A Village Murder. Frances Evesham
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whether I knew or not. The receipt was from a jeweller.’ Her laugh rang harshly through the room. ‘Such a cliché. He hadn’t bought jewellery for me for years. We had a huge row and told each other a few home truths. Apparently, I have a few personal faults of my own.’
She gave a wry smile. ‘The next day, we were very polite to each other. I left to start work at Haselbury House, thinking we would both cool off and maybe patch things up, but he disappeared without even the courtesy of a note. When I came home next day, he’d gone, taking very little except his clothes and, as it turned out, our savings. He did love clothes.’ Her smile was wistful. She’d obviously been fond of her husband once. ‘He didn’t, so far as I could see, keep any other reminders of our marriage.’
She rose and stretched. ‘I promised to go the police station to give a statement – a bit more private than having more police in the hotel and I want a solicitor with me.’
‘You don’t need one at this stage.’
‘Still – Greg would insist. He didn’t trust the police.’
The stray dog rushed into the room.
She knelt down to the animal’s level. He licked her face. ‘Aren’t you beautiful?’ she murmured. She grinned up at Adam. ‘I think you’ve made a friend.’
Adam’s head buzzed with questions after Imogen left, but his fingers itched to paint. He’d come to this quiet backwater with its sleepy pub and rural views, planning to run The Plough and spend his leisure time painting. So far, the plan had worked. He relished the late nights of chatter, and didn’t mind early starts, cleaning up after the night before. He had no ties, no wife, no partner, no children. No family at all, just slight regret that love had never blossomed. Or at any rate, had flared up only once, briefly, with a woman who’d used him as a meal ticket before moving on.
He’d never felt bitter. At least Yolanda had granted him a few months of one-sided affection.
He retrieved the last old canvas from under his bed and lugged it down to the sitting room.
Better pick up some more recycled canvases soon.
He loaded his brush with grey paint and smothered the canvas with a wash, sweeping strokes overlaying the uncertain still life underneath, but for once, the magic wouldn’t happen. His mind could not let go. Suspicions, questions, and observations whirled in his brain.
He put down the brush. Who was he trying to fool? He couldn’t ignore a sudden death just across the road.
He cleaned his brushes, packed the tubes of paint in their box and reached for his phone.
James Barton, a forensic medical examiner from Adam’s old days, yawned in Adam’s ear.
Adam winced. ‘It’s Adam Hennessy here. I’ve picked a bad time, by the sound of it. You’re on call?’
‘Twenty-four hours on the trot – but I’m getting to the end of the shift. Don’t expect any sense from me…’ James stopped talking. When he spoke again, there was a note of curiosity in his voice. ‘Haven’t heard from you for a while. Not since… Well, how are you?’
Adam pictured James at home in bed, catching up on sleep, only half awake. ‘Not as tired as you, at least. Busy time?’
James groaned. ‘Two drunk drivers and a battered wife. Nothing unusual. What can I do for you?’
‘It’s personal, James. I was hoping to run some things past you. Face to face if possible?’
‘No problem, if you’ll come here. How about lunch tomorrow? The Slug and whatever-it’s-called?’
‘I’ll be there.’
6
James
The Slug and Lettuce was one of a chain, situated in the middle of Birmingham, in an area Adam knew well. He shot a glance around the bar, automatically checking out the other drinkers. He could relax. No one he knew was in today.
He ordered a soft drink, and chose a table tucked away in reasonable privacy. The dog curled under the table, keeping an eye open for scraps.
‘I thought you were a cat person,’ James dwarfed the room as he burst in, bought a diet coke, scraped back a chair opposite Adam and collapsed into it. ‘Good job they let dogs in here,’ he said, as a young waiter arrived to take their orders.
Adam told the tale of the dog’s arrival. ‘You wouldn’t like to take him on, would you?’
‘Not me. I have enough bother from the kids.’ He jerked his head at the rows of tables. ‘Not quite like the pub you’ve taken over.’
Adam raised his glass. ‘You’ve done your homework. Or the grapevine’s still working. I haven’t seen you since…’
‘Since your retirement do. What a night that was, mate.’ James had stuck with determination to his North London roots and the slang to match, although he’d lived in the West Midlands for over thirty years.
‘Can’t imagine you remember much about it.’
James snorted. ‘True enough. But judging by the headache next morning, it was one of the best.’ They paused as two plates of burgers and chips arrived.
James took a break from dosing his chips with salt and vinegar and smothering the burger with tomato sauce, to peer at Adam through narrowed eyes. ‘You’re looking good, Adam. Retirement suits you. You look twenty years younger, apart from the hair. That’s still on the retreat, I see.’ He slid one hand through his own carefully trimmed salt-and-pepper thatch. ‘Anyway, tell me about your pub.’
‘Sixteenth century, quiet village, not much happening. At least, not until yesterday.’
James’ long, battered face creased in a smile. ‘I smell a mystery. But first, what about you? You disappeared like a puff of wind; you know. Not a word for your mates for a year. We all thought you’d emigrated.’
‘Well, you know how it was…’
‘I remember.’ James paused. ‘Sorry about your cat.’
Adam nodded. That had been the worst part of the whole business. His beloved cat, an ancient tabby, his companion for more than sixteen years, had been the victim of a revenge attack by a gang of Cypriot thugs. Adam found the animal, throat slit, in a pool of blood on his living room carpet.
‘Couldn’t go on living there, so I sold up and bought the pub. No ties, you see. A taste of relaxed village life. Although, after yesterday, I’m not so sure it’s as quiet as I expected.’
‘Intriguing.’ James wrinkled his forehead, black eyebrows aloft. ‘Oh, for the single life with no one to please but yourself. A pub of your own. I can only dream.’
‘And how are the kids?’
‘One word. GCSEs.’ James’ face fell.
‘I’m not sure GCSEs counts as one word. Is it your youngest taking them?’
James raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘And the oldest is doing A levels ready for university so she can cost us a small fortune in handouts…’
‘And Jenny?’
‘Still a nurse manager, full of suggestions for how the government should be running the NHS. So, no change there.’ James swallowed half his pint of Diet Coke in one mouthful. ‘Can’t wait to have a proper drink later. This stuff rots your teeth. Now, let’s get to business. Is it a woman?’
‘When is it ever a woman with me?’
‘Right.’