Hallowdene Page 7

  “They rarely do,” said Peter. “But thanks. I’ll look into it. Daisy, you said?”

  “That’s right,” said Elspeth. “She seemed nice, but she did threaten him openly in public. If nothing else, you might get a few calls about it when people around Hallowdene hear about what’s happened.”

  Peter glanced at the house across the street; saw the curtain fall back into place. “I should think the whole village will know in the next half hour,” he said. He turned at the sound of a car engine starting up. They were getting ready to move the body into the ambulance. “Look, I’d better get on. It’s chaos here.”

  “Well, you did say you were looking for more excitement.”

  Peter laughed. “Yeah, I did, didn’t I?” He paused. “See you for lunch?”

  She hesitated, as if weighing up her options. “I’ve promised Abi… but how about coffee beforehand?”

  “If I can get away,” said Peter, somewhat gruffly. “I’ll call you.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Peter found Daisy easily enough, working the morning shift at the tearooms Elspeth had told him about, no more than ten minutes’ walk into the village from Nicholas Abbott’s cottage.

  The place was bustling, even at this hour. People were hunched quietly over their bacon and eggs, coffee mugs steaming, fortifying themselves for the day ahead. His stomach growled at the rich aroma, and he considered for a moment taking a table and filling up for the day, before dismissing the idea. He’d call at Lenny’s later when he returned to the station, somewhere where he wasn’t expecting one of the potential suspects to serve him his food.

  He’d spoken briefly to the owner of the place, Sally Jameson – who he’d found attending to the customers – and she’d pointed him in Daisy’s direction, the only other waiting staff working that morning.

  Daisy Heddle was a young, pretty woman in her early twenties, with a clear independent streak and a love of pop culture. The latter he deduced from the tattoo of a wide-eyed porg from Star Wars on her upper left arm.

  This morning she looked tired: her eyes were sunken pits, her pupils like pinheads. Her hair, too, was loosely tied back and hadn’t been washed, and she was wearing a bandage around her left hand. A hangover, perhaps? If so, this was going to be a relatively easy interview, followed up with a quick call to the pub she’d been drinking in.

  “Daisy Heddle?” he said, approaching as she refilled a coffee pot by the counter.

  “Yes, that’s me,” she said. Her voice cracked slightly as she spoke, and she cleared her throat.

  “DS Peter Shaw,” he said. He showed her his warrant card, but was careful not to make a show of it. He didn’t want people in the tearoom gossiping. “Can I have a quick word? In private?”

  She frowned, but nodded. “Yes, of course.” She finished refilling the pot and placed it on a hotplate. “We can talk in the office, out the back. We’ll have to keep it quick, though – I’m on shift.”

  She led him through a door into the kitchen area, where a young man in an apron, about Daisy’s age, was standing over a griddle, frying another batch of breakfast. He glanced up inquisitively, catching Daisy’s eye, but she shook her head and he returned to his work without a word. Peter tried to ignore the smell of the sizzling bacon.

  The office was a small side room just off the kitchen and opposite a flight of stairs that he presumed led up to the flat above. The room was barely larger than a store cupboard, with a desk piled high with paperwork and teapots missing their lids. He hoped the place wasn’t about to be audited by HMRC – if this was the state of the accounts, they’d have a hell of a job on their hands.

  Daisy propped herself on the edge of the desk and beckoned for him to take a chair.

  “I’ll stand, thanks. This shouldn’t take long,” he said.

  “What’s it about?”

  “Your name has come up as part of an investigation, that’s all. I’d like to know where you were last night.”

  “Why?” The question was breathless, nervous.

  “As I said, your name has been brought to my attention.” He found himself feeling sorry for the girl. She looked like a deer caught in headlights. She brought her hand up to her face, and he noticed she was shaking. “Are you okay?” he said. “Maybe you should sit down for a moment. I can fetch you a glass of water?”

  She shook her head, forced a smile. “No, thank you. I’m fine. It’s just… I’m a bit tired, that’s all.”

  “Heavy night?”

  “Something like that.”

  “So… your whereabouts between the hours of ten and four last night?” he pressed.

  She hesitated, as if casting her mind back. “I was at home. In my cottage, painting.”

  “Decorating?”

  “No. Watercolours, acrylics… I dabble,” she said, with a shrug. “They have a few of my paintings out there, in the shop. Sally’s always been very kind and supportive.”

  “Was anyone with you?” said Peter.

  “No, I’m afraid not. I was alone all night. I got into the groove, and before I knew it, it was three o’clock in the morning. I had to get up for the breakfast shift this morning. That’s why I’m so knackered.”

  He could tell she wasn’t giving him the full story. The way she kept fidgeting, looking over his shoulder at the door. There was something on her mind, and she couldn’t wait for this to be over and for him to be gone. Perhaps there was more to it than he’d imagined. “So there’s no one who can corroborate your whereabouts?”

  “I’m afraid not,” she said, as if that was an end to the matter. “I’m sorry. I don’t even know what this is about.”

  “How did you hurt your hand?” said Peter. “Looks nasty.”

  She frowned. “Oh, it’s not that bad, really. Can you believe it – I cut myself opening a tin of beans?” She looked down at her bandaged hand, and then curled her fingers up into a fist.

  No, I don’t believe it, thought Peter. Not for a minute.

  “Tell me about Nicholas Abbott,” he said.

  She met his gaze, before her eyes darted off again. “That old git? He’s always in here, making lewd remarks, trying to put his hands where they’re not wanted. An over-privileged fool, is what he is. Thinks he’s entitled to whatever he wants, just because of who his parents were.”

  Present tense. Does she know he’s dead? “He was in here yesterday?”

  Daisy nodded. “Until I threw him out, yeah. Look, are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

  “In a minute. I want to hear more about Nicholas Abbott. You were overheard making threatening remarks.”

  “Threatening…?” She seemed to consider this. “I told him to get his hands off me, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Before you did something you might regret?” finished Peter.

  “Yeah. Maybe. Something like that.” She waved her hand dismissively. “You know how it is in the heat of the moment. You say things you don’t really mean. I was trying to get him to leave. Look, has something happened?”

  Peter considered for a moment, and then decided to see what sort of reaction he’d get. “Nicholas Abbott was murdered last night.”

  “Murdered,” echoed Daisy, her hands going involuntarily to her mouth. “Oh, God. That’s awful!” He let the silence stretch, waiting to see if she’d fill it. She wouldn’t meet his eye. After a moment, she looked up. “What happened?”

  Peter sighed. “I can’t disclose that sort of information,” he said. “You’re sure you didn’t follow up on your threat, go to confront him about what happened in the tearoom? Now would be the time to tell me if something happened.”

  “I… I…” she stammered. She looked as if she were about to reveal something. Then her shoulders dropped and she shook her head. “No. I told you, I was at home, painting until late.”

  “But you did hold a grudge,” said Peter.

  “What? No!” She looked pained. “Well, I suppose a little bit. Wouldn’t you, if someone kept on grabbing
you, making horrible comments about what he wanted to do to you? He followed me home, once, a few months back, and tried to grope me in the street. I fought him off and ran home. You should have heard the things he said to me.”

  Peter had to admit that, in the same position, he would probably hold a grudge, too. “Why didn’t you call the police? Make a complaint against him. We could have helped.”

  She sighed. “It’s par for the course in a waitressing job. Besides, calling the police would hardly be good for business, would it? And I owe Sally so much. I didn’t want that sort of story going round about the place, and Nicholas Abbott wasn’t the type to keep it to himself. If the police issued a restraining order, he’d have blatantly broken it, just to get a rise.”

  “So Sally asked you not to make a fuss?”

  “God, no. She’d never do that. She just… she has a tendency to give people the benefit of the doubt, that’s all. She thought it would all blow over, that he’d realise he was making me uncomfortable and give it up. And besides, she only knows about the stuff that happened in Richmond’s. I’ve never told her about that night he followed me home. I don’t want to make things difficult for her.” She scratched her knee absently. “Of course, that was part of the fun for him, making me squirm. But I tried not to give him the satisfaction. Yesterday… the truth is, I’d just had enough. Lee had been in, shouting the place down, and then all that with Abbott…”

  “Lee Stroud?”

  “Yes, that’s him. Another of Sally’s projects. He’s always in here, going on about how we shouldn’t be disrespecting the legend of the Hallowdene Witch by selling those silly knick-knacks. Yesterday he caused a big argument between Sally and her son, Christian – that was him in the kitchen – and then that dirty old man started touching me, and I just… well, you heard about what happened.”

  “You gave him a piece of your mind.”

  “Exactly,” she nodded. “And then one of the customers helped me to see him off.”

  Elspeth, thought Peter. She’d mentioned that.

  “All right. That’ll be it for now. I may need to talk to you again,” he said.

  Daisy smiled and nodded, but he could tell she was spooked, and it wasn’t just the result of his questioning. Something was definitely going on with her. Something she wasn’t prepared to talk about. He’d come here looking to rule her out of his investigation, and ended up with a potential suspect. What had she really been doing last night? And how had she really hurt her hand?

  “I’ll show you back through to the tearoom,” said Daisy, hopping down from the desk. She smoothed her skirt, took a deep breath, and seemed to paint on a professional cheerful face.

  “Thanks,” he said, “but I can find my way.” He started out of the door, and then turned back, reaching into his jacket pocket. “Here’s my card. If you think of anything that might be useful, or there’s anything you want to tell me, just call me on that number.”

  She took the card and tucked it into the front pocket of her apron. “I will.”

  Peter watched her for a moment, and then turned and left, steeling himself against the lure of a greasy fry-up.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Judging by the look of the place, Elspeth was surprised that Thomas Abbott felt he had anything to complain about.

  The house was almost the size of the manor, nestling in a natural alcove in the woodland and flanked on two sides by extensive farmland. A private lake glistened in the morning sunlight, blue and clear, speckled with an array of white and brown water birds. The house largely comprised tall glass panels fitted over a steel frame, providing what she guessed must be a glorious vista of the local landscape for those within.

  She’d parked down by the lake, in a small car park set aside for local fishermen. The signs warned of penalties for those without a permit. She didn’t have a permit, of course, but nor did she expect anyone ever bothered to check.

  The walk up the long driveway to Thomas Abbott’s house had left her feeling as if she was participating in some bizarre, modern-day version of a Jane Austen drama, trudging up from the village to the big house to take tea with the lord and lady. Only this wasn’t the lord and lady, and this was no light-hearted drama. Thomas Abbott’s cousin had been brutally murdered, and – she had to presume – Thomas Abbott himself was likely to be one of the prime suspects, particularly after making such a fuss about the sale of the manor house.

  She’d thought twice about keeping her appointment this morning, which had been made in haste yesterday afternoon, after her interview with Hugh Walsey. She’d arranged to speak with Thomas about the witch stone, to get a little background on why the Abbott family had always refused to allow any excavation. It might add some interesting flavour to her article – particularly if the Abbotts admitted to what amounted to a superstitious desire to leave the witch’s grave undisturbed.

  She’d briefly considered trying to talk to Nicholas, but after seeing his performance in the tearoom that morning she’d decided to put it off. She certainly hadn’t wanted to find herself alone with the man and his wandering hands. And so she’d looked up Thomas Abbott’s telephone number online, and made the call.

  He had seemed a little reluctant at first, but she’d promised to hear him out about his campaign to buy back the manor, assuring him that she would put his cause across in her article in a fair and neutral way. That had been enough to persuade him, and now here she was, wandering up the block-paved driveway.

  She wondered how Thomas had reacted to the news of his cousin’s death. They’d clearly not been on the best of terms, and now there was no chance of any reparations. Perhaps Thomas would be relieved that it was all over, or even gleeful in his odious cousin’s demise. Or perhaps he’d feel wretched with remorse, wishing he’d taken the time to put things right. She decided not to mention it, as she trudged up to the doorbell and pushed the button. She’d soon know if she was no longer welcome.

  She was surprised when he answered the door almost immediately. He peered out at her for a moment, and then something seemed to click, and he smiled. He was a handsome man, with thinning brown hair swept back from his forehead, blue eyes and a charming smile. He was full in the face, but looked healthy and trim, and was wearing a blue shirt tucked into a pair of what looked to be expensive jeans.

  “Elspeth, I presume?” His voice was low and smooth, his accent public school.

  “Yes, here for our meeting, if that’s still all right?”

  “Of course,” he said, standing to one side so she could enter. “Come on in.”

  She started to kick off her shoes.

  “Oh, don’t worry about that. We’re not precious here.” He ushered her towards the kitchen. “Susan’s just put the kettle on. Tea or coffee?”

  “Coffee, please,” she said, wondering at his cheerful demeanour. Hadn’t he heard about Nicholas? She couldn’t very well be the one to tell him if not. Surely that was better coming from another relation, or the police. She followed him into the kitchen. There was no sign of Susan, presumably his wife, although the kettle was churning away in the background.

  Inside, the house was as polished and modern as it was outside. Sweeping granite worktops, spotlights, gloss cupboard doors, a big American fridge with an ice dispenser… not to mention the dining area, the two sofas and widescreen TV, and the glass wall looking out over the garden, to the woodland beyond.

  “Oh, this is lovely,” she said, walking over to peer out at the view. “My mum’s house backs onto the woods, too. I used to sneak over the wall to play in them as a kid.”

  Thomas came over to join her, laughing. “That’s what I love about being up here. We’ve got all the mod cons, but we’re living next door to that. There’s something about it, isn’t there? That feeling of being close to the wild spaces.”

  “Yes, I think there is,” said Elspeth. She understood exactly what he meant, even if he did sound a little pretentious. It was what she’d missed when she’d been down in London, wh
ere even the parkland was manicured, well tended. Up here, you really felt the changing of the seasons, saw the landscape adapting around you. You felt the passing of time. In the city, it all became a blur, one finite continuum that never really let you stop or pause for breath. She hadn’t thought of it in quite those terms before, but that was the crux of it, right there. It was also what was so tempting about that sort of life, the way you could disappear into it and let yourself be carried along. It was like taking a trip that never ended, so that you never really had to face up to what you’d left behind.

  The kettle clicked.

  “I don’t know where Susan’s got to,” mumbled Thomas, heading over to the kitchen counter. He held up a shiny little capsule. “We’ve got one of those machines, if you’d rather?”

  “No, no. Instant’s fine. Thanks.”

  “Well, don’t let Susan know I gave you instant coffee. I’ll never hear the end of it.” He laughed, spooning granules into a red mug. He poured the water and put the mug on the counter top. “I’ll let you see to your own milk and sugar.”

  “Oh, black’s fine,” said Elspeth. She retrieved the mug and took a grateful sip. Whatever he’d said, it was good instant coffee.

  “So, you’ve got some questions for me?”

  “Yes, for my article. I’m writing a piece about the excavations and the Hallowdene Witch.” She paused. “But first, I have to ask – what’s the attraction of the old manor when you’ve got all of this?”

  Thomas laughed. “I must sound terribly greedy. Look, I never expected to inherit the old house. Not for a minute. But I’d always thought Nicholas and I had an understanding – that whenever the time came to sell up, there’d be no question of it going on the open market.” He looked wistful. “And I suppose it never did. If it had, I might have stood a chance. He just sold it out from under us to that Walsey chap.”

  “Yes, but why do you even want it? I mean, this place is stunning.”

  “I suppose it’s a question of legacy, really. That house has been the seat of our family since it was built, hundreds of years ago. Nicholas knew that. There was even a time when he appreciated it, too. I just want to preserve that legacy. To keep that history alive, I suppose. It doesn’t feel right to think of someone else living in that house, making changes, disregarding everything my family worked for.”