by H. Y. Hanna
Nick chuckled. “Funny you should say that.” He reached across his desk and pulled out a piece of paper from the mess, which he handed to Poppy.
It was a photograph which—from the grainy quality—looked like it had been taken on his phone and then downloaded to his computer and printed out on normal paper. It showed the body of a man, slumped facedown in a flowerbed, with various flower blooms strewn around him. Poppy caught her breath as she realised that the dead man was Pete Sykes. Nick must have somehow taken a photo of the crime scene!
“Does Suzanne know you took this?” asked Poppy, giving him a stern look.
“No. I went over while she was questioning you and snapped the picture when nobody was looking.” He gave her a wicked grin. “Don’t look so horrified, Miss Prim. I’m not planning to sell it to the press or share it with anyone, so I’m not jeopardising the investigation.”
“But… why did you take it?”
“Oh, I had some vague idea that it might help me with my plot problem. See, the killer in my story does something similar: leaves the body with flower blossoms strewn all around it. In his case, of course, they aren’t random—they’re one particular type of flower, chosen to send a message… but the similarities were striking. I thought having an image of it might help me figure out my plot hole… and it worked!” said Nick with elation. “It’s what got me up at 2 a.m.—I’m sure of it. I came back from Oxford and had a late-night drink in my study, and I was staring at the photo just before I went off to bed… and the next thing I knew, I was wide awake in bed with the whole solution laid out beautifully in front of me.”
Poppy looked doubtfully down at the grainy photo. She didn’t see how staring at it could produce so much creative inspiration, but she wasn’t a writer. Their minds obviously worked in very strange ways. Then she had a sudden—creative—idea of her own.
“Um… I don’t suppose that this could be the work of a random serial killer too?” she asked.
Nick shook his head. “I doubt it. In fact, my money is on the murderer being somebody that Pete Sykes knew.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Didn’t you notice the body? There were no signs of a struggle; it looks like Pete Sykes was hit on the head from behind and just crumpled where he stood. So he must have known his attacker well enough to trust them and turn his back on them.”
“Or he never heard them creeping up behind him,” Poppy pointed out.
“Yes, true,” Nick admitted. “Although the property is empty and it’s quiet in the garden next door—it’s hard to imagine how anyone could have approached him without him knowing.”
Poppy thought of when she found the body, when Nick himself had come up soundlessly behind her and scared her half to death. For a crazy moment, she wondered if the crime writer could have something to do with Pete Sykes’s death—he was certainly perfectly placed for it, being right next door to the cottage. He would have known that the garden was empty and neglected, the perfect place to hide a body. Perhaps he had been returning to the scene of the crime and had been shocked to discover her there—
No, that wouldn’t work. He had already known that she was staying at the cottage. She’d taken Oren back to him the night before. In any case, it was ludicrous to think that Nick Forrest could be the murderer. The man was an ex-cop, for goodness’ sake!
Aloud, she said: “The garden is so overgrown, it would be easy for someone to sneak up to him under cover, particularly if they came from the other side of the cottage.”
The thought made her suddenly remember Bertie, who had secret access to the cottage garden through the gap in the wall. Again, she wondered if she should mention him, but she just couldn’t believe that the old inventor could be involved with the murder.
“What is it?” asked Nick, watching her closely. “You’re deep in thought about something.”
Poppy hesitated, then shook her head and pinned a bright smile on her face. “Oh… er… nothing, really. My mind was just wandering.” She drained her mug and walked to the door of the study. “Anyway… thanks so much for the coffee. I’d better let you get ready. You’re leaving soon for your book tour, aren’t you? Well, I’ll see you when you get back. And thanks so much again for letting me stay.”
Nick looked at her silently for a moment, then he said, all traces of humour wiped from his face, “Sykes’s murderer may not have been a serial killer but that doesn’t mean that he isn’t dangerous. If you know something which may be relevant to the investigation, you shouldn’t withhold the information.”
Poppy swallowed, hoping her expression hadn’t changed. “Uh… thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.” Then, as nonchalantly as she could, she turned and walked out of his office.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“I hear you’re Mary Lancaster’s granddaughter.” Tammy, the plump middle-aged receptionist at the tourist information centre, leaned over the counter and eyed Poppy with avid curiosity. “So are you coming to live at Hollyhock Cottage?”
“I… I’m not sure yet.”
“Oh, I hope you do and that you’ll reopen the nursery—it will be wonderful for the village! People used to come from miles around just to see the cottage garden, you know. In fact, I still get tourists stopping in, asking me the way to Hollyhock Cottage gardens, because they’d read about it somewhere or heard a friend recommend it. They’re always so disappointed when they hear that it’s closed.”
“They’d be even more disappointed if they actually saw the garden—it’s a bit of a jungle at the moment,” said Poppy ruefully.
Tammy waved a dismissive hand. “That’s because it’s been neglected for months, while Mary was ill—but it just needs a bit of weeding and trimming, and it’ll be looking beautiful again in no time.” She lowered her voice and added, “It shouldn’t really be so bad, you know; Pete Sykes was supposed to look after it while your grandmother was ill—she paid him well enough!—but that fellow was a lazy sod, if you’ll excuse the language. If your grandmother had known how he was neglecting the place, it would have broken her heart! It was a mercy in the end, really, that she ended her days at the hospice and couldn’t see the state that her beautiful garden had fallen into.”
Poppy was surprised to feel a strong rush of anger and indignation, as if Pete Sykes had wronged her personally. “That’s… that’s terrible!”
The woman nodded in agreement. “I know you’re not meant to speak ill of the dead but that’s the truth. Pete never did an honest day’s work in his life, if he could help it. Always gallivanting off organising his dodgy deals instead.” She glanced around and lowered her voice. “It’s awful to say this but I’m not that surprised that he’s been murdered. I always thought he’d come to no good.”
Poppy remembered the other villagers in the pub expressing similar sentiments. Obviously, Pete Sykes was the main subject of village gossip at the moment! Then, as Tammy shot her a coy look, Poppy discovered something else that was the subject of village gossip:
“I hear that they’ve roped off the cottage as a crime scene and that you’re staying with that author chap next door?” Tammy raised her eyebrows in a suggestive way. “Nice of him to offer you a room… Handsome fellow, isn’t he?”
“Er… I hadn’t really noticed,” said Poppy stiffly. “And he didn’t offer—I mean, it was Inspector Whittaker who suggested it. It was just because Nick—I mean, Mr Forrest—happens to be next door and has a spare room.”
“Mm… yes, very convenient,” said Tammy in a tone that brought colour to Poppy’s cheeks. Before she could reply, however, the other woman continued: “It’s strange seeing a lady inspector, isn’t it? Always feels like a detective ought to be a man, like in the shows on telly. And she’s such a pretty lady too. Don’t seem right to think of her as a detective… They seem very friendly, don’t they? Her and this author chap. Used to see her coming and going in the village a fair bit… She isn’t his girlfriend, is she?”
Bloody hell, is there anything this wo
man doesn’t know?
Poppy hastily tried to change the subject. “Um… by the way, do you know if there’s anywhere in the village which might sell second-hand clothes?”
“Hmm… you mean, like charity shops? No, the best thing would be to pop up to Oxford. There should be several shops there. In fact, come to think of it, I walked past a really nice one in St Michael’s Street, when I was up in Oxford a few nights ago. ‘Preloved Rags’, I think it’s called. Next to the Indian restaurant. It was closed, but I noticed they had some nice stuff in the window display.” Tammy lowered her voice suddenly and added in a conspiratorial manner: “Do you know who I saw sitting in a cosy corner of the Indian restaurant? Jenny Sykes, that’s who!”
Poppy frowned. “Pete Sykes’s wife?”
The other woman nodded excitedly. “Yes, and it wasn’t Pete she was with, I can tell you. Some other chap in a fancy jacket and tie. Had his hands all over her, he did, and Jenny wasn’t doing much to stop him.”
“I heard some of the other villagers say that she might have been having an affair?” said Poppy, thinking again of the gossip she had heard at the pub.
“Oooh, yes, there’s no question about that. Some fellow who works in an office in Oxford, no doubt—you could see that from his fancy suit. Jenny must have met him through work.” Tammy waggled her eyebrows.
“What do you mean?” asked Poppy, puzzled by the woman’s expression.
“Well, Jenny works as a cleaner—she goes into offices in the evenings, after they’re shut. Her fella was probably working late and they got chatting…” Tammy trailed off suggestively.
“Oh, I see.” Then suddenly, Poppy had a thought: “Hang on—when did you say you saw her out having dinner?”
“Three nights ago—”
“The night that Pete got murdered?”
Tammy’s eyes widened. “Oh my goodness, I think it was!”
“And Jenny told the police that she was home all evening,” said Poppy, remembering the interview she’d overheard.
Tammy looked at her suspiciously. “How d’you know that?”
“Er… never mind. Look, Tammy—you need to tell the police what you saw.”
The receptionist shifted uncomfortably. “Well… It’s not as if I saw Jenny at the cottage, though.”
“Yes, but Jenny lied to the police about her alibi and that may be significant.”
“But this just means she has a stronger alibi,” Tammy argued. “’Cos I can say I saw her in Oxford on the night of the murder, not in Bunnington.”
“Yes, but we don’t know when Pete was killed. She could have gone to the cottage later that night and killed him then. The point is, she lied when she told the police that she was home all night.”
The other woman still looked unconvinced. “I wouldn’t like to get her in trouble—”
“If she murdered her husband—”
“Jenny wouldn’t murder anyone!” said Tammy, waving a hand scornfully. “She might be having a bit of a ‘slap ’n’ tickle’ on the side but that’s her private affair. No, I’m not snitching on her and don’t you go telling the police anything either!” she added, giving Poppy a fierce look. “If you do, I’ll deny everything.”
“But—”
“Anyway, if you want someone who’s likely to have killed Pete, you’re better looking at his chum, Boyo.”
“Boyo?”
“That’s what he calls himself. Real name’s Bart Simms. Went to school with Pete. Two of ’em as thick as thieves—literally, if you ask me,” she added with a dark look. “Always up to dodgy deals together.”
“If they’re mates, why would you think—er—Boyo would have murdered Pete?”
“Well, even mates fall out with each other, don’t they? Especially when there’s money involved. Pete was always good at promising things and then not delivering—including his partner’s half of the money from a deal.”
Poppy frowned. “How do you know all this?”
The woman gave her a look and Poppy shook her head ruefully. It had been a stupid question. Of course, the village grapevine. Ten times more powerful than the best police intel.
Still, she was doubtful. “If they’ve been friends since childhood, I can’t see Boyo planning the cold-blooded murder of his—”
“Who said anything about cold-blooded murder?” said Tammy. “Likely as not, it was an accident. The two of ’em got into an argument about the money, Boyo lost his temper—and I’ve seen him do that a few times down at the pub, I can tell you—and he grabs a spade or whatever and whacks Pete on the head. Then, when he realises what he’s done, he panics and runs away.”
“The body was buried,” Poppy pointed out.
“Only shallowly,” said Tammy, surprising Poppy again with the extent of her knowledge.
“Well, you really need to tell this to Inspector Whittaker. At least let the police investigate him. If Boyo is innocent, then it won’t matter—but it’s your duty to pass on this information.”
Tammy shifted uncomfortably. “Well, I… oh, all right… but it’s just rumours, mind. It’s not like I have any facts.” Then she glanced at the timetable pinned to the wall behind her and said quickly, “You’d better run, miss, if you’re going to catch the next bus for Oxford.”
Poppy knew the woman was just trying to get rid of her and put an end to the subject. Still, there was probably no point in her staying and trying to persuade Tammy further—the receptionist would either decide to tell the police or she wouldn’t. In any case, I’ll tell Suzanne myself when I next see her, thought Poppy. She didn’t care if Tammy denied everything. At least the police could start investigating “Boyo” Simms.
She spent most of the trip to Oxford mulling over the mystery of Pete Sykes’s murder. She was so engrossed in her thoughts that she missed the stop in the centre of town and instead rode the bus to the end of its route, pulling into the bus station at Gloucester Green on the west side of the city. Still, Oxford was a fairly small city so it was only a short walk back to the main shopping area in the centre.
She had barely come out of the bus station forecourt and crossed the street, when she noticed a sign saying “LEACH PROPERTIES LTD” above a retail unit with large windows that displayed a series of photographs of flats and houses. The unit was the last one in the row and beyond it was a small area which was being used to store the communal rubbish bins and recycling containers for the whole block. A man was standing by the bins, his shoulders hunched, speaking into his phone.
“…of course not, of course not… that’s why they call it ‘you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours’… Yes, absolutely…it’s just a small thing—all you have to do is express your concerns if they ask… and naturally, I’d make it more than worth your while, Dr Goh… no, no, no one else will know about this…”
The man turned slightly sideways and she caught sight of the jowly face and handlebar moustache. Poppy stopped short: it was her cousin, Hubert Leach. He hadn’t seen her yet and the last thing she wanted was to speak to him. Hastily, she turned around and retraced her steps, giving the block a wide berth and taking an alternative route into the town centre instead.
She found St Michael’s Street fairly easily—a narrow lane leading off the main shopping boulevard that ran through the centre of Oxford—and saw the sign for “Preloved Rags” almost immediately. But it wasn’t the second-hand clothing shop that caught her interest—it was the Indian restaurant next door. Poppy walked slowly over and hovered outside the darkened windows. The place was not open yet and anyway, even if it had been, what could she have done? She could hardly walk in and start questioning the waiters about Jenny Sykes—she didn’t even have a photo of the woman to show them!
Then, as Poppy turned away from the closed restaurant door, her eyes widened as she looked down the lane and saw a woman coming out of a doorway.
It was Jenny Sykes herself.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Pete Sykes’s wife was with another man: a ra
ther short man in his thirties, with a big nose and a thin, almost weasel-like face. He was dressed in a navy suit, with a loud shirt and tie, and was gesticulating and talking in a brash, cocksure manner, obviously enjoying the way the woman next to him was hanging on his every word. They turned away from Poppy and walked arm in arm up the lane, disappearing around the corner at the end, where it joined the main boulevard.
Poppy hesitated for a fraction of a second, then hurried after them. She reached the corner just in time to see them merging with the crowds which were milling down the wide pedestrianised street that was Oxford’s main shopping strip. She followed quickly and trailed them into the Covered Market, one of university city’s most popular tourist attractions. It would have been easy to lose them in the labyrinth of alleyways, but luckily the crowds seemed to be thinner in here, so that it was fairly easy to keep them within sight.
As Poppy followed the couple at a discreet distance, she found herself enjoying the historic feel of the place and the bustling market atmosphere. Used as she was to slick, modern supermarkets, with their plastic-wrapped, manufactured goods, it was almost a novelty to see an old-fashioned butcher, fishmonger, and greengrocer, as well as other traditional shops, like a cobbler and a milliner, all trading as they had done for over two hundred years.
She wondered if Jenny Sykes and her companion were heading for a particular shop but it looked like they were just browsing aimlessly and flirting, as lovers do. At last, they stopped in front of a shop window and stood with their heads together. As surreptitiously as she could, Poppy sauntered over and stood next to them, pretending to admire the items displayed as well.
It was a boutique selling handmade leather creations by local artisans and craftsmen, with several pretty embroidered wallets arranged in a semicircle at the front of the window. Each wallet had a design of dainty, pendulous white flowers on thin stalks, surrounded by long green leaves.
