A Fatal Affair by Faith Martin (top e book reader TXT) 📕

‘I’ll be glad when we get the village back to ourselves,’ the red-faced man said, casting the gaggle of noisy reporters a jaundiced glance as he did so. ‘Muck-rakers the lot of ’em,’ he added under his breath.

The older man swallowed a morsel of Red Leicester and nodded. ‘It’ll die down once the coppers pull their fingers out and close the case, you’ll see,’ he remarked.

‘Do you think that’s likely to be soon?’ his companion wondered aloud.

Trudy and Clement, both ear-wigging without a qualm, kept very quiet as they listened to the talk behind them.

The older man sighed. ‘Hope so. I think they’ll decide that that boy Finch did it, and close the case. Stands to reason, don’t it? Who else would have killed Iris?’

His friend was silent for a moment, then said slowly, ‘Not sure that I agree with you there, Charles.’

‘When pretty girls end up strangled, mark my words, it’s usually the man in their lives that did it,’ came back the response. His voice was somewhat world-weary, and he gave a heavy sigh. ‘Least ways, that’s how it often pans out.’

‘Ah, yes,’ his younger companion said, ‘but that’s just what I’m not sure about, see? Iris was a lovely young girl, wasn’t she? And everybody knows that that boy she was gadding about wasn’t the only fish she had on her hook.’

By now, Trudy hardly dared swallow any of her drink for fear of missing a stray word.

‘Oh, she was a flirt, I’ll give you that,’ came the response. ‘Especially when it came to men old enough to be her father! Little minx, I think she liked to tease them and get them all aflutter. But that doesn’t necessarily mean anything, no matter what the women in this place want to believe. And why shouldn’t a young beauty like Iris flirt, hmm?’ the older man said, his voice now having more of a smile in it. ‘Nothing wrong with a pretty girl flirting. It’s only natural. Besides, it peps everyone up, and no harm done.’

‘That’s all very well if that’s all it was,’ the red-faced man muttered, his voice lowering. Although she couldn’t see him (since, no matter what the Sarge said, she couldn’t develop eyes in the back of her head!) Trudy could imagine him casting a quick, anxious look at the reporters at the bar. ‘I keep hearing it was more than that.’

‘Who from?’ the older man snorted, making Clement wonder if the dead May Queen hadn’t done a bit of flirting with the man now doing the talking. ‘The women around here were all jealous of her, you know that. She was young and pretty and going places, and they were all eaten up with jealousy, the old biddies. Just because she had her sights set on getting out of the village and getting on in life.’

Clement smiled into his beer. Oh yes, definitely, the old boy had to have been one of Iris’s conquests.

‘Oh, I know all that,’ the red-faced man said, maybe a shade impatiently. ‘But you can’t deny she was always causing trouble. I have it on good authority that the Finch boy had a big falling out with his best friend over her not long before they found her at the maypole.’

‘Best friend? Oh you mean Ronnie Dewbury?

‘Ssshhhh,’ the younger of the men hissed. ‘Don’t want big ears overhearing us.’

Trudy had a nasty moment at that, thinking that she and Dr Ryder had been caught out. Then she wilted in relief as the villager carried on smoothly, ‘Those bloody reporters will twist whatever you say, and before you know it, you’ll be seeing your name appearing in tomorrow’s papers as some sort of “source”. Bloody vultures, the lot of ’em.’

At this Dr Ryder grinned openly. He knew – of course – that most members of Trudy’s profession referred to himself as ‘the old vulture’ so it was nice to know he had company! Although, come to think of it, being grouped with members of the press was probably a worse insult.

‘Oh, they’re all too busy drinking and boasting of past sexual conquests to hear us,’ the older man said disgustedly, but not before lowering his tone a little – luckily, not so low that Trudy and Clement still couldn’t hear him.

‘I suppose so,’ his friend conceded grudgingly. ‘But still, it pays to be careful. Anyway, let’s talk about something more cheerful.’ And then, maddeningly, he started to talk about his companion’s success with the fly rod, and Trudy had to listen to a boring treatise on the merits of a ledger over a float when it came to catching chub.

By tacit consent, she and Clement finished their lunch without more ado, and left about twenty minutes later, again sticking to the shadows and keeping their faces averted from the men at the bar.

‘Do you think it’s true?’ Trudy asked, once they were outside. ‘About David Finch having a fallout with his friend Ronnie? Over Iris?’

‘It’s possible,’ Clement said. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything about it at the station?’

‘Not really, the DI and the Sarge are careful to keep things under wraps. There’s a lot of interest in the May Queen murder, and they don’t want anything leaking out to the newspapers,’ she said regretfully.

They were both too intent on talking to notice the man in the car park. He’d just pulled into the pub grounds and had been about to climb out of his car when he spotted the familiar figures of WPC Trudy Loveday and the city coroner emerging from under the hanging baskets.

Hastily he hunkered back down a little behind the steering wheel, his handsome face slowly creasing into a smile.

So, Trudy and that bloody interfering coroner were sniffing around were they? Now that was interesting, Duncan Gillingham thought, his smile turning into a wolfish grin. Very interesting indeed – for where this particular duo showed their faces, news had a habit of following.

He watched them walk off down the village street,