A Painted Doom by Kate Ellis Page B

place for lunch,’ Rachel said, holding out the olive branch. ‘If we get time for lunch, that is.’
    Steve grunted in the affirmative. ‘What did you make of the boss’s briefing this morning? Do you think the victim could be
     this pop singer, Jonny Shellmer?’
    Steve shrugged. ‘The boss seemed pretty certain. But then he always does.’
    ‘Do you know anything about Shellmer?’ Rachel asked as they reached the lane that led out of the village. The narrow roadway
     was overhung with budding plum trees which promised a good late-summer crop.
    ‘Bit before my time,’ said Steve thoughtfully. ‘But he was very big in the late sixties and seventies. One of the bad boys
     of rock – drug convictions, smashed-up hotel rooms: the usual. He’s just sold a big place in London andrented a place around here – in Whitely, I think. I read that he’d decided to stay here permanently and was looking for a
     place around Derenham. It was in the paper the other day. He’d given some money to some village hall appeal in Derenham because
     he wanted to move there.’
    ‘I presume the boss knows about all this?’ she asked, impressed by Steve’s encyclopaedic knowledge of the doings of ageing
     rock stars.
    ‘He’s been to the
Tradmouth Echo
offices so he’ll know about the Whitely place and the Derenham money. And as for the rest, I suppose he’ll have found out
     for himself by now.’
    Rachel admitted to herself reluctantly that Steve was probably right. But all the same, she’d mention it to Wesley when she
     got the chance. She seized every opportunity to speak to Wesley.
    ‘Actually …’ Steve hesitated.
    Rachel looked at him impatiently. ‘What is it?’
    ‘This, er, girl I’m seeing is a big fan of some of these old rock groups. I’ll, er, ask her what she knows about Jonny Shellmer.’
    Rachel looked at him, stifling a grin. So Steve’s love life had taken a turn for the better. Although he boasted of his conquests
     in the clubs of Morbay, Rachel suspected that his success rate wasn’t high. ‘You do that, Steve. What’s her name?’
    ‘Melissa,’ he replied with a mixture of affection and pride. Maybe it was the real thing, Rachel thought, reflecting on some
     women’s odd taste in men.
    They had arrived at the gates of the Old Vicarage. Through the local grapevine Rachel had heard that the place was up for
     sale. If Jonny Shellmer was looking for a place around Derenham, the Old Vicarage would certainly fit the bill. The gates
     were rustic and rusty rather than impressive, but if Shellmer had bought the place, all that might have changed: electronic
     gates with elaborate security devices would probably be
de rigueur
for a former rock star’s hide-away.
    On the lane beside the gates was a small cob cottage, pink washed and thatched, with a neatly painted sign announcing that
     it was called ‘Vicarage Lodge’. Pretty to look at but probably dark and cramped inside, Rachel thought. She had lived in the
     countryside too long to take a romantic view of such places – that sort of thing was for townies.
    She turned to Steve. ‘We’ll do the cottage first. All right?’
    Before he could answer, she marched up to the smartly painted front door and let the grand lion’s-head knocker fall three
     times. After a few moments the door opened an inch and a woman’s voice asked, ‘Who is it?’
    Rachel poked her warrant card around the door. ‘I’m DS Tracey and this is DC Carstairs. Tradmouth CID. We’d just like to ask
     a few questions about the incident near here yesterday. May we come in?’ She spoke with confident efficiency and her no-nonsense
     approach seemed to work. The door opened wider to reveal a woman in late middle age. She wore tight black leggings and a huge,
     silky blouse; her silver hair was stiff and elaborately coiffed, the sort that required regular shampoos and sets.
    ‘You’d better come in,’ she said with a hint of reluctance. ‘But I never saw nothing until