A Body in the Village Hall by Dee MacDonald (non fiction books to read TXT) 📕

Then, turning to her: ‘I understand from what you’ve been saying to my wife that you think I’m connected to these murders in some way.’

‘Of course not!’ Kate said hastily. ‘I only said—’

‘I know what you said,’ he interrupted. ‘I was listening at the door. You seemed to find my trip to the supermarket of great interest.’

‘No, no, I was only repeating what someone said.’ Kate began to edge her way back towards the door, moving more quickly past a collection of gleaming scalpels.

‘And who might that someone be?’ he asked.

‘I really can’t remember now. I see so many people in the course of the day.’

‘You shouldn’t believe everything you hear,’ he said.

Was it her imagination or did he sound menacing? ‘You’re quite right,’ she said as she got to the door. ‘Thank you for showing me your impressive collection. It’s been most interesting, but I must be on my way now.’

‘Indeed you must,’ he said, locking the door behind him as they emerged into the corridor. ‘You’re a practice nurse so I know you must be a very busy woman.’ He then accompanied her to the front door, looked up at the sky, and said, ‘Looks like rain.’

‘Yes it does,’ she agreed, relieved to be out in the open air. He stood on the step and watched her as she got into her car.

It was with some relief that Kate put the car into gear and drove away. Murderer or not, there was something very unsettling about the man.

When she got home she found a rolled-up newspaper addressed to her. It was a copy of the Cornish Courier, and on page four was an article written by Jordan Jarvis and a not-very-flattering photograph of Kate looking like a startled rabbit caught in the headlights.

‘Nurse Kate Palmer,’ he’d written, ‘was walking along the beach at Lower Tinworthy with her dog when she spied what she thought was a large bundle of something washed up by the tide. This turned out to be the body of Kevin Barry, who was the main suspect in the murder of Mrs Fenella Barker-Jones of Higher Tinworthy. Billy Grey, who recently returned to the village from London, has now admitted to both crimes. Mrs Palmer must wonder why she left city crime behind to seek peaceful retirement in an, until now, sleepy Cornish village.’ It went on to say that Mrs Palmer was a mother and (almost) a grandmother, had seen plenty of knife crime in London and was most interested in getting to the bottom of this particular case. ‘I’m naturally curious,’ she was quoted as saying. Had she said that? Probably. She couldn’t remember.

Kate didn’t know how many people in Tinworthy actually bought the Cornish Courier but was sure it wasn’t too many. She could do without this publicity at the moment.

Twenty-One

After Kate got home and digested Jordan’s article, she decided to do some gardening to distract herself for a while from the murders. It was a beautiful sunny April evening. The front – which overlooked the river and the sea – got more than its share of wind and salt-spray. It had been laid mainly to lawn, bordered with hydrangeas, Sea Breeze and, of course, lavender, all of which were able to withstand the vagaries of the Cornish weather. The grass needed cutting and the borders needed weeding so Kate got to work, happy to be in the fresh air. Although it was warm Kate shivered a little as she recalled Dickie Payne and his creepy medical relics. She was aware that she’d managed to annoy both him and Sandra Miller over the last few days, so she wasn’t doing a brilliant job of playing an undercover super sleuth. And Woody would be annoyed; he’d told her to be careful.

She glanced across the valley at the hill opposite and saw a glint of something in the sun. Kate stood for a moment and stared. There it was again. The reflection of sunshine on glass? Could it be someone using binoculars? It was coming from somewhere above Woody’s house, towards the coastal path. And someone was walking up there. Kate needed to find her own binoculars to see who it could be. She went inside and, after a search, found them in the so-called dining room, under a pile of sheets. But by the time she got outside there was no trace of anyone on the hill opposite. Kate had an uncomfortable feeling that someone had been spying, but decided that her imagination was running away with her and put it to the back of her mind. It could be anyone looking at anything, for goodness’ sake!

It took a couple of hours to cut the grass and weed the front garden before she moved round to the back, which had the hill rising behind it and so got a limited amount of light. There was the garage, full of everything under the sun except a car; a shed crammed full of stuff they hadn’t yet unpacked; a pear tree; a hedge of lavender and, of course, the summerhouse at the top of the slope. There was also one small flowerbed full of weeds and not much else. When they’d arrived Angie had enthusiastically suggested they grow a few vegetables there, but Angie was good on suggestions and not so good on doing anything about them. Kate wondered if she had enough energy left to dig some of it at least.

She’d dug about half of it before she gave up, exhausted, and went indoors to make a cup of tea. Then, looking at the clock, realised it was after six o’clock and she’d done nothing about dinner. Tea be damned, she thought, reaching for the bottle of Merlot. She poured herself a generous glassful and wondered if there might be something in the freezer that would be easy to cook.

Just then the phone rang. It was Angie to say that she and Luke were staying open until seven o’clock and then they were