A Village Murder. Frances Evesham

think that’ll get you out of trouble?’

      Adam mopped and tidied as best he could, stood back and considered the dog.

      ‘I suppose you were bored. Sorry, old chap. My fault.’

      He attached the lead, an overpriced purchase from the vet, and gripped it securely.

      ‘We’ll show my new paintings to our neighbour.’

      Panting, tongue lolling from his mouth, the dog trotted beside Adam as he staggered across the road to The Streamside Hotel.

      Imogen looked thinner, her face more lined, but she greeted the dog with pleasure. ‘Hello, lovely. Is he treating you well?’

      ‘I’m at my wits’ end,’ Adam confessed. ‘He’s adopted me, and he’s a friendly fellow, but he’s wrecked my sitting room.’

      ‘Did you take him for a run this morning?’

      ‘No.’

      She raised an eyebrow.

      ‘I was planning to take him to the shop, later…’

      ‘That’s not enough. Mrs Topsham’s is only just around the corner. He needs proper exercise. Look at him, he can’t stand still – he’s bursting with energy.’

      She looked a fraction less tense than last time Adam saw her, but he knew better than to make guesses about her real feelings. In his experience, the worst killers often pretended to be devastated, while innocent family members could be too shocked to show emotion.

      ‘He can run around the garden here,’ she offered. ‘There are gates and fences round the grounds, so he shouldn’t get out. Unless he can open gates?’

      ‘Wouldn’t put it past him,’ Adam muttered.

      ‘My father kept dogs here, but the last one died a few years ago.’ She led the way through the hotel lounge, and out of the French doors. ‘What’s his name?’

      ‘He doesn’t have one.’

      ‘That’s terrible. You’ll have to think of one.’

      ‘Trouble? Wrecker?’

      Laughing, Imogen stooped to let the dog off his lead. ‘Wow, look at him run…’ The animal shot across the field towards the stream. ‘He’s going to need long walks. Twice a day.’

      Adam changed the subject. ‘The police have left, then?’

      ‘They took down the tape this morning, while I was out. We can use the garden again, which is a relief, and I’ve reopened the hotel for bookings. The guests who were here then – you know, that night – they’ve all left. Couldn’t wait to spread the gossip, I imagine. I’m dreading reading the online reviews.’

      ‘I think you’ll find business booms. Nothing more exciting than a hotel where someone died.’

      ‘That’s a bit morbid.’

      ‘Sorry.’ Adam winced. He’d been careless. Imogen’s husband was dead. OK, she was a determined lady, in control of herself, and she hadn’t collapsed in a heap at his death, that was admirable, but no matter how she tried to play down her feelings, those extra lines on Imogen’s face told their own tale of shock and loss.

      The police had allowed the crime scene to be closed. They must be sure there was no more evidence to be found there. No more fingertip searches, then. Was DCI Andrews jumping to conclusions? No need to suggest that to Imogen. She was under enough strain.

      She broke into his thoughts. ‘What were those paintings you brought?’

      ‘They came from a mate of mine – a gallery owner. I thought you’d be interested in the subject. It looks like the hotel garden. I’ve left the paintings behind the reception desk. The very attractive young lady with multicoloured nails offered to look after them for me. Shall I set them up in the lounge? I think you’ll be interested, and we can keep an eye on Wrecker while we look at them. Otherwise, he’ll eat everything he can find. He’s already mangled a couple of cushions and I suspect he had a go at the corner of my sofa.’

      ‘Good idea – but please don’t call him Wrecker.’

      Her face became animated when she mentioned the dog.

      Adam smiled, secretly. He had an idea.

      The paintings rested, side by side, on two chairs, the watercolour glowing in the sunshine. ‘The light’s good in here.’

      ‘It’s even better in the orangery. You could paint in there, if you like. Not yet, perhaps. Soon.’ Her smile was tentative. ‘You’re right. These are both paintings of the hotel garden. Artists often came when I was younger. It made my father feel like a proper landowner, I think. Sometimes, whole groups of amateur painters spent the day in the garden, and I would sit and watch. They gave me a little board – you know, one you can put your thumb through to hold it. What are they called?’

      ‘Palettes?’

      ‘That’s it. I’d try to paint on an old bit of canvas. I used to make a wonderful mess. No talent at all.’ She laughed, a proper hoot, the first Adam had heard from her. ‘I used to know a real artist,’ she mused. ‘Daniel Freeman, that was his name. He didn’t always use oils. Sometimes, he used to paint the flowers in watercolour, like in that painting…’

      She fell silent, a thoughtful frown creasing her forehead. Adam waited.

      She muttered, half under her breath, ‘In fact, I wonder if that’s one of his?’ She picked up the smaller canvas and scrutinised it, talking almost to herself. ‘He’d just left school. He was only a couple of years older than me, but he seemed grown-up, like a proper artist.’ A touch of pink lit her face.

      Was Daniel important to her? ‘Did you keep in touch?’ Adam asked.

      ‘What? With Daniel?’ She looked up and the happiness faded away. ‘He came that last summer, just after I left school, before I went off to university. He was a student, at St Martin’s in London, I think. When I… Well, he fell out with my father and left without saying goodbye. I never heard from him again. Then, I married Greg. He’d been at the same school.’