Chapter 26
Even though she was retired, Julia still liked to clearly differentiate between the weekdays and the weekends.
‘Do you think I should get a fringe?’ she asked Jess, over coffee, tugging at her front bits of hair.
‘Absolutely not,’ said Jess, without a moment’s hesitation, and without taking her eyes off her phone.
Jess was a terrible morning scroller, whizzing her way through Instagram, TikTok, whatever else, her thumb flicking up, up, up, stopping occasionally to read something, and then flick, flick flick again.
It drove Julia a little bit nuts, but she had resolved not to say a thing about it.
‘Why are you so certain?’ she asked.
Jess stopped her scrolling to look sternly at her mother. ‘Mum, a fringe needs constant attention. It is annoying and difficult to maintain and you’re not the sort of person who can take on something like that.’
Julia stared at her daughter, affronted.
‘No offence,’ said Jess, with a shrug. ‘Just, you know, you’ve already got Jake and the chickens. Do you really think you want to handle a fringe too?’
‘I handled an entire department, a team of social workers, dozens of complex cases—’
‘Of course you did, and brilliantly!’ Jess smiled. ‘But this is different. This is a fringe we’re talking about. But hey, if you want to take that risk, go right ahead…’
‘What do you think about a fringe, Molly?’ Julia asked, two hours later, sitting in the stylist’s chair, staring at herself in the mirror.
‘Everything all right at home, pet?’ asked the hairdresser, with kindly concern.
‘Yes, everything’s fine.’
‘Dr O’Connor well, is he?’
‘Very well.’
‘And the two of you, that’s still going strong, is it?’
‘Yes. Of course. Why do you ask?’
‘A drastic hairstyle change is a well-known sign of emotional distress. Fringes, especially. Every hairdresser knows it’s a major crisis indicator. A cry for help.’
‘Not in this case. There’s no crisis, and I don’t need help. I just feel like a bit of a change. A change to my hair,’ Julia added, for clarity.
‘Well, if it’s a change you’re looking for, we could add a couple of highlights? Maybe take it a bit shorter at the back? Freshen up the look a bit.’ Molly waved her hands around airily, a comb in one hand and scissors in the other, to indicate the freshness that would soon be settling upon her.
‘You really don’t think I should have a fringe, then?’
‘Of course, we can do a fringe if that’s what you want. It’s your hair, your decision. It’s just that a fringe needs maintenance and attention and…’
‘You don’t think I’m up to the job of managing a fringe.’
‘Of course you are! I know you, Julia Bird – you can manage anything, a competent, smart woman like yourself. The question is, do you want to?’
A fair question.
Julia lost her nerve. ‘Probably not. Let’s just go a little shorter, then, shall we? And maybe just one or two highlights, not too light.’
Julia felt in equal measure relieved and annoyed at being talked out of the fringe. She decided to let it go and enjoy the complimentary cappuccino, the head massage and the ambient to-ing and fro-ing and bits of gossip that might come her way from the hairdressers and their clients.
The woman at the next chair was speaking: ‘My husband says the men at the golf club are all talking about that new hair clinic around here. Do you know about it?’
‘I do. It’s right here, in the office space above us,’ said Molly, pointing to the ceiling with the scissors.
‘Apparently, they were having a laugh at the club about the whole idea of it. Bit mean of them, really.’
‘What’s funny? What do they do, exactly?’ asked Julia, who had missed the beginning of the conversation while contemplating her own hair-related conundrum.
‘They do baldness treatments. Lasers, special shampoos, even hair transplants,’ said Molly. ‘It’s been ever so popular, lots of chaps coming for a consultation.’
‘And guess what they were calling it, the rascals down at the club?’ The woman grinned eagerly, in anticipation of the punchline. She held everyone’s attention for a few moments, and said: ‘They call it Bald Busters.’
The stylists and the clients burst out laughing.
‘I don’t know why the men are so silly about it. There’s no shame in it. Nothing wrong with wanting to look your best,’ said Molly.
‘Well, they had a laugh at the golf club, but my husband reckons a good few of them will go along for a consultation. And the way he said it, I wouldn’t be surprised if he decides to go, too.’
‘If he does, please tell him to mention my name. We refer clients to them, don’t we, John? We get a little something for referring people. Comes in handy.’
The other hairdresser nodded in agreement.
‘Oh, very handy. Which reminds me, Molly. I wanted to ask for your advice on something. I referred one of my clients to the clinic last week. Nice-looking fella, can’t even be early thirties, but awfully thin hair, poor chap… Forgot his name right this minute.’
‘I know the one you mean. He lives in one of the big houses up by the riding school.’
‘That’s the one. Anyway, I referred him to the clinic, but apparently they were halfway through the consultation when the poor man got word that his father had died.’
‘How awful!’
‘It was! He went running out without finishing the consult. I got the feeling there had been some sort of terrible accident. So, do you think I should still ask for the commission?’
‘I don’t see why not,’ said Molly, snipping at Julia’s hair. ‘You made the referral, and what happens next isn’t your concern.’
‘I would say it depends on whether he paid the hair clinic for the full consultation,’ said the client in the next chair.
She had small tortoiseshell glasses and a quick, sharp face, and, in fact, reminded Julia of the judge on that American reality show on the television.
If they ever made a show like that in the Cotswolds, she’d be perfect for the lead role.
‘You make a good point,’ said Molly, nodding sagely.
The conversation drifted on to other matters, while Julia’s mind drifted over what she had just heard.
A man being called away suddenly because his father had just died.
At the exact time that he was at the clinic.
Was it remotely possible that John was talking about Greg?
Greg did live near the riding school, and he did have thinning hair.
But Greg had said that he was at the Swan, talking to Kevin – a story that didn’t seem to be true.
Had he in fact visited the men’s hair clinic, and fibbed about it out of embarrassment?
If that was where he’d been, then he had a firm alibi for the time of his father’s murder.
She would have to tell Hayley Gibson about this new development.
She reached for her phone, and prepared to send a message to Hayley.
She started typing, and then thought better of it.
She should make sure it was in fact Greg who the hairdressers were talking about, before she phoned Hayley.
The last thing she wanted was to pass on dubious information.
It wouldn’t be the first time, after all. But how could she check?
‘There you go. What do you think?’ asked Molly.
Julia looked up. While Julia had been distracted with murders and messages, Molly had been snipping away.
Now she stood back, looking pleased with her handiwork.
Julia stared at her reflection. Her hair looked exactly the same as it did every time Molly cut it.
‘Looks good, thanks, Molly,’ she said.
‘I think it really works! You were right, Julia. It’s good to try something a little fresh and different.’
On her way out of the salon, Julia noticed the entrance to the hair clinic, which she’d rushed past on her way in.
She hesitated a moment, wishing she could think of some way to check whether it was in fact Greg who had been there.
A quick look at the appointment book would do it – if they even had such a thing in this day and age.
Failing to concoct a plan, she made a note of the phone number.
Julia walked back in the direction of the village, taking the path by the water. As she walked, a plan began to form in her mind. When she reached the first shady bench, she stopped and took out her phone. She dialled the hair clinic, her heart thumping.
‘I’m phoning in connection with a client, Mr Greg Loxton,’ she said quickly, before her nerve left her. ‘He had an appointment with you last week, but he had to leave, so it was cut short.’
Julia couldn’t tell a direct lie, and was careful to phrase things in such a way that she gave the impression of calling on official business, without actually saying so.
‘Yes indeed, poor man. So terrible about his father…’
‘Thank you. It’s very sad. Mr Loxton is missing a pair of prescription spectacles. I wondered if he left them there. Have you seen them, by any chance?’
‘He ran out in such a hurry, poor chap, I wouldn’t be surprised. But he didn’t leave his spectacles here; I’d definitely have seen them.’
‘Thank you. It was worth a try. I’ll keep looking.’
‘Good luck. I hope you find them. Perhaps check the car?’
After hanging up, Julia sat for a minute, enjoying a calm moment and the view over the river. A small breeze ruffled the willow trees. A couple of coots floated by. Her heart rate slowed, edging back into normal range.
‘The truth will out!’
The voice came from behind her, sending Julia’s heart rate – and, in fact, Julia herself – shooting skywards. She turned to see Aunt Edna standing at her left shoulder.
‘Gosh, you startled me,’ Julia said. ‘I didn’t see you there.’
‘A blind eye can’t see further than your nose knows,’ said Edna, muddling up a number of serviceable sayings into one brain-paralysing non-saying.
She stepped forward. She was wearing her usual swathe of fabrics, although of lighter weight – gauzes and net and ancient thin cotton – in deference to the weather.
On her head was a battered wide-brimmed straw hat, to the front of which a small knitted kitten had been attached with a large safety pin.
‘How are you, Edna? Have you been keeping well?’ Julia asked.
‘I am well,’ said Edna, for once answering a straight question with a lucid answer. ‘And how are you?’
‘Well, thank you. I had a little summer cold a couple of weeks ago, but it…’
‘Two lies don’t make a right,’ said Edna. ‘And two pies don’t make a wrong either.’
Edna’s non-sequiturs often made Julia feel that she was the one going a bit doolally. They were nonsense, but at the same time, they often had a strange ring of truth or even profundity to them that Julia found a little unnerving.
‘Do pass my regards to your dog. He never lies,’ said Edna, tottering off down the path.
The same could not be said of Greg, thought Julia. He seemed to have lied about his whereabouts at the time of the murder. The question was, why?