A Village Murder. Frances Evesham
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lulled her into a false sense of security.
The officer took her through the story again, querying every detail. What had she been wearing that day? Where was Greg going? Had they spoken on the telephone?
Imogen tried not to squirm. She’d lied about her argument with Greg. The police couldn’t know that, could they? It was too late to change her story.
She kept the rest of her replies simple, desperate to avoid more gaffes. The last thing she wanted was to be clapped in irons and led to a cell.
The tension mounted. Just as Imogen wondered whether her head would explode, the officer smiled. ‘That’s all I need, for now. If you think of anything else, give me a call.’
Imogen stifled an urge to cry with relief. At least, she was still at liberty. She shivered. That was the only bright side. She must be at the very top of the police list of suspects, and she’d made matters worse by lying.
It took all her strength to make a dignified exit. At least the officers couldn’t hear the thudding in her chest.
Her legs felt far too weak for driving. Maybe she should have taken the liaison officer up on her offer of transport, after all.
She would find somewhere to have a late lunch in town and give her body time to stop shaking.
The weather had suddenly turned unseasonably warm for late April, and Imogen’s suit felt hot and constricting, her heels uncomfortably high. She tottered along the main street, past branches of Marks and Spencer and Boots, turning into the department store on the corner. The air-conditioning cooled her burning cheeks.
As she rode the escalator, her stomach rumbled. She’d be happy to eat sausage and chips. She needed a good dose of fried food this very minute.
Her tray loaded with artery blocking fat, she queued behind a woman bearing chocolate cake, blueberry muffins and a maple pecan slice. Someone needing a sugar rush. At the counter, Imogen ordered a cup of tea, craving a hot, dark brown brew, strong enough to stand a spoon in, as her grandmother used to say.
‘Immy Jones. I don’t believe it.’
Imogen swung round. The woman looked familiar.
Imogen stared, struggling to place her. Middle-aged, like Imogen, she wore an elegant light blue coat with style. Blonde-streaked hair curled around her cheeks. Imogen sucked in her stomach.
The name popped into Imogen’s head. ‘Toni Jackson.’
‘That’s me. How long is it since we bumped into each other? Must be thirty years.’
The boy behind the counter was waiting, hand on hip, foot tapping, for Imogen to pay.
‘Oh, sorry.’ She fumbled in her bag, dragged out her card and swiped it over the machine.
Toni Jackson said, ‘Come and sit with me. I was just about to leave, but it’s been so long since I’ve seen you…’
Hardly knowing whether to be pleased or horrified to meet Toni again after so many years, Imogen followed her across the room to a table overlooking a small park. She wished Toni had chosen a different table. From here, she could see the flat she’d shared with Greg.
Instead, she focused on Toni Jackson. They’d been in the same crowd at school. Never best friends, they’d rubbed along well enough. Toni – Antonia – Jackson had left Camilton to go to university and never returned, so far as Imogen knew. ‘What are you doing here after all these years?’
Toni laughed, the low, gurgling sound Imogen remembered. ‘My parents lived nearby, so I’ve been back a few times for a weekend, but my mother died and now Dad’s got Alzheimer’s. We’re moving him into a care home, nearer to Birmingham.’
Imogen frowned. ‘I remember your mother. She knitted your stripy jumpers. I’m sorry to hear about her – and your father. We’re getting old, aren’t we? My father died a few weeks ago.’ Real tears threatened for the first time since her father’s death. She rubbed at her eyes. ‘I’m sorry. Oh dear.’
She scrabbled for a tissue in her bag, finding only old bills, furious at herself. She’d always been proud of her resilience. When she was little, her mother had called her ‘feisty’ – her father, ‘obstinate’.
Toni offered her a clean tissue, sliding a neat packet from her Mulberry bag. ‘I saw the local news this morning. About your husband’s death at the hotel. It must have been terrible, especially finding him yourself. I’m very sorry.’
Imogen fluttered her fingers, not yet ready to speak, horrified by her loss of control in such a public place.
Toni went on, ‘It must be dreadful for you. Have you come out for a little retail therapy?’
Imogen sniffed. That made her sound like a hard hearted shrew of a wife. Still, better that than admitting she’d been with the police. ‘Greg and I had split up,’ she confessed. ‘But it’s been a shock, all the same.’
‘Well, I know something that might cheer you up.’ Toni took a pair of oblong reading glasses from a small case, settled them on her nose, extracted an envelope from the leather bag and read it aloud. ‘Please come to a reunion of St Alban’s school, class of ‘79. Bring family photos and anyone else who was there. Nisi Dominus Frustra.’ Toni shrugged, ‘Never did know what that Latin motto meant.’
‘It’s from a psalm. Something about not building things without God’s help, I think.’
‘I forgot you did Latin. Helpful for the names of plants, was it?’
Fancy Toni remembering she was going to study horticulture. ‘Slightly.’
‘Well, can you come?’
Imogen leaned across to see the date. ‘I don’t know. It’s rather short notice. And with my father, and Greg…’
‘Well, come if you can. I’m expecting Kate Lyncombe – remember her? And maybe,’ her nose wrinkled, ‘even Steph might make an appearance. It’ll take your mind off – you know – Greg and everything.’ Toni lifted her sleeve to examine a sleek, gold watch. ‘Good Lord, is that the time? I have to go – an appointment with the estate agent. Selling Dad’s house, you see. Those nursing home fees…’
In moments, she was gone, leaving Imogen puzzled. Had that meeting truly been accidental, or had Toni sought her out on purpose to invite her to the reunion?
She sat for a while, remembering her schooldays. Not the happiest time of her life, despite the popular saying. Her father, his business empire already growing fast, had sent her to a small public school full of wealthy girls from the minor aristocracy, with a smattering of doctors and lawyers’ children. Imogen, tall, clever and self-contained, was one of a trio of friends.
For the first time in years, she missed the others – Kate and Steph.
She’d never been close to Toni, so extroverted and confident, wearing all the latest fashions to Queen concerts and Glastonbury, and so full of confidence she’d hardly seemed to study at all for a place at university to study architecture.
After the exams, the small group had split up. They kept clear of each other. None of them had tried to meet – not after that one dreadful night, when their stupid escapade had gone so badly wrong.
Why would they want to meet now?
8
School
Imogen retrieved her car and drove home, almost on automatic pilot. Meeting Toni had set off a series of memories she’d tried to forget.
A single day at school played, like a video, in her head. The sun had shone constantly that May. Imogen and her friends were about to take their A levels, and the weather had been gloriously hot. She’d sunbathed on the grass in the school grounds with Kate, her best friend, a maths student. Kate would be called a geek, these days,