Chapter Five #2
Liz regarded the lady with feelings of sympathy.
With her pink sparkly head covering and her thick Birmingham accent, she struck Liz as somewhat out of place in Hollinby Quernhow and indeed as rather lonely.
The eagerness with which she’d struck up conversation spoke of someone for whom chatting was the breath of life, and yet something she was not getting much of a chance to do.
Her house, ‘SidrahNick’, a long, low amalgam of what looked like three cottages joined together, stood at the quieter end of the village, directly opposite the Hilton residence just before the lane looped out into the fields.
The woman’s stall was the only one for at least four or five dwellings, and seemed as lonely as its stallholder.
Liz looked at the woman, who she guessed must be Sidrah.
And Nick? The woman’s wedding ring, plus the poignant collection of men’s bric-a-brac and prominent Cancer Support collection bucket told their own sad story.
‘And this argument took place in the garden?’ she asked.
‘According to Judy the dog walker lady.’ Sidrah fanned herself vigorously with a Haynes motoring manual. ‘She was walking her Whisky at the playing field at the back.’
Liz wondered how Ffion had had the nerve to lie so blatantly to the police. Panic perhaps? Years of dealing with miscreants in her class had taught her people were apt to tell the most obvious whoppers when faced with their wrongdoings.
‘But you didn’t see this row?’ she asked. Surely from here any altercation in the garden of the Old Barn, or even in front of the adjacent Snuggery would have been hard to miss?
‘No.’ Sidrah shook her head regretfully.
‘No, I’d have been Zooming round then. I usually have a catch-up Zoom with the people who work for me round six thirty, just to finish off the week.
Of course, if I’d been out in the garden—’ She cast a loving glance towards the neat ranks and rows of vegetation flanking the side of the cottage.
From there, Liz reckoned, she’d have an almost flawless view of the comings and goings at the Old Barn.
‘It is a lovely garden,’ said Liz looking at the expertly tended plants, and unlike Pat there was genuine admiration in her voice. ‘You’re having better luck with your forsythia than I am.’
Sidrah nodded, all at once her face eager. ‘It’s keeping up with the watering,’ she said. ‘I’m just crossing everything hoping they don’t bring this here hosepipe ban in.’
‘You and me both,’ said Liz with feeling. ‘But you’re keeping on top of things so far—’
‘I’ve always loved my garden,’ said Sidrah. ‘And now it gives me something to do of an evening.’ Her voice sounded suddenly lost and her gaze lingered over the table with its silk ties and the men’s hairbrush set.
‘It was so sad about Nev Hilton,’ said Liz. ‘It just goes to show you never know what’s round the corner.’
Sidrah gave a heartfelt nod of agreement. ‘Ain’t that the truth.’
‘And to have a row like that just before he died!’ She felt rather bad changing the subject like this, but at the end of the day there were things she wanted to find out, and there was always the chance Zippy Doodah could appear, or indeed Ffion Hilton.
‘I wonder what on earth it could have been about?’
‘Summat big, it must have been.’ Once again Sidrah’s face was eager. ‘For pity’s sake – that’s what Ffion was shouting – and you don’t say that unless you’re thoroughly hacked off.’
Liz wondered. To her it seemed a rather restrained choice of words for someone who was really angry. ‘I wonder what it was he’d done?’ she said.
Sidrah shrugged. ‘It could have been anything,’ she said. ‘Always chuntering on about something Nev was – people parking, cutting down trees, all that kerfuffle about the playing field. And bless him, he would never admit he was wrong in any way, shape or form.’
‘So, he wasn’t popular?’ said Liz.
‘I wouldn’t say that so much,’ said Sidrah.
‘I mean there was no actual harm in the guy. It’s just no one actually liked him very much.
’ She was about to say more when the hollow clop of hooves made her look up, eyes widening in alarm.
‘Hello, Ffion,’ she called with the false brightness of someone rapidly changing the subject.
With a thrill of fear Liz turned to see the taut, ramrod figure of the second Mrs Hilton, advancing in stately fashion down the lane atop a vast brown horse.
With her look of stony detachment, she put Liz in mind of a general leading her troops into battle.
Ffion nodded briefly at Sidrah and would probably not have even noticed Liz had it not been for the two loud sneezes she gave vent to.
The woman’s eyes slid over to her and disinterest shifted into a puzzled frown of recognition.
Hastily Liz turned away, taking a sudden interest in some rather hideous stripy socks.
‘Does she have a stable at the Old Barn?’ Liz asked when she was sure that the disdainful figure was out of earshot. Sidrah shook her head.
‘No. There’s these stables at the edge of the village on the Marley Road. It’s where she works. I don’t mind saying’ – she lowered her voice conspiratorially – ‘she can have a right temper on her. And she’s been right funny lately, ever since Nev died.’
‘She’s likely upset,’ ventured Liz.
Sidrah shook her head. ‘I know for a fact a couple of people have called round to see if she was okay. I mean I was only too glad to see people after my Nick passed. But apparently, she all but shut the door in their face.’
‘Grief can take people in different ways,’ said Liz gently. She looked thoughtfully down the lane where the disdainful figure on the huge horse had disappeared round the corner.
Sidrah rolled her eyes. ‘If she is grieving,’ she said. ‘Funny sort if grieving in my book.’
‘Do you think,’ said Liz, feeling another sneeze brewing, ‘she was lying to the police about being in Carlisle?’
Sidrah nodded. ‘She must have been. But having said that I don’t know how she did it.’
Liz frowned. ‘Did what?’
‘Well, she must be a bit of a magician.’ Sidrah glanced uneasily in the direction of the disappearing horse. ‘The camera doesn’t lie, does it?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Liz. ‘Camera?’
‘I have CCTV,’ said Sidrah. ‘When I heard what had happened, I had a look to see if she had come home. I usually see her if I’m in the garden.
Hard to miss her, that ruddy great tank she drives.
But when I get on the Zoom – well, as my Nick used to say, a helicopter could land in the garden and I wouldn’t notice. ’
‘So, you checked your CCTV?’ prompted Liz.
Sidrah nodded avidly. ‘That’s the odd bit,’ she said. ‘Nothing and no one came to the house until Nev gets in. So, either Ffion must’ve been in the house all along or she had a cloak of invisibility.’
In the distance the brass band had stopped, leaving only the soporific hum of insects.
Unlike her friends, Thelma wasn’t actually talking to any stallholders.
Instead, she was standing in the overgrown playing fields at the back of the Old Barn, seeing what she could see of the property behind its thick hawthorn hedge.
At one time the Old Barn had been exactly that – a barn – but now, like so many agricultural buildings, it had been handsomely and expensively remade into an embalmed version of its former self.
What had been utilitarian gaps in the walls for light and access had been remodelled into features of stone lintels and deep-set glass.
The doors that had once admitted livestock and machinery were now imposing oak barriers studded with iron.
Taking care to avoid the nettles, Thelma moved closer to the hedge into which was set a tall black gate, which was actually more of a door, with one of those old-fashioned latch handles.
She tried peering through the unkempt hedge, where she could just make out the vague shapes of buildings.
The Old Barn and to the right of it a squat square building – presumably the Snuggery where Neville had been found.
Was the gate open? Would anyone notice if she took a quick look?
She stepped back, unsure, and sent up a quick prayer for guidance.
‘Are you looking for summat?’ The voice was grim and belonged to a large woman with a dour face sporting, in spite of the heat, a thick brown cardigan and orange pedal pushers. Beside her stood a tiny chihuahua dog; both were regarding her accusingly.
‘I’m here for the village festival,’ said Thelma.
‘Well, you won’t find it here,’ said the woman with dour satisfaction. ‘In fact, you’d be hard put to find much of it anywhere. I said to people, “Why bother with a community festival when there’s no fookin’ community to speak of?”’
‘There seemed to be some people,’ said Thelma mildly.
The woman snorted. ‘The tea tent’s from Leeds, the cake stall’s from Boroughbridge and the brass band’s from the other side of Darlington. And if you’re wondering why it’s all gone quiet, the tenor horn’s passed out from heat exhaustion.’ She nodded with grim satisfaction.
‘Oh dear,’ said Thelma and, nodding politely, turned to go.
‘I saw you at Neville Hilton’s funeral,’ said the woman, and such was the command in her voice that Thelma found herself stopping in her tracks. ‘You’re friends with that Liz whatserface – her who goes to pre-diabetes awareness.’
So, thought Thelma, this must be the famous Zippy Doodah.
‘I am,’ she acknowledged.
‘And you knew Nev Hilton?’
‘Yes, I did,’ said Thelma.
‘So, you know this was his house?’ The voice was now heavy with suspicion.
Yet again, Thelma nodded. ‘I do,’ she said.
Zippy Doodah fixed her with an uncompromising look and Thelma realised that here was no fool and that this was one of those situations where evasions and half-truths were going to cut very little ice.
‘Actually,’ she said, ‘there’s a couple of us – myself, Liz – who are a little concerned about Neville’s death and were wondering what it was that really happened that night. ’
Zippy Doodah said nothing but regarded her searchingly for a long moment, as if coming to some decision. Finally, she spoke. ‘As you’ve no doubt heard, a row is what happened,’ she said. ‘How Judy Bestall was walking her dog right here and heard everything?’
Thelma nodded. ‘Is there any chance that I could speak to this Judy Bestall?’
Zippy Doodah gave a grim snort of laughter. ‘You’d have a job,’ she said. ‘She’s gone to her daughter’s in Malaga, not back for at least three weeks. I said: “Judy, love, you’re wasting your money; it’s hotter here than it is there.”’
Three weeks? Thelma sighed inwardly. Was she going to have to wait three weeks before finding anything else out?
‘But she told you about the row?’ she said to Zippy.
Zippy nodded. ‘A load of shouting, according to Judy. Fair bellowing, she was.’
‘And this was his wife?’
‘Who else would it be?’ There was a restrained note in Zippy’s voice that made Thelma wonder what she was thinking.
‘And did they often argue – Neville and Ffion?’ she asked.
Zippy considered. ‘Not that I heard,’ she said grudgingly.
‘But she’s a sullen madame, is Ffion Hilton.
Not that I ever have much to do with her.
And she’s someone who does herself no favours.
A few of us locals went round after Nev’s death – to see how she was doing – she all but told us where to go.
’ She shook her head and it suddenly struck Thelma that despite the gruff exterior here was someone who was rather isolated in this non-community of holiday lets and second homes.
‘Why do you think she was shouting at him?’ she asked. Zippy gave Thelma a look heavy with significance.
‘I’ve no idea,’ she said eventually. ‘If, of course, it was her.’
‘You think it might have been someone else shouting at him?’
Yet again Zippy shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea.
I wasn’t there,’ she said dampeningly. ‘Oh, and if you’re wondering about this here gate’ –she nodded at the black door set into the hedge – ‘I can tell you Neville keeps it locked. Used to tell anyone who’d listen how it’s fastened with two padlocks and three bolts.
’ To demonstrate her point she grabbed the latch and gave a dismissive shove.
With a gentle whine the door swung inwards, giving a perfect view of a blank wall of the Old Barn and that small, squat building with wide windows that was the Snuggery.