Murder Served Cold Read online

  “I’ve heard Gerald and his nonsense,” Will said eventually. “But, you know, it wasn’t Marjorie Hampton who killed the farm shop. More the fact that we’re only a thirty-minute drive from the nearest supermarket.”

  “You might not blame her. But perhaps your dad does? Do you think that’s what they rowed about yesterday? As well as the footpath thing?”

  “I shouldn’t think so. He doesn’t seem to give a toss about anything on the farm. Now,” he went on with a false brightness that didn’t fool me for a nanosecond. “There’s bound to be a nice leg of lamb in one of the shop freezers. Do you think your mum and dad would like it?”

  “No, that’s all right. I don’t want you going in there on my account.”

  “I’ve got to do it sometime. In fact, I thought, well, now you’re here, you might…”

  He gripped my hand. His hand felt work-roughened and cool on mine. “Will you come with me, Katie? Please?”

  My heart went out to him and, once again, I cursed myself for staying away from him for so long. “Of course I will. But only if you promise that you and your dad will come and eat it with us,” I said as I followed him out of the house, across the yard and towards the old farm shop.

  He paused at the entrance, took a long steadying breath and pulled a bunch of keys out of his pocket.

  “Yeah, right. You’re on.” He put the key in the lock. “I haven’t had a roast dinner since I don’t know when and I think even Dad might be persuaded. He likes nothing better than a nice roast leg of lamb. It might – hello, what’s been going on here?”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “The door’s already unlocked.” He swore softly. “I didn’t think to check in here. That’s probably as far as the old fool could stagger last night. What’s the betting we find him stretched out in here?”

  We did, indeed, find John Manning stretched out across a couple of chairs just inside the entrance. Sally had put them there for the old folks to have a sit down if the Post Office counter was busy.

  We also found a nice leg or two. But they didn’t belong to any lamb.

  Instead, they were sticking out of one of the freezers, clad in thick grey tights and wearing what my mum would have called a good, sensible pair of brown leather, lace up shoes.

  Chapter Five

  “Wh-what’s-the-matter?” John Manning struggled to his feet and shambled towards us, his eyes bloodshot, his breath more toxic than anything that ever wafted out of his farmyard. “Can’t a fellow have a kip in peace now?”

  “Is this your idea of a sick joke, Dad?” Will asked, pointing across the room to the open freezer.

  “A joke?” I let go Will’s hand, which until then I’d been holding so tightly it had probably left nail imprints. A joke. Of course. It was a joke. Stupid of me to have been so freaked out. It was just a sick joke.

  “Look, Mr Manning,” I laughed, light-headed with relief as I walked towards the open freezer. “Someone’s stuck a pair of dummy’s legs in here and for a moment, I thought—”

  “Katie. No.” Will pulled me back but it was too late.

  I’d got close enough to see that the legs in the sensible, but surprisingly muddy, shoes didn’t belong to a dummy, but to a woman with a good, tight, perm and a Midnight Hyacinth rinse. Only there wasn’t much left of Mum’s handiwork. Just this sickening mess where the back of poor Marjorie Hampton’s head should have been. But wasn’t.

  Will’s arm was around my shoulders, pressing me into his chest and holding me so tight I could hardly breathe. Somewhere, someone was making a low, moaning noise. It took me several seconds to realise it was me.

  I looked up at Will. His face was the colour of Mum’s gloopy grey breakfast as he stared at his dad. “Dad,” he said, his voice urgent. “Dad.”

  John Manning didn’t move. He stood rigid, staring at the freezer. Jaw slack. Eyes wild. Uncomprehending.

  “What the hell have you done, Dad?” Will asked in a hoarse whisper.

  John Manning dragged his horrified gaze away from the freezer. He looked at Will, then back at the body. Bewilderment changed to fury. “Hell’s teeth, boy! You think I did that?”

  “Then what’s she doing here? I know she came to see you yesterday afternoon. You told me the two of you had had a blazing row. Something about footpaths?”

  “Interfering old baggage,” John snapped, the colour coming back into his face. “Going on about what a terrible state it was in. Said it was a disgrace, and, and so was I. Told me I should pull myself together. That Sally would be ashamed of me.”

  “She’s not wrong there,” Will growled.

  John grunted and kicked at the floor with the toe of his scuffed boot. “That’s as maybe. But it’s not her place to go sticking her oar in. So I told her to clear off and mind her own damn business. And, furthermore, I said when she made as if to start on at me again, if I caught her on my land again, I’d get my shotgun—”

  “Dad.” There was a warning note in Will’s voice. “Look, let’s get out of here. We need to call the police.”

  John moved as if he was sleepwalking and blundered into the wall. Will took his arm and guided him out of the building. As we reached the door, I looked back, my attention caught by something behind the chairs where John had been sleeping.

  It was a shotgun.

  “Will?” I said softly. “I think you should see this.”

  But he was concentrating on steering his father through the door and didn’t hear me.

  “Come on, Katie,” he called. “I need to get this door locked. Right now.”

  It couldn’t mean anything, could it? Just a coincidence. Probably where John kept his gun. That was all. Without looking back, I followed Will and John into the yard where the steady rain came as a welcome sign of normality.

  “Come on. Let’s go in to the house. I’m going to ring the police,” Will said. “And when they get here, Dad, don’t you dare say anything about threatening her with a shotgun, otherwise they’ll think you did it.”

  Especially as it’s one of the first things they’ll find. I thought. After the body, that is.

  I should have told Will about the shotgun. Of course I should. But I couldn’t bear the thought of going back in there again. Besides, it meant nothing.

  John and I watched in silence as Will locked the farm shop door. He went into the house but John made no attempt to follow him. He stood in the middle of the wet yard, as the rain trickled, unheeded, down his face.

  “Come on, Mr Manning,” I said quietly. “Let’s get out of the rain, shall we?”

  But he didn’t appear to have heard me. Least of all registered the fact that it was raining.

  “Of course I didn’t do it,” he suddenly roared after Will, who was by then already in the house and couldn’t possibly have heard him. Then he turned to me, his anger spent, his voice heavy with despair. “How do you like that, Katie? My own son, thinking I could do something like that.”

  “Of course he doesn’t.” My voice was soothing, as if I was talking to a fretful child. “He’s just telling you to be careful what you say to the police. Well, to anyone. That’s all. Now, come on. Let’s go in, shall we? We’re both getting soaked.”

  But he was beyond caring about the weather. “But it’s the truth. Marjorie Hampton and I had words. I’ve just said that, didn’t I? And I was angry with her. As I had every right to be. But I didn’t,” he shook his head, as if, like me, he too had that horrific image indelibly printed on his mind and couldn’t shut it out. “I didn’t do that terrible thing to her. I swear to God I didn’t. I told her to get the hell off my land and she did just that.”

  “What time was that?” I asked.

  “What?” He looked at me as if I’d just asked him to prove Einstein’s theory of relativity.

  “Do you happen to know what time she left here?” I said. “Only it might be important. And the police are sure to ask you.”

  “No, of course I don’t know what the bloody time w
as,” he said sharply, then checked himself. “Hey, yes, wait a minute. I do, as it happens. While we were stood there, we heard the kids coming out of the school. You know what a noise they make. In fact, the old baggage had a grumble about that too. You know how she goes on. ‘Young people today,’ and all that. So that must have been half past three, or so. Isn’t that the time they come out?”

  “The police are on the way,” Will said, coming back into the yard. “They say not to touch anything or talk to anyone until they get here. Come on, let’s go indoors and wait. We’ll have a cup of coffee and you can get out of those wet clothes, Dad.”

  “Will, your dad says Marjorie left here about half past three because she commented on the noise the children made when they came out of school,” I said as John and I followed him into the house and back into the cheerless kitchen. John shooed a cat off a chair and sat down heavily.

  “And you’re sure about that, Dad, are you?” Will asked. “You’re sure you stood there at half past three and watched her walk away?”

  “Well, no. I didn’t exactly stand and watch her. I—” John smoothed a hand across his head, his wet, thinning hair sticking to his skull like a sleek grey cap. “To be honest, I don’t rightly recall. It’s all a bit of a blur after that. I’m pretty sure I went into the house. Yes, I must have done because I was there when you came in, Will, wasn’t I? I had this bottle of whisky, you see, and...”

  “And everything else is a blur, as you said.” Will finished as John’s voice trailed away. “Well, the police are going to really love that story, aren’t they? Are you sure you didn’t go in the farm shop yesterday afternoon?”

  “What about that, Katie? My own son, thinking I could do something like that.” John shook his head. His anger died abruptly and he sort of shrivelled, like a leaking balloon. With a pleading look in his eyes, he added, “I suppose she is dead, isn’t she? I mean, shouldn’t we have tried the kiss of life or something?”

  “No. No. There was nothing we could have done.” I closed my eyes in a futile attempt to shut out the image that would surely haunt me for the rest of my life. I was no first aider but I didn’t need to be, to know that Marjorie Hampton was dead. Very dead.

  “We should have covered her up.” John took a grubby towel from the rail on the range cooker and made for the door.

  “Where are you going?” Will asked.

  “To put this over her,” John said in a dazed voice. “She wouldn’t want people to see her like that, would she?”

  I touched his arm and took the towel from him. “I don’t think it makes any difference to her now, Mr Manning,” I said gently. “Now, come and sit down while Will and I get this coffee sorted. Ok?”

  But, of course, it wasn’t ok. And, just at that moment, I had the feeling that things would never be ok ever again.

  Chapter Six

  The last time I’d seen so many police together at any one time had been the Glastonbury Festival. Only this was no noisy, fun-filled, up to your knees in mud weekend. No ‘nice juicy murder’ either, I thought with a stab of guilt as I remembered what I’d so stupidly wished for earlier. Murder wasn’t nice. Or juicy. Nor some entertaining, intellectual puzzle to while away a couple of hours in front of the television.

  Murder was shocking. Disorientating. Messy. It was sordid, degrading and deeply, deeply scary. It took your lovely joined-up world and shattered it into millions of tiny, disconnected fragments. And nothing would ever be the same again.

  I was alone as I sat in the wreckage of Sally’s once-lovely kitchen, no longer noticing the messy table or the mountain of unwashed crockery in the sink. John and Will had gone outside when the first of the police cars arrived but I’d chosen to stay inside. To be honest, I couldn’t bear the thought of being asked to show them exactly where we’d found poor Marjorie. My stomach churned at the thought of ever stepping into the old farm shop again.

  I wish I could say I spent the time clearing up the kitchen, not wanting anyone else to see the sorry state Will and his dad were living in. But I didn’t. Instead, I sat at the table, surrounded by mouldy cheese and the remains of last night’s curry, and tried to get my head around it all. What was I going to say when they asked me for a statement? I’d always thought I would make a good witness. But my mind had gone blank. Everything was all jumbled up and nothing made sense any more.

  I jumped, startled by a tap on the door. My heart lurched as a policeman walked in. I got up, wanting to turn around and run. Only he stood between me and the door.

  “Katie? It is Katie Latcham, isn’t it? I heard you were back. When Will said you were in here, I offered to take a preliminary statement from you. Thought a friendly face might help.”

  “Sorry?” A friendly face? That was the last thing I was expecting to hear. He looked kind of familiar, but I couldn’t place him.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?” he said with a smile as he removed his cap. “Ben.”

  “Ben Newton!” We were in the same year at school and there was a very good reason I hadn’t recognised him. Apart from the obvious one, of course, of my brain being totally frazzled.

  When Ben Newton was at school, he was a tall, weedy-looking kid with heavy framed glasses. He had a severe crush on my friend Jules which, unfortunately for Ben, was not reciprocated. She used to call him Nerdy Newton. But, holy moley, he was anything but nerdy now. He had filled out in all the right places. And then some. Even in my current state I could register that fact.

  “This is a bad business,” he said. “I understand you found the body, is that right?”

  “Marjorie.” My stomach did its usual backward flip at the memory. “Her name is Marjorie Hampton. She lived in the village. The Old Forge. It’s at the end of the High Street, just opposite the pond. I – I only saw her yesterday morning. She – she was having her hair done.”

  “What time was that?” He sat down at the table opposite me. Although his face was expressionless as he moved the mouldy cheese and other detritus to one side to make room for his notebook, it seemed to me that there was an element of criticism in the movement. I’m sure it was all in my head but I glared at him, as defensive as a tigress with cubs. So the place was a tip, but that wasn’t Will’s fault. And I was furious with myself for having sat there like a piece of wood for the last ten minutes or so, when I could at least have cleared the table.

  ‘How can the time of her hair appointment have a bearing on anything?’ I snapped as I jumped up and threw the mouldy bread into the bulging bin.

  ‘Leave that for a moment, Katie, will you?” he said. “I meant, what time did you find the body?”

  “How on earth would I know?” I was flustered, upset and, in my anxiety to hide the wobble, my voice was sharper than I’d intended. “I had other things on my mind, rather than doing a time check.” Like trying to keep the contents of my stomach in place, for a start.

  “I’m sorry but I have to ask these questions,” he said quietly as he stood up. “But if it would be easier for you to be interviewed by a stranger, I understand.”

  “No. No. Of course it wouldn’t. Sit down. Please, Ben?” I gave him an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry I barked at you like that. I’m – it’s all a bit of a shock. That’s all. I’ve been sitting here trying to get my head around it. What did you want to know? Ask away.”

  “I asked what time you discovered the body. Roughly.”

  “I suppose it must have been some time after nine. Not long after, though, because when I went past the school on my way up here, the children were still in morning assembly. Then Will and I had a coffee, so it was probably about 9.45. Any rate, you should be able to tell because Will phoned you within minutes of us finding the – finding poor Marjorie.” I felt my stomach begin to heave again and clapped my hand to my mouth.

  “Are you ok?’ he asked.

  I nodded. “Oh God, Ben. She was – she was stuffed half in, half out of a freezer. Will tried to stop me from seeing her. But it was too late. Her p
oor head. It was—”

  “It’s ok. I don’t need you to describe what you saw.”

  That was a relief. Because I couldn’t have. I gave a weak, grateful smile, then asked, “Who could have done such a terrible thing?”

  “That’s what we intend to find out.”

  “Where is Will?” I asked.

  “Giving a statement to one of my colleagues.”

  “And Will’s dad?”

  “John Manning is talking to another colleague.” He looked closely at me, his eyes kind and concerned. “Are you ok to continue?”

  “Yes. I’m fine.” It was a complete lie. I was anything but fine. But, right then, I just wanted to get all the questions over and done with. So that I could get on and do something that didn’t involve thinking. Something like clearing up the kitchen.

  “You say you were with Will. What were you doing in the building?”

  I didn’t think he needed to know that Will had asked me to go with him, as he hadn’t been able to bring himself to go in the old farm shop ever since his mum had died. Besides, that wasn’t my story to tell.

  “It’s the old farm shop,” I said. “Will said for me to go and choose a nice leg of lamb for my parents. He said that there were still some left in the freezers from when his mum ran the shop. She died, you know. About four months ago. And Will and his dad gave up on the shop.”

  He nodded, wrote something in his notebook and went on: “And what happened when you went into the building?”

  “That was when we found – we found…”

  He paused in his note taking. “When you discovered the body.”

  I nodded.

  Then came the question I’d been dreading. “And Mr John Manning? Where was he? Did he come in to the building with you?”

  “No. He – he was already there.” I said slowly. Reluctantly. But knowing I’d probably make things even worse by lying.