shift last night?” The man demands.
I fidget in my seat. Chief Inspector Smith fixes me with a fierce gaze. He’s looking at me as though I’m a criminal. He doesn’t seriously think I stabbed Armand, does he?
“Just after midnight,” I reply, clasping my hands in my lap and wishing this was all over and done with. Now he’s starting to make me feel like I’ve done something wrong.
He frowns. “According to the staff rota information we’ve been given, your shift should have finished at eleven. Why were you still around at midnight?” Lifting an eyebrow he adds, “Working overtime, were we?”
Past Perfect: A Fun and Flirty Romantic Mystery (Amber Reed Mystery Book 4) Page 19
