that buys those bloody awful paintings of his? Women, that’s who. All of a certain age, all either divorced or widowed or unhappily married. You won’t find a gallery owner or a true art lover buying them, I’ll tell you that for nothing. Have you seen them? He gave one to our Mon for her birthday, and it’s hanging in our front room. I tell you, looking at it gives me eyestrain. She’s better off without him.’
Hillary nodded. ‘Your daughter tells me she came to your house last night?’
‘That’s right. For dinner. She arrived at about quarter to seven.’
‘And she left, when?’
‘About quarter past nine. Look, you can’t think our Mon had anything to do with this? She’s just a strip of a girl! Besides, she hasn’t got a violent bone in her body. She loves animals, even as a little kid. She hates to see anything suffer.’
Hillary nodded. ‘And after she left, Mr Freeman? What did you do?’
‘Me? I went out to the greenhouse out back. We’ve got a large series of glass houses there – we’ve not got much space here as you can see, so we tend to grow a lot of our stock at home.’
‘Did your wife help you?’
‘No. There was something on telly she wanted to watch. I came in about ten-thirty and we went to bed.’
Hillary nodded thoughtfully. So not only did Monica Freeman not have an alibi. Her father had no alibi either.
Interesting.
chapter four
B y the end of the day, they’d covered a lot of ground, but learned very little about the victim’s movements on the day of his death. The owners of the cottages nearest the meadow had returned home from work, to be greeted by officers on their doorsteps, notebooks at the ready, but nobody remembered seeing Wayne Sutton yesterday evening.
One bright PC had ascertained that there was a short-cut from the village to the meadows that by-passed the lane altogether . Once the last house of the village was left behind, the footpath kept mostly to the sides of hedges before opening out into the meadow where the victim was found, so it was possible that Wayne Sutton had never even walked down the farm track past the cottages on the day of his death. Hillary wearily told the uniforms to find out, next day, who the regular dog walkers were, since they were bound to use the path, and question them instead.
After a half an hour back at HQ talking to Danvers, outlining the case so far and receiving further instructions, she was more than ready to call it a day. As she pulled out of the HQ car park, she heard a faint church bell toll eight o’clock. Her stomach was rumbling, and when she passed a fish and chip shop, she almost whimpered at the delicious smell. Telling herself that she really did want the cold tinned salmon and cobbled-together salad that awaited her back on the boatmore than a greasy fry-up, by the time she finally pulled into the car park of The Boat pub, where she habitually parked, she was almost convinced.
She locked the car and headed for the towpath, glancing at the other boats as she walked towards her own, noting which of the ‘regulars’ had moved on, and which visiting, mostly tourist craft, had moored in their spot.
She had to smile at Oodunnit , a boat that had painted inside each of the two ‘O’s a worried-looking eye, and wondered if the owner was a mystery writer. As she neared the Mollern her own narrowboat, she sighed to see that Willowsands was still absent. Nancy Walker, who owned her, had been Hillary’s nearest neighbour since she’d had to move on to the Mollern after the break-up of her marriage to Ronnie Greene. Last winter, however, Nancy had chugged her way up to Stratford-upon-Avon, and Hillary still missed her raucous, humorous, blithe presence. A swinging divorcee, who loved younger men – and many of them – she had decided to trawl for fresh pickings from the many actors and wannabes who flocked to Shakespeare Country. Hillary hoped she’d come back soon.
As she approached her predominantly
Hillary nodded. ‘Your daughter tells me she came to your house last night?’
‘That’s right. For dinner. She arrived at about quarter to seven.’
‘And she left, when?’
‘About quarter past nine. Look, you can’t think our Mon had anything to do with this? She’s just a strip of a girl! Besides, she hasn’t got a violent bone in her body. She loves animals, even as a little kid. She hates to see anything suffer.’
Hillary nodded. ‘And after she left, Mr Freeman? What did you do?’
‘Me? I went out to the greenhouse out back. We’ve got a large series of glass houses there – we’ve not got much space here as you can see, so we tend to grow a lot of our stock at home.’
‘Did your wife help you?’
‘No. There was something on telly she wanted to watch. I came in about ten-thirty and we went to bed.’
Hillary nodded thoughtfully. So not only did Monica Freeman not have an alibi. Her father had no alibi either.
Interesting.
chapter four
B y the end of the day, they’d covered a lot of ground, but learned very little about the victim’s movements on the day of his death. The owners of the cottages nearest the meadow had returned home from work, to be greeted by officers on their doorsteps, notebooks at the ready, but nobody remembered seeing Wayne Sutton yesterday evening.
One bright PC had ascertained that there was a short-cut from the village to the meadows that by-passed the lane altogether . Once the last house of the village was left behind, the footpath kept mostly to the sides of hedges before opening out into the meadow where the victim was found, so it was possible that Wayne Sutton had never even walked down the farm track past the cottages on the day of his death. Hillary wearily told the uniforms to find out, next day, who the regular dog walkers were, since they were bound to use the path, and question them instead.
After a half an hour back at HQ talking to Danvers, outlining the case so far and receiving further instructions, she was more than ready to call it a day. As she pulled out of the HQ car park, she heard a faint church bell toll eight o’clock. Her stomach was rumbling, and when she passed a fish and chip shop, she almost whimpered at the delicious smell. Telling herself that she really did want the cold tinned salmon and cobbled-together salad that awaited her back on the boatmore than a greasy fry-up, by the time she finally pulled into the car park of The Boat pub, where she habitually parked, she was almost convinced.
She locked the car and headed for the towpath, glancing at the other boats as she walked towards her own, noting which of the ‘regulars’ had moved on, and which visiting, mostly tourist craft, had moored in their spot.
She had to smile at Oodunnit , a boat that had painted inside each of the two ‘O’s a worried-looking eye, and wondered if the owner was a mystery writer. As she neared the Mollern her own narrowboat, she sighed to see that Willowsands was still absent. Nancy Walker, who owned her, had been Hillary’s nearest neighbour since she’d had to move on to the Mollern after the break-up of her marriage to Ronnie Greene. Last winter, however, Nancy had chugged her way up to Stratford-upon-Avon, and Hillary still missed her raucous, humorous, blithe presence. A swinging divorcee, who loved younger men – and many of them – she had decided to trawl for fresh pickings from the many actors and wannabes who flocked to Shakespeare Country. Hillary hoped she’d come back soon.
As she approached her predominantly
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