A Market for Murder Page 9

  Den shrugged. ‘It could be useful,’ he maintained. ‘I’m well positioned to get more background for you. Karen doesn’t much like the police. She’s not going to put herself out to help you.’

  ‘She likes you though, does she?’

  They were meeting for the second time since Den had seen the Inspector giving his television interview. Taking an hour out from his Social Services tasks, Den had dropped into the Incident Room, in the hope of catching his friend. It was ten thirty on Friday morning.

  Den paused at the question, bending his long head thoughtfully, staring at the formica table in front of him. ‘She’s not mad about me,’ he admitted. ‘It can be awkward sometimes. The four of us, all connected as we are. Drew gets caught up in the middle, and Karen feels left out. But so do I, on and off.’

  Hemsley shook his head. ‘I’m not with you,’ he complained. ‘Drew and Karen are married, right? And your girlfriend works for him?’

  ‘Right. That’s it, basically.’

  ‘So there’s plenty of scope for jealousy,’ the Inspector noted shrewdly. ‘All these pairings, all these high emotions when there’s a messy funeral or one of the kids gets sick. D’you fancy her at all?’

  ‘Who? Karen? No!’ Den spoke robustly. ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘OK. I shouldn’t have asked that. It’s just my experience that when you get these close foursomes, it very often ends up with everybody fancying everybody else. Just because it can all get so intimate and matey.’

  ‘Your experience, eh?’

  Hemsley nodded glumly. ‘It happened to me – don’t tell anyone this, mind,’ he warned. ‘My Ginnie had a fling with Paul, who was my best mate. It didn’t last, but it did the marriage no favours at all. And it meant I lost my mate as well. I don’t recommend it, my friend. Try not to let it happen – right?’

  ‘There’s not a lot I can do. Maggs isn’t going to break off her partnership with Drew, whatever happens. I sometimes think she’s more likely to break it off with me.’

  ‘Career woman, eh?’ Danny was sympathetic, shaking his head understandingly.

  ‘In a way, except she earns hardly any money, and seems to spend most of her time mooching about between the graves. It’s not exactly a dynamic enterprise. And she talks to Drew. She talks to him all the time, as far as I can see.’

  ‘Dodgy,’ the detective agreed. ‘Bound to be a bond between them.’

  ‘Danny, I’m not jealous of Drew. He’s a great chap, and straight as they come. He and Maggs had worked together for two years when I met them. There’s never been anything between them. That’s not what I’m saying.’

  ‘No. Right. Well.’

  ‘Oh, forget it. Everything’s fine. We’re all happy. What got us onto this anyway?’

  ‘Mrs Slocombe and the dead fruit juice man.’

  ‘Fruit juice?’ Den tilted his head thoughtfully. ‘I didn’t know which stall he had. Did he sell fruit juice?’

  ‘To the exclusion of all else. Talk about weird jobs. Thought you knew all that.’

  ‘I just knew he had a stall. I knew he couldn’t be the meat man. At least.’ He stared at Danny without really seeing him. ‘I bought some lamb chops there, that morning, you know. But I didn’t pay a lot of attention to any of the other stalls. Karen was off somewhere, and nobody seemed to know me, so I didn’t stop to chat or anything.’

  ‘Cooper, what’s going on in that daft head of yours? You’re sounding very strange.’

  Den laughed. ‘I’m beginning to feel like a policeman again, that’s all. It’s disorientating.’

  ‘Well, don’t let it worry you. I doubt you can help us on this one, after all. Especially since I see no sign of you using your detecting skills. They’ve all dried up and died, seems like. But if you wake up one morning and think you can explain to us just why somebody might take it on themselves to kill a man who sells fruit juice, then give me a call, OK?’

  ‘OK,’ Den sighed. ‘Sorry I’m so useless.’

  ‘Don’t let it worry you,’ Hemsley said again. ‘Just pay for these coffees, will you? I don’t think I can justify putting it on police expenses.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  It was Della’s turn to have the kids again, and Karen continued to regard the arrangement with some ambivalence. She did have several urgent gardening jobs waiting for her, which required the absence of children. Earthing up celery; thinning out a variety of seedlings; digging a new stretch of ground ready for further crops. In total she had close to half an acre at her disposal, which was a very substantial plot. Over-ambitious, Drew had called it, which only made her more determined to utilise the entire area. Potatoes took up lots of space, and were low maintenance. Broad beans, large cabbages, courgettes and peas all liked plenty of room to spread themselves. And everything grew so prodigiously on new ground.

  But as she dug, she found herself worrying about her children, particularly Stephanie. Since the supermarket bomb, the world had suddenly seemed a lot less safe, and she was uneasy with them out of her sight. Sternly, she admonished herself that nowhere on earth could be more secure than a remote Somerset village on a tiny road that led nowhere. Despite Della’s disconcerting reaction on Tuesday, and Timmy’s damaged knee, for which there had still been no proper explanation, she was essentially reliable. Until now, Karen had not felt the slightest pang of concern.

  So she nudged her thoughts back to the meeting of the previous evening instead, with Drew’s responses to consider as well. ‘Gosh!’ he’d said, when she’d splurged the central facts on her return home. ‘Sounds as if they’re seriously bothered.’

  ‘I think they are,’ she’d agreed.

  ‘But, what’re they planning to do? You didn’t say you’d get involved, did you? Did they ask you to?’

  She shrugged wordlessly. Despite her natural inclination to question any overblown assertions made by Geraldine and her friends, she was after all regarded as one of them. Of course she agreed with their basic aims and practices. She wanted the world to stop using supermarkets, for local communities to provide all their own needs, for giant lorries to stop transporting unrealistically shiny and uniform fruit and vegetables up and down the country. She knew with complete certainty that all this was the insane face of consumerism, which nobody could ever manage to defend rationally.

  But genetically modified crops were a slightly different matter. She hesitated to leap unthinkingly onto that bandwagon, because there might actually be some lurking good sense in some of the things the scientists were doing. She couldn’t name any, it was true, and the ‘terminator gene’ that so cynically and capitalistically prevented farmers from using seeds from their own crops for next year’s planting was one of the grossest things she had ever heard of. But surely it was desirable for growing seasons to be extended, and for weeds to be kept to a minimum?

  On the face of it, she had to acknowledge, it was absolute folly to plant these mutants out in the open country. So little was yet known about the way bees operated, while other insects were even less well understood. And the argument that little would ever be known without these experiments struck her as dangerous and unintelligent. She remembered her mother a few years ago saying how the older she got, the more apparent it became that the people in control were terrifyingly stupid. It was one of the things that forced themselves onto your awareness, as your life proceeded. Karen had found this observation lodging itself firmly in her mind. Still a mere thirty-two, she took note of the occasional experience which seemed to confirm the hypothesis. If it was true, then Geraldine and Hilary, both aged around sixty, had doubtless both become aware of it. Probably, Karen thought, she should listen to them, and trust to their superior wisdom.

  Drew was interested, but no more than that. There was none of his usual eagerness to dive in and solve the mystery with Maggs as his sidekick. He might be doing Peter Grafton’s funeral, but somehow that gave him little incentive to explore just who killed him and why. Karen, on the other hand, was a lot more
concerned than previously. She had to be – she’d seen it happen. She’d witnessed the damage that occurs to a person when a crossbow bolt hits them in the throat. And she kept thinking she must have seen the killer, without understanding just what she was looking at. Someone who’d been walking nonchalantly away, or even standing still and watching events unfold. Who, she asked herself repeatedly, had been there in the High Street at the time?

  The seven stallholders, counting herself and Peter; Geraldine Beech; at least a dozen shoppers within a few feet of the stalls and another dozen on the pavements beyond; and Mary Thomas.

  The immediate mystery concerned Mary, to such a degree that Karen felt it couldn’t possibly have been her who had killed Peter. If it had, then surely Geraldine wouldn’t have drawn such attention to the woman by her melodramatic visitation on Tuesday evening. Except that Geraldine wouldn’t have known Mary was the killer. Would she?

  The obvious conclusion based on known facts was that Sally Dabb’s husband had learnt of the presumed affair with Peter and conceived a murderously jealous passion. His alibi as reported by Geraldine – that he was at work miles away – might be false. Or he might have paid someone else to do it.

  The strongest pull, the subject her thoughts persistently returned to, was this business of the GM crops. It concerned apples, and Grafton had produced apple juice. More than that, it seemed that his enterprise was a long way from the somewhat amateurish and unreliable production methods of all the others in the food group. Even Maggie’s bread was baked in her own kitchen, albeit in two large industrial ovens that she’d bought secondhand with all her savings. Hilary’s honey and jam were entirely home produced in time-honoured fashion. Oswald butchered his ostriches himself, mincing the meat and growing the herbs that went with it.

  Giving herself a rest from turning the heavy soil, Karen leant on her spade for a moment. No wonder she was tired, she realised, looking about her: she’d just dug six whole rows without stopping. It only showed what your body could perform when your mind was actively engaged elsewhere.

  ‘You look like Old Whatsisname – the gardener in The Secret Garden,’ came a voice. ‘All you need is some straw in your hair.’

  ‘Hilary!’ Karen was startled.

  ‘Hi. Did I come at a bad time?’ The woman had walked round the side of the house, at the opposite end to Drew’s office. Karen’s patch of land extended some distance beyond the side of the house, parallel to the road. Hilary had walked across the small lawn and was standing between rows of spring greens.

  ‘Not really. I could make a cup of tea.’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’ The forced cheerfulness in her voice was unmistakable. It gave Karen cause for some anxiety, the more so as she remembered the whispered exchange of the previous evening.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Hilary reassured her, as she walked slowly over the garden to lead the way into the house. ‘I didn’t mean to alarm you. Nothing’s happened since last night.’

  ‘So what can I do for you?’

  ‘Make the tea first. It’s all rather delicate.’

  Karen reminded herself of how she’d always liked Hilary Henderson. The woman had seemed dependable and balanced. She didn’t care what people thought; she was strong and self-assured. They’d had innumerable chats during the farmers’ markets, but Karen could not now remember anything they’d talked about.

  The afternoon had clouded over, and it seemed a trifle chilly for sitting outside, so Karen led her visitor into the living room, a mug of tea in either hand. ‘I’ve run out of biscuits, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘I was going to make some this evening.’

  Hilary waved this away as of no importance.

  ‘Has Geraldine said anything to you about Mary Thomas?’ Hilary started as soon as they were settled.

  ‘Well, actually …’ Karen began. ‘She has, in a way.’ Geraldine’s injunction to avoid mentioning Mary’s presence at the killing of Peter Grafton rang loudly in Karen’s head. Who would she trust, if it came down to a choice – Geraldine or Hilary? She liked them both, and would hate to find them on opposite sides in any confrontation, but she owed more allegiance to Geraldine. She had given Karen her first market stall, had nursed her through the early stages, encouraged and instructed her. Geraldine was immersed in the whole business of food production and food politics. She was passionate on the subject and Karen had faith in her.

  Hilary was in many ways out of the same mould, but she was much more of a dilettante. She not only kept bees and made jam; she kept sheep and spun their wool; she spoke fluent Russian and ran classes in it, whenever there was a demand. She was married to a farmer and had five grown up children. There was about Hilary an air of irresponsibility. If one endeavour didn’t work, she’d turn unscathed to another. If people wanted something from her, she’d only give it if it required no great effort or sacrifice on her part. Karen liked her very much, but she would not have run to Hilary Henderson in a crisis. She could not imagine Hilary taking care of an elderly mother or ailing husband. She had the impression that her children had more or less run wild, looking after each other while their mother indulged some fleeting whim or other.

  But, Karen acknowledged now, all this could be quite wrong.

  And so Karen maintained her silence as to just what Geraldine had said about Mary Thomas. ‘She said Mary didn’t really know Peter,’ she supplied weakly. ‘Or something like that. I’d mentioned her for some reason, and that’s all Geraldine said.’

  Hilary put down her tea and examined Karen closely, her eyes fixed on the younger woman’s face. ‘Is that all?’ she said disbelievingly. ‘It can’t have been.’

  Karen shrugged. ‘Well, I don’t know Mary very well, and I’ve got no idea how friendly she and Geraldine are. Why should either of them talk to me about the other?’

  ‘Because we all need each other, that’s why.’ Hilary’s voice was low and intense. ‘You need us, we need you, and everybody needs Mary Thomas.’

  ‘But why?’ Karen almost wailed. ‘It all sounds so frightening. As if you know there’s something horrible about to happen.’

  ‘Wasn’t the killing of Peter Grafton horrible enough for you?’

  ‘Yes – of course, but you’re not talking about that, are you? You’re talking about some sort of fight, something illegal, something secret and dangerous.’ She nibbled at a finger joint. ‘I can see it on your face. There’s something really nasty going on.’

  Hilary leant back and sighed. ‘That’s right, Karen Slocombe. Something really nasty’s going on. And we want you to help us stop it.’

  Maggs and Den could never relax completely at the weekends, because Maggs was perpetually on call to rush off and help Drew remove a body from a hospice or nursing home. It happened infrequently, but they were usually expected to turn out when called, within two or three hours at most.

  ‘What about when you go on holiday?’ Den had demanded in disbelief when they’d first met.

  ‘Haven’t had one yet,’ she shrugged.

  ‘What – in two years? You’re joking!’

  ‘I can go away for the day, if I really want to, but it’s a risk. Karen would have to go on the removal with Drew, which would mean finding someone to have the kids. And she wouldn’t like doing it.’

  ‘How often has that happened?’

  ‘Never.’ She grinned. ‘I’ve only been away once, to London with my mum. I didn’t enjoy it; I was too worried that they’d never cope without me. We actually only get called out like that about once every six weeks. Most people can wait till next morning, the way we do things. We still have to be ready to go. It’s OK, you get used to it. You shouldn’t let it bother you.’

  ‘You’re mad. You’re wasting away your youth.’

  ‘Yeah,’ she sighed dramatically. ‘Tragic, isn’t it.’

  On this particular weekend, Den felt a strong desire to get away. He’d been unsettled by the conversation with Hemsley, and was less than happy with himself as a result.

&
nbsp; ‘Let’s go to the sea or something,’ he said. ‘Take your mobile, so Drew can call you back if he needs to.’

  ‘Not the sea,’ she wriggled her shoulders. ‘It’s too cold. How about a B&B weekend on a farm somewhere?’

  He blinked. ‘A farm?’

  ‘Something like that. Somewhere different.’

  ‘But we’re surrounded by farms here. That wouldn’t be different.’

  He examined her face closely. ‘If you want a change we ought to go to Bristol or Plymouth or somewhere.’

  She met his gaze, her big brown eyes serious. ‘No, Den. You’re not getting it. There’s something about farms. Land. Animals. Something I’ve always missed out on. You’ve seen more of them than I have, but you’ve never actually lived on one, have you?’

  He shook his head. ‘What am I not getting?’ he asked, with some foreboding.

  ‘Well, it’s just a little idea I had. It’s probably stupid. We’d never raise the money, for a start. And everybody else seems to be getting out of farming. And I’ve got Drew to consider and everything. It’s just—’

  ‘Maggs Beacon. Are you trying to tell me you think we should go into farming?’

  ‘Well, not exactly. Not milking cows or anything. But don’t you think it would be brilliant, to have our own bit of land? Some sheep maybe. You could work from home, find some sort of occupation, making things, I don’t know. I want a change, Den. I hate it when every day’s the same.’

  ‘You wouldn’t leave Peaceful Repose, would you? That’d be shattering for Drew.’

  ‘No, but I think he needs a bit of a shake-up. He’s got very slow and unambitious lately. Karen’s the one with all the energy. She’s got all these ideas, principles, projects. He used to be like that. Now he just sits about waiting for the phone to ring. It’s boring.’