The sight would be fixed in Adam’s head forever, taking its place with so many others. The orangery, crowded with plants, loomed over the slumped body, shielding it from the fading light. Adam could see no sign of a struggle, or an obvious weapon.
Questions queued in his head. Whose body was this? Why was it here, and why today? Was this suicide, an accident, or something more sinister?
The first was the easiest to answer. ‘Greg,’ Imogen had said. One of the guests had mentioned the name. Greg had been Imogen’s husband.
Adam considered Greg’s clothes; that leather jacket must have been expensive once. Underneath, a smart charcoal-coloured suit and a pair of shoes, claggy from the garden’s red mud.
Greg had come dressed for the funeral. That suggested he’d died today, but Adam knew better than to jump to conclusions. He’d wait for the post-mortem.
But this isn’t your case, he remembered. He could leave the investigation to the Avon and Somerset police. That was why he’d moved out here; to get away from police work.
It was impossible to switch off his instincts, though. Without moving, touching nothing, he let his gaze roam through the orangery, observing everything, determined to miss nothing. This would be his only chance.
The sun was fading fast, but light glinted from a nearby plant pot. Adam shone his phone on the spot. A bottle stuffed by its neck into the pot.
Champagne? Had Greg been drinking, plucking up courage to kill himself? Or maybe there were pills dissolved in the liquid?
Too much speculation. Stick to the facts.
A pang of guilt. He should be looking after Greg’s wife.
Tearing his eyes away from the scene, he took a closer look at Imogen. One hand still clamped to her mouth, her cheeks paper white, she leaned against the orangery door, apparently close to collapse.
He took her arm. ‘Come back to the hotel.’
Emily, with an efficient air and a smart, dark grey suit, her ash-blonde hair still neat, circled the hotel lounge, switching on table lamps.
The mourners had gone, at last.
A young waitress, hair escaping from a bun at the back of her head, stacked debris from the wake on a trolley: used plates, smeared glasses and empty cups.
Emily’s eyes widened as Adam and Imogen lurched into the hotel lounge through the French doors, soaking wet and shivering.
‘Is something wrong?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ Adam said. ‘The police are on their way, and no one is to leave the hotel.’
Emily’s red-lipsticked mouth dropped open. ‘The police?’
‘There’s a body,’ he explained, ‘in the orangery.’
‘My husband,’ Imogen whispered.
The waitress dropped a bowl of sugar. With a sharp crack, it hit the edge of a table and fractured into three pieces. Grains of sugar flew into the air and fell, shimmering, on the hotel’s best Turkish rug.
Adam said, ‘Mrs Bishop has had a shock.’
Emily sprang into action. She shooed the waitress towards the kitchens. ‘Fetch a dustpan, clear up the mess, and don’t say a word to anyone.’
‘Yes. I won’t. I mean, I will… Sorry.’
‘And leave the teapot.’
Emily recovered fast, retrieved clean cups from an oak sideboard, and poured tea with well-trained composure, only trembling fingers betraying her shock. ‘Stewed, I’m afraid.’
Adam took a cup and helped himself to two large sugars. After one sip, he winced, laid it aside and explained where they’d found the body.
‘We’d better get the staff and guests together. The police will want to see them.’
Emily nodded. ‘I won’t use the fire bell. I don’t want to cause a panic.’
Imogen sat in the hotel lounge, on a squashy sofa by the fire, sipping cold tea while the police worked methodically through the staff and guests, taking names and asking questions.
They took pity on the young waitress, a teenager with saucer eyes, wrote down her details and sent her home as soon as possible.
Adam grinned. The cat was out of the bag, now that the girl was released. In half an hour, word would have spread and the whole village would know Imogen Bishop’s husband had been found dead in the garden of her father’s hotel.
He watched from the background as the police went about their business. Yellow police tape marked out the orangery and closed off the path to the car park. Light bulbs flashed and officers in protective suits moved in a practised ballet, searching for and securing evidence.
The long, depressing evening dragged into night as officials came and went until at last, in the early hours of the next morning, an ambulance removed the body to the morgue for autopsy and the police left, tasking a single, forlorn police constable to guard the crime scene, in a garden turned to mud by the combination of April rain and police boots.
Nothing, Adam knew, would be the same again for a long time.
4
Maria
Adam scooped tinned mince into an old dish, his knees creaking. He must order dog food, or he’d be feeding this new arrival The Plough’s best steak. The dog gazed at him with open mouth, panting with excitement. It looked like he planned to stick around.
‘Adam, darling.’
Adam recognised the voice and his heart missed a beat. Maria Rostropova walked through his door, smiling. He wished she wouldn’t do that. It did terrible things to his pulse rate.
A beautiful woman like this was out of Adam’s league. He’d come to terms with that. Still, desire ambushed him every time he saw Maria. That smile, the hourglass figure, and the tip-tilted nose: perfection. Only a tiny scar running from the corner of her left eye and disappearing behind her ear spoiled the flawlessness of the exquisite face.
Adam had worshipped this woman from the moment they met four months ago. The local orchestra and choir, a motley collection of amateur and ex-professional musicians from the surrounding villages, had been rehearsing Christmas songs in the church and they’d built up a thirst.
‘My good man,’ the conductor had boomed. ‘A pint each for the basses and tenors, and a glass of whatever they desire most, for our beautiful ladies.’
Warmed by Adam’s best Hook Norton bitter, he’d taken a fancy to The Plough. ‘We’ll be back. Keep the beer on tap.’
They’d returned often. Free drinks guaranteed impromptu choral performances for the regulars and Maria’s performance of ‘Blow the Wind Southerly’ could bring the drinkers to their feet in appreciation of her voice, by no means diminished by her personal charms.
Today, her eyes opened wide. ‘That poor dog.’ An Eastern European lilt enhanced the husky contralto. ‘He’s so thin. He must be starving. Where did he come from?’
‘No idea,’ Adam confessed. ‘He’s a stray – arrived yesterday. I wedged the door open this morning, but he wouldn’t leave.’
‘Is he chipped?’
‘Can’t tell. Unless someone claims him soon, I’ll have to get the vet to run a scan. Otherwise, there’s no chance of finding the owner.’
The dog trotted over to Maria, rubbing