Murder Served Cold Read online

  Copyright © 2018 by Paula Williams

  Artwork: Adobe Stock © Dmitry Ersler

  Design: soqoqo

  Editors: Alice Cullerne-Bown

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Crooked Cat Books except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously.

  First Black Line Edition, Crooked Cat Books. 2018

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  and something nice will happen.

  To my Mum, who was responsible for my lifelong love of crime

  fiction by introducing me to Agatha Christie when I was 12.

  This one's for you, Mum. Wish you were here to read it.

  Acknowledgements

  My thanks are due to my family for listening to my ideas and supplying some of their own. In particular to my husband for being on this journey with me and trying not to look too worried when I come up with new and exciting murder methods. Thanks, too, to the readers of my blog at paulawilliamswriter.wordpress.com for sharing my journey towards publication.

  A big 'cheers!' to the landlord and regulars at my local pub for providing me with such a rich source of material (much of which has found its way into this book!) and who bear no resemblance whatsoever to the landlord and regulars of the Winchmoor Arms. (The beer's a lot better for a start!)

  Thanks too, to my fellow authors at Crooked Cat Books who have been so generous in sharing their knowledge with this newbie and to my lovely editor Alice and her patience with All Those Capital Letters that I used with Such Abandon!.

  You have all played a big part in making my dream come true. But the biggest thank you of all has to go to Steph and Laurence at Crooked Cat Books for believing in me and without whom none of this would have happened.

  About the Author

  Paula Williams has been writing since she was old enough to hold a pencil but she's been making up stories since she was old enough to speak, although her early attempts were more of the "It wasn't me, Mum, honest. It was him" genre.

  Her first 'serious' effort was a pageant she wrote at the age of nine to celebrate St George's Day. Not only was she the writer, but producer, set designer and casting director, which was how she came to have the title role. She also bullied and blackmailed her three younger brothers into taking the supporting roles, something they still claim to be traumatised by.

  Many years later, this pageant became the inspiration for her first publishable short story, Angels on Oil Drums, which she sold to the UK magazine Woman's Weekly. Since then she's had over four hundred short stories and serials published in the UK and overseas. She also has a number of novels in large print which are available in libraries.

  With the changing face of the magazine market, Paula now focuses her attention on her first love, crime fiction and is busy planning and writing a whole series of Much Winchmoor mysteries. She is a proud member of both the Crime Writers' Association and the Romantic Novelists' Association. She also writes a monthly column, Ideas Store, for the UK writers' magazine, Writers' Forum and for the last five years has written the pantomime for her local village Theatre Group. She still hasn't run out of things to write about and is waiting for someone to invent the thirty hour day.

  She has two grown up sons, two beautiful daughters-in-law and three gorgeous grandchildren. She lives in Somerset with her husband and a handsome rescue Dalmatian called Duke who is completely bonkers and appears frequently on her blog. (The dog, not the husband!)

  Murder Served Cold

  Chapter One

  It’s not quite true to say that nothing ever happens in the small Somerset village of Much Winchmoor. Back in 1685, the notorious Judge Jeffreys hanged a couple of villagers from the large oak tree that used to stand by the pond, for their part in the Monmouth Rebellion. Their sorry remains were left there as a grim warning to anyone who might be tempted to take up arms against the King.

  It must have worked because no one in the village has taken up arms against the King or anyone else since then. Although, in recent memory, the vicar came pretty close when John Manning’s cows got into the vicarage garden and trampled his prize begonias a week before the village Flower and Produce Show.

  Apart from that, Much Winchmoor was as quiet – and some would say, as dull – as the grave.

  But all that was about to change. Because someone in Much Winchmoor had murder on their mind. One carefully planned, undetectable murder. They spent most of their waking moments thinking about it, planning it, imagining what life would be like before, during and after. Especially after.

  It was a shining beacon of light in a life made dark by constant frustrations and disappointments.

  Murder was easy. Once you’d worked out how to do it. And, more to the point, how to get away with it.

  ***

  You know, once you start thinking about committing murder, it’s kind of hard to stop. And then again, why stop at just the one? I’d start with Ratface, of course. After all, if it wasn’t for him I wouldn’t be in this position. Off men for life and up to my ears in hair spray and perm lotion, with my jaw so firmly clenched, my teeth were in danger of fusing together.

  But Ratface could wait. Elsie Flintlock had just worked her way to the top of my hit list.

  For the last hour and a half, I’d put up with the members of the Much Winchmoor Grumble and Gossip Group picking over my love life (or lack of), my job prospects (or lack of) and my humiliation at being forced to return to live with my parents at the age of twenty-three. But Elsie Flintlock was the straw that had just broken this camel-cum-would-be-serial-killer’s back.

  I stared down at the thin, crêpey neck, stretched invitingly across the basin in front of me. It was so tempting. Just one quick movement. That was all it would take. Of course, I’d have to be careful to make it look like an accident. It was a risk but, I reckoned, one worth taking.

  “Come on, Katie. Stop day dreaming,” Mum called sharply, as if reading my mind. “You haven’t been away so long you’ve forgotten how to shampoo, have you?”

  “And you watch what you’re doing with that water, young lady,” Elsie Flintlock glared up at me, her beady little eyes sharp and challenging, her wet head looking like a gone-to-seed dandelion that had got caught in the rain. “I don’t want water shooting down my neck. Not at my age. I could end up with them new-monials again, and Dr James said they nearly did for me last winter.”

  I shook my head and gave up on my daydreams of an Elsie-free world. “Sorry? You have a new what?”

  “Elsie had a bad bout of pneumonia last winter,” Mum explained.

  “New what?” Elsie cackled, her small, thin body shaking under the protective cape that covered not only her tiny frame but most of the chair as well. “You were miles away then, girlie. Where were you?”

  Would that I were miles away, I wanted to say, but didn’t dare. Not with Mum listening. Would that I were somewhere where people called me Kat, not Katie. Where they treated me like an adult, not a little kid. Where they got the way I dressed and thought it was cool, instead of asking me if I’d taken to wearing my grandad’s cast offs, and what had I been doing to rip my jeans like that? Or wondering what on earth had I been thinking of when I dyed my hair purple, and had I been cutting it with a pair of nail scissors?

  In short, I longed to be anywhere that was not here. In Chez Cheryl. That’s my Mum’s hairdressing salon. Much Winc
hmoor’s ‘top hairdressing establishment’, according to the faded sign on the front gate. It was, in fact, Much Winchmoor’s only hairdressing establishment, and was established in our front room, which caused a bit of a space issue. Which was why, a few years ago, Mum and Dad were as pleased as I was when I moved out – and just about as un-pleased as I was when I had to move back in while I recovered from a temporary financial crisis that was none of my making.

  Before I could think of a suitable reply to Elsie, the front door crashed open and another elderly lady came in. She was tall and thin with a slight stoop and always reminded me of a grey heron. At that moment, a windblown one.

  “My life,” she exclaimed as she closed the door firmly behind her. “It’s blowing a hoo-hah out there. Mind you, if March comes in like a lion, it goes out like a, like a—” She paused, frowned as she trawled her memory banks then shook her head and gave up. The memory banks had obviously been fished dry. “Well, something along those lines,” she muttered.

  “I’ll be right with you, Olive,” Mum called out. “I’m a bit behind this morning. Sandra’s off with her feet again. Take your coat off and sit down.”

  “You’ve got Katie to help you this morning, I see.” Olive Shrewton beamed across at me. “I heard you were back, Katie. Oh dear, my lovely. What’s happened to your hair? Has your mum been experimenting again? Because I have to say—”

  “Katie’s hair is none of my making,” Mum said sharply.

  “Well, never mind,” Olive patted me on the arm. “It will soon grow out. And it’s good to see you back. You see?” She beamed around the room. “You can take the girl out of Much Winchmoor, but you can’t take Much Winchmoor out of the girl.”

  You reckon? I wanted to say. I’d shaken the dust of Much Winchmoor (or Not-Much Winchmoor as I thought of it) off my shoes the day I moved out. Which, as it happened, had been the day John Manning’s cows went on their freedom march down the High Street, so there'd been a bit more than dust on them.

  “Have you seen Will yet?” Olive asked.

  “No. I only got back yesterday.” As if you didn’t know, I could have added, but didn’t. Instead, I focused on testing the temperature of the water.

  “Well, don’t bother going up to see him today,” Olive said. “I’ve just seen him drive off with a trailer full of sheep. On his way to market, I dare say.”

  I had no intention of seeing Will. Today or any other day, if I could avoid it. But I wasn’t going to tell her that.

  “Come on now, Katie, you still haven’t answered my question,” Elsie persisted. “Some folk are saying that fancy boyfriend of yours, the one with the sandy eyelashes and the phoney posh accent, gave you the heave-ho. Is that right? Mind you, I always say, never trust a man with sandy eyelashes.”

  “Let me know if this is too hot, Mrs Flintlock,” If my voice sounded strangled, it was because it was difficult to speak normally through rigidly clenched jaws. “But no, he did not kick me out. I walked out.”

  I could have said I’d walked out because he went off with my best friend, who also happened to be my flatmate, on Valentine’s Day, of all days, just to rub salt into the wound. And I could have added that I’d then been unable to pay the rent, hence the temporary financial crisis that was none of my making. Not only that, but the lowlife took my car, my stash of two pound coins, and my signed photo of David Tennant as Dr Who.

  I could have said that – but I wouldn’t, not in a million years. And certainly not to Much Winchmoor’s gossipmonger-in-chief.

  If spreading gossip was an Olympic sport, Elsie Flintlock would be a quadruple gold medallist. They had no need of super-fast broadband in this village. Elsie and her cronies were quicker than the speed of light.

  “I dare say Will Manning will be pleased to hear that,” Elsie cackled. “Poor lad. I reckon he— ow! That’s really cold. What are you trying to do? I’ll end up with double new-monials at this rate. Here, Cheryl, that daughter of yours is trying to kill me, she is. I’m freezing to death, here.”

  “It’s all right, Elsie. I’ll take over now.” Mum elbowed me away from the basin. She gave me one of her looks. The sort that said, ‘you and I will be having words about this later, young lady,’ and hissed in a low voice, that had Elsie’s ears wiggling like bats’ wings as she strained to hear, “Go and see to Marjorie Hampton. Just take the perm rollers out and rinse off. Do you think you can manage that without drowning the poor soul?”

  “If you’ll come with me, Mrs Hampton,” I said. “I’ll rinse you off. Mum will be with you soon.”

  Marjorie Hampton was a big-boned, awkward woman with a long horsey face and long horsey teeth. She towered above me as she trotted along behind. Her stout brown leather shoes, polished to a mirror shine, were more suited to traversing stony mountain paths than Mum’s front room.

  “It’s Miss Hampton,” she declared in a firm, no-nonsense voice as she took the seat at the other basin. “I was never foolish enough to marry.”

  “They saw her coming and ran a mile, more like it,” Elsie muttered as Mum wrapped her head in a towel and led her away before she could do any more mischief. But, thankfully, Marjorie didn’t hear. Like Elsie, she talked non-stop. But at least, in her case, she wasn’t interested in my love life, or lack of it. In fact, the only thing Marjorie wanted to talk about was Marjorie. Which was fine by me. I was quite happy to let her words wash over me while I unwound the rollers.

  Marjorie was an incomer. A person has to live in Much Winchmoor for at least twenty years before they’re considered part of the village, and she’d moved into the Old Forge at the far end of the High Street less than two years ago. And a terrible mess the previous owners had left it in, apparently. As for what they’d done to the bathroom, that, according to Marjorie, didn’t bear thinking about.

  But incomer or not, in a short time, she’d woven herself into the very fabric of village life. She was president of the Women’s Institute and organiser of the church flower rota (“well, someone has to do it and goodness knows, the vicar’s wife is about as useful as a paper parasol in a thunderstorm”). Not only that, she was chair of the Floral Arts Society (“standards had been allowed to wilt”) and something to do with the Ramblers Association (“it was criminal, the shocking state of public footpaths in and around the village”). There was, it appeared, not a single pie in Much Winchmoor that didn’t have one of Marjorie Hampton’s long, bony fingers planted firmly in the middle of it.

  Conversation with Marjorie was strictly a one-way process. She talked, I listened. Well, sort of. I relaxed a little as I heard, rather than paid attention to, her voice going on and on, while I unwound the rollers from her blue-rinsed hair. According to Mum’s colour chart, the shade was Midnight Hyacinth, but I reckoned the poor woman looked more like a fancy new strain of blue cauliflower than a hyacinth.

  “And so I said to him, ‘I’ll see you there,’” Marjorie’s booming voice droned on. And on. “‘And I’ll want an explanation.’ It’s about time someone around here found the courage to stand up to him. And stand up to him I will. He’ll find, once I’ve got my dander up, I’m not that easy to shake off. The trouble with people in this village, they’re too ready to stand back and let somebody else do the work, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, I suppose,” I replied automatically, while my mind concentrated on what I was going to put on my CV. It was important I got it absolutely right. A job, a decent job, was my ticket out of this madhouse. And I needed that ticket badly, before the people in this village drove me completely bonkers. Or I ended up murdering one of them.

  But how to word it, so it wouldn’t sound as if I’d been fired from my last job? It’s not like I had been, of course. More that I was a victim of the recession, of greedy bankers, of the radio station’s falling ratings. All those things and more, according to Brad, the station manager. And, he’d added, it was hurting him more than it hurt me and someone with my undoubted talent would find another job, no trouble.

  Wh
ich just went to show what he knew. After trying for four weeks to find another post in Bristol, and sinking further and further into debt trying to find two lots of rent on the flat, I’d finally had to admit defeat and come home to Much Winchmoor, where jobs were rarer than hens’ teeth – and just about as appealing. In short, I needed a job, any job, that would earn me some money so that I could stop the bank sending me rude letters and charging me for the privilege, not to mention the exorbitant rate of interest on my overdraft which meant I’d still be paying it off when I was ninety-two.

  “So he said that he was doing his best, and that he’d be advertising for staff as soon as he could get around to it…”

  This time, it was Elsie Flintlock’s voice that caught my attention. I cut across Marjorie’s full-on rant about the disgraceful state of the bridle path up by John Manning’s farm.

  “Excuse me, Elsie,” I called across. “Who—?”

  “It’s Mrs Flintlock, to you.”

  “Sorry. Mrs Flintlock. But did you say someone was looking for staff?” I asked. “Only, as it happens, I’m looking for a job.”

  “You’ve got a job,” Elsie sniffed. “Not that you’re making a very good fist of it.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Elsie,” Olive said. “Katie’s trying hard. She always does.”

  I flashed Olive a grateful smile. “Thanks. But, Mrs Flintlock, who were you talking about? Who’s looking for staff?”

  “Donald Wilson, at the pub. He needs a new barmaid. His wife’s away on a cruise. With her mother. So they say,” Elsie added darkly. “But if you ask me, I reckon she’s left him, and who could blame her? He’s got all the charisma of a wet week in Wigan, has that one. They had the most terrible row, the week before she went, and she called him a useless parasite—”