Read Online An Unhallowed Grave by Kate Ellis - Free Book Online
Authors: Kate Ellis
Tags: Mystery
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eye out for them around the village. Stokeworthy might yet have its compensations.
The girls waited for Steve to disappear safely into the village hall before approaching their quarry. Two lads, one with dyed blond hair, the other wearing his long greasy locks in a ponytail, lounged against the side wall of the village shop, waiting for the girls to join them. They greeted them with studied indifference. Then the blond boy spoke. "Were you talking to one of them pigs? The one in the leather jacket who reckoned he was flash?"
Jo got in first. "It was Leanne. She fancied him. I thought he was a wanker," she assured the lads proudly: she would never let the side down.
"I can handle him," Leanne said, nonchalant.
"Bet you can. Bet that's what he's after ... you handling him." The ponytailed boy leered unpleasantly. "That right, Gaz? Do you reckon he wants to give her one?"
"Piss off." Leanne turned away, blushing.
"You heard what happened last night?" "Course we heard. We saw her, flying up in the tree. We were stoned. You thought she was an angel, didn't you, Gaz? An angel on the Christmas tree."
"You must have seen her before us, then. We found her. Gave us a right turn."
"Don't remember much about it." Lee shook his head, grinning. "It was a fucking good trip. Amazing."
Leanne turned back and looked at them. She felt uneasy. Was murder, death, really a thing to be taken that lightly? "Have you told the pigs what you saw?"
Gaz snorted. "Get real. We were stoned. Besides ... Lee and Gaz exchanged looks. There was something else.
"Besides what?" Leanne said, challenging.
"Promise you won't tell that pig? Even if he gets his leg over?"
"Don't be pathetic. Come on. What is it?"
"We did one of them artists' places ... in the old water mill. We saw the bloke go out and we broke in. Dead easy."
Leanne looked away. She didn't want to hear. Jo was looking at Gaz with terrified admiration. This was dangerous. This was real.
"Did you get much?"
"Bit of cash. And I found this." He delved into the back pocket of his jeans, drew out a photograph and handed it to Leanne. "What do you reckon? That's her, isn't it? The doctor's receptionist? The one who topped herself?"
Jo snatched the photograph from Leanne's hand and stared at it. It was a recent picture of Pauline Brent, and Jo had to acknowledge that she'd been in very good shape for her age. After all, there's no hiding lumps, bumps and wrinkles when you are photographed stark naked.
"Steve." Gerry Heffernan looked at his watch. "Nice of you to call in."
Steve Carstairs took his leather jacket off and draped it casually over one shoulder. He could do without the boss's sarcastic comments. He was still suffering from the effects of the eight pints of lager he had consumed in a club in Morbay the previous evening. He had felt temporarily better when that young girl had given him the come-on outside the village hall, but now his thumping headache had returned with a vengeance.
The incident room was taking shape. Phones and computers had been installed; desks littered the splintery parquet floor. At one end, by the rickety stage, stood a large notice-board decorated with photographs of Pauline Brent: Pauline hanging from the yew tree; Pauline cut down and lying on the churchyard grass; a picture of Pauline in life smiling outside her cottage, acquired by Wesley and Rachel during their search of her home.
Gerry Heffernan's voice boomed out as he called his team together. Steve wished he wouldn't shout so loud. When the inspector had finished recapping on the case so far and assigned everyone to their tasks, Steve discovered with some satisfaction that he and Rachel Tracey had been teamed up to visit the old water mill at the end of Worthy Lane, now home to a colony of artists if colony was the right word. Steve searched for an appropriate collective noun: a layabout of artists; a scrounge of artists. He had a low opinion of anyone who pursued what he considered to be a
The girls waited for Steve to disappear safely into the village hall before approaching their quarry. Two lads, one with dyed blond hair, the other wearing his long greasy locks in a ponytail, lounged against the side wall of the village shop, waiting for the girls to join them. They greeted them with studied indifference. Then the blond boy spoke. "Were you talking to one of them pigs? The one in the leather jacket who reckoned he was flash?"
Jo got in first. "It was Leanne. She fancied him. I thought he was a wanker," she assured the lads proudly: she would never let the side down.
"I can handle him," Leanne said, nonchalant.
"Bet you can. Bet that's what he's after ... you handling him." The ponytailed boy leered unpleasantly. "That right, Gaz? Do you reckon he wants to give her one?"
"Piss off." Leanne turned away, blushing.
"You heard what happened last night?" "Course we heard. We saw her, flying up in the tree. We were stoned. You thought she was an angel, didn't you, Gaz? An angel on the Christmas tree."
"You must have seen her before us, then. We found her. Gave us a right turn."
"Don't remember much about it." Lee shook his head, grinning. "It was a fucking good trip. Amazing."
Leanne turned back and looked at them. She felt uneasy. Was murder, death, really a thing to be taken that lightly? "Have you told the pigs what you saw?"
Gaz snorted. "Get real. We were stoned. Besides ... Lee and Gaz exchanged looks. There was something else.
"Besides what?" Leanne said, challenging.
"Promise you won't tell that pig? Even if he gets his leg over?"
"Don't be pathetic. Come on. What is it?"
"We did one of them artists' places ... in the old water mill. We saw the bloke go out and we broke in. Dead easy."
Leanne looked away. She didn't want to hear. Jo was looking at Gaz with terrified admiration. This was dangerous. This was real.
"Did you get much?"
"Bit of cash. And I found this." He delved into the back pocket of his jeans, drew out a photograph and handed it to Leanne. "What do you reckon? That's her, isn't it? The doctor's receptionist? The one who topped herself?"
Jo snatched the photograph from Leanne's hand and stared at it. It was a recent picture of Pauline Brent, and Jo had to acknowledge that she'd been in very good shape for her age. After all, there's no hiding lumps, bumps and wrinkles when you are photographed stark naked.
"Steve." Gerry Heffernan looked at his watch. "Nice of you to call in."
Steve Carstairs took his leather jacket off and draped it casually over one shoulder. He could do without the boss's sarcastic comments. He was still suffering from the effects of the eight pints of lager he had consumed in a club in Morbay the previous evening. He had felt temporarily better when that young girl had given him the come-on outside the village hall, but now his thumping headache had returned with a vengeance.
The incident room was taking shape. Phones and computers had been installed; desks littered the splintery parquet floor. At one end, by the rickety stage, stood a large notice-board decorated with photographs of Pauline Brent: Pauline hanging from the yew tree; Pauline cut down and lying on the churchyard grass; a picture of Pauline in life smiling outside her cottage, acquired by Wesley and Rachel during their search of her home.
Gerry Heffernan's voice boomed out as he called his team together. Steve wished he wouldn't shout so loud. When the inspector had finished recapping on the case so far and assigned everyone to their tasks, Steve discovered with some satisfaction that he and Rachel Tracey had been teamed up to visit the old water mill at the end of Worthy Lane, now home to a colony of artists if colony was the right word. Steve searched for an appropriate collective noun: a layabout of artists; a scrounge of artists. He had a low opinion of anyone who pursued what he considered to be a
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