Poppy Takes the Lead E-Book

Leigh Russell

• Herausgeber: Crime & Mystery Club
• Serie: A Poppy Mystery Tale
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 366

Beschreibung

The NEW cosy crime novel from million-copy-selling author Leigh Russell!

Emily and Poppy are living happily in the quaint village of Ashton Mead, where every household is friendly - with one exception.

Unlike the other villagers, Silas Strang and his mother have a bad reputation. Rude and aggressive, they terrorise their neighbours and no one stops them. That is until Silas sets his sights on Emily's beloved dog Poppy, which Emily won't stand for. After a public altercation, Silas is mysteriously murdered. To Emily's dismay, the police view her as their number one suspect.

Assisted by her friends, Hannah and Toby, Emily sets out to establish the truth and clear her name... but her enquiries have frightening consequences.

Page-turning and heart-warming, The Poppy Mystery Tales are perfect for fans of Richard Coles' Murder Before Evensong, Richard Osman's The Thursday Murder Club, Ian Moore's Death and Croissants and SJ Bennett's The Queen Investigates series.

Leseprobe

Critical Acclaim for Leigh Russell

‘A million readers can’t be wrong! Clear some time in your day, sit back and enjoy a bloody good read’ – Howard Linskey

‘Taut and compelling’ – Peter James

‘Leigh Russell is one to watch’ – Lee Child

‘A brilliant talent in the thriller field’ – Jeffery Deaver

‘Brilliant and chilling, Leigh Russell delivers a cracker of a read!’ – Martina Cole

‘Leigh Russell has become one of the most impressively dependable purveyors of the English police procedural’ –Times

‘DI Geraldine Steel is one of the most authoritative female coppers in a crowded field’ – Financial Times

‘The latest police procedural from prolific novelist Leigh Russell is as good and gripping as anything she has published’ – Times & Sunday Times Crime Club

‘Another corker of a book from Leigh Russell… Russell’s talent for writing top-quality crime fiction just keeps on growing…’ – Euro Crime

‘Good, old-fashioned, heart-hammering police thriller… a no-frills delivery of pure excitement’ – SAGA Magazine

‘A gritty and totally addictive novel’ – New York Journal of Books

This story is for Poppy

It is also dedicated to Michael, Jo, Phillipa, Phil, Rian and Kezia

1

Two years had passed since I first set eyes on Rosecroft, my very own cottage in the picturesque village of Ashton Mead, a few miles from Swindon in the Cotswolds. It was hard to believe I had been living there for so long, working at the Sunshine Tea Shoppe. I had noticed the brightly coloured café on my first visit to the High Street. To be fair, the café was impossible to miss, with its dazzling yellow and white striped awning and primrose coloured exterior. Inside, the café lived up to its name, the yellow and white tiled floor and lemon walls continuing the colourful theme. Even the table cloths were yellow and white checked gingham, matching our aprons. The cheerful atmosphere of the café was only partly due to the bright decor. The owner, Hannah, loved baking, and I enjoyed serving customers. It was a sociable and generally jolly place to work and, despite my mother’s disappointment at my choice of career, I considered myself lucky to have ended up there. It was more varied than any office job I had ever done, and much more fun. As for our customers, only the most curmudgeonly could fail to relish their visits to the Sunshine Tea Shoppe, with its warm welcome and mouthwatering array of cakes. Many of them were regulars from the village, but we also had plenty of visits from people passing through Ashton Mead on their way to some destination rather grander than our small village. So what with locals and tourists, we were kept pretty busy, especially in the summer months.

Hannah laughed at my surprise that two years had passed since my arrival in the village, as she cut the cake she had made to mark the occasion. Her eyes twinkled with glee as she handed me a plate.

‘It’s chocolate,’ she said, knowing that was my favourite. ‘I made it especially for you.’

‘As long as you don’t expect me to eat it all,’ I laughed.

Any excuse to scoff her cakes was fine with me, and she was always ready to seize on an excuse to try out a new recipe. As the owner of the tea shop, she knew how important her skill in baking was to the success of her business.

‘It’s chocolate and cherry, to be specific,’ she added, as she manoeuvred a fat slice of cake onto my plate, ignoring my halfhearted protest that I had just had breakfast.

‘I still can’t believe I’ve been here two years,’ I said, watching her pour the tea.

‘You can check your bank statements if you don’t believe me,’ she smiled.

‘I’m not complaining,’ I replied. ‘It’s just that the time has passed so quickly.’

‘You’re not getting bored with us, are you?’

I shook my head, smiling at the idea, although there was a time when that would have been a fair comment. Before moving to Ashton Mead I had been living in London, and the prospect of moving to such a quiet place would have appalled me. According to my ex-boyfriend, Ashton Mead was a ‘Godforsaken hole in the sticks’ that no one outside the village had even heard of.

‘This place is nowhere,’ he had complained. ‘You can’t spend the rest of your life stuck in this dreary backwater. You’ll die of boredom. You might kid yourself it’s a rural idyll, but how long is that fantasy going to last? It’s a boring place, the people are boring, and you’re bored.’

But that hadn’t been my impression. I had fallen in love with Ashton Mead and the quaint little cottage left to me in my great aunt’s will, and so far neither of them had disappointed. On the contrary, I appreciated my good fortune. I could never have afforded to buy my own property, let alone one with a garden. Apart from any other consideration, the grassy village was an idyllic home for Poppy, the friendly little Jack Tzu who had been left to me by my great aunt, along with her house. Poppy loved going for walks on the wide grassy slopes leading down to the river where ducks scudded about and swans sailed elegantly under the stone bridge.

Coming to live in Ashton Mead hadn’t exactly been part of my life plan. In fact, I had not visited the village since I was a small child and had forgotten all about the place until my great aunt had died. At the time, it had made sense to check out my unexpected inheritance, not least because I had just lost my job and was struggling to pay the rent on my flat in London. As soon as I saw Rosecroft, with its trailing plants growing around the door and its soft yellow stone walls, I felt as though I had come home. Used to the noise and bustle of London, I was surprised how rapidly the slow pace of village life had come to seem normal. Working in the café, I got to know the local residents. Compared to the transient population in my area of London, everyone seemed settled and friendly. Even the tourists who stopped off in the village were very welcome, as far as Hannah and I were concerned, since they helped to keep The Sunshine Tea Shoppe in profit. Not all the villagers were happy about so many visitors turning up on sunny days, but all the local shopkeepers were pleased. Hannah’s baking had helped to put Ashton Mead on the map.

Never having owned a dog before, I had been nervous about accepting the responsibility unexpectedly thrust on me. But Poppy and I had soon settled down together, and I could no longer imagine my life without her. Fortunately, she seemed content living with me. So when I told Hannah my life in Ashton Mead was perfect, it was almost true. Although I was never lonely with Poppy, I sometimes wished there was a man in my life but, considering how disastrous my last relationship had been, I had accepted I was probably better off single. Even my mother seemed resigned to my situation, although she still grumbled about my single status from time to time. She seemed faintly affronted that I hadn’t followed her example, which was to marry and have children at the first possible opportunity. My protestations that life was different for women these days fell on deaf ears, and we had arrived at a tacit agreement to leave the subject alone.

‘You’re twenty-six,’ she had said on her last visit, as though that was positively over the hill. ‘Isn’t it time you thought about settling down?’

‘I have settled down. I’m very happy here. I couldn’t be more settled.’

My mother had wisely refrained from persisting in her attack on my way of life, only muttering that she supposed the ‘right man’ would come along sooner or later. She refused to believe that I liked spending my time in a tiny café, serving tea and cakes to strangers. It was my turn to hold back from retorting that working at the tea shop was my ideal job. There was no point. She would never have believed me. She seemed determined to believe I had taken the job, not to pay my bills, but to spite her ambitions for me.

‘You’re a clever girl,’ she liked to say. ‘You could do so much better than a dead end job like that.’

But I wasn’t sure what she meant by ‘better’. My job might not be one she could boast about, but I was certainly happy. Not long after I had arrived in Ashton Mead, Hannah had offered me a job in the Sunshine Tea Shoppe. Just like my move to Ashton Mead, waiting tables in a café had never been part of my life plan, but I had agreed to work there temporarily, just until I found my feet. As it turned out, the job suited me very well, and Hannah and I soon became firm friends. It only took me ten minutes to walk to the café, my working hours were flexible, and Poppy was happy to be tethered in the yard outside. After a while I had taken to dropping her off with Hannah’s mother, where Poppy hung out with Jane’s sleepy old dog, Holly, or raced around the garden chasing squirrels and birds, and barking at foxes. At first Poppy had pestered Holly to play. The old dog had patiently tolerated my puppy’s energetic attempts to engage her in a game, and after a while they had reached an accommodation. Holly’s placid nature had a relaxing effect on my lively little puppy, who had become calmer since she started spending time with her elderly companion. Holly occasionally deigned to chase her young friend around the garden, which they both seemed to enjoy.

Relentlessly cheerful, the café’s yellow awning added a splash of colour to the mainly drab High Street. Even the vivid scarlet of the butcher’s shop paled beside it. Inside, everything was yellow, like our bright yellow aprons. Statuesque and voluptuous, Hannah even had blonde hair that fell in neat curls, in contrast to my wild red hair. On quiet afternoons, when Jane was unable to look after Poppy, Hannah was happy to let me leave work early. She never docked my pay although, to be fair, she paid me so little it would hardly have saved her much. If my great aunt hadn’t paid off the mortgage on Rosecroft, I certainly wouldn’t have been able to afford to live in my lovely three bedroomed cottage.

My former boyfriend had tried to persuade me to sell Rosecroft. He couldn’t have been more misguided, because I was happy in my new home. It took me a while to discover that he had only ever been interested in how he could profit from my good fortune. Rosecroft turned out to be far better for my peace of mind than my affair with a shallow narcissist had been and, even though I was single, I wasn’t lonely.

Walking home from the café that Thursday, stuffed with Hannah’s excellent cake, I usually took Poppy across to the grassy slopes that led down to the river. If a bird ventured onto the bank, Poppy would strain at her lead, frantic to give chase, but she had accepted the futility of barking at the ducks and swans swimming on the water. For a change, I took her the long way home, across the village green. Watching her bounding along, pausing to sniff at the ground, I felt utterly content. My great aunt’s legacy had brought me a happiness I had never expected.

In an unseasonably dry month, with barely any traditional April showers, the ground had become dry. Now, in May, the rain had returned with a vengeance and after several heavy downpours the grass was looking green and vibrant. Poppy was enjoying herself, searching around for different scents, when all at once she crouched down on her front paws and began to growl softly. She had noticed a figure walking towards us before I was aware of his approach. Seeing who it was, I tensed. I had rarely spoken to Silas Strang, but had heard of his reputation in the village. He waved his walking stick at me. He was barely middle-aged but walked with a stout wooden stick, which he was using to beat the long grass.

‘Get that filthy animal off the green,’ he bellowed.

His bloated face was crimson with rage, and as he drew near I could see his glaring eyes were bloodshot, and his thick lips wet with spittle. I stood my ground, telling myself that Poppy was entitled to walk on the grass. She was a clean dog, fastidious even, and I always carried bags for disposing of her waste. Poppy’s growls broke out in a deep throated barking. A cross between a Jack Russell terrier and a Shih Tzu, she didn’t even reach my knees, but she had a surprisingly loud bark for such a cute little dog. Even large dogs could appear daunted by her feistiness, although I suspected they chose to indulge her by pretending she had frightened them off.

Silas came close enough for me to feel a breath of wind as he swung his stick dangerously close to my face, but I refused to budge. If he thought he could intimidate me, he was making a mistake. When I had first arrived in Ashton Mead his truculence would almost certainly have unnerved me, but these days I was not so easily browbeaten. Taking on the responsibility of a house and a dog had boosted my confidence and forced me to grow up. Watching saliva spray from Silas’ lips I flinched in disgust and he grinned, mistaking my revulsion for fear.

‘I won’t warn you again,’ he roared, seemingly incapable of speaking at a normal volume. ‘You get that brute off this grass if you know what’s good for you!’

‘Dogs are allowed to walk here,’ I replied, resisting the temptation to add that if anyone was a brute, it certainly wasn’t Poppy.

We stood for a moment, glaring at one another, until Poppy broke the uneasy silence with a loud bark. Silas spat on the ground, turned and stomped away. Watching his retreat, I felt a sense of triumph, but once he was out of sight Poppy whimpered and I squatted down to pet her.

‘It’s all right,’ I reassured her, scratching under her chin. ‘He’s gone. He’s nothing but a big bully. He can’t hurt you.’

But I resolved to be especially vigilant with Poppy. I was afraid she might not be safe with Silas Strang around.

2

It was difficult to walk quickly with Poppy because of her frequent stops along the way to sniff the ground, or water it. Only in wet weather, when she would whimper to be carried inside my coat, could we make our way quickly along the streets. That evening, Poppy and I took a leisurely stroll to the village pub, as we often did at the end of my working day. One of those glorious evenings in late spring when you can sense summer is on its way, it brought with it a poignant remembrance of timeless holidays spent playing on the beach as a child. The sky was blue and a delicate perfume from nearby hyacinths mingled with the scent of freshly cut grass, as we passed my neighbours’ gardens. Poppy trotted along happily, stopping every few yards to snuffle around, but I was keen to reach the pub and tell my friends about my unpleasant encounter with Silas Strang. Hopefully they would at least sympathise with me, even if they had no advice about what to do. I was torn between reporting the incident to the police, and ignoring it. On balance, I thought the police were unlikely to be interested. After all, nothing had really happened. But it was galling to think Silas would get away with his aggressive behaviour.

Cliff, the portly landlord of The Plough, greeted me with his usual smile, and grunted as he bent down to pat Poppy on the head.

‘That’s not as easy as it looks,’ he wheezed as he straightened up.

‘If you think you made that look easy, you’re deluded as well as overweight,’ the barmaid muttered, loudly enough for Cliff to hear.

He ignored her scathing remark. No one paid any attention to Tess, who had treated me with undisguised suspicion on my arrival in Ashton Mead. To begin with, her barely disguised hostility had made me feel uncomfortable, but I soon discovered she was gruff with everyone. After two years, she had grudgingly accepted me as part of the village, and now deigned to serve me without muttering darkly under her breath. Still, she remained anything but friendly, barely glancing at me as she told me my friends were outside. I found Hannah sitting at a table in the pub garden with her boyfriend, Adam, and our friend Toby, who taught science at a school in Swindon. Toby was attractive, with dark hair and blue eyes, and I had once hoped that we might become an item. Eventually, I had accepted that our relationship would never develop into anything more than a sound friendship. Unshakable in her belief that every woman needs a man in her life, my mother had been more disappointed than me.

‘It’s not the same and you know it,’ she had snapped, when I pointed out that I wasn’t alone. ‘Poppy’s just a dog.’

‘She’s far more intelligent than a lot of people I could mention, and better company.’

Poppy pricked up her ears and wagged her tail, as if agreeing with me. My parents had never owned a dog. Growing up, I had always known that other people became attached to their pets, but until Poppy entered my life I had no idea how strong the bond between a pet and its owner could be. When I tried to explain my feelings to my mother, she just sniffed, which was her sign of disapproval.

My three friends were laughing at some local gossip as I joined them in the pub garden. Taking a seat on the bench beside Toby, I watched him lean down to pet Poppy who lay on her back, her eyes closed in ecstasy at the attention. It was rare that I encountered anyone who hadn’t fallen for her. Thankfully, Silas Strang was an exception.

‘We were just talking about Maud’s romance,’ Hannah told me, giggling. ‘I know we shouldn’t make fun of her but, honestly, she must be seventy if she’s a day. Apparently she’s found herself a bloke. It’s the butcher whose wife ran off with a dentist from Swindon. So there’s hope for you yet,’ she added, rather unkindly I thought.

I knew she wasn’t being malicious, and managed to force a smile.

‘You’re looking glum,’ Adam remarked, looking at me, when I didn’t join in with their hilarity.

‘That’s because I let her leave work early today,’ Hannah grinned. ‘Never mind, you’re going to be rushed off your feet tomorrow and you’ll be lucky to get home in time for supper. I’ll be in the kitchen baking all day for Saturday, so you’ll have to manage the café on your own.’

‘Someone needs a drink,’ Toby said, rising to his feet. ‘The usual?’

I forgot about my encounter with Silas as we talked about our preparations for the May Day festivities, which was a huge annual event in Ashton Mead. The fête took place on the gentle grassy slopes leading down to the river. Near the top of the slopes, where the ground was level, several marquees would be erected for drinks and food and various craftwork. Cliff was providing drinks for those who didn’t bring their own, the butcher was arranging a massive barbecue, and Hannah had promised to supply a mountain of cupcakes. Preparations had been going on for weeks, and the excitement was becoming feverish. Everything was supposed to be locally sourced which seemed to work, by and large, although the event inevitably attracted people from further afield, mostly artisans with hand crafted items to sell. The previous year a fortune teller had put up a small striped tent, and a few travellers had turned up, to see what was going on.

Our main worry was that rain might ruin the festivities. The forecast for the weekend was inconclusive, and on Friday we had a heavy shower in the morning. At least the café was fairly quiet, which was a relief, as I was there on my own. The sky cleared in the afternoon and, assuming the local forecast was right, the ground would hopefully dry out overnight. As long as it didn’t rain on Saturday the occasion promised to be a success.

3

I was woken early on Saturday morning, by Poppy nuzzling my cheek. She seemed even more lively than normal, as though she sensed something unusual was going on. Probably all kinds of new scents were in the air, of which I was completely oblivious. After breakfast, we walked down towards the slopes beside the river, and were just in time to see the Maypole arrive, to exuberant cheers from traders who had arrived to set up their stalls. A gang of children materialised as if from nowhere to gaze wide-eyed and shriek with glee as the Maypole was erected. Red-faced and sweating, Cliff was trundling crates of beer around in a cart. Hannah was shouting directions to Adam and they soon roped me in to help fetch supplies from the tea shop.

Adam and I scurried backwards and forwards with trays of cakes and pastries, with Poppy scampering beside me, while an assortment of knitters and jewellery makers, woodworkers and sculptors, painters and antique renovators and other craftworkers, busily arranged their stalls in the shelter of the marquees. Excited children hurtled around, making a lot of noise and generally getting in everyone’s way. No one reprimanded them, because this was a joyous occasion and, despite the stress and frenetic activity, a party atmosphere was raising everyone’s spirits. Only Tess stomped around looking angry. Children scarpered at her approach.

After an overcast morning, to everyone’s relief the weather turned out fine. All the residents of the village turned up. Maud had shut her shop for the day, my friend Toby was there, struggling to push his mother’s wheelchair across the grass, and at one point I caught a glimpse of Dana, the reporter from the local paper, in her bright red coat. Throughout the day, groups of pupils from local schools entertained us with their shrill singing, stilted dancing and clunky acrobatic displays, before they ran off to queue for ice creams or chocolate-covered marshmallows on sticks. A local swing band blared out through gigantic speakers, followed by a local choir who sang, mostly in tune. There were Morris Dancers and a giant pantomime horse pulling a wheelbarrow in which the May Queen rode, until she was accidentally tipped out onto the grass. None the worse for her upset, she brushed mud and grass from her gown before tottering on foot to the Maypole, pausing only when one of her high heels stuck in the ground. She was duly crowned by the county Mayor who was paying a fleeting visit before moving on to her next engagement. May Day was a busy time for everyone.

The climax of the day was a dance around the Maypole. Once again, a select cohort of carefully rehearsed school children assembled, with ice cream and chocolate smeared over their faces. Jostling and jumping with excitement, they took their places around the pole. A few of them started running round in the opposite direction to the others, which caused some tripping and tumbling. Before they all joined in a wrestling match that had broken out between two of the boys, a strident woman extracted the offenders and the dance resumed. Already tipsy, I giggled uncontrollably as the children scuttled crablike around the pole, their progress punctuated by intermittent hopping and jumping. When the children had finished, it was the turn of the Morris Dancers, their music punctuated by the banging of sticks which they wielded with gusto.

Absorbed in watching the entertainment, I paid no attention when Poppy growled, and failed to notice Silas until he was standing right beside me.

‘You can’t bring that animal here,’ he snarled.

Poppy barked. He brandished his stick and Poppy snapped at it, uncertain whether this was a game or a threat. Concluding that I needed her protection, she began to bark in earnest. Silas’s ruddy complexion darkened and he shoved her roughly with his stick. She yelped and sprang backwards but, trapped by her lead, she couldn’t go far. I stepped in between Silas and Poppy, shielding her between my ankles.

‘Leave her alone!’ I cried out, my indignation fuelled by several glasses of Pimms. ‘You know what you are? You’re nothing but a coward and a bully. Why don’t you pick on someone your own size, instead of attacking a harmless little dog? You’re a monster.’

‘Shut your gob before I shut it for you!’ he snapped, waving his stick dangerously close to my face.

Emboldened by a heady mixture of anger and alcohol, I glared back at him. ‘I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean, but if you think you scare me, you couldn’t be more wrong. I’m warning you, if you raise so much as one finger against my dog, you’ll be sorry!’

‘And what are you going to do to stop me?’ he taunted me, thrashing the ground with his stick.

‘You’re not going to hurt her!’ I yelled, my voice rising, as I found it difficult to maintain a lofty dignity after drinking too much. ‘You think there’s nothing I can do? Let me tell you, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to protect her.’

‘Brave words,’ he sneered. ‘But you still haven’t told me what you’re going to do. I’ll tell you what. Nothing. You can’t stop me doing whatever I want. Who do you think you are, you stupid girl?’

‘I don’t care what you say, I won’t let you get away with threatening me or my dog. If you think you can hit her, you have no idea who you’re dealing with. I’ll make sure you never lift your stick again. I’ll do whatever it takes to stop you!’

Glancing around, I realised that we were attracting an audience. Among the onlookers, I spotted Hannah staring at me, an expression of surprise distorting her features, her blonde curls waving in the breeze. Adam was beside her, with his arm around her shoulders, looking worried. Behind them, I recognised a local reporter holding up her phone. With a snort of disgust, I turned my back on them and hurried home. My day was ruined and my head hurt. Happy to escape from the pandemonium and scrum of the fair, Poppy trotted in front of me. She didn’t even want to pause and sniff the different aromas carried on the evening air as we hurried home.

4

The following morning Poppy woke me, whimpering beside me on the bed. My head felt heavy and began pounding when I swivelled round to look at my phone. It was only half past five. Before I could settle down again, Poppy scampered to the door and resumed her whimpering. She refused to be quiet, so I finally abandoned all hope of going back to sleep.

‘All right, all right, you win,’ I grumbled, clambering out of bed.

The view through my bedroom window was obscured by a fine drizzle that formed a veil over my view down to the river. Dimly, I made out the shapes of trees through the mist as Poppy whimpered and scrabbled at the door. Groggily I pulled on my clothes and stumbled downstairs, yawning and muttering imprecations. Yanking the hood of my raincoat up, I stepped outside and paused to gaze along the lane. The rain had stopped, and in the gathering light, branches of trees were emerging from the haze. A shaft of sunlight pierced the mist. I flung back my hood and drew in a few deep breaths of air that were damp but clean and fresh. Feeling invigorated, I let Poppy lead me across the sparkling grass, towards the old brick bridge across the river.

Poppy bounded along, excited to be outdoors, but I was already regretting my rash decision. My feet were damp inside my trainers. Had I been fully awake, I would have resisted her entreaties to run across the grass at that hour in the morning. There was no way this outing was going to set a precedent.

‘Don’t think I’ll be getting out of bed at silly o’clock every day,’ I warned her crossly. ‘Just because it’s stopped raining doesn’t mean it’s okay to be out and about so early. And don’t think that because you got round me once, you can do it again. We should both be indoors, fast asleep.’

Poppy threw me a quizzical look over her shoulder, without slowing her pace.

‘I mean it,’ I told her. ‘You’re not going to wake me up so early again. I don’t care how desperate you are to go outside.’

Hungover, and distracted by talking to Poppy, I scarcely noticed a pile of old clothes lying on the grass. They must have been left behind after the fair. For once, Poppy wasn’t sniffing the ground and, I noted crossly, she hadn’t yet stopped to pee, in spite of having insisted she needed to go outside. She trotted determinedly forwards, head raised, nose twitching, alert to the manifold scents in the air that were lost on me. All I could smell was the fresh scent of grass, wet after the rain. Only when we drew close to the heap of clothes did Poppy lower her nose to the ground as though following a trail. Her route didn’t zigzag as it often did, when she was following tracks left by birds or squirrels, but she kept going in a straight line, heading for the grey mound. By now we were close enough for me to make out the details of a filthy raincoat lying on the grass. We had nearly reached it, when I saw a large hand with dirty fingernails sticking out of one sleeve. It appeared that the man lying on the ground at my feet had been so drunk, he had managed to sleep through the rain.

Curious to see who he was, yet afraid of disturbing him, I stole closer, tensed to run if he woke up and objected to my peering at him while he was sleeping off the drink. We were almost level with the figure when Poppy made a leap forward, and barked loudly, making me jump.

‘Be quiet,’ I hissed, worried she would wake the sleeper.

She carried on barking, right beside his ear, but he didn’t react. Intrigued, I stepped cautiously around the inert figure and halted in shock when his face came into view. Silas Strang was staring straight at me, with a baleful expression on his face. In the early morning light his skin looked grey. For a moment I thought my legs would give way. He didn’t stir, nor did he start bellowing obscenities at me. He was lying on his side in an unnatural position, with one arm reaching awkwardly behind him, as though he wanted to scratch his back, and his coat was open, exposing the front of a grubby white T-shirt. Not until Poppy barked again did it occur to me that Silas might be dead. I nearly turned and fled, but a macabre curiosity had taken hold of me.

‘Silas,’ I murmured, uncertain whether to hope for a response or not. ‘Silas,’ I repeated, more loudly. ‘Silas, are you all right? Silas, wake up. You’re soaking. It’s morning. Time to wake up. Silas? Can you hear me? Silas?’

A few moments had elapsed since we had first spotted him lying there, and Silas hadn’t shifted position. He didn’t even blink when Poppy barked again. It seemed he had lost the power to threaten anyone. But I was no medical expert and he could still be alive, unconscious with his eyes wide open. He might have suffered a stroke, or be having a fit of some kind. Either way, alive or dead, he needed help. Searching my pockets I discovered I had come out without my phone. Pulling myself together with an effort, I spun round on the wet grass and sprinted home, my legs shaking and my feet stumbling over tussocks. Poppy galloped beside me.

Back at home, I raced upstairs to find my phone which should have been on my small bedside cabinet, but there was no sign of it there. I spent the next five minutes searching for it in a panic. Had I known from the outset how long it would take me to find my phone, I would have run next door to my neighbour straightaway. He would have forgiven me for disturbing him at that early hour, given the gravity of the situation. At last I found my phone, which had slipped down between my mattress and my bedside cabinet. Before I could make a call, the sound of distant sirens reached me through my draughty window. I peered outside, my view once more obscured by a fine drizzle. As the sound of sirens grew louder, the air cleared to reveal a car drawing up, its blue light flashing. There was no need for me to alert anyone to my discovery. The police had already arrived. A moment later the first vehicle was joined by two more cars, and a police van.

‘It’s all right, Poppy,’ I told her, with a sigh of relief. ‘The police are there. We can leave it to them to sort out the whole messy business. We won’t have to get involved.’

In an attempt to calm down, I brewed myself a pot of tea and sat down in my living room. As I sipped my tea, I tried to feel sorry for Silas, and wondered what could have happened to him. Poppy put her head on one side, and gazed at me with a puzzled expression, as if to say that we were already involved. Strictly speaking we were, since Poppy had been first to discover the body, but there was no reason why anyone else need know that. Recalling the odd position in which Silas had been lying, it occurred to me to wonder whether there had been foul play. It wouldn’t even have surprised me to learn that Silas had been killed in a fight, given how quarrelsome he was. If that was the case, the less I had to do with the discovery of the body, the better.

‘Let’s stay well out of it and settle for a quiet life,’ I told Poppy. ‘This is all becoming complicated, and it could develop into a very nasty situation indeed. We don’t want to have anything to do with Silas Strang, alive or dead.’

She put her head down and closed her eyes. ‘Now you want to go back to sleep,’ I muttered crossly. ‘After you dragged me out of bed so early.’

For an answer, she began snoring very softly. I lay down on my bed, fully clothed, but couldn’t get back to sleep. Recalling my last argument with Silas, I shivered, wondering whether anyone remembered what I had said. Living in a small village had its drawbacks as well as its benefits. Soon all my neighbours would know about the argument between me and Silas, just a short time before he died, and speculation would be rife. I just hoped no one would decide to share their suspicions with the police.

5

Where yesterday a row of brightly coloured marquees had stood, festooned with bunting, there was now only one large white tent, and that had been cordoned off by a crime scene tape. A uniformed police officer standing by the barrier appeared to be doing his best to ignore a woman in a startlingly red coat, who was gesticulating at him. From a distance I recognised Dana Flack, a reporter on My Swindon News who had once interviewed me. Tall and slender, she would have been elegant if her hunched posture and disproportionately long skinny legs didn’t make her look ungainly, like a picture of a giraffe that had been coloured in by a small child fond of bright colours. Drawing closer, I saw that, even at that hour of the morning, she was wearing scarlet lipstick and brandishing her dictaphone, her eyes alert to the slightest movement on the far side of the barrier, while she flapped her hands vigorously in the air to emphasise her words.

The uniformed policeman towering over her striking figure was our local constable, Barry, nephew to the local shopkeeper. Barry had grown up in the village, but had moved away to live closer to the police station in Swindon. Friendly and well-meaning, he had once made a tentative pass at me. After I had rejected him as tactfully as I could, we had become friends. Like Dana, he was tall and slightly bowed, and like her he was almost attractive. Where Dana’s looks were marred by a large sharp nose, Barry’s were spoiled by a set of prominent front teeth which he frequently displayed in a dopey grin. Not as foolish as he looked, Barry was the kind of man of whom my mother would approve: steady, sensible and good natured. More than that, he was a friend who could be relied on in a crisis.

‘Now then, Miss Flake,’ he was saying as I approached. ‘You know I can’t let you through.’ His cheerful smile didn’t waver. ‘We’ve only just got here ourselves. If a passing patrol hadn’t spotted him from the other side of the river and come along to investigate, even we wouldn’t know anything about it yet. There’s no call to go upsetting yourself. I’m only doing my job.’

‘You’re the one who’s preventing me from doing my job,’ she retorted. ‘The public have a right to know what’s going on here.’

Despite her badgering, Barry’s good natured smile appeared genuine. ‘All in good time, Miss Flake, all in good time.’

‘This is a good time,’ she protested, ‘and my name isn’t Flake. It’s Flack. There is nothing more irritating than people who think they know your name when they don’t. Now, since you know who I am, perhaps you’ll let me through so we can both get on with what we’re supposed to be doing.’

‘Like I said, Miss Flack, you’re going to have to wait for the press release, along with everyone else.’

‘That’s too late. For goodness sake, don’t you understand anything at all? What’s the point of being first on the scene if I don’t learn what’s going on before anyone else finds out? Do you know what time I got up this morning to get here this early? Any minute now, the entire village is going to turn out, and what sort of scoop will that leave me?’

Barry remained firm in his refusal to let her pass and Dana turned away, grumbling that she might as well have stayed in bed. Catching sight of me, she came hurrying over.

‘Amelia, how are you?’ she cried out, her bonhomie so fake it would have made me laugh had the circumstances of our meeting been less dire. As it was, she made me cringe.

‘My name’s Emily,’ I replied coldly.

‘Yes, of course, it is, Emily, Emily. I know who you are. I’m so glad to have caught you.’

Unwilling to engage her in conversation, I turned away without another word. Unlike me, Poppy had no reservations about approaching Dana, and jumped up excitedly when Dana opened her bag.

‘She’s probably hoping you opened your bag to get out a treat for her,’ I explained, yanking Poppy towards me. ‘That’s why she’s getting so excited.’

To my surprise, Dana took a dog treat from a packet in her bag and asked whether she could give it to Poppy, who growled in delight when she received it.

I thanked Dana. ‘You’ve made her day. You must have a dog?’

Dana shook her head. ‘Not me. I carry these around with me because, well, you never know when they might come in handy.’ She gave a sly grin.

I wasn’t quite sure why dog treats might come in handy for someone who didn’t own a dog, but I smiled and nodded, pleased that Poppy was having a good time.

‘Now,’ Dana said, ‘you’re just the person I want to talk to. My editor is very interested in learning more about your “set to” yesterday.’

With a sigh, I recalled seeing her at the fête, watching my encounter with Silas Strang and taking a picture of us as we argued. She might even have been filming us.

Reluctant to discuss the incident, too late I saw through her ploy to use Poppy in order to gain my attention. Barry was watching us, looking faintly anxious. I gave him a reassuring wave to indicate that Dana was not being a nuisance. Nevertheless he came over to join us.

‘Now then, now then,’ he called out as he drew near. ‘Move along there.’

‘I know, I know, nothing to see here,’ Dana laughed harshly. ‘Do stop interfering, Barry. Two women are allowed to talk without you poking your nose in.’ Grabbing my wrist, she tucked my arm under hers. ‘Put a man in a uniform and he thinks he can control your every move. Come along, Amelia.’

With that, she dragged me away, leaving Barry standing alone by the cordon.

‘Now, you live in the village, don’t you, Amelia?’ she asked me as we walked away.

I sighed. Having given up correcting her about my name, I wondered how to extricate myself from her clutches. Her hand was resting on the crook of my arm, long red fingernails glistening like talons.

‘Now,’ she continued, when Barry could no longer hear us. ‘Tell me everything you know about what’s going on. And don’t leave anything out. It’s Silas Strang, isn’t it?’

Wondering how she had discovered the identity of the victim, or even that there was a body at all, I insisted I had no idea what she was talking about.

‘How did you hear about it so quickly?’ I asked her, unable to quell my curiosity.

She tapped the side of her nose and winked. ‘A good reporter has her contacts,’ she replied. ‘I can’t reveal my sources, but let’s just say no one but the police and me know about this yet. And you,’ she added crossly, as though I had deliberately turned up to annoy her. ‘I absolutely forbid you to tell anyone else before I’ve broken the story,’ she added, gazing at me with a calculating expression.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘I’m talking about the body, of course,’ she replied impatiently, tapping my forearm with her nails. ‘The police only put up those tents when a serious crime’s been committed and they need to send in a SOCO team to search for clues. Scene of Crime Officers. Surely you know that.’

As Dana was speaking, the cordon was opened to allow a police van through, and a team of white-coated officers jumped out.

‘There they are,’ she said, with a complacent smile. ‘What did I just tell you? They’ve come to search the crime scene for evidence. Now, while we’re waiting to hear about what’s happening in there, tell me all about your altercation with Silas Strang yesterday.’