by Agatha Frost
“Detective Inspector?” she called as soon as she was in range. “Have you just come from Nick’s house?”
“You heard already?” He stopped and looked around the square. “How quickly do things spread around here?”
“I was in the wrong place at the right time. Or maybe the wrong place at the wrong time.” Dropping her voice, she asked, “I don’t suppose you found a red can of spray paint in there? Perhaps in a gym bag or the bin?”
“You think it was him?” Ramsbottom frowned. “Whatever for?”
“I’ll take that as a no.” She looked around the square as shoppers went about their day – only a couple of shocked faces surfaced the sea of ignorance. “If you find anything, can you let me know?”
“Of course,” he said as his frown deepened, “but I have to ask, why the sudden interest in Nick? Did you know him? Because if you did, I’d like to ask . . .” His voice trailed off, and he clicked his fingers together. “Of course! Your uncle! They shared that very cottage, didn’t they? Do you think Pat could have put him up to it?”
“Possibly.” She glanced at the gym. “If you speak to Ryan Tyler, he’ll show you a video of Nick with a can of spray paint.”
DI Ramsbottom patted down his pockets. He pulled half a packet of crisps from one before retrieving a pen and small notepad from the other. He scribbled down the name and nodded at Claire as though to thank her for the tip.
“I don’t suppose you’ve visited your uncle since he was banged up?”
“No,” she said quickly. “No communication.”
“That’d do it.” He nodded, evidently putting the pieces together more slowly than Claire had. “Well, I’d say that’s as good as a case solved. I’ll look out for the spray paint, but first, I need to get to Lilac Gifts.” He hooked his thumb over his shoulder at the card and gift shop on the row of shops adjacent to Claire’s. “I need to tell Gwyneth. She’s my niece, and she’s had an on and off thing with Nick for far longer than I care to acknowledge.” He leaned in, and in a lower voice, admitted, “Between you and me, I always knew the only way they were ever going to be fully off was if he moved away or died. Looks like it was the latter.”
Before Claire could ask any questions about why he wouldn’t want Nick Bates romantically involved with his niece, DI Ramsbottom hobbled off to the small shop. Claire squinted through the window. Gwyneth was behind the counter. Around the same age as Em and Ste, Gwyneth was often referred to as the ‘Marilyn of Northash’ thanks to her trademark white curls and dark beauty mark. Claire turned towards her shop, not wanting to witness the delivery of such harrowing news.
“I need to get back to the gym,” Ryan said when she walked back in, though his tone made it clear he wished he could stay. “I’ve already gone five over my break.”
“Go on,” Claire said, smiling her appreciation. “We’ll talk when you’re finished.”
Ryan pulled her into a hug, and for the first time since they were teenagers, gave her forehead a little kiss. He left, and even with all the day’s chaos, Claire’s lips turned up in the briefest of smiles.
“Why does the sign say closed?” Janet cried as she hurried into the shop with a plastic bag. “I packed us some lovely salads for lunch. Thought it might be nice if we all ate together for a change.”
Janet dumped the bag on the counter and got to work unloading her Tupperware and cutlery. She opened the lids before looking at Alan, and saying, “Don’t sulk, dear. I’ll make fish and chips for dinner, my special way. The less deep-fried food we eat at our age, the—”
“Mum,” Claire cut her off. “I think we should all go home. There’s a lot we need to talk about. A man has died.”
“Who?” she replied curtly. “What man?”
“Nick Bates.”
“Oh.” Janet looked down at the salads as if she no longer recognised them before returning them to the bag. “Good idea, dear. We’ll . . . we’ll just eat these at home.”
CHAPTER FOUR
C laire’s decision to open the shop on Saturday was a purposeful one. Most of the out-of-town shoppers travelled in on Saturdays, usually to spend time in Starfall Park before wandering around the many independent shops the village had to offer. For Claire, the timing worked out perfectly. Her first half-day of sales had covered the overheads for at least another week, with enough left over to finally order some new fragrance oils after depleting her stores while readying the shop’s inventory.
Subconsciously perhaps, Claire had known she’d immediately need a day off after the emotions of opening day. She had expected to be exhausted from standing all day, but she hadn’t factored a graffiti message and a death into her decision making. Her mind and emotions were far more wearied than her legs, and she’d never been more grateful for Northash honouring the tradition closing shops on Sundays.
“I really don’t want to go out,” Alan said as Janet pushed him down the hallway. “I’m not in the mood.”
“Your shoes are already on!” Janet exclaimed, grabbing the car keys from the hook on the wall before opening the front door. “You love going to the garden centre.”
“But today of all days?”
“I need the fresh air.”
“We live in the countryside!”
“Only the other day you were complaining about needing some of that stuff to make the grass greener.” Janet pushed him over the threshold, grabbing his cane from beside the door because he never would. “Go and get yourself settled in the car.”
“If we’re going,” he said, reaching back and snatching the keys from her, “I’m driving. I want to get there and back today.”
“I’m a perfectly fine driver!”
“Perfectly fine, yes,” he said, turning to wave goodbye to Claire, “if you’re judging by a snail’s standards.”
From where Claire was leaning against the counter in the kitchen, she returned the wave and smiled as much as she could muster. When her father was in the car, her mother hurried down the hallway, all pretence dropped from her expression.
“Whatever you’re up to,” she said, extending a long, slender finger, “you better tell me when I get back. Your father is having a bad foot day, so forcing me to get him out of the house had better be important.”
“It is,” Claire assured her, straight-faced. “I promise I’ll tell you.”
Claire left off ‘when you get back,’ but she wasn’t sure her mother would turn and leave if she said, ‘when the time is right.’ Thankfully, Janet didn’t catch on, and after one final purse of her lips, she left, closing the front door behind her.
When the rumble of the car engine faded out of the sleepy cul-de-sac, Claire hurried out the back door and down the garden path under a blanket of thick grey clouds. She didn’t make a habit of hiding things from her parents, nor did she enjoy sneaking around behind her father’s back, but he hadn’t left her much choice. She slipped into the small shed and went straight to the top drawer of his potting desk.
One eye closed, she pulled open the drawer. She let out a breath, glad to see the letters, but that relief quickly turned to horror. The first time she’d stumbled across the pile of sealed envelopes, there’d been six. Last time she’d checked, there’d been nine. Now, well over a dozen were heaped in the drawer, with the one on top dated four days ago.
“What do you want?” she asked as she scooped them out.
Letters crammed under her arm, Claire left the shed. After closing the door, she made eyes with Graham over the garden fence. He gave her a tight smile and a little wave as he loaded a black bag into the outdoor bin. She nodded and returned her neighbour’s smile, though considering whose words she had under her arm, she couldn’t bear to stay and chat. Despite the state of his marriage to Nicola, she was still his wife when Uncle Pat pushed her to her death in the factory.
Once back in the kitchen, she dumped the letters on the island before pulling the roller blind over the window. She wasn’t sure Graham could see her, and even if he could, how
he’d manage to read the tiny writing. Still, she didn’t want to take the risk of him seeing her reaction to whatever was contained within the letters.
Heart pounding, she stared at the mound. All were addressed to her in her uncle’s handwriting, and yet the guilt at taking them from the shed was almost too much to bear. Her father had been stealing her mail for a while, rushing to the doormat to fish out any letters sent from Her Majesty’s Prison Manchester before she had a chance to see them. She’d wanted to talk to him about it since she’d found them in the shed, but the subject wasn’t an easy one to approach.
Domino sauntered into the kitchen and jumped up onto the island. She walked around the edge and headbutted Claire as though she knew she needed some support. Claire picked her up and gave her a little cuddle, which Domino briefly allowed before wriggling away. Sid was the cuddlier of her two cats, but the giant grey fluffball was no doubt curled up on her bed, sound asleep.
The front door opened, and Sally let herself in, her phone sandwiched between her ear and shoulder. Domino darted from the kitchen and back upstairs with steps as loud as a small child’s. Sally watched the cat as she waved to Claire, closing the door with her hip.
“Yes,” she said into the phone, rolling her eyes with a sigh. “I understand, Mr Folkston, but it’s Sunday, and the office is closed. Yes, I do have keys. No, I’m going to go to the office to look at the paperwork. Yes, I’m aware of your budget, but The Manse will still be on the market tomorrow morning. Because it’s my one day off!”
Sally hung up and tossed her phone onto the counter before dropping a white paper bag onto the marble. Hands in her hair, she gave herself a moment to let out a frustrated grumble before sliding onto one of the stools. Claire filled a large pan with water and placed it on the hob before turning it on to boil.
“That’s the last time I give my personal number to a client,” she said, reaching into the bag to pull out a giant box of assorted pastries. “They think because they’re spending a small fortune I should be on call twenty-four hours a day.”
“I don’t know how you do it.” Claire plucked a sugar-coated jam-filled doughnut from the box.
“Commission,” she said before biting into a glazed yum-yum. “It’s a great motivator.”
“Where did you get these from?”
“There’s a little bakery over in Downham that opens Sundays,” she said, taking another bite. “After everything you told me on the phone, it’s the least I could do.” Her eyes drifted to the kitchen island. “Are they all from him?”
“Every single one.”
“Bloody hell, Claire,” she mumbled, licking the icing off her lips before taking another bite. “How have you not ripped them all open, knowing where they were?”
“Because I love my father,” she said, glancing at the blinds and imagining his shed at the bottom of the garden, “and he wouldn’t be stealing my mail if he didn’t think he was doing the right thing.”
“Have you asked him why he’s doing it?”
“I know why he’s doing it. He’s trying to protect me from whatever Pat has to say.”
“Your uncle murdering two people will do that,” she said, plucking one of the fat doughnuts from the box. “It would have driven me crazy, though. I was always that kid who read the last page of a book first to see how it would end. I couldn’t stand not knowing.”
A knock at the back door startled them both. Damon cupped his hands against the window and peered in. Behind him, the heavy clouds were beginning to release the first droplets of the day’s forecasted rain. Claire opened the back door.
“Sorry, I’m late,” he said, panting slightly as he walked into the kitchen. “I was playing Dawn Ship 2, and I lost track of time.”
Damon smiled stiffly at Sally before sitting at the breakfast bar, leaving a seat between them. She returned the smile, but neither vocalised a greeting. Not for the first – or even the five-hundredth – time, Claire wished she could figure out a way to get them to like each other as much as she liked them both. The answer eluded her, though she supposed she was grateful they so often agreed to be in the same room, if only for her sake. Still, Sally nudged the box over to Damon, and he accepted a glazed cinnamon roll.
“Are these the letters?” Damon mumbled through a mouthful.
Claire nodded as she flicked the kettle on.
“It’s not going to take three of us to rip open a small pile of letters,” Sally said, checking her phone, which already had a fresh string of notifications filling the screen.
“We’re not ripping them open.” Claire opened the cupboard under the sink and pulled out the iron, its cord neatly wrapped up. “We’re going to steam them open. I need to be able to put them back without my dad knowing, and if he has his way, they won’t be out for long.”
“All this to avoid talking to your dad about your uncle?” Sally laughed, still distracted by her phone. “Claire . . . really?”
“I’m not avoiding it.” She could barely look at her friend. “He is. After what happened to Nick yesterday, I closed my shop and sat my mum and dad down at the dining room table. Dad lasted two minutes before he locked himself in the shed.” Guilt stabbed in her chest. “I wish he’d talk to me about it, but I love him enough not to force him into this conversation until he’s ready.”
“What if he’s never ready?”
“He will be,” Claire said hopefully, plugging the iron into the socket on the breakfast bar, next to Sally. “But I can’t wait. I need to know what my uncle wants.”
“And you really think he put Nick up to spraying the front of your shop?” Damon asked.
“Yes.” Claire pulled out her phone to show them the recording Ryan had sent her that morning. “Ramsbottom thinks it’s as good as solved.”
“And now Nick’s dead, and you’ll never know for sure,” Sally said, wide-eyed as she stared at the phone. “Isn’t it always strange when someone you vaguely know dies? I’m sad, but didn’t know know him, you know? I dealt with him a little when your uncle went to prison. We manage the property he rents – rented. Just the other month, he finally came in to sign the documents that fully transferred the tenancy into his name. Seemed pleasant enough. Built like a brick house.”
“I worked with him on deliveries when I first started at the factory,” Damon said, picking at his nails. “I thought driving around in the vans would be more interesting than working on the production line, but I couldn’t stand the early mornings and never being in one place. And, truth be told, I didn’t like working with him. He seemed normal enough at first, but he was weird.”
“In what way?” Claire asked.
“He scared me,” he said, scrunching up his face as he stared blankly in the direction of the letters. “He’d so easily brag about the awful things he did when he was my age. At the time, I was nineteen, and he was about thirty, so there was a bit of a gap. Maybe I was young and didn’t understand his humour.”
“What kinds of things?” Sally asked, addressing Damon for the first time.
“He used to break into people’s cars and joyride them around the village,” he said. “Stories about robbing houses, that sort of thing. I’m older now than he was back then, and I can’t imagine laughing about doing stuff like that in my teen years, but maybe that’s just my shyness.” He paused to push up his glasses. “Old William transferred me immediately. He was always good like that.”
“And that’s when we re-connected at the stickers station,” Claire said fondly. “What you’ve said lines up with how DI Ramsbottom acted when he told me his niece was involved with Nick. He practically said he was glad the guy was dead.”
“No one will challenge a guy that big and muscular,” Sally said with a wistful sigh. “Should we get on with peeling open these letters? I suppose you want us to keep an eye out for mentions of Nick?”
“And my shop.”
“I’ll take the hob,” Damon said, hopping off the stool before sliding the iron to Sally. “This is almo
st exciting.”
After steaming it over the kettle, Claire eased open the first envelope with a little help from a butter knife. As she pulled out the letter, a knot formed in her throat at the sight of her uncle’s familiar, neat handwriting filling two sides of lined A4 office paper.
Turning it the correct way up, Claire inhaled and read:
June 5th
It’s me again. I understand why you’re not responding; I really do. That’s if you’re even receiving these. I feel like I’m talking to myself right now. I fear the guards may be destroying my mail before it has a chance to leave the prison. Alas, I’ll keep trying. Even if no one is reading these, I need to talk to someone. To say I am going crazy in here would be an understatement. The cell feels smaller each day, the conversations more repetitive, the food somehow blander. Yesterday, we had bubble and squeak for the fourth day in a row. I never thought I’d miss my mother’s cooking. Give my love to Granny Greta.
Claire paused and pulled her thumb from her mouth, not knowing when she’d started nibbling on the nail. After spending so long ignoring her curiosity, the raw honesty of her uncle’s words shocked her. She continued reading from the top:
The days are long and slow. I spend most of my time reading in the library. I don’t fit in, and they know that. There are others who don’t fit in, but we’ve yet to become friends. Everyone is scared. I’m scared. I’m living amongst some of the worst in society, and yet, I know I, too, am one of them. I’ll never be able to repay my debt, I know that. This is my punishment. I understand, but the thought of doing this with no contact from my family – from you –makes the days almost unbearable.
Once again, I’ve attached a visiting order in the hopes you change your mind.
It’s still me, Claire. I promise.
Uncle Pat
“I feel sick.” Claire leaned against the counter, clutching the letter so hard it scrunched in her palm. “Any mention of the shop or Nick?”
