Chapter Thirty-one
Voice of the Vale, Thirsk FM Radio:
Hey there, Thirskians! Time to put those fans away. Normal service has resumed with cloud and rain forecast! If you want the heat back, better buy yourself a plane ticket somewhere sunny!
‘Is this such a good idea?’ Pat’s gaze roved uneasily round the half-full garden centre café.
‘You really don’t have to stay,’ said Thelma. ‘I was the one she asked to see.’
‘Of course we’re staying,’ said Liz robustly. ‘We wouldn’t dream of leaving you on your own!’ She set her chin defiantly.
Pat nodded, but she had more than a few doubts about this meeting, not least the speed at which it had been set up.
Thelma had sent an email, which had provoked an immediate request to meet, face to face.
And if what Thelma had supposed was true – which Pat instinctively felt it was – there was no knowing how this person might react.
She was suddenly assailed by an irreverent mental image of Thelma and their visitor rolling over and over between the tables, locked in grim combat, and had found herself biting back a grin.
At least, she thought, the weather had cooled down.
At long last she was back to wearing her baggy tops!
Once again there were summer jackets on the backs of the chairs and the air admitted by the patio windows was fresh.
Everyone seemed to have lost that slow, droopy listlessness.
It was as if the whole world was breathing one huge, cool sigh of relief.
Thelma touched her arm. ‘You really don’t have to stay,’ she said again. ‘Honestly, it’s perfectly safe here with so many people around.’
Fighting down images of brawls between the tables Pat smiled at her friend, her very clever friend. ‘No,’ she said with a confidence she didn’t feel. ‘No, of course I’m staying.’
‘Here we go,’ said Liz nodding across the garden centre. ‘But who’s that with her?’
In the flesh, Bun Widdup cut no less a striking figure than she did on Zoom.
Today she had presented herself in shades of green, a holly-green scarf twined round and through the auburn hair, a sage green skirt and loose-fitting top, emerald glass beads glinting round her throat.
But close to, without the filter of Zoom, it was possible to notice other things, wires of white at the uncoloured roots of the coppery hair, lines around the jawline and the uneasiness in those dark-ringed eyes.
Hey, Mrs Kohl Panda, what’s a-botherin’ you today?
With her was a neat, slight woman of about thirty, dressed – expensively, Pat noted – in a charcoal grey suit and cream silk. She appeared to be one of those people who maintained a firm screen between whatever they were thinking and whatever was happening in the world.
‘This,’ said Bun Widdup, sitting down, ‘is Sarah Botha of Meredith and Bray solicitors.’
Sarah Botha gave a detached, professional nod and took a tablet from her bag – her Prada bag, Pat spotted.
‘My client,’ she said formally, ‘has a statement she wishes to share with you.’ She nodded at Bun, who took a brightly coloured A4 wallet from her bag, from which she extracted a printout.
Her hands, all three noticed, were shaking slightly but when she raised her head to face the three her gaze was steady.
‘When we leave here in a few minutes,’ Bun said, ‘we’re going to Northallerton police station where we’ll be attending an interview with Chief Inspector Ian Blakley of North Yorkshire Police. In that interview I will tell him the following.’
She looked at the statement and began to read.
‘On Friday June 13th last, I was staying at the property known as the Snuggery, Hollinby Quernhow, belonging to one Neville Hilton. I had been staying there during the previous week and had also stayed there for some ten days at the beginning of April this year. I left the property at approximately four p.m. as was witnessed by the neighbour across the road living in the property called “SidrahNick”. To the best of my knowledge Mr Hilton was perfectly fine when I left the property and indeed, I believe he subsequently attended a Rotary meeting later that day.’ Her voice was clipped and formal, somehow less confident than normal and certainly more subdued than her usual rich tones.
She looked at Sarah Botha, who gave her a brief, approving nod.
‘And that,’ said Bun Widdup, ‘is all I have to say.’
The two stirred, obviously preparing to go. Sarah replaced her tablet in her bag. Pat sat back, feeling relief mingled with surprise. Whatever she had expected, it wasn’t this.
‘Except—’ Thelma’s voice as mild and quiet as it was nonetheless felt as powerful as a thunderclap. ‘Except we all know it wasn’t like that at all.’
Bun sat back down, eyes fixed uneasily on Thelma.
‘Bun, I suggest we leave now.’ Sarah Botha’s voice had the clipped, smooth precision of a cut diamond.
‘I want to know exactly what she means by that,’ said Bun, her voice slightly hoarse.
‘We have an appointment,’ said Sarah warningly.
‘I want to know what she means.’ Now it was Bun’s turn to have an undercurrent of strength in her voice.
Maybe, thought Pat, the prospect of a punch-up wasn’t off the cards after all.
Bun looked at Thelma. ‘Go on.’
‘For a start,’ said Thelma, ‘you saw Neville Hilton later on.’
‘My client has already said, she left the property at around four p.m.,’ interjected Sarah Botha smoothly.
‘Maybe she did.’ It was Liz’s turn to speak, a distinctly frosty edge to her voice. ‘But she came back later. She parked up behind the house, by the playing fields and entered through the back way.’
‘When Neville returned home from Rotary,’ said Thelma. ‘You called him into the Snuggery. You confronted him about his actions regarding Pity Me school. You shouted the name of the school in his face.’
‘When my client last saw Mr Hilton, he was alive and well—’
‘Hardly well,’ interjected Pat, ‘if he was on the verge of a massive heart attack.’
‘You were there when Neville Hilton died,’ continued Thelma. ‘You confronted him, he had a heart attack and he died.’
There was a pause – brief and yet at the same time infinite.
When Bun spoke again there was a distinctly nervous quickness to her voice.
‘Even if that was the case’ – she gave Sarah a quick glance – ‘which it wasn’t.
But even if it was, so what? The guy died of natural causes. I’ve really got nothing to hide.’
‘So why didn’t you tell the police before that you were staying at the Snuggery in the week leading up to Neville’s death?’ asked Pat.
‘Because I wanted to avoid exactly this type of ridiculous Miss Marple pantomime,’ snapped Bun. ‘It was all a coincidence. And coincidences do happen.’
‘So, you’re saying you didn’t know the property belonged to him?’ asked Liz flintily.
‘Funnily enough,’ said Bun, voice heavy with sarcasm, ‘it wasn’t mentioned on the White Rose Country Cottage website.
I wanted a bit of a break, so I hired the cottage – as I had a few months previously.
I liked the place; I was able to shuttle between Robin Hood’s Bay and there in a couple of hours.
I could still keep up with the Zoom calls – I’m all set up at home – but then I could zip across here and have a complete break.
’ She gave a simple smile and held out her hands in a ‘there you have it’ type gesture.
‘I know it sounds convoluted – but hey! It worked.’ She nodded at Sarah, who obediently stirred and again the pair seemed on the point of leaving.
The three women looked at her. It was Liz who spoke this time.
‘So why do that to the wall?’ she said.
‘Do what to the wall?’ The simple smile became puzzled.
‘Paint a yellow stripe down it,’ said Pat.
Bun shook her head. ‘I feel like I’ve walked into some bonkers episode of Murder, She Wrote,’ she said, standing up. ‘Good day, ladies.’
‘You painted a stripe down the wall,’ said Thelma.
‘So you could hang your drapes in front of it and pretend you were at home in Robin Hood’s Bay when you did your Zoom calls.
You hung your red and orange drapes – there are visible holes at the top of the wall where you fixed the hooks – and painted a small strip of yellow paint where they don’t quite meet.
So, to anyone on a Zoom call with you would automatically think you were in your studio back home. ’
‘Bun,’ said Sarah. ‘We really need to go.’ But there was less conviction in her voice, and she made no effort to stand up.
‘Now I’ve heard everything,’ said Bun, sinking back down. ‘Why on God’s green earth would I carry out such a ridiculous conjuring trick?’
‘So people would think you were at home in Robin Hood’s Bay,’ said Liz. ‘Like you’d told us you had been for the past four months.’
‘Giving yourself a cast-iron alibi,’ added Pat.
‘An alibi?’ Bun’s voice was soprano with incredulity. ‘Why on earth would I need to give myself an alibi?’
Thelma fixed a sorrowful, steady gaze on the woman. ‘Neville might have died of natural causes,’ she said. ‘But you intended to kill him.’
There was another pause. Pat was struck by the sudden thought that to the other clientele of the garden centre café they must look like ladies of a certain age passing the time of day over coffee and cake.
Bun’s voice was low and firm. ‘I absolutely refute that one hundred per cent.’
‘Bun.’ Sarah’s voice was urgent. ‘Bun, as your legal representative I’m advising you to leave now.’
But again, it was as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘What on earth makes you think for one moment I planned to kill a man I barely knew?’ Bun tried to laugh incredulously and very nearly succeeded.
‘This is what I think must have happened,’ said Thelma.
‘You left the property as you say about four p.m., making sure Sidrah across the road saw you go. Then later on, you came back. ‘You’d left the wall set up with your drapes to look like your wall at home – so when the time came for Davey Fletcher’s memorial service you were able to log in with everyone believing you were taking part from your house in Robin Hood’s Bay.
Then you phoned Neville – I’m not sure what you said exactly – at a guess I’d imagine you pretended to be one of his neighbours saying something like smoke was coming from the house, to ensure that he came back at the right time.
As he got out of his car you called him over to the house.
’ Thelma drew breath and the three friends fixed Bun with a steady, remorseless gaze.
‘Once inside – you confronted him. Told him exactly the damage he’d caused at Pity Me school. And how he was responsible for Davey Fletcher’s death.’
‘Knowing Neville Hilton I imagine he completely rejected what you were saying,’ said Pat. ‘Which would make you angry enough to shout at him.’
‘You shouted the name of the school in his face,’ said Liz.
‘You probably read to him from the Ofsted report,’ said Thelma. ‘I’m guessing he must have tried to snatch it off you – which is how a corner came to be ripped off.’ She paused, looking almost sympathetic. ‘I do realise how angry you must have been – after all, the man had done terrible damage—’
‘He should never have been an Ofsted inspector in the first place,’ agreed Pat.
‘And because of what he did,’ said Thelma quietly, ‘you decided he had to die—’
‘What, you think I somehow managed to induce a heart attack?’ scoffed Bun. ‘How? Maybe I had a voodoo doll and stuck pins in it?’
‘What induced the heart attack,’ said Thelma, ‘was a knife. A knife he believed you were going to stab him with. You moved towards him with the knife, and he must have finally realised the danger he was in – and that was when he had his heart attack.’
‘Bun!’ Sarah’s voice was sharp. Several people at adjoining tables turned their heads.
Bun stood up. ‘I need to make it clear that I totally deny any of the suppositions put forth, one hundred per cent. None of this has a word of truth in it,’ she added shakily.
Pat, Thelma and Liz said nothing, just gazed impassively as Sarah Botha and Bun gathered their things. Bun fumbled slightly with her coat and all at once looked immeasurably older and sadder.
‘We’re all truly sorry about Annie,’ said Thelma, almost impulsively. Bun’s hands trembled slightly as she picked up her bag.
‘What can you possibly know about it?’ she said, her voice weak with exhausted sadness.
As they left, Bun Widdup paused, her look to Thelma was almost pleading. ‘What that man did was nothing short of appalling,’ she said.
Thelma nodded. ‘I agree,’ she said. ‘But what you planned to do was worse.’