From Devon With Death Read online

  ‘And it’s still there?’

  ‘The Laughing Policeman didn’t seem to think anyone needed to remove it.’ I had told him that a shower of rain could raise the water level enough to free this thing, float it downstream and cause a heart attack to some passing dog walker, but he didn’t take me seriously. But then, he hadn’t seen it. Quite obviously the work of kids, he’d said, but he’d make a note of the fact I’d reported it.

  ‘Of course,’ Elizabeth went on. ‘Where is not as important as why …’

  ‘The postcard’s the puzzling thing …’

  The bell on the shop door jingled at that moment and a skinny schoolboy strolled in lugging a large schoolbag, which he immediately let slip from his shoulder to the floor.

  He grinned at us, his fair hair sticking up in spikes.

  ‘Hello, Olly!’ I said.

  He raised both arms above his head like a victorious boxer at the end of a bout and grinned. ‘Guess who came top in the geography test?’

  ‘Well done!’

  ‘I’m glad all that work I forced you to do was worthwhile.’ Elizabeth seemed determined to be unimpressed. She looked at her watch. ‘I suppose you’ve come in for a lift home. It’s not time to go yet,’ she warned him. ‘I’m not cashing up for another hour.’

  ‘S’alright,’ he shrugged, ‘I got homework.’

  ‘You heard of Cutty Dyer, Ol?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeh. Kids’ stuff,’ he sniffed dismissively. ‘Nan used to believe in him though. Why?’

  I told him about the effigy under the bridge and his nonchalance evaporated, his blue eyes growing round with excitement. ‘Where is it? Can we go and have a look?’

  Elizabeth smiled. ‘Didn’t you mention something about homework?’

  He groaned but picked up his schoolbag. ‘Can I use your kitchen table?’ he asked.

  As he passed Elizabeth’s chair, he gave her a little pat on the shoulder. I was pleased to see this tiny gesture of affection. When I first met her, a few months before, Elizabeth was homeless and Olly, alone at fourteen, needed an adult to take care of him. I’d put the two of them together and felt responsible for their happiness. As he headed through the back door of the shop and up the stairs towards the kitchen, I called out to him, ‘There’s milk in the fridge and biscuits in the cupboard. Help yourself.’

  ‘Ta!’ he called back.

  ‘Is everything working out?’ I murmured as soon as he was out of earshot.

  ‘Fine,’ she assured me.

  ‘No more trouble with bullying?’ Olly was small for his age and had suffered quite a lot at school.

  She smiled. ‘I think we’ve put a stop to that.’

  ‘You talked to his teachers?’

  ‘Well, I did,’ she said, looking a little evasive. ‘But I also taught Olly some useful moves, if you know what I mean.’

  I didn’t quite. Elizabeth had been retired for years, a music teacher, or so she claimed. But I had the distinct impression that for some period in her youth she might have served in the armed services. As what, I wasn’t sure. I know many women of her age but she’s the only one who carries a pistol in her handbag. Or I assume she still does, I don’t like to ask.

  She deliberately changed the subject. ‘We’ve had quite a profitable afternoon.’

  Old Nick’s always did well when she was on duty. Sophie and Pat, who shared the manning of the shop with me in return for free selling space, did their best, but we’d all noticed that profits increased when Elizabeth was in charge. This might have been something to do with her elegant charm, the same charm with which she handled difficult patients in her job at the surgery, but I suspect had more to do with the steely determination that lurks in her grey eyes. Whatever her secret was, she’d sold a painting for Sophie and toys for Pat. She’d even sold a brooch and some paperbacks for me.

  ‘You know, my dear, it’s not my business,’ she admonished softly, ‘but you really ought to be charging those two girls some rent.’

  ‘I know, but Pat’s trying to raise money for the animal sanctuary and Sophie’s as poor as a church rat.’ I swept an arm around the bare shelves at the back of the shop. ‘If only I had some takers for these empty units—’

  ‘Well, you haven’t at the moment, and those two should be paying you something.’

  ‘I don’t want to add to their troubles.’

  ‘And what about your own troubles?’ She indicated the pile of nasty brown envelopes, which lay unopened on the counter. ‘When the new financial year starts, you’re going to get a big demand for business rates.’

  There are times, usually about three a week, when I wish Nick had never left me his shop.

  ‘I know Sophie and Pat feel awkward about it,’ she went on. ‘At least charge them some commission on sales. They’d be quite happy, you know.’

  ‘You’ve talked about it?’ I was surprised and a little put out. They hadn’t discussed it with me. Not yet. We had agreed last year that we’d review the situation at Christmas, but somehow, I had let the subject slide.

  ‘They’d feel a lot more comfortable, and at least you’d be getting something.’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ I promised reluctantly. I got a similar lecture from Ricky and Morris almost every time I saw them. But I genuinely wanted to help Pat and Sophie. Without their support, and now Elizabeth’s, I wouldn’t be able to carry on the business I’d been engaged in before I met Nick. All right, I was only cleaning, and looking after dogs and grannies, but it had taken several years for me to build the business up and I was reluctant to let it go. I couldn’t afford to, anyway. I couldn’t live on the shop’s paltry takings.

  It was almost dark when I got home, the sun just dipping behind the hill I can see from my living-room window, the quirky huddled rooftops of the town below already lost in shadow. I opened the front door and breathed in deeply. Whatever was cooking in the kitchen of the flat downstairs smelt of garlic and chilli. Adam and Kate run a cafe and test out recipes at home. I am a very willing guinea pig, happy to put up with rattling windows, rumbling pipes and all the creaks and groans of the old ruin I rent from them in exchange for leftovers and free samples.

  I climbed the stairs in happy expectation and sure enough, on the table outside my flat door lay some objects wrapped in foil and a large plastic container. The foil objects I quickly identified as vegetable samosas, but whatever was in the container sloshed about. I took the lid off. It looked like something scraped from the depths of a primeval lagoon, a deep muddy green. It smelt a bit that way too. I replaced the lid and trotted downstairs.

  Kate answered to my knock and stood in the doorway, her dark plait hanging over one shoulder, a spatula in her hand. Her cheeks flushed from a hot stove, she looked particularly pretty.

  ‘Thanks for the stuff,’ I said.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ she answered brightly.

  ‘That … um … soup … is it?’

  ‘Swamp,’ she nodded. ‘We call it swamp soup. It’s delicious.’

  ‘What’s in it?’ I asked, failing to keep the note of suspicion out of my voice.

  ‘Sweet potato and kale, it’s delicious,’ she repeated, ‘but for some reason, it doesn’t sell well.’

  When you think about some of the things that can be found lurking in a swamp, perhaps that’s not surprising, but I decided it would be churlish not to give it a go.

  ‘Sweet potato and kale,’ I repeated. ‘Thanks. Right.’

  ‘And onion, of course,’ she called out as I climbed the stairs, ‘and garlic and chilli.’

  ‘Of course,’ I called back.

  ‘Let me know what you think!’

  ‘I will,’ I promised, as I closed the door.

  Kate is not usually wrong about food, and she wasn’t on this occasion. The swamp soup tasted delicious; unusual but delicious.

  After I’d downed a bowlful and a couple of samosas, I looked on the Internet to see what else I could discover about Cutty Dyer. He’s not as widely know
n as some other Dartmoor legends, although stories of his bloodthirsty activities in Ashburton date back to the seventeenth century. I found information about him on several websites, although there are no stories of his being active recently. I doubt if many kids in the town have ever heard of him, which made the message on the postcard attached to the effigy even weirder. But the old people, like Maisie and Olly’s Nan were brought up on scare stories about what might happen to them if they strayed too near the river at night.

  I didn’t really find out anything I didn’t already know, so after a while I sat down on the sofa with my diary, making sure I had cleared it completely for the end of the week. Mrs Berkeley-Smythe was coming home from her latest cruise and would need all of my attention. She was the client I have worked for the longest and who I’ve seen the least, due to her determination to avoid living on dry land as much as possible. She spent most of her life on cruise ships and paid me to look after her house while she was away. Most of the time this meant clearing the junk mail, watering her house plants and keeping her garden tidy, but before she came home from a cruise, I always gave the whole place a proper spring clean. I’d already vacuumed, dusted, made up the bed and polished the hundred wretched horse-brasses surrounding her inglenook fireplace. Tomorrow I would put the heating on to warm the house through, reinstate the fridge and freezer and get in essential supplies – coffee, ice cream and several bottles of sherry. Mrs B-S was a living testament to what can be achieved on a diet of sugar, caffeine and alcohol. I always looked forward to her coming home and just as much to her going away again, which was usually after a few weeks. The longest period I have known her stay ashore was three months when she underwent surgery for a hip replacement. When she arrived home she would need me to help her unpack her cases and drive her to various appointments with her accountants and doctors. I always tried to clear the diary of everything else and give her two complete days. All other things went on hold except for my morning dog walking. This was not affected by Mrs Berkeley-Smythe: she was not an early riser.

  This time the task of diary clearing had been made easier by Maisie’s continued absence and Elizabeth’s help in the shop. I thought about our conversation earlier and was just beginning to ponder gloomily how I was going to manage to pay the bills when I was distracted by the phone ringing. The caller didn’t bother to identify himself, but I could tell from the flat, northern vowels who the voice belonged to. ‘The rumour is that now you’ve run out of dead bodies to find, you’ve started making your own.’

  ‘I’m going to kill that bloody desk sergeant.’

  Detective Constable Dean Collins chuckled down the phone.

  My cheeks flamed with a mixture of anger and embarrassment. ‘Now I suppose I’m a laughing stock at Ashburton police station.’

  ‘Only amongst the uniforms,’ he assured me. ‘Here at Serious Crimes, you’re a legend.’

  I decided to change the subject. ‘How is baby Alice?’

  ‘Beautiful.’

  ‘And Gemma?’

  ‘Well. Actually …’ he cleared his throat self-consciously, ‘she’s expecting again.’

  ‘Blimey! You don’t mess about, do you?’ I said. ‘It was only a few months ago you were lying at death’s door.’

  ‘Yeah, and I’d have been through the bloody door if it hadn’t been for you.’

  I felt my cheeks reigniting. ‘Did you actually call about something?’ I demanded.

  ‘Yes. This effigy thing. Tell me about it.’

  I gave him all the details and he said he’d go down to the bridge next morning and take a look. ‘Someone’s got a peculiar sense of humour. Probably best not to let the thing float around. I’ll get it put away somewhere.’

  I was glad someone in the police force was prepared to take it even slightly seriously. We chatted for a little longer and then he rang off. I lay back and closed my eyes, shrieking as Bill landed with all four paws on my stomach. ‘Foul cat!’

  He interpreted this as a form of endearment and began treading up and down on my ribcage, purring loudly. ‘Why don’t you go downstairs and live in your own flat?’ I demanded, unable to resist stroking his black velvet head. He gazed at me in rapture from his one green eye and nuzzled his cheek against my hand. ‘My landlords do not approve of our affair,’ I reproved him as his purr changed down to a more passionate gear. ‘Truth is, they’re jealous.’

  The phone rang again then, disobliging Bill as I had to lean forward to pick it up.

  ‘Juno Browne?’ The voice that asked was bright, breathy and Welsh. ‘This is Sandy Thomas, Dartmoor Gazette.’

  ‘And what can I do for you?’ I asked, with all the enthusiasm of someone who has been misquoted and inaccurately reported before.

  ‘We’d just like a few words from you about the Cutty Dyer incident before we go to press.’

  ‘How do you know about that?’

  ‘Oh, we can’t reveal our sources,’ she answered piously.

  Surely that sergeant at the police station wouldn’t have told the local newspaper about what I’d found? But of course, I’d told Ricky and Morris. They’d probably repeated my story to everyone they met in the auction house. Any one of them could have phoned the local rag. ‘It wasn’t an incident,’ I told her crossly. ‘It was just a dummy, probably a leftover from Hallowe’en or Fireworks Night and thrown in the river by children.’

  ‘But you reported it to the police.’

  ‘It was quite … realistic,’ I admitted reluctantly, ‘gruesome, and plausible enough to give someone a shock if they saw it in the water.’

  I could hear her tapping away on her keyboard at the end of the phone, her fingertips on fire. The Dartmoor Gazette was a weekly paper and usually there was more than enough drama in the everyday lives of folk on Dartmoor to keep its pages filled. It must be a thin week for news if my finding a Guy Fawkes dummy in a stream was needed to make headlines.

  ‘So, how many dead bodies is that you’ve discovered now?’ she asked.

  I gritted my teeth. ‘It wasn’t a dead body!’ I insisted.

  ‘No, no, nooo …’ she agreed soothingly, ‘but how many is it?’

  ‘Look, each one of those bodies belonged to a person who was murdered,’ I said angrily. ‘Have you any idea how it feels to discover someone—?’

  ‘No,’ she interrupted, breathy with excitement, ‘but I’m sure our readers would love to know.’

  The only reason I didn’t fling the phone down at that moment was because I was gripping it so hard I couldn’t let go. I sighed loudly.

  ‘So, how many is it?’ she asked again.

  ‘Just the three,’ I muttered.

  ‘Well, that’s three more than most people, isn’t it?’ she trilled brightly, and rang off.

  I wished at that moment I could have made it four.

  CHAPTER THREE

  At least I hadn’t made the front page. That dubious honour was reserved for sheep rustlers and a nasty pile-up on the A30 outside Bodmin. But as I opened up the dratted rag I had purchased in the newsagent next morning, I found a headline blaring at me on page two: Jinxed Juno Discovers Fourth Corpse. There was even a photograph of me, looking dishevelled and dreadful and clearly startled by the flash from a camera shoved in my face. I had no memory of it being taken but there was a police officer in the background, so I imagine it was following an arrest. I read the first few words of the article before I could take no more, screwed the entire paper into a ball and lobbed it into the nearest bin.

  I strode up North Street, simmering. I was vaguely aware of someone on the opposite pavement scurrying along, trying to catch up with me, calling my name, but didn’t pay enough attention to the eager, bobbing figure in the flapping blue coat until she had crossed the road and it was too late to take evasive action. Jessie Mole was standing on the pavement in front of me, effectively blocking my way, her face peering up into mine. Her pale blue eyes were staring and she was close, much too close.

  ‘You’re that Juno
Browne,’ she breathed, grinning. ‘I’ve seen you in the paper!’

  On a good day, Jessie Mole is a menace. She’s the sort of person that makes you duck into shops when you see her coming and hope to God she doesn’t follow you inside. It’s not just that she has no concept of personal space or other people’s boundaries, and no idea when a conversation has ended and anyone with half a brain would realise it’s time to say goodbye, she has a voracious greed for gossip about other people’s lives that is genuinely off-putting. It’s something to do with the way she tries to lock eye contact with you, as if she’s trying to drain your brain through your eyeballs and suck out your soul. And she’s odd: she wears ankle socks and a bow in her hair, although she must be every day of fifty. Right now she seemed in the grip of a feeding frenzy. ‘What did it look like, that body?’ She had clutched my arm and was not the slightest bit abashed when I very deliberately removed her hand from my sleeve. ‘Did it look like a real one?’ she carried on excitedly. ‘You know what they look like, don’t you? You’re always finding bodies.’

  Her face was so close to mine it was almost out of focus. I stepped back and she took another pace towards me. ‘I don’t want to talk about it, Jessie,’ I said firmly, sidestepping around her. ‘Goodbye.’

  She struggled to keep up with me as I quickened my pace. ‘It says in the paper Cutty Dyer did it,’ she carried on remorselessly. ‘Did it have its throat cut?’ I knew she couldn’t keep up for long. She had been lame since childhood and repeated operations had failed to correct the fault. ‘Was there a lot of blood?’ she called after me as I swung around the corner and out of sight.

  By the time I reached Old Nick’s, steam must have been rising from my hair. One look at my face as I kicked open the door of the shop was enough to convince Sophie, sitting quietly at her worktable, not to mention the newspaper I could see lying on the counter. She gazed at me, her dark eyes huge, a paintbrush poised in one hand. ‘Hell’s teeth!’ she swore softly.