and stood
up.
‘How?’
His face was
suddenly dark and stony, as if the complexity of the problem had just hit home.
‘I don’t know, yet. But give me time and I will.’
*******
9
Long Cottage stood
at the end of a neat terrace on the edge of Cotton Hill, a hamlet barely six
miles from Basingstoke. Other than a tiny pub, a whitewashed village hall and a
scattering of other houses set behind hedges and trees, there couldn’t have
been more than a dozen buildings in sight, as if progress had passed them by,
leaving a remnant of a time long gone.
Palmer parked
his Saab and climbed out. The air was cool after the inside of the car, and he
eyed the darkening sky with suspicion. The journey down the M3 from London had
been a stop-start series of road works, and it was a relief to be out in the
open.
He eyed the
cottage. It had a small, crumbling brick wall surrounding a neat front garden
of herb borders and shrubs. An elderly woman in a baggy grey jumper was bent
over a large terracotta urn, stabbing energetically with a hand fork at the
contents as if giving the coup de grace to some unseen enemy.
Palmer strolled
across the road and smiled genially when the woman looked up. ‘Mrs Demelzer?’
She
straightened her back with a grunt and dropped the fork into the urn as if
relieved to be done with it. She had silver hair swept back into a tidy bun,
round cheeks and a pleasant face, and laughter lines around keen eyes. Palmer
was never good with women’s ages, but he guessed she was somewhere in her
seventies.
‘You don’t know
anything about slugs, do you?’ the woman said chattily. ‘All my years
gardening, and the buggers still keep coming. I’ve tried pellets and stuff, but
none of them work.’
‘Have you tried
copper?’ Palmer said easily, recalling a fragment of a gardening programme,
courtesy of a lengthy surveillance job in his car. ‘I’ve heard that works.’
She gave him a
pitying look. ‘Is that right? Well, someone had better tell the local slugs,
because they haven’t caught on yet.’ She brushed her hands together and used
her wrist to push a stray hank of hair off her forehead. ‘So, what can I do for
you, young man?’
‘I’m a friend
of Helen’s. She talked about you, and I said I’d drop by if ever I was
passing.’ He told her his name and wondered if the approach was as lame as it
sounded. But short of telling her the shocking truth, which he had no right to
do, he hadn’t been able to come up with a better reason for being there.
The woman
tilted her head to one side and smiled, eyes assessing and accepting him all in
one look. ‘Helen? Oh, that’s nice. What’s she been up to, then?’ She didn’t
wait for an answer, but turned towards the front door of the cottage. ‘You’d
better come in,’ she said. ‘Do you fancy a cup of tea?’
‘Helen’s a sweet
girl. Her mum was my best friend - ever since school days. She died ten years
ago, but Helen always kept in touch, bless her.’
They were
seated in the warmth of the cottage’s tiny front room, with a tray of tea and
biscuits on a footstool between them. The room was like an antique shop, with
ornaments of every kind packed on to every bit of shelving and flat surface,
even overflowing on to the floor. It was clear that Mrs Demelzer had never
thrown away a single souvenir she’d been given or collected, no matter how
kitsch. Figurines, pots, plates and statuettes, most of them bearing a place
name in gaudy script, all jostled each other in a mad fight for space. And
Palmer had never seen so many heavy crystal ashtrays in one place before. Maybe
the old lady was a heavy smoker.
Mrs Demelzer
stared into her cup as if reading something meaningful in the depths and gave a
vague half-smile. ‘I’m not sure why she bothers, to be honest. We’re hardly
related, and it’s only because of my friendship with Margaret, her mother, that
we ever met. But we sort of rub along, which is nice.’ Her smile
up.
‘How?’
His face was
suddenly dark and stony, as if the complexity of the problem had just hit home.
‘I don’t know, yet. But give me time and I will.’
*******
9
Long Cottage stood
at the end of a neat terrace on the edge of Cotton Hill, a hamlet barely six
miles from Basingstoke. Other than a tiny pub, a whitewashed village hall and a
scattering of other houses set behind hedges and trees, there couldn’t have
been more than a dozen buildings in sight, as if progress had passed them by,
leaving a remnant of a time long gone.
Palmer parked
his Saab and climbed out. The air was cool after the inside of the car, and he
eyed the darkening sky with suspicion. The journey down the M3 from London had
been a stop-start series of road works, and it was a relief to be out in the
open.
He eyed the
cottage. It had a small, crumbling brick wall surrounding a neat front garden
of herb borders and shrubs. An elderly woman in a baggy grey jumper was bent
over a large terracotta urn, stabbing energetically with a hand fork at the
contents as if giving the coup de grace to some unseen enemy.
Palmer strolled
across the road and smiled genially when the woman looked up. ‘Mrs Demelzer?’
She
straightened her back with a grunt and dropped the fork into the urn as if
relieved to be done with it. She had silver hair swept back into a tidy bun,
round cheeks and a pleasant face, and laughter lines around keen eyes. Palmer
was never good with women’s ages, but he guessed she was somewhere in her
seventies.
‘You don’t know
anything about slugs, do you?’ the woman said chattily. ‘All my years
gardening, and the buggers still keep coming. I’ve tried pellets and stuff, but
none of them work.’
‘Have you tried
copper?’ Palmer said easily, recalling a fragment of a gardening programme,
courtesy of a lengthy surveillance job in his car. ‘I’ve heard that works.’
She gave him a
pitying look. ‘Is that right? Well, someone had better tell the local slugs,
because they haven’t caught on yet.’ She brushed her hands together and used
her wrist to push a stray hank of hair off her forehead. ‘So, what can I do for
you, young man?’
‘I’m a friend
of Helen’s. She talked about you, and I said I’d drop by if ever I was
passing.’ He told her his name and wondered if the approach was as lame as it
sounded. But short of telling her the shocking truth, which he had no right to
do, he hadn’t been able to come up with a better reason for being there.
The woman
tilted her head to one side and smiled, eyes assessing and accepting him all in
one look. ‘Helen? Oh, that’s nice. What’s she been up to, then?’ She didn’t
wait for an answer, but turned towards the front door of the cottage. ‘You’d
better come in,’ she said. ‘Do you fancy a cup of tea?’
‘Helen’s a sweet
girl. Her mum was my best friend - ever since school days. She died ten years
ago, but Helen always kept in touch, bless her.’
They were
seated in the warmth of the cottage’s tiny front room, with a tray of tea and
biscuits on a footstool between them. The room was like an antique shop, with
ornaments of every kind packed on to every bit of shelving and flat surface,
even overflowing on to the floor. It was clear that Mrs Demelzer had never
thrown away a single souvenir she’d been given or collected, no matter how
kitsch. Figurines, pots, plates and statuettes, most of them bearing a place
name in gaudy script, all jostled each other in a mad fight for space. And
Palmer had never seen so many heavy crystal ashtrays in one place before. Maybe
the old lady was a heavy smoker.
Mrs Demelzer
stared into her cup as if reading something meaningful in the depths and gave a
vague half-smile. ‘I’m not sure why she bothers, to be honest. We’re hardly
related, and it’s only because of my friendship with Margaret, her mother, that
we ever met. But we sort of rub along, which is nice.’ Her smile
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