Lost Souls by Jenny O'Brien (android e book reader txt) 📕

‘That’s easily done. She’s bound to have her details in that little red Radley address book she always kept in her handbag.’ Doreen met Owen’s gaze. ‘She had a thing about Radley handbags.’

‘So, basically what you’re all saying,’ Marie said, tapping away on her handheld, ‘is that, in addition to Mrs Matthews’ disappearance, there’s an eclectic mix of potentially valuable antiques missing that no one, apart from her close friends, would necessarily have noticed unless they’d been itemised individually on her contents insurance?’ She waved her hand towards the large, flat-screen TV and the top-of-the-range sound system.

‘That’s about it and as she didn’t have any family, no one but us would have noticed,’ Mildred said, rejoining the conversation, her narrow eyes sparkling but without a glimmer of compassion or kindness in their depths.

Owen ran his hand across his beard, disgusted with both her behaviour and how he was letting her get to him, but he only had himself to blame. No. His hand paused as he remembered that it had been originally Diane’s idea. If he hadn’t worked with her earlier, he’d never have had the insight to arrange to meet up with the trio of supposed best friends.

‘While you’re here, can you tell me a little more about your friend so that we can get a better picture of the type of person she is? Is it correct that she used to run a shop in Llandudno?’

‘Yes. Indeed. Bonbons, one of those old-fashioned sweetshops with everything stored away in those huge glass jars. It was situated next to Marie et Cie, which has also long since gone, more’s the pity – used to buy all my children’s clothes there,’ Mildred said, again taking hold of the reins of the conversation and running with them. ‘I don’t know how she used to cope with all those horrible, sticky children fingering the shelves.’

‘Actually I was born and bred in Llandudno,’ Owen said, his brief smile confined to his lips. ‘I remember it well. I used to be one of those – how did you put it – horrible, sticky children? Although now I come to think of it, I don’t remember a woman … there was an old gent. Always wore the same blue bow tie?’

‘That would have been her father. She only ran it for a short while following his death,’ Doreen said, feasting her eyes on the blush staining Mildred’s cheeks an unflattering cherry-red. ‘Barbara wasn’t really shop-owner material. She couldn’t keep staff to save her life.’

‘Why was that?’

‘People have different expectations, Detective. I, for instance, expect very little from people and therefore am rarely disappointed,’ she replied, her attention flickering between her two friends sitting opposite. ‘However, Barbara is cut from a completely different cloth. She always has an opinion about everything and has no difficulty in sharing those sentiments, no matter how hurtful they are. While I’m sad she’s missing, I’m not totally surprised that you’re as concerned about her whereabouts as we are. Perhaps she said the wrong thing to the wrong person once too often?’

Chapter 37

Gaby

Tuesday 4 August, 10 a.m. The Vicarage, Llandudno

The last time Gaby had been anywhere near a church was when she’d been investigating the disappearance of Alys Grant – not her finest hour by any means and as memories went, one she preferred to tuck away in the back of her mind to never see the cold light of day again.

The manse was a tall, narrow building tucked down a side street. From the outside, it appeared to be a well-maintained Victorian property with a large garden bound by a groundsman-perfect lawn and a tidy hedge clipped to within an inch of its life. The forest-green door was opened by a well-rounded blonde with dark roots striving for freedom and a taste in shoes that would do any stilt-walker proud.

‘Can I help you?’

Gaby quickly made introductions. ‘We’re here to see Reverend Albert Honeybun, if he has a minute?’

‘Of course – I’m Mrs Honeybun.’ She stretched out a hand, her grip firm, her fingernails talon long and fuchsia pink. ‘Come this way,’ she said, gesturing for them to follow down a long, dark hallway. The walls were panelled with wood and with a tiled floor in bold cream and red alternating squares that should have felt out of place but didn’t. ‘He’s tinkering away in the study, keeping out from under my feet.’

Gaby managed to catch Diane’s eye, her twitching lips reflecting her thoughts. If this was the wife, what would the husband be like?

Reverend Honeybun was nothing like his wife. For a start he was short and round with a head of wispy grey hair that looked as if it hadn’t seen a brush let alone a hairdresser in months. But his kindly grey eyes and bellowing laugh, as he spoke to his wife, told Gaby more than any words coming out of his mouth that here was a man she could trust.

Gaby took in the book-lined study in one encompassing glance. The faded chintz furnishings and general air of impoverished gentility. The collection of pottery running the length of the mantelpiece, which included a fine display of lustreware teapots, the copper glaze reflecting the sunlight streaming through the mullioned windows. Unlike most of the homes she visited, it was a room she felt comfortable in. Her only query was that it didn’t seem to fit in with Mrs Honeybun’s glamorous persona, but who was she to judge, she thought, her mind swinging briefly to the state of her lounge and the two still-unopened cans of paint.

‘Come in and take a seat. Tea, my love, and a few of those little Battenburg cakes, if it’s not too much trouble. There’s nothing like a little cake to help with sermon writing.’ He patted his stomach, which hung over the belt of his dark brown trousers. ‘Now, how can I be of help, officers?’ he said, waiting a moment until