‘Nobody believed it was a stranger homicide. Finding evidence to justify an arrest was a different story.’
‘You must have had your suspicions.’
He’d been scrolling through his emails, scrapping routine messages. The sight of his still-overcrowded inbox made him sigh. ‘Why do people send out so much garbage? Half the stuff I’m copied in on isn’t worth a glance. Talk about information overload.’
They often cried on each other’s shoulder about the time-wasting bureaucracy of the modern police service. But she could spot a diversionary tactic a mile off.
‘Did you have a hunch?’
‘Remember the Gospel according to Ben Kind? Theories are for losers.’
A shrewd blow, if below the belt. She hadn’t just been the late Ben Kind’s sergeant, she’d been his disciple. Ben had taught her more about police work than all the trainers in Hendon put together and, though it had taken her years to admit it, even to herself, her affection for him had teetered on the brink of something more serious. More dangerous. Not long after retiring he’d been killed in an accident, with so many things unspoken between them. She still mourned him, still thought about him now and then. She could still hear the scorn in his voice at team briefings when eager subordinates indulged in fanciful speculation. Like Nick said, theories were for losers.
‘OK, you win.’
He stabbed
‘I’m not long back from Old Sawrey.’
‘So that’s why you disappeared. Off to catch up on the village gossip?’
She shook her head. ‘I just wanted to get a feel of the place before I summoned up the energy to plough through the rest of the files. I see that Bel Jenner and her chef hold the licence of The Heights jointly.’
‘Oliver Cox fell on his feet. The previous chef left soon after old man Jenner died and soon Oliver was giving the widow something to smile about. The restaurant may not be full to bursting every evening, but Bel won’t lose sleep. Her husband left her with a few quid. The business was more like a hobby. Probably still is.’
‘I saw Warren Howe’s daughter.’
‘Last I heard, she was working there as a waitress.’
‘Kept yourself informed about what goes on in the village, then?’
He shrugged. ‘Chris Gleave and I were at school together. He was a couple of years older than me, but we got on all right. We haven’t spoken for ages but we never lost touch completely.’
‘So you knew the man who owned Keepsake Cottage?’
‘He and his wife still live there.’
‘They own a foul-tempered mongrel.’
‘Name of de Quincey.’
‘Yes, it gave the impression it was as high as a kite. What’s wrong with a nice harmless pet called Tabitha or Tom Kitten?’
Nick laughed. ‘Did de Quincey take a piece out of you, by any chance?’
‘No, but it looked as though it would love to. Tell me about Chris Gleave.’
Nick’s eyes flicked back to his screen. More messages had popped up while they had been speaking. ‘Better catch up on the backlog first. Fancy a drink later on?’
‘Sure.’
Marc was going to be late home this evening, which made things easier. He seemed jealous of her friendship with Nick. Yet they never as much as exchanged a peck on the cheek. It wasn’t that sort of relationship.
‘See you in the Shroud, then.’
Half a mile from The Heights, Kirsty stopped at a passing place when she saw a van coming towards her. As it drew near, she recognised it as belonging to Peter Flint. Oh God, there was no escaping him at present. She lowered her head, keeping her eye on the foot pedals, but predictable to a fault, he didn’t drive on past. He stopped when his car was level with hers and wound down his window.
‘Off to work?’
Silly question. She was tempted to say so, just to wipe the cheerful beam from his face. Their relationship was fraught, but she knew he was making an effort and she always found it difficult to be rude
‘That’s right.’
‘I’ve just been talking to Bel. She wants help with that little garden at the back of the restaurant. Moles have been playing havoc with the lawn and she’d like the border replanting. Oliver’s no gardener, so I said I’d ask that brother of yours to lend a hand.’
‘Best of British.’ She couldn’t think of a reply less sarcastic.
‘I know, I know.’ Peter’s sigh was theatrical. ‘Sam doesn’t like knuckling down, he doesn’t seem to understand, this is a service business. The client is king. Or queen, in Bel’s case. But I haven’t given up hope. Deep down, he has a genuine feeling for plants. Like Warren, of course.’
Kirsty gave a brusque nod and Peter seemed to realise that it wouldn’t be tactful to embark on a conversation about her father.
‘Well, must be getting on. Nice to see you. And if you speak to Sam before I catch up with him, you might mention the job for Bel.’
‘I’ll see if he can fit it in his busy schedule.’
He chuckled to show that he saw the funny side of her brother’s idleness and with a wave was gone. Turning into the car park at The Heights, Kirsty spotted Gail Flint’s sporty yellow Toyota. As usual, Gail had parked in a space reserved for the disabled; it was the type of thing the old bag did just for the hell of it.
Gritting her teeth, Kirsty walked into reception. No sign yet of either Arthur the barman or the Croatian kitchen girls. Gail and Bel were chattering away on the sofa where, during opening hours, customers waited while their table was prepared. Two expensively dressed forty-somethings, one blonde, one brunette. Everyone always said Bel was stunning (for her age was Kirsty’s unspoken qualification) but Kirsty suspected she might be putting on a pound or two around her waist. Wishful thinking, probably, but nobody could deny that her nose was too beaky to be remotely beautiful. So was Oliver’s, but somehow it suited him, lent a kind of distinction.
As for Gail, she was fixated on defying the passage of the years. A few weeks ago, Kirsty had overheard her telling Bel that when her divorce finally came through, she’d celebrate by splashing out on more cosmetic surgery. She’d already had a discreet nip and tuck around the jawline and kept harping on about a boob job. Poor flat- chested creature, she could do with one. Now the blonde hair had lengthened overnight and Kirsty was positive she’d invested in extensions. Pity she couldn’t do anything about that letterbox of a mouth. Over the years, Gail had tried her hand at a variety of small enterprises before becoming a supplier of wine. The Heights was her best client, and she and Bel were friends. Gail was scheduled to make one delivery each week, but dropped in every other day. They spent more time yapping about clothes and television than discussing business.
‘Hello, Kirsty, how are things?’
No mistaking the fruity smell on Gail’s breath. Her favourite tipple was gin made from damsons harvested in the Lyth valley. Sweet and strong, no wonder she was having to take care not to mix up her words. An empty glass stood in front of her. Bel, always the goody-goody, was sipping fizzy water.
‘All right, Mrs Flint, how are you?’
‘I told you before, sweetheart, my name’s Gail. None of this Mrs Flint nonsense.’ Gail’s trout-like lips (Kirsty suspected excessive Botox injections) formed a smile. ‘I’m fine, but you do look a little flushed, if you don’t mind me saying so. You’re not working her too hard, Bel?’
As Bel smiled and shook her head, they heard a car pulling up outside. Kirsty caught sight of Oliver through the window, lifting a crate of glasses from the boot of Bel’s gleaming BMW. It always gave her a kick to see him without being seen. She adored his elegance of movement, the movement of his shoulder blades under the thin cotton shirt. He didn’t bother with the gym, but he had as much feline grace as Bel. Even when peeling potatoes or carrots, he seemed incapable of clumsiness. Tall, dark and blue-eyed, in some ways he reminded her of Sam. But her brother’s muscles were running to fat. Too many chip suppers.
Sam had no time for Oliver. He was dead jealous, bound to be, but he loved to wind her up by insisting that
