CHAPTER NINE

‘New customer?’ Maggs stared at the small body in the cool room in astonishment. ‘Who did the removal with you?’

‘Nobody. The woman at the nursing home. She’s so small, it wasn’t a problem.’

‘My God. What would Daphne say?’

‘Bugger Daphne.’

‘Right. Will you do it or shall we get Den onto it?’

‘Don’t be filthy.’

‘So where’s she going?’

Drew paused long enough for her to notice. She gave him a searching look. ‘Tell me,’ she demanded.

‘It’s a small world,’ he began. ‘It seems she has a friend buried here. A friend from nearly forty years ago. They lived next door, so now she wants to be buried alongside her, too.’

‘Are you going to make me guess?’

‘That’s a good idea.’

‘Drew!’

He sighed. ‘Gwen Absolon. Remember her?’

Maggs clapped her hands like a small child, and crowed. ‘I don’t believe it. Really? What a hoot.’

Drew frowned and said nothing. He’d expected something like this.

‘Is the hellion daughter coming? Does she still know this neighbour lady?’

‘Apparently not, thank God. And I haven’t had time to check that there’s space next to that grave. I suppose there will be.’

‘Course there is,’ Maggs assured him. ‘You’ve been steering clear of that bit of the field for three years now.’

‘No I haven’t. Or not for the reasons you think. I just didn’t want people being ghoulish about it. Luckily most of them seem to have either forgotten the story or never heard it.’

‘People have short memories.’

‘Except for this Elsie Watkins. She hadn’t seen Gwen since about 1960, but suddenly she has to be buried beside her.’

‘What family is there?’

‘There’s a great-nephew in Dubai or somewhere. He’ll probably show up, if only to collect whatever goodies she’s left him.’

‘And pay for the funeral.’

‘With any luck, that too,’ Drew agreed.

With little more to be said on the subject, Drew asked Maggs about her weekend. She suddenly turned coy, and became busy with the morning post. ‘It was fine,’ she said. ‘They let me have a go at milking the cows.’

‘Gracious! On a three-legged stool in a straw-strewn cowshed?’

‘Don’t be stupid. It was very modern. There were lambs, too. Funny ones with long black ears. Blue-faced Leicesters, they’re called.’

‘I’m amazed.’

‘What did you do, then, besides removing the Watkins woman?’

‘Nothing, really. I had a visit from Mrs Grafton. That was interesting. And Karen was there when the police arrested Mary Thomas. And Della phoned this morning saying she didn’t want Karen to have the boys until after lunch, so she’s feeling a bit let down, I think. She’d got all geared up for some heavy duty glueing. Stephanie doesn’t like doing that sort of thing without Finian.’

‘The police arrested Mary Thomas?’ Maggs repeated slowly. ‘Is that the woman from Ferngate?’

‘Right. She seems to be involved in something mysterious. Karen’s got some rather wild ideas about it all.’

‘I thought I was the one with the wild ideas.’ Maggs pouted exaggeratedly.

‘So did I.’ This had all the signs of the last word, and Maggs took it as such. She went to the filing cabinet and extracted the detailed chart that showed precisely which grave was where. As expected, there was empty space on each side of Gwen Absolon’s burial place.

Before she could point this out to Drew, the phone rang. He answered it, saying after a few seconds, ‘Hello, Stanley. Haven’t heard from you for a while … Oh, good. We’ll be over for him tomorrow, then, all being well. Depends on the wife, of course. We can’t keep him here more than a couple of days. I’ll phone her, then. Right. Thanks very much. Bye.’

‘They’ve released Peter Grafton,’ Maggs summarised.

‘Not quite. The inquest is this afternoon. Then, as likely as not, they’ll let us have him.’ Drew screwed up his nose, in a parody of disgust. ‘You know something?’ he said. ‘We haven’t had to deal with a body that’s had a post-mortem – not since …’

‘I know. Gwen Absolon,’ Maggs supplied.

* * *

The new funeral, in addition to the large event that would accompany Peter Grafton’s burial, seemed to send everything off balance. Drew couldn’t help thinking about Genevieve, despite his stern admonitions to himself to stop it. Maggs appeared to find the whole thing both amusing and intriguing, and a side effect of this was a dramatically increased interest in the murder of Peter Grafton. It was as if the reminder of an earlier murder mystery had awakened something dormant in her.

‘Den’s been chatting to his old Inspector – man called Hemsley,’ she told Drew. ‘He thought he might be able to help with the market murder, seeing as how he was more or less there at the time.’

‘And could he? Help, I mean?’

‘Not really, except he knows Karen and she seems to be pretty much involved in the whole thing.’

‘Den doesn’t know Karen very well, though,’ Drew pointed out. ‘He doesn’t know anything about the Food Chain stuff, or why anybody might have killed Grafton.’

‘He soon realised that when Hemsley started asking questions. I think he was a bit sheepish about it. You know what it is, of course.’

‘What?’

‘He’s missing the police. This is the first murder he’s come across since he left, and it’s making him restless. He wants to be in there, like the old days.’

‘Must be a bit strange,’ Drew sympathised.

‘Yeah, well, he should have known this would happen. Now I’ve got to try and distract him.’

‘Oh?’ Drew was careful to keep his face straight. Saucy innuendo between the two of them had always been kept to a minimum. It wasn’t very difficult – Drew usually missed even the most obvious risqué jokes. Karen had pointed this out, years ago, saying she assumed it must go along with being an undertaker.

‘No, no, I just prefer my gratification to come through actual contact, not through words and jokes,’ he’d responded pompously.

This had changed slightly when Maggs moved in with Den. It evened up the balance; they were both now officially with sexual partners and could afford to relax their carefully platonic relationship. Even so, Drew still shied away from overtly prurient remarks.

‘That’s why we went away this weekend, to give him something else to think about,’ she explained seriously. ‘But now we’re back, he’s as bad as ever. Wants to come and talk to Karen, actually. See if he can spot anything significant in what she saw.’

‘But …’ Drew frowned. ‘I’m not sure what she’ll tell him.’

‘I expect it’ll be OK. He says he’ll be very sensitive and low key about it. He’s going to try and get here early this afternoon, and see if he can catch her. Don’t say anything, will you,’ she warned. ‘It’s up to him, if he wants to risk getting told off.’

‘Actually, she might be quite cooperative,’ Drew predicted. ‘She’s been having a few off-the-wall ideas about Mary Thomas, since Saturday, and might want to share them with a professional. She didn’t really get very far with me. I tried to show an interest, but, somehow …’

‘You’re losing it, mate,’ she told him blithely. ‘Getting altogether too middle-aged you are, these days.’

‘Middle-aged! I’m not even thirty-five yet.’

‘So act it,’ she said. ‘Have a bit of fun, why don’t you.’

Drew blinked, surprised at how much her words stung. ‘Are you saying I’m getting dull?’ he demanded. ‘Me?’

‘I expect it’s only temporary,’ she smiled.

‘Just because I didn’t go off for a romantic weekend rolling in the hay,’ he grumbled. ‘You wait. I’ll show you.’

‘I’ll look forward to that.’

He went back to opening the post, and she put the map of the graves away carefully. The silence became more and more uncomfortable.

Maggs sighed noisily. ‘Don’t forget to phone Mrs Grafton then,’ she said eventually.

‘I’ll wait until late this afternoon – after the inquest. Nothing’s really certain until then.’

‘OK.’

‘We haven’t been of much use to Sally Dabb, have we?’ she said, a few minutes later. ‘Nobody’s asked me about her affair with Peter Grafton, at any rate.’

‘Nor me,’ he agreed. ‘But it’s early days, I suppose.’

‘Will they catch who did it, do you think? Den can’t see it. There aren’t really enough bits of evidence. Unless they get some inside information. I suppose that’s the way they usually solve crimes, when you think about it. They can’t do much otherwise.’ She was prattling, talking as much to herself as to Drew, as she copied Elsie Watkins’ details into their record book.

‘They might find the crossbow,’ he said vaguely.

‘Well, I really do think it’s all very exciting,’ she burst out, slamming the updated volume closed. ‘There must be a connection between the farmers’ market and SuperFare. I mean, it could be some kind of food politics, couldn’t it? Somebody trying to stop something that could cost them money. Like – what if the supermarket was feeling threatened by the success of Karen’s lot. They’d try some dirty tricks, wouldn’t they?’

‘They wouldn’t have a chap shot, and they’d hardly blow their own place up with a bomb,’ Drew pointed out. ‘You don’t really change, do you,’ he added.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Same wild ideas, half-baked guesses, farfetched conclusions.’

‘But I’m quite often right, all the same,’ she said, with a straight look. ‘Aren’t I?’

‘You’ve been right once or twice,’ he conceded. ‘But usually for the wrong reasons.’

‘Ha!’ she snorted.

 

At four forty-five that Monday afternoon, Den Cooper and Della Gray met for the first time, with Karen and four children stirred in for good measure.

Della – tall and slim, with a long stride – had walked through the village, just as Karen habitually did in the other direction. It was a warm day, summer announcing itself deafeningly with birds and airliners working up to a crescendo. New bright green leaves thronged the hedgerows and livestock gorged on young fresh grass.

Den unfolded himself from the driving seat of his ageing Fiat, giving his legs the remedial shake he generally did after sitting in cramped conditions. Most conditions were cramped for him, being of abnormal height. He observed the young woman walking up the path to the Slocombes’ cottage, and hesitated in his purpose.

He had fifteen minutes or more to fill, and hardly anything to lose. He even had his opening line rehearsed, in which he would ask Karen if she had any lettuces to spare, as well as enquiring as to the progress of the other vegetables.

He strode after the woman. ‘Hello,’ he greeted her. ‘Come to see Karen?’

‘I’m collecting my kids,’ came the friendly reply. ‘She has them every Monday. How about you?’

He looked into the clear eyes, enjoying the unusual sensation of a woman barely six inches shorter than himself. She had nice skin, he noted, and smelt of something natural like apples. ‘My girlfriend works with Drew. I’m a bit early, so I thought I’d have a little chat with Karen.’

‘Maggs? You’re Maggs’s partner? Funny I haven’t seen you before. I’m Della.’

The name meant nothing. He smiled in acknowledgement of the introduction. ‘Den,’ he offered in return.

Before either of them could knock, Karen had pulled open the front door. Two small boys stood in front of her, making her bend awkwardly over their heads to get the door open. She moved them aside with deft and not entirely gentle movements of her feet and legs. ‘Hey, you two! Get out of the way,’ she scolded them.

The children scampered forward, to wrap themselves around Della’s legs instead. ‘Mummy!’ they cried, in a parody of affection.

‘Get off,’ she said. ‘We’re not going for a few minutes yet.’

‘Oh-h-h-h,’ they whined in unison. ‘I want my supper,’ added the larger one.

‘Have they been horrible?’ Della asked Karen.

‘No more than usual,’ she smiled. ‘Oh, hello, Den. Are you coming in?’

‘I thought I might,’ he said. ‘I was hoping for a couple more lettuces if there are any.’

‘Small ones,’ she warned him. ‘But fairly hearty. This weather should bring some more stuff on. Isn’t it fabulous!’

Somehow they all got through the door and into the kitchen, including the children. Della sat down without invitation, and Karen filled the kettle. Den hovered uncomfortably. None of his planned conversation was going to happen at this rate.

Then Karen managed to move things on quite dramatically. ‘You’ll be wishing you could help with the murder investigation I expect,’ she said to him, almost idly. ‘It must feel a bit odd being out of it all.’

‘Absolutely!’ he agreed with fervour. ‘I come over all peculiar every time I walk past the Town Hall, knowing it’s where they’ve got the Incident Room set up.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Della asked, her attention on little Todd.

‘Den used to be in the CID. He worked on a few murders around here, before giving it all up. He’s with Social Services now.’ She flicked a bright look at Della, then an identical one at Den. ‘Hey!’ she added. ‘Della used to know Peter Grafton. She was really upset when she heard he’d been killed – weren’t you?’ The image of the tall capable Della fainting returned to Karen, but she refrained from telling that part of the story.

‘It was a shock,’ Della admitted in a low voice.

Den remembered the previous Tuesday. ‘Oh, that was you,’ he said. ‘You fainted, and Drew had to go and collect the children. Are you all right now?’

Della laughed. ‘Oh yes. It was nothing. I was better about ten minutes later. Poor old Karen, she did panic a bit.’

Karen pressed her lips together and said nothing. Den cleared his throat uncomfortably and reverted to the earlier topic. ‘I’ve had a word with the DI handling the investigation, actually,’ he disclosed. ‘I used to work with him. I told him I knew you, and one or two others who seem to be involved.’

‘Who else do you know?’ Karen frowned curiously up at him.

‘Well, everybody knows Hilary Henderson and Geraldine Beech, I suppose. And Mary Thomas.’

‘The three witches,’ said Della. Then she clapped a hand over her mouth. ‘Oops! That was a bit rude, wasn’t it. Everyone calls them that, though.’

Den and Karen both looked at her. ‘Do they?’ Karen said. ‘I’ve never heard it.’

‘It’s only that they’re all such strong independent women, I suppose. And they make things happen. And they’re all the same age, within a few weeks. They’ve known each other all their lives. Thick as thieves, as they say. If one of them coughs, the other two reach for the Fisherman’s Friends.’ Della laughed. ‘They’re amazing, really.’

Karen shook her head slowly. ‘I had absolutely no idea it was like that,’ she said. ‘I’ve hardly seen them together, except Hilary and Geraldine at the markets, of course, but they never seem unduly pally.’

Della shrugged. ‘You wouldn’t expect them to be arm in arm. It isn’t like that. More like sisters, in a way. They know each other’s there in a crisis, and they probably go out for drinks together now and then. But they always know what’s going on with the other two. And if someone upset one of them, the others would rally round like a shot.’

‘Geraldine’s nearly sixty, then, is she?’ Karen felt an unreasonable surge of relief at finally finding an answer to that particular question.

‘They’re June, July and August, if I remember rightly. My mother was roughly the same, plus Maggie as well. In the same class at school, except for Geraldine. She went to a private school. Hilary’s the oldest, then Mary, then Geraldine, I think. I remember they had a huge village party the summer they all hit forty. It was spectacular.’

Den and Karen exchanged glances. ‘Village life,’ he sighed. ‘There’s nothing like it.’

‘Oh, well,’ Della said, ‘you incomers are never going to catch up with all the cross-currents. Everything connects, you see.’

‘But nearly everyone’s an incomer these days,’ Karen objected.

‘Not as many as you might think, actually.’ Della smiled mysteriously. ‘And there are some who leave and come back again, which muddies the waters a bit. Like Joe Richards, for a start.’

‘What about him? I thought he’d always lived here.’ But before Della could explain further, there was a howl from Todd; the kettle boiled; Den moved suddenly and his elbow caught a pot of chives perched on the worktop, sending it crashing to the floor; and Stephanie burst in with a scratched finger.

Mugs of tea and maternal sympathy filled the next ten minutes, and Den, having done his best to salvage the chives, realised he was about to be late for Maggs. He looked at Karen, his frustration clear. ‘I wanted to have a word with you about last Tuesday,’ he said.

‘Don’t worry, I’m going,’ said Della, snatching the mug from her lip, as if her hand belonged to another person. ‘See you tomorrow, Kaz. Come on, kids.’

In a whirl she was gone. ‘Kaz?’ Den echoed. ‘I thought only Drew called you that.’

‘Some people can’t spare the time for two syllables,’ she said, sounding cross.

‘She seems quite nice,’ he said tentatively. ‘Good with kids.’

‘She’s all right. Steph and Timmy like her, which is the main thing. She ought to have been a primary teacher, really. She has plenty of good ideas. They learn a lot from her.’

‘Listen …’ Den urged her. ‘This murder, they don’t seem to be getting anywhere with it. Ironically, there aren’t enough witnesses. Nobody actually saw anything, except you.’

‘What’s it got to do with you?’ She said it gently, trying not to sound rude.

‘Nothing, really. Except I met my old colleague, Danny Hemsley, at the Incident Room, and got my interest up. Daft, I know. I’ve been out of the police for ages. It’s just that murder … well …’

‘You’re as bad as Drew,’ she sighed. ‘Can’t leave it alone.’

‘It’s the background that’s puzzling them, Danny says. They don’t get how the Food Chain network operates, and who does what. Basically, they don’t understand anything that’s even slightly alternative. I used to be just as bad. Even perfectly normal groups like the Quakers threw me, at one time.’

‘Scary,’ Karen nodded. ‘They see sinister implications in anything they don’t understand.’

‘Right. So would you say there are any sinister implications in Geraldine and her food politics?’

Karen picked at a front tooth before answering. ‘Well, there might be,’ she said slowly. ‘Actually, yes, there do seem to be. Den, I don’t know whether I ought to tell you about it. I haven’t said much to Drew. I don’t know what good it would do to involve you. I mean – in what capacity are you asking?’

He rubbed a long-fingered hand down the plane of his cheek. ‘Good question,’ he said. ‘Amateur sleuth, I suppose.’

She sighed. ‘Join the club, then. Well, there’s some talk about a new sort of GM experiment going on in this area. You know how strongly everybody feels about that sort of thing. It’s to do with fruit trees, apparently. And Peter Grafton grew apples. But there’s another angle, too. Not directly related, as far as I can tell. He was going to sign a contract to supply the supermarkets with juice. That’s a real sell-out, in Geraldine’s eyes. Like Daphne Plant selling to SCI. A betrayal. I don’t think he’d have been allowed to get away with that.’

‘But they wouldn’t kill him for it, would they?’

She spread her hands. ‘Somebody did kill him, Den. That’s the big fact here, that we can’t get round. Who knows why?’

‘Find the why and you usually find the who,’ he muttered.

‘So I believe,’ she nodded.

There came a sharp knock on the door, which then opened, and a voice shouted, ‘Den! What’s going on? You’re late!’

‘Coming,’ he called back. ‘What’s the rush, anyway?’ he added more quietly.

Maggs came into the room. ‘I heard that,’ she said. ‘I’ve been sitting in the car for the past ten minutes.’

‘Sorry. I wanted to talk to Karen. And we need a couple of lettuces. I’m doing a salad this evening. I got some eggs on the way.’

‘Meat, Den. I want meat. We haven’t had any for ages.’

‘Aha! Well, I’ve got a surprise for you there. When I went in to Hendersons for the eggs, I got chatting and the upshot was that we’ve ordered half a pig, in return for fixing his barn roof.’

‘But you don’t know how to fix roofs.’

‘Of course I do. It’s obvious. You just nail down new sheets of corrugated iron, from the top of a long ladder.’

‘Oh. You’re OK with tops of long ladders, are you?’

‘Perfectly OK,’ he said bravely.

‘Well, come on, then. Say bye bye to Karen and let’s get home.’

‘Bye bye Karen,’ Den said.