She’d read the initial pages impatiently at first, not caring about the details of who he’d talked to, and what they’d said, and how he’d pieced it all together with that bit of evidence or this bit of corroboration. What on earth did all that matter?
But then it had started to penetrate into her feverish, frustrated mind, where it was all going. And the conclusions the dead boy was making.
And it had made her heart almost stop in horror.
So when she’d read the final line, that concluded with his stark belief that he knew who had murdered Iris – and named the suspected killer – she knew that she might never be safe, and things could never be the same for her again.
All through the night, she’d lain, shaking and cold on her bed, trying to find a way around things. Time and time again she’d tried to work it all out – following every possible scenario, desperate to find an escape route somewhere.
But with the cold light of day she finally had to admit defeat.
There was only one thing left for her to do if she was going to have any chance at all of having a decent life of her own.
And she was going to do it now.
How Iris would laugh and laugh and laugh if she could see me now. Janet could almost hear it, the mocking, ironic, jeering tone Iris had used whenever Janet had tried to stand up for herself.
But of course, Iris would never laugh again, would she?
At this thought, Janet paused, turned aside, abruptly knelt down and was violently sick into the base of a hawthorn bush.
After that, she felt a little better.
Chapter 30
In spite of everything, Trudy did take that Saturday off, since Dr Ryder wasn’t available that day either, and thoroughly enjoyed her rare day of leisure.
But she wasn’t particularly surprised when her friend and mentor called her Saturday evening and asked her if she’d like to accompany him to church the following morning – at Middle Fenton’s St Swithin’s Church, naturally.
And so it was that Trudy found herself – literally dressed in her Sunday best – at eleven o’clock the next morning, listening to the service with only half an ear, as she gazed curiously around at the congregation.
Trudy quite liked sitting in churches. There was a peace to be had inside them that wasn’t quite matched anywhere else. At school, they’d been taught all the hymns, and she liked singing, although she wasn’t quite sure she had a good voice and was careful to keep her voice down to little more than a whisper.
Beside her, though, Clement Ryder was displaying a very pleasing baritone, and she noticed one or two ladies – presumably unattached – eyeing him with a speculative gleam in their eyes.
The women, Trudy noticed without any real surprise, outnumbered men roughly three to one. There was no sign of Keith Finch, for instance, or Ray Dewberry or Mortimer Crowley, although Trudy supposed, cynically, that Mortimer probably rarely set foot inside a church. But Ronnie Dewberry was present, she noticed, sitting next to Janet Baines, a few pews ahead of them on the other side of the church. Her mother sat on her other side and, to Trudy’s eye, seemed to be a little agitated.
She whispered as much to Clement when, the hymn over, they all sat down again.
Clement glanced across the aisle and saw that Angela Baines was sitting, stiff-backed, and staring resolutely at the pulpit. Both Trudy and Clement saw when Janet Baines reached out and took Ronnie’s hand in her own.
Trudy gave a mental nod. So she was right. She’d always half-believed that there might have been something going on between those two, and now it seemed as if they had finally decided to make it public. And there wasn’t a much more public declaration of their stepping out together than holding hands in church of a Sunday. Already several of the more eagle-eyed worshippers had spotted the telltale gesture, and were casting each other speculative glances.
Beside her daughter, Angela Baines’s lips tightened still further.
Clement found his mind wandering as the vicar’s words washed over him.
After Trudy had told her superior about the real nature of Mortimer Crowley’s parties, he knew that the DI would do his best to track down and interview those who had indulged their appetites for the bohemian lifestyle with the dead girl.
Superintendent Finch, not surprisingly, had been enthusiastic and had called the coroner to thank him. Learning that the dead girl had provided rather exotic favours for any number of unknown men had opened up a whole new field for him – and given him fresh hope of clearing his son’s name.
But would it? As he shifted a little on the uncomfortable, hard wooden pew, Clement felt again a growing sense of dissatisfaction. Unless something broke soon, he was beginning to feel as if they’d have to admit defeat on this one.
The prospect was a depressing one.
In his house, Mortimer Crowley was also feeling vaguely depressed. He was in his bedroom, hurriedly packing two large suitcases and trying to reassure himself that he was merely beating a tactical retreat, not fleeing like a scared little kid.
As he packed, moving rapidly from wardrobe to case and back again, he tried to lighten his gloom. After all, the next few months or so were bound to be much more fun spent in the south of France than in this little rural backwater. He might even move on to Tuscany later, depending on how long he needed to lay low.
Trust that drunken idiot Rhys not to keep his mouth shut. When he’d finally managed to get him on the phone, he’d been appalled to hear the stupid bastard admit that he’d been shooting his mouth off. He’d seemed to think it funny.
But a dead girl was no laughing matter – not when the police were going to be looking at you very closely, anyway. He took a
