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- Herausgeber: Bastei Entertainment
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
Wedding bells are ringing In the picturesque village of Bunburry with the community coming together in joyful celebration. But the festive atmosphere takes a dark turn when the home of Rakesh Choudhury, the respected owner of Bunburry's popular Indian restaurant, is viciously attacked. As whispers of racism ripple through the tight-knit community, tensions rise. Who could have committed such a heinous act? Is the attack a targeted hate crime, or is something more sinister at play? There is an official police investigation, but amateur sleuth Alfie McAlister believes there are other jealousies and hidden grudges at play. Is he the only one who can uncover the truth?
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Contents
Bunburry – A Cosy Mystery Series
Miss Marple meets Oscar Wilde in this new series of cosy mysteries set in the picturesque Cotswolds village of Bunburry. In “Murderous Ride”, the second Bunburry book, Alfie discovers that he has not only inherited a cottage from his late Aunt Augusta but also a 1950s Jaguar. He is dismayed: for reasons of his own, he no longer drives. Aunt Augusta’s best friends, Liz and Marge, persuade him to get behind the wheel again – but that’s just the start of his troubles.
About the Book
Wedding bells are ringing In the picturesque village of Bunburry with the community coming together in joyful celebration. But the festive atmosphere takes a dark turn when the home of Rakesh Choudhury, the respected owner of Bunburry’s popular Indian restaurant, is viciously attacked. As whispers of racism ripple through the tight-knit community, tensions rise. Who could have committed such a heinous act? Is the attack a targeted hate crime, or is something more sinister at play? There is an official police investigation, but amateur sleuth Alfie McAlister believes there are other jealousies and hidden grudges at play. Is he the only one who can uncover the truth?
Cast
Alfie McAlister flees the hustle and bustle of London for the peace and quiet of the Cotswolds. Unfortunately, the "heart of England" turns out to be deadlier than expected …
Margaret “Marge” Redwood and Clarissa “Liz” Hopkins have lived in Bunburry their entire lives, where they are famous for their exceptional fudge-making skills. Between Afternoon Tea and Gin o’clock they relish a bit of sleuthing …
Emma Hollis loves her job as policewoman. And Alfie McAlister.
Betty Thorndike is a fighter. Mostly for animal rights. She’s the sole member of Bunburry’s Green Party.
Oscar de Linnet lives in London and is Alfie's best friend. He tries luring Alfie back to the City because: “anybody can be good in the country. There are no temptations there.”
Augusta Lytton is Alfie’s aunt. She’s dead. But still full of surprises …
Harold Wilson used to love a pint (or two).
BUNBURRY is a picturesque Cotswolds village, where sinister secrets lurk beneath the perfect façade …
HELENA MARCHMONT
A Difficult Position
Hatred is blind, as well as love.
Oscar Wilde
Prologue
The night sky was inky black, the moon a mere sliver of silver hanging high above the village of Bunburry. From a distance came the faint sound of music and celebrations. But not a soul was in this narrow, cobbled street apart from two dark-clad figures moving stealthily in the shadows.
Dressed in black from head to toe, their faces obscured by balaclavas, they moved with purpose and precision, avoiding the pale glow cast by the Victorian street lamps.
“This is it.” It was a man’s voice, a rough whisper carried away by the night breeze. He indicated a narrow alleyway at the side of the building, where there were no street lights.
His slighter-built companion nodded without speaking, and followed him to the door, laying down a dark holdall and unzipping it.
The tall man knelt beside it and took out a can of kerosene, a box of long matches and a piece of cotton.
“Ready?” he whispered, holding up the box of matches.
His companion shook his head and said in an undertone: “Best I stay at the corner and keep watch,” walking away without waiting for a response.
The man by the holdall let out a snort of derision but he wasn’t going to waste time insisting that they stayed together. All that was important was getting the job done.
He soaked the length of cotton in kerosene, then soundlessly opened the letterbox and pushed the material through until it reached the floor on the other side, ensuring a corner for him to ignite was left poking out.
Then, holding his breath, he lit a match.
1. A Wedding
Debbie Crawshaw, owner of Bunburry’s premier (and only) beauty salon, was wearing her brightest smile.
This was a wedding, and a wedding was one of the happiest events there could be. The parish church was looking particularly beautiful. Marge Redwood had excelled herself with the floral display. Small posies made up of lavender, roses and baby’s-breath were tied to the end of each pew. Tall urns with cascades of hydrangeas, delphiniums and trailing ivy flanked the doors. And there was a gorgeous arrangement of lilies and orchids on the altar itself.
Alongside the fragrance of the flowers was the scent of polished wood. Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, casting colourful patterns on the flagstones. Liz Hopkins was playing something classical but with a nice tune on the church organ.
As Debbie glanced around, her smile grew even brighter. And yet she couldn’t help feeling a trace of sadness, wondering whether she would ever walk down this aisle as a bride rather than simply sitting in a decorated pew.
She gazed at Alfie McAlister as he stood by the altar, tall and slim, looking more handsome than ever in a pale-grey suit, his brown hair flopping over his forehead.
Debbie had once harboured romantic hopes of Alfie, but he had made his choice of partner, Emma Hollis, a police constable. Emma was a very nice person, there was no doubt about that, but Debbie felt she really didn’t make the most of herself. If only Emma would come into the salon. The way she wore her hair was too severe. Debbie would add layers and textures to give her bob a fuller, tousled look, and advise her on make-up. Volumising mascara, and a warm taupe eyeshadow would be perfect, with gold shimmer on the centre of the eyelid. And a smudge of charcoal eyeshadow under the lower eyelash line for a smoky effect.
Emma’s older sister Laura was sitting on the other side of the aisle. There had been no nonsense about guests of the bride sitting on the left-hand side of the aisle, and guests of the groom sitting on the right: people had simply taken the next place in the pews as they arrived. The church was packed: the whole village must be here, eager to witness the wedding ceremony.
Laura was sitting with her partner, Emma’s boss, Sergeant Daniel Angel. He was a permanent fixture now that Sergeant Harold Wilson had taken medical retirement. The new sergeant certainly suited his surname, with his fair hair and his chiselled features.
Miss Radford-Jones, surely ninety if she was a day, sat in the front row in her usual elegant trouser suit, her steel-grey hair in a chignon. One hand rested on the walking stick, which looked more like a stylish accessory than a necessity. Debbie had always thought of Miss Radford-Jones a remote and unapproachable figure in her enormous mansion on the edge of the village. But since the elderly lady had given over part of her home to the community library, she had gained a new lease of life.
Beside her sat Gwendolyn, the librarian, unique in the village for being a Goth. Debbie could only see her from behind, but with her sharp eye for how people were dressed, saw immediately that Gwendolyn wasn’t wearing her usual multi-layered black dress. Instead, she was wearing her extra-special multi-layered black dress, with a heavy silver chain round her neck. Given the occasion, Debbie was sure that the necklace was the one Gwendolyn always wore on World Goth Day, a large red heart surrounded by black roses.
Old Tom sat on the other side of Miss Radford-Jones, his hair slicked down, and his beard newly trimmed. It was touching that people had made such an effort.
Debbie glanced behind her. There was Dr Anderson and his wife, sitting by Nurse Gibb and her family. Mrs Burgess had plonked herself directly behind Dr Anderson and was bending his ear about something. Mrs Burgess was one of those people who could be described as enjoying ill health. There was always something wrong with her, but Debbie was certain that it was nothing that couldn’t be put right if Mrs Burgess watched fewer box sets and took a little exercise. She had suggested this as tactfully as possible when Mrs Burgess came in for her regular massage. But Mrs Burgess hadn’t been entirely receptive. In fact, she remarked that if there had been another beauty salon in Bunburry, she would have taken her custom elsewhere.
Debbie turned her attention away from Mrs B to Sumi Chong and Tara Davies – the Magnolia Inn was going from strength to strength and had enough staff to allow both owners to take time off. Each of them was wearing a magnolia flower instead of a hat or fascinator, although Debbie felt this exotic touch was more suited to Sumi, with her jet-black hair, rather than a blonde like Tara.
Across the aisle sat Rakesh Choudhury. It was still a shock to see him without his wife. Debbie’s salon was opposite Rakesh’s restaurant, and she rarely went in for a mango lassi or a portion of chana masala without chatting to Saroj. It was difficult to accept she had gone. Rakesh’s two cute little boys were scrambling about in the pew, despite their Aunt Nithya trying to keep them in check.
And there was Noah, now in secondary school, but still a mainstay of the community library. He saw Debbie looking round and gave her a wave, then hastily put his hand down, obviously worried that he wasn’t supposed to wave in a church. His mother Sonia was sitting very close to her boyfriend, hunky Neil Walker, the outdoor survival expert.
It seemed that everyone was pairing off, everyone but Debbie.
But this was ridiculous, she told herself. She shouldn’t be thinking about herself. Today wasn’t about her, it was about joining together a man and a woman in holy matrimony.
The groom was surreptitiously glancing at his watch and the vicar went over to him and gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder.
Debbie was close enough to hear the vicar’s words.
“It’s the bride’s prerogative to be late. Don’t worry, I’ve never known one not to turn up.”
Someone near the front said a little too loudly: “There’s always a first time,” and there was a ripple of laughter. Debbie pursed her lips. This was neither the time nor place for childish jokes. Of course, the bride was going to turn up. Wasn’t she?
An instant later, the organ music changed to the Wedding March and the guests all rose to their feet, turning as one to see the bride.
Even though Debbie knew what to expect, she gave a gasp of delight as the bride took her first step into the church, on the arm of Mr Harper, followed by her middle-aged matron of honour. The wedding dress was perfect, ivory satin in an A-line shape, fitted at the bodice and gently flaring to the calf-length hem. It was a particularly flattering style given that Dorothy from the post office had – Debbie searched for the right word – womanly hips.
An hour previously, Debbie had been preparing to do Dorothy’s wedding make-up.
“I’ve got everything ready,” she said. “A hydrating primer, a lightweight foundation and just a touch of concealer.”
Dorothy had given an uncomfortable giggle. “You’re making me sound like a rundown shack.”
“Not at all,” said Debbie earnestly. “We’re simply enhancing your natural beauty. Peach blusher, a satin lipstick that has such a sophisticated effect, and a spritz with a setting spray to make your skin look gorgeously dewy. He won’t be able to take his eyes off you.”
She had been right. Harold Wilson was gazing at Dorothy in adoration, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. The recently retired police sergeant seemed so dazed that it was just as well Alfie was there as best man to keep him upright.
Debbie hadn’t realised that ex-Sergeant Wilson and Alfie were friends, something she mentioned to Liz and Marge when they were in the village hall, once all the speeches had been made and the wedding feast was being served.
“Friends?” snorted Marge derisively as she tucked into another cauliflower bhaji. “Don’t be daft!”
Seeing the senior citizens together, Debbie reflected, you would think Liz was the force to be reckoned with, taller and bulkier and possibly even the older of the two. Marge was small and birdlike, with a mop of white curls which Debbie longed to dye metallic lilac. But she would never dare suggest such a thing. Liz was always placid and gentle, but you never knew when Marge was going to react badly to an innocent remark.
“He made a lovely speech as best man,” Debbie pointed out. “It was just that I’d never seen them spend much time together. Any time together.”
“I would hope Alfie had more sense than to be friends with Harold Wilson,” said Liz as she ripped apart a stuffed paratha, neither placidly nor gently. “Remember that dreadful time Harold arrested Alfie and locked him up without any justification whatsoever? Thank goodness he’s taken medical retirement. He’s been nothing but a tin-pot dictator, a disgrace to the police force.”
Too late, Debbie remembered that the ex-police sergeant was the one topic guaranteed to infuriate Liz. As Emma’s great-aunt, Liz was firmly convinced that the sergeant had given Emma ninety-five per cent of the work and then taken ninety-five per cent of the credit. If there had been traditional seating in the church, Liz would definitely not have been a friend of the groom. But then, neither would most people, Debbie thought. It was Dorothy’s wedding they were there for. The cheerful postwoman always delivered the latest news as well as the post throughout the village, and was an indispensable part of Bunburry life.
“I’ve no idea why Alfie agreed to be best man,” said Liz.
Marge gave a sigh. “You know Alfie. He’s so obliging. He’d do anything anybody asked of him.”
For a moment, Debbie was lost in thought about what she might ask Alfie to do. Then she realised Marge was still talking, and pretended she had been listening all along.
“…for the wedding photographs,” Marge was saying. “Alfie certainly scrubs up better than the bunch of drunks Harry Wilson hangs out with.”
“That’s a little unkind, dear,” said Liz, back to her usual emollient self. “It’s a group of friends who just like chatting over a drink or two.”
“Or ten,” said Marge. “And they can’t be such good friends if they’re not here for the meal and have only been invited to the evening reception.”
“Actually,” said Debbie, “I’ve noticed that Sergeant Wilson doesn’t meet them that much any more. I haven’t seen him in the Drunken Horse for ages.”
“That’s Dorothy’s doing,” said Marge sagely. “Making sure he stays healthy. She’s already been widowed once. She doesn’t want to lose another husband any time soon.”
Liz put a warning hand on her friend’s arm. “Better change the subject, dear. Rakesh is coming round with more food.”
As the owner of From Bombay to Bunburry, the village’s Indian restaurant, approached with laden platters of curry and rice, he was greeted with compliments from every guest he passed.
“Rakesh, you’ve surpassed yourself – this is wonderful,” said Liz as he reached them.
“Just perfect,” said Debbie.
“I hope there’s more of that lovely spinach thing,” said Marge.
“Of course,” said Rakesh, smiling down at her. “I made extra specially for you.”
As he went off to fetch more breads and chutneys, Marge said: “The poor, poor man. What a tragedy. I sometimes wonder how he carries on from day to day.”
“He’s got his boys to think of,” said Liz. “And I’m sure he’ll have enjoyed doing something different, catering for the wedding.”
“Is that why they asked him?” said Debbie. “You don’t usually get Indian food at a wedding.”
“I’m sure you do at Indian weddings,” said Marge tartly. “And no, Dorothy and Harry didn’t ask him out of the goodness of their hearts, they asked him because they both love his cooking.”
“I love it too,” said Debbie. “But I didn’t think Old Tom would like it. He’s not very adventurous.”
“Don’t worry,” said Liz. “Rakesh has made sure that everyone gets something to suit them. Old Tom’s getting chicken and chips.”
Old Tom spotted Debbie looking at him and gave her the thumbs-up. She responded with a little wave and her bright wedding smile. But she had been wondering about something else as well.
“I was surprised that the reception wasn’t in the Magnolia Inn,” she said. “But I suppose you couldn’t have Rakesh going into their kitchen to do the cooking.”
“It’s not that, dear,” said Liz. “The Magnolia Inn may be a luxury hotel, but it hasn’t been around that long. Dorothy’s Bunburry born and bred, and she said the tradition’s always been to get married in the parish church and have the reception in the village hall.”
Marge gave a disapproving snort as she spooned spinach paneer on to her plate. “That’s always been the tradition for church goers. Dorothy only comes to services at Christmas and Easter, and I’m pretty sure that’s the first time Harry Wilson’s darkened the church doors. The vicar’s far too lax if you ask me.”
“I’m pretty sure nobody’s asked you, dear,” murmured Liz.
“It’s true,” Marge insisted. “Remember our previous vicar? You had to be a regular attender before he would consider marrying you, and there was none of this living together first nonsense. The vicar in Rimingford, he upholds standards the same way.”
“Goodness, dear, you sound like an old curmudgeon. One would never believe you were a child of the Sixties,” said Liz. “The former vicar was a narrow-minded killjoy who had some very unpleasant old-fashioned views. We’re very lucky to have someone as compassionate as Philip.”
“There’s compassionate and there’s being a mug,” said Marge. “We get all these people wanting to be married in our church just because it’s so picturesque, and nine times out of ten, Philip goes along with it. But it’s our church, not a photo opportunity. It’s because of all these other wedding bookings that Dorothy and Harry had to get married at this time of year. It’ll be pitch black by seven o’clock.”
“And it’s lovely having a wedding to brighten everything up,” said Liz.
“And Harry Wilson’s divorced,” sniffed Marge.
“Marge, dear, divorcees have been able to marry in church for over twenty years now, so long as the vicar’s satisfied about their intentions,” said Liz.
“May I join you, ladies?” a voice broke in. “It looks as though we’ll shortly be moving on to the desserts, and I thought I should circulate in the hope of avoiding temptation.”
“If you can’t avoid temptation, there’s no hope for the rest of us,” said Marge. “Pull up that seat.”
