by K. C. Wells
“I’m doing me best” came a gruff voice from inside.
Josh rolled his eyes. “And charging me an exorbitant rate for doing it. All because it’s a Sunday.” He sighed. “Gentlemen. What is the purpose of your visit, and can it wait?”
“Not really.” Jonathon raised his chin and looked Josh in the eye. “We wanted to speak with you before we pass on what we know to the police. A courtesy, really.”
Josh bit his lip, his eyes bright with amusement. “What you know? How very mysterious. Well, you’d better come in.” He led them into the hallway, then through into a neat drawing room. Shiny brown leather couches formed a U-shape around the fire, and a thick rug filled the floor space between them. “Please, take a seat.” He closed the door behind them, then sat on the couch facing them, his arm along the back, his legs crossed—a picture of relaxation. “My apologies for the heat, but there really is nothing I can do about that. Now, I admit to being intrigued. What could you possibly want to tell the police that involves me?”
“You seem like the sort of person who likes to come straight to the point,” Mike said with a smile, “so we won’t waste your time. We know you were being blackmailed by Naomi Teedle.”
Josh opened his eyes wide. “I was? Well, that’s certainly news to me. Wherever did you get that idea?”
“You were in her diaries. She kept records of all payments made.” Jonathon watched him carefully.
“Really? My name was in there?”
“Your initials, actually.” Simply saying it sent ribbons of unease unfolding in Jonathon’s belly. What if we’ve got it wrong?
Josh arched his eyebrows. “That’s it? That’s all you have? And how many other people have the same initials as me? I can think of two others in this village alone, and that’s before you even consider the rest of the population.” He tilted his head to one side. “That’s unless you have evidence that her blackmailing activities were limited to Merrychurch alone.”
More tendrils of disquiet crept through Jonathon. We had assumed her blackmail activities were confined to the village. Which was a dumb supposition when he thought about it.
“Except those initials carry more weight when we add in the fact that you were seen near her cottage the morning she died,” Mike added.
Josh made an impatient noise. “A fact that I have not denied. I told you. I stopped by on my walk and bought a jar of jam. And if that is the extent of your evidence, I rather think the police will be less than impressed. Indeed, I’m pretty certain the phrase ‘wasting police time’ will crop up at some point in the proceedings. Especially as they now have a man in custody.”
God, he’s smooth. All Jonathon wanted to do in that moment was ruffle Josh’s feathers, make even one small chink in his armor of cool assurance. “Actually? I think they’ll be very interested in the fact that your car was recently valeted using a product that was found on the victim.”
A faint frown creased Josh’s brow. “Really? And my car is the only one in the village to have benefited from such a product?”
For a moment Jonathon was speechless. The only other car they knew about was John Barton’s. Oh God. What if it’s him and not Josh? His stomach roiled again, and he felt a flash of alarm. “I’m really sorry, but… could I use your bathroom?”
“My—?” Irritation flickered in Josh’s eyes. “Very well, if you must. Upstairs. The first door on the landing.”
Jonathon thanked him, rose to his feet hurriedly, and left the room. He took the stairs two at a time, found the bathroom, and bolted the door behind him. Inside, he took a moment to breathe, which helped to quell his earlier flare of panic. Jonathon gripped the cool porcelain sink and stared at his reflection in the mirror, while from below him came the sound of banging pipes and muted swearing.
Have we got this all wrong? The more he thought about it, the more Jonathon realized there was nothing concrete to tie Josh to the murder. He bowed his head, not daring to imagine his father’s reaction when he got wind of this.
Then he stilled. Next to the sink was a white cabinet with open shelves, and on one sat a tube of cream. A very familiar tube. Alongside it were unopened packs of surgical dressings and a roll of white tape. Jonathon looked around the bathroom. At his feet was a small pedal-operated rubbish bin. On an impulse, he depressed the pedal and peered inside. Used dressings filled it, their white surfaces marred by disgusting-looking gunk.
Jonathon smiled. A coincidence? Perhaps, but if he was right, then his wish for something concrete had just been realized.
Let him argue his way out of that.
Jonathon pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts. It was time to bring in the big guns.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
MIKE HOPED Jonathon was all right. He’d looked a little pale as he’d left the room in such a hurry. Jonathon’s exit seemed to have created an awkward vacuum. Josh appeared impatient, checking the time on the small clock above the fireplace. Mike took advantage of the situation to take a good look around.
A dresser stood against one wall, its shelves adorned with brasses and framed photographs, of which there were a great many. It seemed Josh had been a keen horse rider in his youth. There were photos of him receiving ribbons, photos of him with various horses, and a photo of him dressed in red, obviously taken at a hunt. This last image fascinated Mike, and he had no idea why.
“Do you still ride?” Mike asked, indicating the photos.
Josh gave a heavy sigh. “I fell from a horse when I was in my early twenties. It caused a bunch of nerves in my hip to knot. I get around fine, but now and again, it’s agony. Haven’t been able to ride since.” He gazed fondly at the frames. “Those were good times.” Josh pointed to the one of him in red. “I was seventeen in that one. My first ride with the hunt. Of course, that’s all gone now.”
Mike looked closely at the photo, trying to decide why it should be of such interest to him. Until the reason struck him so forcibly that he caught his breath.
Oh my God. How could I not have seen that?
The door opened and Jonathon entered. Before he could say a word, Mike beckoned him over to the dresser. “I was just admiring these photos.” He said nothing as Jonathon joined him, but pointed to the hunt image. Go on, he urged Jonathon silently. Tell me you see it too.
The hitch in Jonathon’s breathing was answer enough.
“Gentlemen, if you are done with presenting your evidence, then I really must ask you to leave.” Josh scraped his hand through his hair. “I have quite enough to cope with this afternoon without your amateur imaginings.” He stood to remove his jacket and placed it over the back of the couch. “Really, this heat is intolerable.”
Beside him, Jonathon smiled. “Oh, I don’t think we’re done. In fact, I think we’re only getting started.” He sat down, and Mike joined him. Jonathon flashed him a grin. “You saw it first. Be my guest.”
Mike cleared his throat. “I hear you’ve set your sights on one day becoming prime minister.”
Josh gave another superior eye-roll. “That isn’t exactly a secret. I’ve often spoken of my political ambitions.”
Mike nodded. “Which explains why you paid Naomi Teedle whatever she wanted. It wouldn’t do for it to come out at some point that a prominent politician had an affair with the mayor’s wife—though from what we’ve gleaned, the affair is still ongoing, isn’t it? That was you she was talking to on the phone, the morning after Naomi was killed? ‘Ding, dong, the witch is dead.’ Does that ring a bell?” Mike gave Josh a cool, calm smile. “And think of the scandal if it became known that you’re the father of her child.”
Josh gaped at him. “I’m the—Now you really are indulging in fantasy.”
Jonathon’s eyes blazed. “One—Jason Barton is the spitting image of you when you were younger. And two? I’ll share with you something I learned in school. I always found biology to be a fascinating subject. Genes, chromosomes…. Did you know, for instance, that the probability of two blue-
eyed parents producing a child with green eyes is 1 percent? But if one of the parents has green eyes, that probability rises to 50 percent.” He smiled. “Debra and John Barton both have blue eyes. Jason, however, has beautiful green eyes—just like you.”
Josh gave him an incredulous stare. “One percent… that’s what, one child in one hundred? Those odds aren’t so great when you put it like that.”
This is getting us nowhere. Josh seemed impervious to everything they slung at him. If it wasn’t for every instinct Mike possessed telling him Josh was their man, he’d have succumbed to doubts by now. Then it came to him. Take aim at someone he cares about. If they were correct and the affair was still going on, that was more than seventeen years of secret assignations. Maybe even love. How far would he go to protect her?
Mike smacked himself on the forehead. “Jonathon. Maybe we’re looking at this from the wrong angle. In fact, maybe we’re talking to the wrong person. After all, Debra’s initials were on the blackmail list too. What if she’s the one Naomi was blackmailing? I mean, she wouldn’t want her husband finding out about Jason. And she was seen near the cottage too.”
Josh became very still. “Leave her out of this. She had nothing to do with that woman’s death. The very idea is preposterous.”
Josh’s phone rang, and Mike silently cursed the caller. Talk about bad timing. There had been no mistaking that first genuine flicker of emotion. When Josh’s face lit up in a broad, triumphant smile, Mike’s heart sank. This is not good.
“Thomas. So good to hear from you again. And by the way, excellent timing. I was about to call you.” Another smile, only this one was aimed right at Jonathon. “Ah, I see. Coincidentally, that was exactly what I want to discuss with you.”
Jonathon jerked his head to stare at Mike, his eyes wide. Then it occurred to Mike that silence had fallen. One glance at Josh made it apparent that his call was not going as he’d expected.
“Yes… well, yes, I see what you mean. … Yes, I do understand. … Of course, I know that you can’t. … Surely, there’s someone you can recommend? … I see….” Then his face paled. “I thought as we’re friends, you might. … Oh. … Very well… if you’re sure…. … Thank you. Goodbye.” He disconnected, then sank back against the cushions, staring at the phone screen.
“A word of advice,” Jonathon said quietly. “I’d take my father off speed dial if I were you.”
“Your father and I are friends,” Josh replied stiffly.
Jonathon speared him with an intense look. “And who do you suppose told me to take my evidence to the police?”
Josh stared at him, then drew in a deep breath. “Fine. I might as well tell the truth. She was blackmailing me. And yes, you’re quite right. I am Jason’s father. And this situation might have gone on for years but for a remark she made at your bonfire party.” He sighed. “I got a call from Debra. Apparently Naomi had said something to Jason about how handsome he was—just like his father. Debra knew that remark for what it was—the prelude to another demand for more money. She was warning us. Sooner or later she’d say that and someone might actually pay attention to it. Debra was in a state. I told her not to worry about it, that we’d wait and see what Naomi came up with.”
“And then?” Mike studied Josh carefully.
“The next morning, I went to see Naomi, with the intention of making her a substantial offer that she couldn’t refuse. I wanted to call an end to it. But when I got there… she was lying on the floor, already dead.” Josh’s expression was grave.
“On the floor,” Jonathon repeated deliberately.
“Yes, that’s what I said, on the floor.”
“So what did you do?”
Josh frowned. “Do?”
Mike coughed. “If I found a dead body, I’d notify the police.”
“Perhaps you would,” Josh remarked dryly, “but look at it from my perspective. I was being blackmailed, and the blackmailer was now dead. I did what anyone would have done in those circumstances. I got out of there.”
“I do have one small problem with your version of events.” Jonathon cleared his throat. “As far as I’m aware, dead people tend to stay dead. They don’t suddenly come back to life and slash people with a chopping knife.”
Josh snorted. “What are you talking about?” His earlier tenacity was back in full force.
Jonathon pointed to his forearm, where Mike could make out what looked like a bandage beneath Josh’s shirt. “If she was dead, how did you get that cut?”
Josh glanced at his arm. “This? This is not a cut. I grazed my arm on some rosebushes when I was pruning them. I was doing some clearing up in the garden. Sweeping up leaves, burning them, making the place look tidier.”
Mike might almost have believed him if not for the flicker of fear that crossed his face.
“So you were pruning rose bushes in a T-shirt? In November?” Jonathon smiled. “Let me tell you what I think happened. I think you went there, just like you said, to pay her off. But when you got there, you found she’d been attacked. She was groggy, disorientated…. You helped her into a chair—and then you thought this was too good a chance to miss. You put your hands around her throat and you strangled her. Except she fought back. Not excessively—she was in too bad a state for that—but she reached for the nearest implement she could find and sliced at you with a knife. It probably cut through your coat and shirt, but I’m willing to bet it came into contact with your skin. You probably didn’t even feel it at the time. When you were sure she was dead, you stuffed her mouth full of ginger roots. A nasty touch. And as for you clearing up your garden, I don’t think you were burning leaves that day—I think you were burning your clothes.”
“More fantasy,” Josh said with a sneer.
“Actually, I prefer Jonathon’s version of events,” Mike commented.
“Thankfully the police will want something a little more substantial than his fairy stories.” Josh gave him a superior smile. “They require proof.”
Jonathon gave him a thoughtful look. “But they’ve already got it.” He pointed to Josh’s arm again. “They’re not getting any better, are they? The blisters? In fact, they’re getting worse.”
A little pallor crept over Josh’s face. “How did you—” He snapped his mouth shut.
“But you haven’t been to see a doctor about them because then questions might be asked. You went to the chemist’s and bought a cream instead. I know, because my doctor prescribed one for me, but it was also available over the counter.” Jonathon held up his hand. “Did it look like this when it started out? A few blisters?” His voice took on a kind, soothing tone. “You don’t have a clue, do you? How much of it did you get on your skin? More than the slight brush that I had with the stuff, I’ll bet. You’ll be lucky to keep your arm.”
Josh became so still. “What do you mean?”
“That stuff she was chopping? It’s called hogweed. Last year, a man came into contact with it in his garden and almost lost his leg.”
Mike quickly pulled up the photo he’d saved and showed it to Josh. “Look familiar?”
Josh regarded the stark image with eyes filled with horror. “But… she was cutting that stuff?”
“We have no idea what she intended doing with it.”
Josh’s eyes widened. “I do. I’d called her Saturday night, telling her I was coming to see her, that this had to end. And I… I bluffed. I said I wasn’t the only one with secrets, and I was sure she wouldn’t want hers getting out. It was just a stab in the dark, but I guess I hit home.” He stared at them, aghast. “I turned up earlier than I’d anticipated. That stuff… it was intended for me. She was going to kill me!” His indignant tone would have been amusing in other circumstances.
“That, or blind you,” Jonathon said quietly. “Hogweed sap in the eyes?” He paused. “By the way, where are your gloves?”
“Gloves?” Josh said with a frown, then swallowed. Mike chalked up another direct hit.
Jonathon nodded.
“The leather ones you wear to drive. I noticed them the other day when you stopped me on the road. I imagine they’re in your car. I daresay the police will find them very interesting. Never mind the traces of leather treatment—there could be skin cells, blood…. After all, there was a lot of blood resulting from that head wound, and if you put your hands around her throat, you probably came into contact with some of it.” He glanced at Josh’s hands. “What do you think, Mike? How easy will it be to match up the marks left on Naomi’s skin with those hands?”
Mike turned his head at the sound of a car pulling up outside. He peered through the window and smiled. “I think Josh has more visitors. We might leave such things up to them.” Mike narrowed his gaze. “This isn’t a coincidence, is it? When did you call the police?”
Jonathon smiled. “When I was in the bathroom. I saw the cream I’ve been using on my hand, along with a lot of surgical dressings, and I put two and two together. Especially when I saw the discarded dressings in your bathroom rubbish basket.” He gave a thin smile. “I have similar ones in my trash at home.”
“Hey, nice work,” Mike said approvingly. Then he grimaced. “You looked in his rubbish basket? Ew.”
Jonathon fixed him with a hard stare. “What does that matter? At least I found the evidence.”
“When you’ve quite finished congratulating each other,” Josh said suddenly, “you might like to think about one thing. I haven’t confessed to killing her.”
Mike gave him a pitying glance. “With your DNA on the knife and wherever else it turns up, you won’t need to,” he said quietly. “If you simply walk through a room, you leave your DNA behind you.”
The door opened, and a tall guy in overalls stood there, holding a spanner. “Sorry to disturb you, but there are some coppers ’ere who want to talk to Mr. Brent. I let ’em in. Was that all right?”
