There was nothing Ian could tell them so, when they’d finished their drinks, Max took their coats from the pegs.
‘If you two are off, I may as well lock up for the night,’ Ian grumbled. ‘Who’d be a publican, eh? First it was the drink-drive thing, then the smoking ban—as for the price of beer, soon there’ll be none who can afford a drink.’
‘And on that cheerful note,’ Jill grinned.
‘I’ll be seeing you,’ Ian said, chuckling.
In the short time they’d been inside, the temperature must have risen because the thin layer of snow had already turned to wet slush. It looked as if Jill would have no excuse to keep her from Styal after all.
‘Someone will be talking to Olive Prendergast tomorrow,’ Max remarked as they walked home. ‘We’ll need to know if it was her dog barking.’
‘It’s a good place to start,’ Jill said, smiling. ‘What Olive doesn’t know about the comings and goings in this village isn’t worth knowing. She loves to talk, and what she doesn’t know she’ll invent and add her own personal touch of venom.’
‘Bloody villages,’ he muttered.
Max’s dislike and distrust of village life was legendary. He was a townie through and through. Apart from his large garden which was mainly lawn, he couldn’t see a blade of grass from his home on the outskirts of Harrington and Jill knew that was just how he liked it. He preferred a view of lights, people and traffic to bleak, frost-covered hills.
‘Who else in the village owns a dog?’ he asked, and Jill laughed.
‘It’ll be easier to tell you who doesn’t own one. I don’t, Ella doesn’t, Ian doesn’t. Oh, and the Johnsons don’t. Apart from that—’
Max groaned.
Sunday brought another sharp, crisp frost. October had been wet, dull and grey and November had started in the same damp, miserable way, yet now, as it neared its end, it was turning into a gem of a month. The bright sunshine drew the eye to every white-coated blade of grass, hedge and tree. Nature at its most impressive.
Max knew Jill’s usual routine on a Sunday was to spend a lazy morning in bed with the newspapers. Most of the time, that would suit Max, too. Not today, though. He needed to be at headquarters later and he couldn’t abide the thought of wasting a single moment of the day.
Having been out of bed early and driven home to collect his mail, he’d put the dogs in the car and returned to Jill’s cottage, determined to drag her out for a good walk. Mayhem ruled for a few minutes as the dogs made themselves at home, and Jill’s cats wisely raced outside, but things soon settled down.
‘Come on, lazybones,’ he said, as she was about to make her third coffee of the day. ‘Let’s take the dogs for a run. It’s gorgeous out there.’
‘It’s gorgeous in here,’ she retorted. ‘The boiler’s working for once, and I have coffee.’
However, she pulled on another sweater, her thick coat, scarf and gloves. Max grabbed his own jacket and put it on over his shirt.
‘What is it about men?’ she asked, shaking her head in amazement. ‘Is it a macho thing to freeze to death? The temperature out there is, well, it’s freezing.’
‘It’ll be warmer than you think in this sunshine,’ he said confidently.
The dogs ran around in circles as they tried to get out of the front door, slowing everything down considerably, but, when it was open, they raced off down the lane.
‘What a bunch of misfits,’ Jill said with amusement.
Max had to smile. He hadn’t really wanted one dog, his erratic and unpredictable lifestyle didn’t suit animals, and he still found it hard to believe that he’d been conned into homing three. Holly, the faithful, quiet collie, had belonged to a man currently serving time for murder. Fly, the manic half-Labrador and half-collie, had been rescued by his son and, it had to be said, had been exceptionally well trained by the boy. Muffet, the old black crossbreed with his grey muzzle, another dog rescued by Ben, was the grumpy old man of the trio. For all that, the dogs were the greatest of friends and Max wouldn’t have been without them.
Despite the temperature, and it was a lot colder than Max had anticipated, and although they were squinting against a low sun, it was good to be outside.
They were heading towards the church and even Max, who’d been born with a deep dislike of village life, had to admit that it was the stuff of postcards. It didn’t come more picturesque than Kelton Bridge, and he could see the appeal for Jill.
Difficult to believe this quaint, sleepy village could be a setting for murder.
As they drew level with the church, a woman and her dog rounded the corner.
‘Olive Prendergast and the ankle-biter,’ Jill warned him.
Even allowing for the thick blue coat, boots, hat, scarf and enormous fur gloves, she was a stocky woman. She strode out like a drill sergeant.
Max’s three dogs ran on ahead to investigate.
‘Fly will think it’s edible,’ he said beneath his breath and Jill grinned.
Fortunately, Olive had the foresight to scoop the animal into her arms before Fly got a taste.
‘Morning, Olive,’ Jill greeted her. ‘What a beautiful day!’
‘It is,’ Olive agreed. ‘Not that many people will see it. I’ve just walked through the estate and they’re all lazing in their beds. The only thing that gets them out of the house is going to collect their dole money. That and a trip to the bookmaker ’s,’ she added with a sly look at Jill.
While Jill struggled through a gasp of shock at Olive’s last comment, Olive turned her attention to Max.
Max had never had the dubious pleasure of meeting Olive, ex-postmistress of Kelton Bridge, but he’d heard all about her from Jill. He knew Olive rarely had a good word for anyone. Correction. She never had a good word for anyone.
‘I thought you’d be busy looking for the person who did for Johnson,’ she said, and the criticism of Max, of Harrington CID and of the whole of the UK police force was evident.
‘Even I have a few hours off now and again,’ Max told her.
‘You’re none the wiser then,’ she decided with satisfaction.
‘We’re following several leads.’ That was a blatant lie, but it sounded impressive.
‘Oh, yes?’ Impressive or not, Olive wasn’t taken in. ‘You’ll have your work cut out. There must be plenty of suspects. There’s not many round here who’ll be sorry to see him gone. He wasn’t popular, was he, Jill?’
‘People are wary of newcomers to the village,’ Jill agreed.
‘Did you ever go to those parties he gave?’
Jill shook her head and Olive made a sucking sound through false teeth.
‘Drugs,’ she confided in a whisper. ‘And sex.’
‘Really?’ Jill said. ‘I didn’t realize you’d been on the guest list, Olive.’
‘Huh. You wouldn’t catch me mixing with the likes of him.’ Olive clutched the ankle-biter closer to her chest. ‘It was a well-known fact, though. All those who thought they were someone were there. The holier than thou set. But oh no, you wouldn’t catch me mixing with the likes of those.
‘A young policeman, name of Benson, visited me on Friday,’ she rushed on, ‘and I told him the same thing. I had nothing to do with that family. I expect she’ll move away now and the manor will be up for sale again. Perhaps someone local will buy it this time. Mind, that’s not likely, is it? Apart from those on the estate—’ she nodded towards the small social housing complex—‘people in Kelton are honest, hardworking folk. That sort can’t afford places like the manor.’
Max thought Olive was set to gossip all day but, eventually, she hurried on her way, putting the dog back on the ground when she was a good fifty yards from them.
‘What a delightful woman,’ he said.
‘Cheeky cow. Did you see the way she looked at me? To hear her talk, people would think I spent all my days at the bookie’s!’
‘I know,’ he said, feigning outrage. ‘What nonsense, when everyone knows you’ve got a phone account with William Hill.’
‘It’s just as well I have. Bloody woman!’
‘She’s certainly one of a kind. And the dog that Ella heard barking didn’t belong to her. She and the ankle-biter were on a bus coming back from Burnley at the time.
‘I’ll tell you something else, though—no one’s talking.’ Hour after frustrating hour spent on house-to-house inquiries had given them nothing of use. ‘People might not have liked Johnson, but no one’s talking. It’s a village thing, isn’t it? They clam up. They stick together. They’ll speak ill of the dead all right, but only to each other, not to outsiders. Take Olive, for instance. If you hadn’t been here, I bet she wouldn’t have said a word about him.’
‘I bet she would. She’ll talk to anyone. Old gossip.’
‘He wasn’t popular though, was he?’
‘Not really. It’s true that villagers are wary of newcomers and the crime they might bring to the area, but with Bradley it was more than that. I don’t really know why. I suppose some were jealous of his lifestyle, not that they’d admit it.’
They walked on.
‘I know you’re busy right now,’ Max said, ‘but you’ll have to help me out on this one, Jill. You know the people. They’ll trust you.’
‘You forget, Max, that I’m a newcomer, too. I’m still the fancy psychiatrist who lives in Mrs Blackman’s old cottage. You need at least three generations living in the village before you’re considered a local.’
‘Bloody villages,’ he muttered, and she smiled.
They walked on and ended up on Ryan Walk, where Ella had met Bradley Johnson.
‘It gives you the creeps, doesn’t it?’ Jill said. ‘Awful to imagine how poor Connie Walker must have felt when she walked into the wood and found Bradley Johnson’s body.’
‘A shock to the system, yes.’
‘It’s no longer sealed off,’ she noticed.
‘No, we finished here last night.’
He took the path and Jill, a little reluctantly he thought, followed. It was much colder beneath the trees where the sun couldn’t penetrate. In fact, it was freezing. Why the hell hadn’t he worn something warmer?
‘Not that we found a lot,’ he went on, pushing his hands deep in his pockets. ‘Johnson was killed on the main path—here. His body was dragged to the base of that tree.’ He nodded at a spot five or six yards away.
‘So whoever killed him wasn’t bothered about someone finding him.’
‘Apparently not. Believe it or not, we also got a couple of footprints that may reveal something. Mind you, given the number of people tramping through here, that’s doubtful. Other than that, nothing. No murder weapon.’ He kicked at a pile of dead, frost-covered leaves. ‘We’ve no idea of the motive. No idea who he was meeting. If indeed he was meeting anyone. But if he wasn’t meeting them at the pub …’ He shrugged. ‘Well, you wouldn’t set up a meeting in this place, would you?’
‘You might,’ Jill said, ‘if you wanted to keep away from prying eyes. In fact, in Kelton Bridge, it’s about the only place you could meet if you wanted to do that.’
Not only was it colder beneath the trees, it was dark and eerily quiet. The ground crunched under their feet as they walked on, but no birds sang out.
‘What are you doing tomorrow morning?’ he asked.
‘Nothing I can’t get out of. Why?’
‘I’m calling at the manor to see Phoebe Johnson. Apparently, one of Johnson’s infamous parties was given last week and she’s promised to provide me with a list of guests. I’d like you along with me.’
‘OK.’
They weren’t alone in the wood. Twigs were crackling and someone coughed. Max sensed Jill edge closer.
The dogs had been chasing each other in circles but they ran ahead to check it out. An elderly man appeared and then Max noticed that instead of three dogs running around there were four. The addition was a young border collie.
Jill relaxed and had a smile on her face as they met up with the man.
‘Morning, Jack,’ she said. ‘How are you today?’
‘Mustn’t grumble, Jill. Yourself?’
‘Very well, thanks. Max, this is Jack Taylor. Jack, this is—’
‘I know who he is.’ He looked Max up and down and clearly found him wanting.
Max looked at him, too. He was possibly in his seventies, maybe even his eighties, with thick white hair. Tall and upright, there was no spare flesh on him. His waterproof coat was grubby, his trousers had a small tear at the knee and his heavy boots were caked in dried mud that had to be days old.
‘I recognize you from the telly,’ Mr Taylor said. ‘You’re looking into the murder of him from the manor.’
‘That’s right. Did you know Mr Johnson?’
‘Pah!’ He spat on the ground to his right. ‘All I know is that the world’s a better place without him. Men like that—a wrong bugger, that’s what he were.’
‘What makes you say that?’ Max asked curiously.
‘He were a wrong ’un, that’s all.’
‘A witness thought he might have been meeting someone,’ Max told him. ‘You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?’
‘Why the hell should I know what he was doing?’
‘Is that a no?’
‘I had you coppers knocking on my door yesterday,’ he snapped. ‘Why the hell am I being singled out, eh? There’s a word for that.’
‘Harassment, probably,’ Max said, ‘but I can assure you that you aren’t being singled out. We’re speaking to everyone in Kelton Bridge.’
‘That’s as maybe. I’ll tell you what I told them. He were a wrong ’un, that’s all I know about him. Deserved all he got. And that’s all I know.’
‘It’s possible that he was meeting someone with a dog,’ Max put in, his gaze resting on the man’s young collie.
‘Bugger me!’ Jack Taylor exploded. ‘Some folk have got nothing better to do with their time than talk.’
‘We find it helpful,’ Max said drily. ‘Do you often walk your dog here?’ he asked, changing tack.
‘Yes. Most days.’
‘Were you here on Wednesday afternoon?’
‘No.’
He hadn’t even stopped to think.
‘Are you quite sure, Jack?’ Jill put in. ‘It was a nice afternoon, a day very much like this one.’
‘Look,’ he said, fixing bright eyes on Jill and then Max. ‘If I said I weren’t here, I weren’t here, right? I might be getting on a bit, but I’m not bloody senile yet. Good day to you both.’
He stalked off, stiff and erect. A whistle to his dog and the collie was immediately following her master.
‘So much for the community spirit,’ Max said grimly.