Cooper and Fry Crime Fiction Series Books 1-3: Black Dog, Dancing With the Virgins, Blood on the Tongue. Stephen Booth
pieces of coloured glass.
All the cars parked in the street had pink stickers taped to their windscreens, and notices on the lampposts warned that parking was by resident’s permit only. But Fry found room for her Peugeot on a small drive in front of a car port. By the corner of the house she noticed an old brick chimney pot that had been planted with red geraniums.
Margaret Milner took her into a lounge dominated by leaded bay windows draped in net and a wheel-shaped chandelier supporting electric candles. A display cabinet contained limited-edition figurines, miniature cottages and commemorative plates.
‘Andrew’s at work, of course,’ said Margaret. ‘He’s been very busy since what happened to Laura Vernon. But Graham says he’ll be back at the office next Monday. Apparently Charlotte is feeling better now. But people don’t really come to terms with these things properly until after the funeral, I find.’
‘Have you been in touch with the Vernons yourself?’
Margaret hesitated. ‘I’ve tried to ring Charlotte, but nobody ever answers the phone. You just get the answering machine.’
‘I’ve just come from the Mount myself,’ said Fry.
‘Oh?’ Margaret didn’t seem to know what else to say. She was wearing a long skirt and strappy shoes with flat soles, and she had a light sweater tied round her shoulders. She looked hot and uncomfortable, but then so did everybody in this weather.
‘I’ve been talking to Mrs Vernon.’
‘Is she – how is she taking it all?’
‘Not quite in the way you might expect.’
‘Oh?’ said Margaret again.
Fry walked across to the bay windows and peered through the net at the front garden. Close up, she could see that the geraniums were wilting and turning brown, and their petals had formed a dark-red pool around the base of the chimney pot.
‘What sort of relationship would you say your husband has with the Vernons?’ she asked.
‘He works for Graham. It’s a good job and Andrew works hard.’ Margaret sat down, straightening her skirt, perching uneasily on the edge of an armchair. She looked at Fry anxiously, worried by the fact that she insisted on remaining standing by the window, despite the hint. ‘He was out of work for a while, you know. It made him appreciate having a secure job.’
‘Just a relationship between employer and employee, then? Or something more?’
‘Well, I don’t really know what you mean,’ said Margaret. ‘They work very closely together. You have to have a fairly close personal relationship, I suppose.’
‘A personal relationship? Friends, then? Do you socialize with the Vernons? Have you visited their house?’
‘Yes, we have. Once or twice. Graham is very hospitable.’
Fry watched her closely, noting the shift in the gaze, the involuntary movements of the hands that fidgeted constantly, as if seeking something to pat back into place, something that could be put right with a quick shake and a smoothing of the palms.
‘And Charlotte Vernon?’ said Fry. ‘Is she equally hospitable?’
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ asked Margaret with a note of desperation.
‘No, thank you.’
‘I’ll make one, I think.’
‘If you like.’
Fry followed her into the kitchen, making Margaret Milner even more nervous as she slouched against the oak-effect units and got in the way of the fridge door being opened. Margaret stared at her over the top of the door with a plastic bottle of skimmed milk in her hand.
‘What exactly is it that you want?’
‘A bit of help, that’s all,’ said Fry. ‘I’m trying to fill in a few details.’
Cold air from the open fridge was filling the space between them, chilling Fry’s skin and condensing on the steel surfaces. Margaret seemed reluctant to reach for the handle to close it, afraid to reach too near to Fry in case she touched her and was contaminated by something that could not be killed by Jeyes Fluid and bleach.
‘I don’t know what details I can give you. I really don’t.’
Margaret actually walked away, leaving the fridge ajar, to switch on the kettle. When Fry slammed the door, Margaret jerked as if she had been shot, slopping water on to the work surface.
‘Would you know where to find Mr Milner just now, if you needed to?’
Margaret glanced automatically at the clock. ‘His office would be able to tell you where he is. He has to drive around a lot. Meetings with clients, you know. He’s so busy. He may not be home until late again tonight.’
Home late and she never knew where he was? Fry wondered whether Andrew Milner really was as busy as he told his wife. She wouldn’t accept that anything was impossible.
‘Maybe there are times when you don’t know where your husband is, but Graham Vernon does know.’
‘Of course.’
‘And sometimes, perhaps, it’s Charlotte Vernon who knows where he is?’
For a moment, Margaret did nothing but stare at the simmering kettle as if it had muttered a rude word. Then she opened her mouth and eyes wide and began to flap her fingers. ‘Oh no, what do you mean?’
‘I think it’s fairly straightforward. Mrs Vernon was quite open about it.’
‘Was she implying something about Andrew? It’s quite ridiculous, isn’t it? She’s obviously not well. She must have been affected very badly for her to make up things like that.’
‘You don’t think it’s true?’
‘True? What nonsense! Andrew? Nonsense!’
‘You realize that the wife is often the last to know?’
‘Oh, but really … Andrew?’ She laughed suddenly, foolishly. ‘It’s just not possible.’
‘OK.’ The kettle began to boil, but was ignored. A small cloud of steam drifted across the kitchen, but dissipated before it could warm Fry’s chilled hands. ‘One last detail, Mrs Milner. Are you related to a boy called Simeon Holmes?’
‘Simeon is my cousin Alison’s son. They live on the Devonshire Estate.’
‘Were you aware that he was Laura Vernon’s boyfriend?’
Margaret wrung her hands and stared out of the bay window. ‘Not until Alison told me last night. She said he had to go to the police station.’
‘Something else you didn’t know, then?’
‘No, no,’ cried Margaret. ‘Not Andrew. It’s impossible!’
Fry trod in the slithery skin of geranium petals as she left the house. Though still scarlet on the surface, they were black and rotting underneath. Impossible? The only thing that was impossible was the idea that she might have been willing to sit and take tea with Margaret Milner among her miniature cottages and net curtains.
While she turned the Peugeot round, Fry thought of one more place to try. This one would be a pleasure, she thought, as she remembered the way Helen Milner had looked at Ben Cooper in the street at Moorhay.
Helen took a phone call from her mother as soon as Diane Fry had left the house in Edendale, and she had to spend some minutes placating her. When she had finally hung up, Helen rang her grandparents’ number. She knew they didn’t use the telephone much, and had only been persuaded to have it put in for emergencies, with Andrew paying the rental. When it rang, she could picture the two old people looking at the phone in alarm, reluctant to answer it. Eventually, Harry would get up slowly and take