LITMIR.BIZ

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      5

      Painting

      The hesitant tap on Adam’s newly repaired door sent the dog into a spin, galloping past Adam, sliding on the mat and whirling in excited circles in the tiny entrance hall.

      ‘Mrs Bishop,’ Adam nudged the dog aside and ushered his visitor into the sitting room.

      ‘Do you mind?’

      ‘Of course not. Come in, sit down and take it easy.’ Imogen’s eyes, ringed with dark shadows in her pale face, suggested a sleepless night after she finally turned in.

      He left her in the more comfortable of his two armchairs and wrestled with the coffee machine in the tiny kitchen.

      ‘Latte, cappuccino, or something called “macchiato”,’ he asked, sticking his head round the door. ‘Whatever that is. This machine’s new to me. Still, I think the coffee will be better than last night’s stewed tea.’

      Imogen rewarded him with a tense smile.

      Light flooded through windows that reached from floor to ceiling. He’d left the door to the garden open, and the soft spring air filled the room. Outside, the stray dog lapped noisily at a bowl of water.

      Imogen inhaled. ‘Basil?’

      ‘Well spotted. I grow other herbs as well – rosemary, thyme and so on. They’re handy for recipes. But you know that – you’re a gardener.’

      ‘I like to get my hands dirty.’ She held them out for inspection, the nails short, the skin roughened. ‘As you see, I keep forgetting to wear gardening gloves.’

      Imogen broke a short silence.

      ‘I hope you don’t mind me coming over – I’m not here for sympathy. Of course, I’m sorry Greg’s dead, but we’d split up and the marriage was over ages ago.’ She pursed her lips. ‘That sounds callous. A liaison officer talked to me earlier today. She was so kind, I felt like a hypocrite. I hoped you might not judge me.’

      Was that a compliment?

      ‘I won’t, but you might have to weather a bit of gossip. Have you been to the village shop yet?’

      She grinned. ‘Not since I moved back last week, but I can imagine. I bet Greg’s death is a hot topic.’

      ‘That and my new friend, this dog – both events of equal interest to the proprietor. She tells me I need a companion. A full bar every night isn’t enough – and I don’t think Mrs Topsham approves of drinking.’

      She laughed. ‘Useful warning. The dog’s a new arrival, is he?’

      ‘Picked me out. I’ve no idea why. I’ve never owned a dog in my life.’

      By the time Adam finished the story of the dog’s sudden appearance at The Plough, colour had returned to Imogen’s face.

      He risked a few questions. ‘Sorry if I’m being nosy, but did your husband plan to come to your father’s funeral? He was wearing a suit.’

      ‘Not nosy at all. You discovered the… the body with me. You earned the right to know more.’

      Should he tell her he used to be a police officer?

      Too late, she was already talking.

      ‘I didn’t know whether or not he’d come. It was awkward – people asked when he’d be arriving.’ She bit her lip. ‘He was probably out there all the time, in the orangery – dead.’

      ‘Where were you living?’

      ‘I have – we had – a flat in Salisbury. It’s up for sale, now.’ She shrugged. ‘I moved over to the hotel when my father died. It seemed right. I couldn’t leave it without an owner, although I know precious little about the business.’

      She managed a lop-sided grin. ‘To be honest, I’ll be glad to get rid of the flat. It’s never been the same since Greg and I split up.’

      Adam said, ‘Do you have more family? Aunts? Grandparents?’

      She shook her head. ‘Not really. My father was the last of his generation. A couple of distant cousins live in the Lake District, but they couldn’t get to the funeral.’

      ‘What about friends?’

      An odd expression flitted across her face. Guarded.

      ‘Plenty of acquaintances – other gardeners, people in the business. Not close friends.’ She drained her coffee cup and sat up straight. ‘This is a great building. A Somerset longhouse, isn’t it?’

      ‘I keep this end for myself, and the bar and restaurant occupy the rest of the building. It works well.’

      She pointed across the room. ‘That painting over there?’ She got up and moved closer. ‘The one of the lake, with the rushes. It’s the pool at The Streamside Hotel, isn’t it? Local artists often used to paint it – my father was proud of the garden. Where did you get it?’

      ‘You’ve discovered my guilty secret – it’s one of mine. I’m a keen amateur – very amateur, I’m afraid. I paint in my spare time. Not that I have much of that, running The Plough.’ He laughed, suddenly awkward. ‘I’m a beginner. That’s the only example of my work I consider successful enough to put on the wall. Your father let me play at painting the hotel gardens.’

      ‘Clever you. I love the way you’ve suggested the light on the water.’ She turned to face him. ‘What did you do before you came here?’

      Confession time. He braced himself. ‘I was a police officer.’

      ‘What?’ Her eyebrows shot up.

      ‘In my defence, I told the DCI last night.’

      ‘Did you? I didn’t hear.’ She paced from the wall to the chair and back. ‘Well, how very odd.’ She trod the same route again. ‘You must be bursting with curiosity about my husband, then,’ she said.

      ‘A little,’ he admitted.

      She took another turn round the room.

      ‘Could you sit down?’ Adam begged. ‘You’re making me giddy.’

      She resumed her seat. ‘Are you going to investigate Greg’s death?’

      ‘Not my job.’

      ‘Come on. How can you resist? Why don’t you ask me questions? Get them out of the way? Surely, you want to know whether Greg committed suicide, or whether he was murdered? I know I do. You might even think I killed him…’

      She sounded calm. Was she angry? Hard to tell. He’d take her at her word.

      ‘Very well, tell me about Greg.’

      ‘I’ll give you the unvarnished truth. It’s depressing.’

      He waited.

      ‘Well, as I said, we’d split up. Unfortunately for me, he emptied our joint bank account at the same time. We’d quarrelled, you see, about three months ago. I had to work away overnight, starting up the Haselbury House project, and he objected.’ She shrugged. ‘To be honest, I think he was jealous, because I love my work and he was struggling.’

      Her face cleared, as though she’d discovered an unexpected kernel of truth. ‘Greg’s business was under pressure. He sold various things across the south and west of England – different items he picked up cheaply – sometimes, I’m almost sure, off the back of a lorry. He travelled a lot and lurched from one business idea to another. I found it refreshing when we first married, but the businesses never prospered.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘His brand of feckless charm wore off years ago.’ She moved the cup in its saucer. ‘I’ve known for years that Greg had other women. He was,’ she smiled, ‘very attractive to women. I’d grown tired of pretending I didn’t notice when

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