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

Kate headed for the filing cabinets. G for Grey; not Billy, not Maureen. Ah, Janet Grey, aged seventy-two, who lived at Highfield Cottage, Higher Tinworthy. That would be her.

Mission successful. Kate closed the drawer, scribbled the address on a scrap of paper and waved to Denise, giving her a thumbs up, on the way out. ‘Saw the article in the Courier,’ Denise yelled. ‘Not a very flattering photo though!’

Kate nodded, cursed Jordan and the photo, then got into her car and headed up to Higher Tinworthy, passing Pendorian Manor, the Paynes’ and The Atlantic Hotel, as well as all the other smart addresses, before the road dipped down to where there was a straggling row of smaller houses.

Highfield Cottage was at the far end of the lane. It was tiny, painted white at some time in the distant past, with windows that had once been painted red, most of which had now peeled off. The front garden was neat and tidy though and half of it had been dug into a vegetable patch. Mrs Grey obviously preferred gardening to painting.

Kate took a deep breath and knocked on the door, praying that the woman would be in. A few moments later the door was opened by a small, stout woman with short grey hair, clad in tracksuit bottoms and a blue fleece top.

‘Mrs Grey?’

‘Who’s askin’?’

‘Um, well, I’m Kate Palmer and I’m a nurse at the medical centre.’

‘I seen your photo in the paper. So what do you want?’

‘Well, I’m here about Maureen––’

‘Maureen! Nothing but trouble, that one! What’s she done now?’

‘She’s disappeared, I’m afraid.’ Kate looked around. ‘Do you think I could come in?’

Mrs Grey sniffed and stood aside. ‘You’d better, I suppose. Don’t want her next door hearing every word, nosy old cow.’

Kate stepped into a hallway with a violently patterned carpet in reds and browns, while Mrs Grey closed the outside door and then ushered her into a tiny lounge with a different – but even more violently patterned – carpet in orange and black. There was flower-sprigged wallpaper and every surface was covered with china ladies, dogs and cats, glass birds, and half a dozen or so vases containing dusty plastic flowers.

‘Sit down then,’ said Mrs Grey, indicating one of the upright chintz-covered armchairs.

Kate wondered if she dared sit down without knocking some knickknack flying. She seated herself carefully and Mrs Grey sat down opposite her under a picture of a green Chinese lady.

‘My Billy’s in prison,’ she said, ‘thanks to that wife of his.’

‘I’m not convinced that either Billy or Maureen had anything to do with these murders,’ Kate said. ‘And I’ve become fond of Maureen.’

‘Huh!’ said Mrs Grey. ‘No accounting for taste. She went funny after Lucy got killed and she’s still funny if you ask me. She spent time in Bodmin, you know. Went for my Billy with a bread knife, she did.’

‘Yes, but that was immediately after the tragedy when she was under unbearable stress. Anyway, Mrs Grey, I want to find Maureen. She left sometime last night apparently.’

‘Guilty, that’s why. And she’s left poor Billy to swing for her.’ She dabbed her eyes with a rose-embroidered handkerchief.

‘Well, my guess is that she’s gone up to London to see the woman Billy’s been living with,’ Kate said. ‘But I may be wrong.’

Mrs Grey’s eyes widened. ‘Why on God’s earth would she do that?’

‘Because she was particularly interested in the little girl.’

‘Oh my God!’ Mrs Grey clutched her throat in horror. ‘She’s most likely planning to kill her too! Oh no! I should call the police right now!’

Kate held up her hand. ‘Don’t do that, Mrs Grey, please. Let me go up there and bring Maureen back, and see if I can find some sort of proof to show that Billy didn’t do this. I’m almost as keen as you are to see him set free.’

Mrs Grey stared at her while she digested this. ‘Why? What’s it to you?’

‘Because I’m sure your son didn’t do it and, in that case, the real murderer is still out there.’ And I have proof, Kate thought. The note was safely in her shoulder bag.

‘So,’ she continued, ‘what I really want is the address of Billy’s lady in London.’

‘The police could give you that,’ Mrs Grey said with a snort, ‘cos they’ve been round there a few times pokin’ about and askin’ questions.’

Kate decided to be honest. ‘Two things,’ she said, ‘the first one being that I don’t think the police would give me the address and, secondly, I don’t want them to know where I’m going in case they go crashing in there first to see what’s going on. The police do a lot of questioning; they like facts. They don’t chat and get to know people, but I do. First and foremost, I need to find Maureen and then I need to see if I can find some sort of proof to get Billy off the hook. I don’t know your son, Mrs Grey, but I don’t think he’s guilty.’

Mrs Grey sighed. ‘They were courtin’ in school, you know, Billy and Mo. Pretty little thing she was but she’s let herself go since Lucy… And she blamed Billy, see? All because Billy sent her down to the letter box to post his football pool. No one was to know that Kevin Barry would come crashing along on the wrong side of the road.’

‘Mrs Grey,’ Kate said gently, leaning forward, ‘we are both mothers and God only knows how it would affect us to lose a child. It must be almost as bad to lose a grandchild, and I imagine all of you must have been beside yourselves with grief. But some of us are stronger mentally than others, aren’t we? And tragedy affects us all differently. I can see you’re a strong person, and so I expect Billy is too. But Maureen isn’t. She can’t help that – she just isn’t. And, with such unbearable grief, she reacted violently because she had to blame