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- Herausgeber: Bastei Entertainment
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Bunburry - A Cosy Crime Series Compilation
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
Miss Marple meets Oscar Wilde in this new series of cosy mysteries set in the picturesque Cotswolds village of Bunburry. Here, fudge-making and quaffing real ale in the local pub are matched by an undercurrent of passion, jealousy, hatred and murder - laced with a welcome dose of humour.
This compilation contains episodes 10-12.
SINNERS AND SAINTS
Harold Wilson loathes Bunburry's vicar, Philip Brown - and is thrilled by the chance of locking him up for a local crime. When Reverend Brown refuses to defend himself or produce an alibi, it's up to the Bunburry Triangle to uncover what's going on.
MURDER AT THE MAGNOLIA INN
Bunburry is about to be enhanced by the late Mrs Benson's mansion being transformed into a luxury hotel. But when the project is sabotaged, who is responsible? After damage comes death, and it's up to amateur sleuth Alfie McAlister and his friends to uncover the truth.
POISON IVY
The Magnolia Inn is hosting surprise birthday celebrations for Liz and Marge. But when Alfie McAlister meets the glamorous widow Francesca Fairfax Adams, he puts himself and his best friend Oscar in terrible danger ...
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Digital original edition
Copyright © 2024 by Bastei Lübbe AG, Schanzenstraße 6-20, 51063 Cologne, Germany
Written by Olga Wojtas as Helena Marchmont
Idea and series concept: Kathrin Kummer & Rebecca Schaarschmidt
Project editor: Kathrin Kummer
Cover design: Kirstin Osenau
Cover illustrations © Shutterstock: Peter Raymond Llewellyn | Protasov AN | Sk_Advance studio | ivangal | majeczka | alicja neumiler | Ola-la | Canicula | ivangal | Sk_Advance studio | Wirestock Images | Semir Sakic | kpboonjit | Christina Li | Swisty242 | Deer worawut | mikolajn | majeczka | Nella | arxichtu4ki | nadtochiy | Andrew Roland | Artiste2d3d | aniana
ISBN 978-3-7517-4881-0
About the author
Helena Marchmont is a pseudonym of Olga Wojtas, who was born and brought up in Edinburgh. She was encouraged to write by an inspirational English teacher, Iona M. Cameron. Olga won a Scottish Book Trust New Writers Award in 2015 and recently published her forth book in the Miss Blaine mystery series.
About the book
Miss Marple meets Oscar Wilde in this new series of cosy mysteries set in the picturesque Cotswolds village of Bunburry. Here, fudge-making and quaffing real ale in the local pub are matched by an undercurrent of passion, jealousy, hatred and murder - laced with a welcome dose of humour.
This compilation contains episodes 10-12.
SINNERS AND SAINTS
Harold Wilson loathes Bunburry's vicar, Philip Brown - and is thrilled by the chance of locking him up for a local crime. When Reverend Brown refuses to defend himself or produce an alibi, it's up to the Bunburry Triangle to uncover what's going on.
MURDER AT THE MAGNOLIA INN
Bunburry is about to be enhanced by the late Mrs Benson's mansion being transformed into a luxury hotel. But when the project is sabotaged, who is responsible? After damage comes death, and it's up to amateur sleuth Alfie McAlister and his friends to uncover the truth.
POISON IVY
The Magnolia Inn is hosting surprise birthday celebrations for Liz and Marge. But when Alfie McAlister meets the glamorous widow Francesca Fairfax Adams, he puts himself and his best friend Oscar in terrible danger ...
Bunburry - Episode 10-12
Cover
Title
Copyright
About the author
About the book
Contents
Bunburry – Sinners and Saints
Contents
Cast
Title
Prologue
1. The Policeman and the Vicar
2. The Policewoman and the Vicar
3. The Supper Party
4. Emma and King Midas
5. An Identification Parade
6. Peas in a Pod
7. One Out, One In
8. The Mills Farm Shop
9. Confession in the Vicarage
10. Two Sides to Every Story
11. More in Heaven and Earth
12. A Visitor in the Village
13. A Trip into The Country
14. The Vicarage
Next episode
Bunburry – Murder at the Magnolia Inn
Contents
Cast
Title
1. A Morning Run
2. Decisions
3. The Newcomers
4. A Bad Morning
5. The Drunken Horse
6. Evening Discussions
7. The Body
8. Liz and Marge
9. Phone Calls
10. A Proposition
11. Sheffield
12. The Library
13. The Site Investigation
14. A Satisfactory Conclusion
Next episode
Bunburry – Poison Ivy
Contents
Cast
Title
Prologue
1. The Drunken Horse
2. Betty’s Cottage
3. The New Arrival
4. Party Invitations
5. An Accusation
6. The Private Investigator
7. An Evening with Francesca
8. Oscar as Child Minder
9. The Party
10. Race Against Time
11. Noah as Detective
12. Epilogue
Next episode
Guide
Start Reading
Contents
Contents
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, the only thing she is tired of are her aunt Liz’s constant attempts at matchmaking.
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 loves a pint (or two) more than his job as local police sergeant.
BUNBURRY is a picturesque Cotswolds village, where sinister secrets lurk beneath the perfect façade …
HELENA MARCHMONT
Sinners and Saints
The only difference between the saint and the sinner is that every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future.
Oscar Wilde
Prologue
The tall, silver-haired man knelt down by the side of the track and carefully reorganised his backpack to make sure nothing would get broken.
He glanced round at the farm shop. The woman who had served him had disappeared and there was no sign of her coming back. The stocky, ruddy-faced man who ran to fetch her was probably her husband. It must have been some sort of emergency. She had rushed out of the shop after him, her apron flapping, and they both dashed off in the direction of the farm. She hadn’t even paused to close the shop door, let alone lock it.
The silver-haired man smiled. Perhaps she had been careless in her haste. But it was more likely that the need to lock the door hadn’t crossed her mind. He could tell she wasn’t the sort of woman to harbour suspicions about a stranger, however unusual their appearance. He at least had made sure to close the door.
He refastened the backpack and hoisted it on to his shoulders. There was nobody else around, and from here, he couldn’t see the neighbouring farms, just fields and hills. It was a beautiful day, sunny, with a light breeze preventing it from getting too hot.
As he set out for Bunburry, he began to sing.
1. The Policeman and the Vicar
Sergeant Harold Wilson was enjoying a convivial evening with his cronies in The Drunken Horse Inn. By the time his third pint arrived, he was telling them about his brilliance in solving a case involving a miscarriage of justice.
Edith, the elderly mother of The Horse’s landlord, overheard him as she cleared a nearby table.
“Is that you taking credit where none is due, Harry?” she called. “That case was solved by the Bunburry Triangle, and well you know it.”
“Woman’s senile,” muttered Wilson, sufficiently quietly for Edith not to hear. “Scarcely knows what day it is. The Bunburry Triangle – they couldn’t solve The Bugle ’s easy crossword. Idiotic name for a bunch of idiots, two interfering old busybodies and a posh git from London.”
“Interfering old busybodies? I’d like to hear you say that in front of Liz and Marge,” said Steve Turner.
“He wouldn’t dare,” said Dan Bryan, laughing. “They might hit him with their handbags.”
Sergeant Wilson, who had already been on the wrong side of Marge Redwood’s handbag, gave a disparaging snort and returned to his pint.
“You’ve got to hand it to the Bunburry Triangle, though,” said Gerry Metcalfe. “They’ve got a pretty good track record in solving crimes round here.”
Spluttering, Wilson turned on Gerry. “You’re joking! You actually believe all that fake news? Crimes get solved by good old-fashioned police work, not three amateurs completely out of their depth.”
Stung by this disloyalty from his so-called friends, he gulped down the rest of his pint, and announced he was going home, even though it was his round.
He was still in a foul mood the next morning, and it didn’t improve when he turned up at the police station to find Constable Emma Hollis wasn’t there. He belatedly remembered she was off on some training course at headquarters. He would have to make his own coffee.
“Training courses, load of rubbish,” he muttered as he switched on the kettle. “You learn by doing.”
His mood deteriorated further when he found the milk in the fridge had gone off, and he would have to drink his coffee black.
There was still half a packet of chocolate digestives in the cupboard. Wilson dunked one in his mug in a bid to make the coffee more palatable. It helped a bit, so he dunked another, and settled down to read the sports pages.
The computer suddenly bleeped.
He didn’t like the computer. You could press a key and next thing you know, something crucial has gone missing. It was better to let Hollis deal with it; that way, if something went wrong, there was only her to blame. But right now, he didn’t have an option. He heaved himself out of his chair and lumbered over to Hollis’s desk.
The message was from headquarters. It began with the image of a sketch, not one of those e-fit composites that scarcely looked like a person at all, but a drawing that was utterly recognisable.
“Thank you, God,” breathed Wilson, and then chortled aloud at his own words.
There was one man in Bunburry he loathed more than Alfie McAlister. And that was the Reverend Philip Brown. He would never forgive that man for what he had done.
“Gotcha,” Wilson said to the computer screen.
Bunburry’s elderly vicar had made a pathetic attempt to disguise himself, but there was no doubt it was him — the angular face, the deep-set eyes, the mouth curved in a sanctimonious smile. Wilson scanned the information below the sketch. A mean, nasty crime. The vicar would be kicked out of Bunburry with immediate effect, a thought which delighted the sergeant.
Grinning, he shrugged on his jacket and fastened it over his paunch before heading out to the car and driving to the vicarage.
The door to the two-storey Victorian house was shut. Sergeant Wilson pressed hard on the bell, following this up by hammering on the door knocker.
He could hear a voice in the distance: “Yes, yes, I’m coming, just a moment.”
The door opened, and there was the vicar in his usual dark suit and dog collar, not what he had worn to commit the crime.
His expression of mild concern changed when he saw Sergeant Wilson. Guilt? Fear?
“Good gracious,” he said faintly.
“You weren’t expecting me, sir?” the sergeant asked. “I thought you might have been.”
“No – no, I wasn’t. What’s happened, sergeant?”
“I was rather hoping you would tell me, sir.” Sergeant Wilson was enjoying himself. “I wonder if you would accompany me to the station where we could have a little chat.”
“Now?” The vicar hesitated. “I’m sorry, sergeant. I’m quite busy this morning. I could pop in this afternoon if that’s any good.”
Sergeant Wilson puffed out his chest and gave a tight smile. “I don’t think you quite understand, sir. It’s not exactly an invitation. I’d like you to answer some questions in connection with an incident that took place yesterday.”
“An incident?” The vicar frowned. “I haven’t heard about any incident. So I really don’t think I can-”
His gazed shifted from Sergeant Wilson as something else caught his attention. Wilson half-turned to see what it was. Dorothy from the post office was coming up the path. The day was getting better and better.
“Goodness! Sergeant Wilson,” she said as she got closer. “What on earth is going on?”
“I don’t quite-” the vicar began, but the sergeant spoke over him, using his most official tone.
“Mr Brown is helping us with our enquiries concerning an incident at the Mills farm shop.” He grasped the vicar by the arm and began propelling him down the path. “Come along now, sir. The car’s at the gate.”
The vicar stumbled as he was pulled along, but didn’t resist.
“I’ll just pop your post through the letterbox, reverend,” called Dorothy excitedly.
Wilson couldn’t believe his luck. Dorothy was an unstoppable source of news in the village, and before long everyone would know that holier-than-thou Philip Brown was in the frame for theft and vandalism.
“Did you say the Mills farm shop?” the vicar asked from the back of the car as they drove off. “I-”
“If you don’t mind, sir, I’d rather you didn’t talk right now. You should wait until we get to the station, when everything can be recorded. That way, there’s no danger of any misunderstanding.”
No more was said until they were in the interview room. After switching on the recording equipment, Sergeant Wilson noted the date, and the time by his watch, gave his rank and name, and added: “Police Constable Emma Hollis is currently unavailable,” just for good measure.
The vicar, invited to state his full name and date of birth, did so, his voice shaking slightly. “I don’t understand. What’s happening? Am I some sort of suspect?” he added.
“If you wouldn’t mind confining yourself to answering questions rather than asking them, sir. Where were you yesterday, around eleven a.m. to midday?”
The vicar shifted abruptly on the plastic chair. “Yesterday?” he faltered. “Let me think.”
“Come now, sir, yesterday’s quite recent. It’s not that difficult a question.”
“I was– I would have been in the vicarage.”
The change of tense didn’t escape Sergeant Wilson’s attention.
“Would you, sir? And would anyone else have been there?”
The vicar hesitated. “That’s the day for the ladies’ knitting circle.”
“Is it indeed? That’s very helpful,” said Sergeant Wilson, pulling the telephone towards him. “If you can give me the name of one of the lady knitters, she’ll be able to confirm your presence in the vicarage.”
The vicar shifted in his seat again. “They meet in one of the communal rooms downstairs. My study’s upstairs.”
Wilson picked up the receiver. “Give me a name anyway, sir. It’s still worth checking. They might have heard you walking around while you composed your sermon.”
“I– I may have been out while they were there.”
“You may have been out,” Wilson repeated slowly. “Your memory seems worryingly poor, if you don’t mind my saying. Perhaps you should make an appointment with Dr Anderson for a check-up.”
The vicar sat upright, not meeting the sergeant’s gaze. “I was out,” he said.
“Where?”
“Just– nowhere in particular.”
“You can do better than that, vicar,” said Sergeant Wilson, his voice taking on a harsher tone. “Where did you go?”
“For a drive. Around and about.” The vicar swallowed. “I wonder if I might have a glass of water?”
“Later. I don’t want to disturb your train of thought. So, where did you go?”
The vicar bit his lip and said nothing.
Wilson slammed his hand down on the table between them. “Why did you go to the Mills farm shop?”
The vicar shrank back in his chair. “I wasn’t anywhere near the Mills farm shop. I can assure you of that absolutely.”
“I have to say I find it odd that you’re very clear where you weren’t , but seem to have no idea where you were . If you were an ordinary member of the public, I might think you were lying to me. But obviously, you being a man of the cloth, that can’t be the case. I’m going to ask you one more time, where were you?”
He recognised the expression on the vicar’s face from years of dealing with villains: pure obstinacy.
He noted the time on the tape and stopped the recording.
“So I can go now?” the vicar asked.
Sergeant Wilson shook his head. “A period of quiet contemplation in the cells might help jog your memory. And don’t worry, I’ll get that glass of water you asked for.”
2. The Policewoman and the Vicar
Constable Emma Hollis took a deep breath and prepared to deal with Sergeant Wilson. He was always in a bad mood when she had been out of the station, claiming he had been overloaded with work, although she had never seen any sign of the work in question.
She pushed open the door to the office. The sergeant was lounging in his chair with his feet on the desk, a mug of coffee beside him and a newspaper in front of him.
He turned as she came in, and she couldn’t remember the last time she had seen this particular expression on his face. He was positively beaming.
Instead of the anticipated complaint, he said: “We’ve got a visitor, Hollis. Go and make him a hot drink, and get me another coffee while you’re at it. You’ll have to pop back out and get some milk first. And a packet of biscuits.”
Emma was so taken aback that all she could think of saying was: “There’s still half a packet of chocolate digestives in the cupboard.”
“Not now there isn’t,” said Wilson. “Get a move on. He’ll be gasping for a cuppa.”
There had been no word of a visitor when she was last in the office.
“Where is he?” she asked. “In the interview room?”
Sergeant Wilson’s grin broadened. “In the cells.”
“Who?” Emma asked, her mouth dry, afraid that it was Alfie.
The sarge pointed at the computer.
“There,” he said triumphantly. “Have a look.”
Emma stared at the screen. “The vicar?” she said in astonishment. “Why is he wearing a wig?”
“God knows,” said the sarge and laughed uproariously. “Maybe it’s to go with his frock. That’s what they call it, don’t they, when they boot them out of the church, defrocked?”
Emma rolled her eyes and didn’t care if the sarge noticed. He was stuck in the Stone Age.
“I don’t think we can arrest someone for wearing a wig,” she said acerbically.
“He did a lot more than that. Trashed the Mills farm shop and made off with a load of booze and cash.”
“The vicar?” This was beyond belief. She scrolled down as she read the message. Philip was a suspect, but only because he had been in the shop.
“What was the evidence for arresting him?” she asked.
“I haven’t exactly arrested him,” Wilson muttered.
“The vicar’s not under arrest? Then what’s he doing in the cells?”
“I was just giving him some thinking time.” Wilson gave an aggressive shrug. “All right, then, you go and smooth things over.”
Emma was accustomed to spending a lot of time covering up for the sarge, mainly out of acceptance of police hierarchy, but partly because she almost felt sorry for him. He drank too much, a broken marriage behind him, and that was why his superiors had left him languishing in Bunburry. Every day must be a reminder that he would never have the brilliant career he had wanted. Emma doing his work when he was in bed with a hangover was one thing. But this was something else.
“Sarge, he could have us,” she said. The colour draining from the sarge’s face showed he understood that she really meant “he could have you”.
“Go on, Hollis, go and get him out, and put things right.” His voice sounded almost pleading. “I can’t talk to him, not after – you remember. But you sorted it all out that time. You managed to sweet-talk him once, so you can do it again.”
Emma stared at him. Of course she remembered. But what did the sarge think had happened? Did he really think she had sweet-talked the vicar? He had completely misunderstood. Was that her fault, because of what she had done? But if she tried to explain now, it would only make everything worse.
“I’ll see what I can do,” she said, picking up the keys for the cells.
She looked through the spy-hole before opening the door. The vicar was sitting on the bench beside the blue plastic mattress, his hands clasped and his head bowed. Emma couldn’t tell whether he was praying or despairing. Although maybe there wasn’t much of a difference.
She unlocked the door and he looked up, without his usual smile.
“Emma?” he said uncertainly.
She was in uniform and should remind him that she was currently “Constable Hollis,” but decided against it.
“Reverend Brown,” she said, “I’m afraid there’s been an administrative error. You shouldn’t be here. I’ll run you home. And of course, you’re entitled to make a complaint. I can give you details of how to go about that.”
“That’s not necessary,” he said wearily. “But I’d be very grateful for a lift.”
“Give me a second and I’ll get the car keys.”
Emma returned to the office where Wilson was pacing the floor liked a caged animal.
“Well?” he snapped.
She knew what he was asking, but she said: “I’m taking Reverend Brown back to the vicarage. Can I have the car keys?”
He turned to the key hook on the wall, saw it was empty, and began to search through his pockets. Eventually he found them and as he handed them over, she saw his hand was shaking.
She had planned to let him sweat for a bit longer, in the hope that he would be more careful in future. But bad-tempered and overbearing though the sarge was, she didn’t like to see him in distress.
“It’s okay,” she said. “He’s not taking it any further.”
Wilson exhaled. “That’s part of the job description with these guys, isn’t it?” he said sneeringly. “They’ve got to forgive everyone.”
Emma, already regretting having reassured him so quickly, went off to escort the vicar to the car.
He gave a small chuckle when she opened the front passenger door for him.
“I see I’ve got an upgrade. I was in the back on the way here.”
“I’m so sorry about the mistake,” she said as she put the car into gear and drove out of the car park.
“I was joking,” he assured her. “We all make mistakes. I’ve made more than my fair share.”
Emma doubted this very much. The only mistake she could think of him making was putting up the wrong hymn numbers at the morning service.
She had no idea what the sarge had actually asked before locking the vicar in the cells. It would be wise to double check.
“So, you were in the Mills farm shop yesterday?” she said conversationally.
“No,” said the vicar with unexpected force. “I was not. I made that very clear to Sergeant Wilson.”
She hadn’t expected that. The sketch was definitely of the vicar, despite the long hair. But she knew from experience that people were misidentified all the time. It was entirely possible that whoever had drawn it remembered the vicar from a previous occasion and had mixed him up with someone they’d seen on television, let alone the person they’d seen in the shop. Philip cut a striking figure, tall and slim, and could definitely still be called good-looking despite his age.
So unfair, she thought, that men were considered handsome as they got older, lined faces making them more interesting, while as soon as women got wrinkles, men lost interest in them.
“It’s just that there was someone in the shop yesterday who apparently looked a bit like you,” she explained. “It’s possible they may be able to cast light on an incident there.”
“Sergeant Wilson said there was an incident, but he didn’t explain what it was,” said the vicar, suddenly sounding more tense. “What happened?”
Emma saw no harm in telling him. The Mills farm shop wasn’t near Bunburry, but even so, the news of the theft and damage would be all around the village by now.
“Some cash was stolen, and some booze,” she said.
The vicar didn’t respond, and she glanced at him to find he was staring fixedly ahead, his jaw clenched.
“Maybe I was there,” he mumbled.
“Sorry?”
“Maybe I was there,” he repeated. “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”
Emma felt a surge of alarm. He couldn’t remember where he had been yesterday? Was this the beginning of dementia? Her old English teacher, Mr Marlowe, had fallen victim to the disease, and she remembered how caring the vicar had been, visiting him in the home, and bringing him along to the amateur dramatics rehearsals, looking after him like a mother hen. She couldn’t bear it if the vicar was struck down by that terrible illness as well.
Emma gave the church a wide berth, but Aunt Liz and Aunt Marge were regular attenders, Aunt Liz playing the organ at the services. She would have to ask them if they had noticed Philip behaving strangely.
She pulled up outside the vicarage. “Here we are,” she said with fake cheerfulness.
The vicar, normally vigorous and energetic, seemed shaky as he got out of the car. Was that the result of being stuck in a cell for goodness knew how long? Or was it a sign that he was ill? She walked up the path with him, prepared to give him a steadying hand. But he reached the door and unlocked it with no difficulty.
And there, sitting in the porch, was a bottle. It had a distinctive pale purple label on it, emblazoned with a picture of a windmill. The Mills farm shop’s lavender gin.
“Did you get that yesterday?” Emma asked.
The vicar followed her gaze. “That bottle? No.”
“But you got it from the Mills farm shop?” she persisted.
“I told you, I haven’t been in the farm shop.” He stopped suddenly. “Or maybe I was, I may have been. But I haven’t seen that bottle before. I presume it’s a gift. The community groups kindly leave things for me from time to time in return for using the downstairs rooms.”
He couldn’t tell her whether or not he had been in the shop, but he was certain he hadn’t seen the bottle before. It was exactly the sort of thing Mr Marlowe would have said when he started getting ill.
“The bottle, do you mind if I take it?” she asked.
“Please, be my guest.” He picked it up and handed it to her. “Thanks for the lift, Emma.”
As she drove off, the bottle carefully stowed on the back seat, she felt a pang of guilt. Did he honestly think he was making her a present of it? Didn’t he realise she wanted it as evidence?
Instead of driving back to the station, she drove out on the Cheltenham road to the Mills farm shop. She had never been there before, and it was a lot further than she expected.
When she reached the farm shop, she found it closed and shuttered, but there were sounds of movement inside.
She knocked on the door and called: “Hello? Is anyone there? I’m Constable Hollis from Bunburry.”
The door opened, and a stocky, middle-aged man appeared, wearing shabby overalls and muddy wellingtons, and holding a broom. He had the ruddy complexion of someone who usually worked outside.
Emma held up her warrant card for him to see. “Can I ask who you are, sir?”
“Herbert Mills,” he said gruffly. “I hope you’ve come to tell me you’ve got whoever did this.”
“Our investigations are still ongoing,” she said. “Would you be able to tell me whether this bottle is one of the ones that was stolen?”
He propped the broom against the wall and examined the bottle for the date code.
“Could be. It’s part of the latest batch to go on sale. Where did you find it?”
“But you can’t say definitely that it’s one of the stolen bottles?” said Emma, not answering his question.
“This batch has been on sale for a couple of months now so no, I can’t say definitely. But it’s possible, if you found it somewhere suspicious-”
“We got a sketch of a possible person of interest,” Emma interrupted.
“Yes, my wife drew that,” said Herbert Mills with a touch of pride. “She’s always been good at art. I thought it was a very good likeness. Your lot said they were sending it out to all the police stations in the area.”
“So you saw the man as well?” Emma asked.
“Yes, I saw him all right. I run the farm, and my wife’s in charge of the shop and the café. Things are tough these days, farms going under all the time - most of the ones round here are on borrowed time if you ask me. We decided to diversify to bring in a bit more money, and now look at what’s happened. It’s broken my wife’s heart.”
He stood aside to let her see into the shop. He had cleared up most of the damage, but there were still tell-tale glints of broken glass on the floor. The empty till was sitting forlornly on a chair, and a shelf was half hanging off the wall. The place had been dusted for fingerprints, the fine powder visible on the dark surfaces. A pile of the shop’s produce was neatly stacked in a corner, covered in polythene sheeting, but the counter was hidden by a heap of bin bags bulging with debris.
“Is your wife here?” Emma asked.
“She’s here, but she’s out of it. She took a turn when she saw all the damage – the doctor gave her a sedative.”
“The man you identified, what did you think of him?”
“I thought he was a tramp, to tell you the truth, or one of these hippies, with his long hair and baggy clothes. I didn’t talk to him myself, but my wife served him, and said he was nicely spoken, with a lovely smile.”
The latter was a good description of the vicar.
“He bought two jars of our home-made lemon curd,” Herbert Mills went on.
Emma remembered Aunt Marge saying: “That man loves lemon curd so much, I’m surprised he hasn’t turned bright yellow.”
She looked round the vandalised shop. “And why do you think he was responsible for this?”
“It’s obvious. There wasn’t anyone else around.”
The officers from headquarters would already have asked their questions, but there was no harm in asking again.
“Can you think of anyone with a grudge against you?”
Herbert Mills looked startled. “A grudge against us? No, nobody. We get on with everyone. We had a bit of a barney with our next-door neighbours when we went organic, but that was ages ago and it’s all fine now.”
He gave a slow nod of understanding. “You think this was done by someone with a grudge against us? No, no, I can tell you now, this was a spur of the moment thing. We had a bit of a crisis with an animal. I ran to get my wife, and the fellow had just left, was right there at the door, as close as I am to you now.”
“And how long was your wife away from the shop?”
“Not long. Couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes. But long enough for him to wreck the place.”
“Thanks,” she said. “We’ll be in touch as soon as we have more to tell you.”
As she drove back to the police station, she tried to work out what to do. There was no doubt that the vicar had been in the farm shop yesterday, even if he didn’t seem sure of that himself, dressed oddly and wearing a wig. She had only ever seen him in his clerical robes or a suit. Was this some bizarre form of escapism, the wig his way of letting his hair down?
Alcohol had been stolen, but the vicar didn’t seem to recognise the bottle. And someone had definitely smashed the place up.
She thought back to her old teacher. Mr Marlowe had always been a placid, studious man, but after he developed dementia, he would sometimes fly into a sudden inexplicable rage. Was that what had happened with the vicar? Had he wrecked the farm shop and now had no memory of what he had done?
When she got back to the station, the sarge greeted her with a thunderous expression.
“You skived off the whole morning at that so-called training course,” he snarled. “And then you decided to take the afternoon off as well? I’ve been snowed under.”
“I went to the farm shop,” said Emma. “Sarge, I think the vicar may be confused. He was definitely at the shop yesterday.”
“Of course he was. We’ve got his picture, don’t we? He was lying to me when he said he had been nowhere near it,” the sarge snapped. “Vicars. You can’t trust them.”
Emma showed him the bottle of lavender gin. “And this was in his house. He said he didn’t know where it had come from.” She hesitated. “I think he might be losing the plot.”
The sarge sat down heavily, the chair creaking under his weight. “You think the vicar’s losing the plot? You’re the one who’s lost the plot, Hollis – what were you thinking? We had him under lock and key and you let him out.”
Emma was used to the sarge being unreasonable, but this was too much.
“Sarge, that’s not quite-” she began, but he spoke over her.
“I want an identification parade set up tomorrow morning, and you bring your vicar pal back here. Not a word to him beforehand, understood?”
“Sarge,” she said in apparent compliance, while inwardly seething.
“And now you can go out and get the milk and biscuits. I fancy a proper brew.”
At least she had this evening’s meal to look forward to.
3. The Supper Party
It was Alfie’s turn to host the Bunburry Triangle’s weekly supper party. He had gone for a long walk in the morning, and when he returned to Windermere Cottage, he began cooking, which he always found relaxing.
The main course of beef was a new recipe he was anxious to try. He had also found a satisfyingly challenging starter: a light, frothy soup with choux fritters. And for dessert, a mocha-dacquoise cake, with its sinful mixture of meringue, buttercream, coffee and rum covered in a thick chocolate sauce.
He made sure there was more than enough for four, even though he didn’t know whether Emma would turn up. She wasn’t an official member of the Bunburry Triangle, but had a standing invitation to join them. And when she did, she always had a healthy appetite.
Liz, Emma’s great-aunt, worried that she didn’t eat properly, and was keen to feed her up. Alfie suspected that Liz and Marge were also keen to get him and Emma together as often as possible in the hope that romance would bloom. They didn’t seem to have grasped that Emma would never be interested in him. She was still in her twenties, yet he was fifteen years older – an old man as far as she was concerned.
The doorbell’s distinctive Hallelujah Chorus rang out at precisely the appointed time, but only Marge was there, her white hair curlier than ever, her eyes large behind her oversized spectacles. She waved her hand in the direction she had come from.
“Liz got nobbled by old Tom, problems with his lupins. It’s anybody’s guess when she’ll turn up. But what do you think about Philip’s awful experience?”
“What’s he got problems with? Hydrangeas?” asked Alfie, who didn’t actually know what a hydrangea was, but thought it sounded an appropriate alternative.
“Alfie McAlister! It’s scarcely a laughing matter. How can you be so unaware of what’s going on around you? Didn’t you get any post today?”
“Yes, I got post, but nothing about Philip.”
Marge sighed. “I’m not asking about what you got in the post – didn’t Dorothy tell you when she delivered it?”
“I was out for a walk when she came.”
“But it’s all over the village. Haven’t you spoken to anybody?”
“I’ve been cooking,” said Alfie defensively. “A couple of the recipes took quite a long time.”
Liz, taller and bulkier than her friend, came into view at the end of Love Lane.
“Lupins sorted?” Alfie called.
“Aphids,” said Liz. “Tom’s been using organic pesticide, but in this case, you need the heavy-duty stuff.”
“What were you saying about Philip?” Alfie prompted.
“Margaret!”
Liz had now reached the doorstep. She rarely used Marge’s full name, but when she did, it had an impact.
“All right, all right,” muttered Marge, stepping past Alfie and making her way to the brightly tiled kitchen, where he had set the large wooden table for their supper.
“Alfie, dear, that smells delicious,” said Liz, following Marge into the room. “You really are a wonderful cook.”
“Oh, did you do the Yotam Ottolenghi like you said?” Marge asked him as he joined them.
“I did,” he said. “The main course is harissa-marinated beef sirloin with preserved lemon sauce.”
His friend Oscar had been bragging about a visit to one of the celebrated chef’s London restaurants, inspiring Alfie to try out some of the recipes.
“There’s always an interesting middle eastern twist in his dishes, isn’t there?” said Marge.
“Is there, dear?” said Liz. “I had no idea you knew so much about him. When Alfie first mentioned he was making a Yotam Ottolenghi recipe, you looked up the dictionary to find out what a yotam was.”
“No, I didn’t,” said Marge.
“Yes, you did, dear. You asked me how to spell it.”
“You must have misheard, Clarissa. You’re getting very deaf these days.” Marge also used her friend’s full name when she chided her, which was quite frequently.
“The soup’s almost ready,” said Alfie quickly, pouring the hot liquid into the cappuccino cups already partially filled with a savoury egg custard that had taken hours to prepare.
He had no sooner spoken than the Hallelujah Chorus rang out yet again.
Emma was on the doorstep, wearing cargo trousers and a short-sleeved t-shirt, her brown hair neatly bobbed. “Room for a little one?” she asked.
“Of course. Perfect timing,” said Alfie, letting her precede him into the kitchen.
As she greeted her great-aunt with a kiss, Marge said: “Here’s the very person to tell us all about it.”
Emma kissed Marge as well and took her seat. “Tell you all about what?”
Alfie, presenting them with the cappuccino cups of soup, the choux fritters placed on the saucers, thought he detected a tone of wariness.
“About Philip, of course, being arrested for shoplifting.”
Alfie sat down abruptly. “What?”
“He’s hopeless,” said Marge to Emma, indicating their host. “Hasn’t heard a dicky-bird.”
“Margaret.” Liz was reproving. “There’s enough gossip in this village already without you repeating unsubstantiated rumours.”
“They’re not unsubstantiated. Dorothy saw it happen. Harry Wilson arrested Philip.”
“Dorothy got the wrong end of the stick,” said Liz. “You know perfectly well that dreadful sergeant is bone idle. He’s hardly going to put himself out doing something as ridiculous as arresting the vicar.”
“Dorothy gets a great many sticks, I admit, but not by the wrong end,” said Marge. “She knows what she saw. Come on, Emma, we’re waiting.”
Emma picked up the cappuccino cup and drained it in one. She looked at it in surprise. “There wasn’t much in there, was there? Is there any more?”
Alfie was a little hurt that his lovingly prepared soup was being treated in such a cavalier way. But he also suspected Emma was trying to avoid the question. Not that there was any chance of that with Marge doing the questioning.
Marge was ignoring her own soup completely. “Emma, did Sergeant Wilson arrest Philip?”
“Aunt Marge, I can categorically assure you that the sarge did not arrest the vicar. Where’s that soup, Alfie? I’m starving.”
“I told you,” said Liz. “The rumours that fly round this place.” She picked up the choux fritters from the saucer, dropped them into the cappuccino cup and began eating the soup with a teaspoon.
Alfie poured more soup into Emma’s cup.
“If Philip wasn’t arrested, what was he doing sitting in the back of the police car?” persisted Marge.
“Believe me, the way the sarge drives, you’re better off sitting in the back than the front,” said Emma.
“Did he or did he not take Philip to the police station?” asked Marge.
Emma was focusing on her soup, not making eye contact with her great-aunt’s best friend.
“I was away on a training course, but he could well have done – he thought the vicar might have some useful information about who had been in the Mills farm shop.”
Liz swallowed the last soggy choux fritter. “There you are. Perfectly understandable. And Dorothy turns that into ‘helping the police with their enquiries.’”
“Well, maybe she got it slightly wrong this time,” said Marge. She peered into her cappuccino cup, then pushed it away. “I don’t really fancy this, Alfie. It looks a bit slimy.”
Wordlessly, Alfie cleared the table, hoping the main course would get a better reception.
“I must admit I’m relieved,” Marge went on. “I was quite worried about Philip. You know who I kept thinking about, Liz?”
“No, dear,” said Liz. “No idea.”
“That titled lady, you know the one, who was on What’s My Line on TV.”
“Goodness, dear, that’s going back a bit. Lady Isobel Barnett. So sad.”
“Exactly,” said Marge.
Alfie and Emma looked at one another, mystified.
“She was a very well-known personality before you pair were even born,” explained Liz. “She was found guilty of shoplifting, and killed herself.”
“She was very well off, and had no need to shoplift,” put in Marge. “It must have been some sort of mental health disorder. It crossed my mind the same might have happened with Philip.”
“Why?” asked Emma sharply. “Has he been behaving differently?”
This wasn’t casual conversation, Alfie thought; Emma really wanted to know.
“Not at all. He’s just his usual self,” said Marge.
“He is,” agreed Liz. “Although I’ve always thought he’s been much sadder since his sister left.”
“I had no idea he had a sister,” said Alfie.
“Before your time here,” said Liz, cutting into the beef.
Alfie felt suddenly guilty. All those times he had sat in the vicarage, the focus had always been on him. Had he ever asked Philip anything about his family or his background?
He had been wary of the vicar when he first arrived. His mother hadn’t been remotely religious, but when he was sent from London to spend the school holidays with his grandparents in Bunburry, they were regular churchgoers who insisted on him attending Sunday school. Looking back, he wondered whether they were actually believers, or whether going to church every week was simply part of the village social order.
He had hated Sunday school, and he had hated Philip’s predecessor as vicar, a grim-faced man who didn’t have an ounce of Christian charity in him.
Philip had proved a completely different type of vicar. Alfie guessed he was around seventy, but he had the energy of a much younger man, and endless patience, helping and encouraging anyone who needed it. He made no distinction between his parishioners and people who would never darken the doors of his church.
Philip was the one person Alfie felt able to talk to when he first arrived in Bunburry grief-stricken over the death of Vivian. He had confided in the vicar about Betty, about his father. Philip listened, always understanding, never judging.
“Ruth Brown,” Liz was saying to Emma. “She was a sweet girl. Just like Philip – gentle and thoughtful. She came with him when he arrived in the parish, and looked after him.”
“That was nice,” said Emma. “I’m sure she would enjoy that.” Alfie detected a sarcastic undertone.
So apparently did Liz. “She wasn’t the type to be put upon, if that’s what you mean,” she said mildly. “She was an extremely organised and capable woman who took everything in her stride. Don’t you remember her? So kind and approachable. Tall, long hair, a pretty version of Philip.”
“Vaguely,” said Emma. “We probably nodded to one another in the street.”
“Of course, she spent most of her time around the church and the vicarage,” said Marge. “That was where we always saw her. She did a lot more work than the churchwarden ever did. Philip always said she was a saint.”
“Every parish should have one.” Emma’s sarcasm was unmistakable this time.
“The world would be in a far sorrier state if it wasn’t for people like her doing their bit,” said Marge tartly. “And that wasn’t all she did. She had a job, very high-powered, according to Philip. Do you remember what it was, Liz?”
“A graphic designer, dear. She once told me all she needed was her computer, and she could work from anywhere. But then she got a job that meant she had to be in an office. I think Philip said she moved to Gloucester. I dare say she found Bunburry too small after a while.”
“Anyway, she wasn’t a complete saint,” said Marge, continuing her conversation with Emma. “She had a fling with Harry Wilson.”
“No!” exclaimed Emma and Alfie simultaneously.
“Margaret!” Alfie had never heard Liz use such a severe tone. “I’ve warned you once this evening about gossiping. You really mustn’t say such things about Ruth, especially when there’s not a scrap of evidence.”
“But there is,” retorted Marge. “Elsie said they used to have date nights whenever the vicar was away.”
“I’m sure if the sergeant was visiting the vicarage, there was a perfectly legitimate reason for it,” said Liz.
“Perhaps she invited him up to see her graphs,” Marge muttered.
“Not funny, dear.”
All his guests had now finished, neatly laying their knives and forks on their empty plates. Alfie stood up. He could intervene by clearing the table.
“What did you think of the sirloin?” he asked diffidently as he began stacking the plates.
“Bit of a weird combination. A nice mushroom sauce would have been better,” said Marge.
“Ewwww,” said Emma, grimacing.
Alfie was hurt by her reaction, and only very slightly mollified when she went on: “Having a fling with the sarge. That’s so gross.”
Wilson’s love life was apparently of more interest to her than a gourmet meal. Liz must have seen his expression, since she said: “It was absolutely delicious, Alfie dear. Wasn’t it, Emma? Yotam Ottolenghi, you know.”
“Yoda? As in Star Wars?” asked Emma.
“That’s right,” said Alfie heavily. “One of the Jedi Knights’ favourite dishes.”
“Cool,” said Emma.
She really didn’t know anything about cooking, Alfie reflected, as he brought out the cake that had taken him several hours to make.
“That’s more like it,” said Marge when she saw the large chocolate-covered confection.
“Let’s hope it’s not too weird or slimy,” said Alfie under his breath. Aloud, he said: “The proper accompaniment for this is strong coffee. Is that okay for everyone?”
“I’d rather have tea, dear,” said Liz. “Your strong coffee is very strong.”
“Marge? Perhaps a gin?”
Marge gave a delicate sniff in the direction of the cake. “I can smell the rum in the cake from here. Do you have any left?”
“Of course. Emma?”
“I’ll have a rum and Coke.”
“I’m all out of Coke,” said Alfie, who had never had any to start with. “Let me see what I can do. Liz, would you cut the cake?”
There were appreciative murmurs from all three guests as the inner layers of buttercream and meringue were revealed. By the time Alfie presented Emma and Marge with glasses of rum and ginger beer, laced with fresh lime juice, Emma had eaten a third of her generous slice.
“Really good,” she mumbled through a mouthful, giving Alfie the thumbs-up.
But Alfie had no time to bask in her approval before she returned to her earlier preoccupation.
“How could any sane woman consider having a fling with the sarge?”
“Don’t listen to Margaret,” said Liz. “Ruth Brown had nothing to do with him, I’m sure of it. She had far more sense and far better taste.”
Alfie had never heard Liz say a bad word about anybody - except Sergeant Wilson. She deeply resented the way he foisted as much work as possible on Emma and tried to prevent her getting any recognition for it.
“I know what Elsie told me,” said Marge defiantly.
“And you should know better than to tell anyone else,” said Liz.
Emma prodded pensively at the cake. “He did once manage to persuade someone to marry him. Let’s hope she came to her senses and divorced him during the reception.”
This was the point at which Liz would normally make a sympathetic remark about the person being criticised. Instead, she said: “I can tell he’s been making life difficult for you, dear. One of these days I’ll give him a piece of my mind.”
Emma leaned over and squeezed her great-aunt’s hand. “Please don’t. That would just make things worse.”
Alfie manage to shift the conversation to old Tom and his lupins, a topic in which he had no interest, but which at least lightened the mood.
The cake proved a major success, with everyone taking a second slice. Liz sipped her tea, Alfie drank his strong coffee, and Marge and Emma knocked back their glasses of rum.
Eventually Marge looked at her watch. “Time for us to go, I think. I’m doing the flowers for the church, and I’ll have to pick them up first thing.”
“And I’ve got a fudge order to get ready,” said Liz, standing up. “Are you coming, Emma? We can walk part of the way with you.”
“You’re not serious,” said Emma. “I’m going nowhere while there’s still some cake left.”
Alfie didn’t miss the look that passed between Liz and Marge. Did they imagine that Emma wanted to be alone with him? They must know as well as he did what a sweet tooth she had – she really was staying for the cake.
He saw the ladies to the door and waved them off. When he returned to the kitchen, Emma said: “I need to talk to you.”
“Oh?” said Alfie, trying to process this unexpected turn of events. He picked up the plate with the remaining third of the massive cake.
“Hey!” said Emma. “I haven’t finished it yet.”
He put the cake plate down in front of her and removed her smaller empty plate.
“Thanks. And I could do with another rum.”
“Of course,” said Alfie.
This time he made it with less rum and more ginger beer and lime. She took a large slug, apparently not registering the different proportions. Then she put her elbows on the table and put her hands over her face.
“I have to talk to someone. Anyone,” she said, her voice muffled.
Thanks , thought Alfie.
She took her hands away from her face and looked at him pleadingly. “But I shouldn’t be talking about it at all. Alfie, if I tell you, you mustn’t breathe a word. Promise?”
“Promise,” he said.
4. Emma and King Midas
Emma hesitated for a moment, then said: “It’s about the sarge.” She took another gulp of rum. “I don’t know where to begin.”
“At the beginning?”
“That’s just it. I don’t know what the beginning is.” After a moment, she said: “The sarge has got it in for the vicar.”
Alfie was more than a little relieved at this new focus, which had nothing to do with the dynamics between the sergeant and Emma.
“Yes, I can understand that,” he said.
Emma looked at him, startled. “What do you mean?”
“He’s obviously not a fan of the Green Party. He loathed Betty, he loathes me, and it stands to reason he would loathe the only other person who came to the meetings, Philip.”
Emma shook her head. “If only it was as simple as that. I agree, the sarge will never be a tree-hugger. But he loathed Betty because she was a strong woman who talked back, and he loathes you because – well, because you’re posh and rich and fit.”
“One out of three isn’t bad,” said Alfie. “Growing up in Hackney scarcely makes me posh. And I struggle climbing the hill to Wildshaw Woods. But why on earth should Harold Wilson object to Philip?”
“I don’t know,” said Emma. “I shouldn’t be saying anything. This is so unprofessional. Maybe I should just go home.”
“Make sure you don’t talk to any holes in the ground on the way,” Alfie said.
“Sorry?”
“King Midas.”
Emma looked thoroughly confused. “Everything he touched turned to gold, didn’t it? I could do with that on my pay.”
“Remember it didn’t go well. That glass of rum would turn to gold, as would the cake.”
Emma took a forkful of cake. “What’s that got to do with holes in the ground?”
“That was another bad move by Midas. He managed to upset the god Apollo, who punished him by giving him the ears of a donkey. He hid them under a turban, but of course his barber knew. The barber was told to keep quiet, but found it impossible to keep the secret. So he dug a hole in a ground and whispered, ‘King Midas has donkey ears’ into it before covering the hole up. But reeds grew out of the hole, and every time the wind blew, they whispered, ‘Midas has donkey ears,’ until everyone knew.”
He smiled at her. “If you’re finding it difficult to keep a secret, I think I’m a better bet than a bunch of talkative reeds.”
Emma gave him a half-smile in return and had some more cake. Then she appeared to come to a decision, straightening up in her chair.
“It was a few years ago, before you came to Bunburry. The sarge and I were still getting used to one another,” she said. “I got a late-night call from Philip asking me to come round straight away because there was a problem. He sounded terrible – he was breathless and could hardly get the words out. I thought he might be having a heart attack. I was going to call an ambulance but he said it was nothing like that, and could I please hurry.”
She lapsed into silence. Alfie thought of prompting her and then decided to let her tell the story her own way, in her own time.
Eventually, she said: “I thought he should have rung the sarge instead of me. But I had already discovered that the sarge was partial to a pint or ten, so I figured he wasn’t answering his phone. He also had the IRV.”
Alfie knew by now that this meant “incident response vehicle,” the police car used for patrols, which Sergeant Wilson treated as his personal property and often ended up leaving in pub car parks.
“I put on my trainers and sprinted to the vicarage. And there was the IRV sitting in the road outside. I’m not going to lie, I was scared. If the sarge had already been called out to an incident, why wasn’t he the one ringing me? Was he injured? Did he need me as back-up? I didn’t know if I could cope. This was long before my Krav Maga classes, and I’d only done OST-”
“OST?” asked Alfie.
“Operational Safety Training, basic self-defence.”
Alfie added this latest acronym to his knowledge of the police.
“When Philip answered the door, he was holding a bloodstained handkerchief to his face. I asked him what had happened, but he just waved for me to follow him upstairs.”
Emma’s shoulders were hunched, her hands clenched, as though she was again preparing to confront an unknown threat.
“We went up to his sitting room. A coffee table had been knocked over, and a chair. The sarge was sprawled on the settee with his eyes closed. I thought he might be dead. I rushed over to him, ready to try CPR.” Her voice hardened. “He wasn’t dead. He was dead drunk. I shook him, and he started mumbling, swearing mostly. Philip stayed at the door, keeping well away. He had put his hankie back in his pocket, and I could see he had a cut lip and a bloody nose.”
Alfie couldn’t stop himself interrupting again. “You mean there hadn’t been an intruder? You think Wilson hit Philip?”
Emma’s harsh tone didn’t alter. “I don’t think, I know. Philip told me.”
This was beyond Alfie’s comprehension. The vicar was one of the kindest, gentlest people he had met. “Why in the world would Wilson hit him?”
Emma shook her head. “I have no idea. All Philip would say was that the sarge was upset. I didn’t know what to do. I was still practically a rookie, and I reckoned that arresting my boss wasn’t going to win me any Brownie points. But I couldn’t just let it go. We’re not supposed to beat people up, particularly not elderly vicars. So I started cautioning him.”
She put on a nervously squeaky voice: “Harold Wilson, you are under arrest on suspicion of causing actual bodily harm.” She continued in her normal voice: “The next thing, Philip stopped me, said all he wanted was to get the sarge out of there, and there was no need to arrest him.”
The tension had gone out of her now. She picked up the fork and began eating the rest of the slice of cake, mechanically, as though she was refuelling.
“The sarge was completely maudlin by this time, blubbering away, but at least he wasn’t violent, and we managed to haul him downstairs and out to the car. The car keys were in his jacket pocket, which was a relief – I wouldn’t have fancied doing a body search. We dumped him in the back seat and I drove off.”
She seemed surprised to find she had finished the slice of cake, and cut herself another.
“This is good,” she said. “You should make it again.”
“Yes, I will,” said Alfie. “But that can’t be the end of the story?”
Emma gave a long sigh. “No, it’s still the beginning, or at least the beginning as far as I’m concerned,” she said. “I’ve no idea what the sarge was doing at the vicarage, and why he hit Philip, and I’m not sure I want to know. But you can see why I can’t possibly tell Aunt Liz and Aunt Marge any of this. I couldn’t trust Aunt Marge to keep such a juicy bit of gossip to herself. And I couldn’t trust Aunt Liz not to confront the sarge.”
Alfie was heartened by the implication that she could trust him. He was never sure where he stood with Emma. Much of the time she seemed merely to tolerate him; some of the time she seemed irritated by him. But occasionally things went very well.
Emma’s gaze shifted away from him to the multi-coloured kitchen tiles.
“This is where it gets bad,” she said.
Alfie couldn’t imagine what was worse than Wilson attacking Philip. But he kept quiet, and hoped his expression suggested that he was unshockable.
“The sarge had fallen asleep in the back seat, and I didn’t know what to do with him. I didn’t want to take him back to his place and put him to bed. And I certainly didn’t want to take him to mine. So I put him in the cells.”
