Roots of Evil Read online

  Mike tried not to laugh. “So now you’re planning my morning too?”

  “Well, you’ve got nothing else to do, right?”

  Mike feigned a gasp. “And there was I, thinking you were helping me clear up last night because you lo—” He broke into a bout of coughing, and Jonathon patted him on the back.

  “Did a word get stuck in your throat?” Jonathon asked innocently.

  Mike took a swig from his mug. “Finish your coffee, and then we’ll go see Graham. He might be more inclined to share if I’m with you. Then we’ll think about that list.” He didn’t know why he should be so flustered by the declaration that had almost escaped him. He only knew he was.

  Jonathon emptied his mug, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I think we should start with Rachel. That way, we can mix business with pleasure.”

  Mike snickered as he got up from the table. “I swear, you have a one-track mind.” When Jonathon gave him a lingering glance, he realized his mistake. “Scratch that—a two-track mind.” He left the kitchen and headed up the stairs to the bathroom, aware of Jonathon’s soft chuckles still audible below.

  MIKE PUSHED open the door to the quaint police house and went inside, with Jonathon behind him. They made their way to the desk, where Graham was in conversation with the special constable, Dan Fitch. He nodded briefly in their direction before resuming his talk. When they were done, Dan disappeared through a door to the rear and Graham came over to where Mike and Jonathon stood.

  “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Sherlock and Watson. Finished looking for clues, have we? I suppose you’re here to tell me you’ve solved the case.”

  There was a sarcastic edge to Graham’s voice that caught Mike’s attention. “What’s wrong?” he asked softly. Graham was a mate, and it wasn’t like him to be snarky.

  Graham’s shoulders sagged a little. “Sorry. I’ve had a call from Winchester CID. Seems they’re not happy with the progress we’ve been making—or not, as they see it. They’re sending a Detective Inspector Mablethorpe tomorrow to take over. Not that that should worry you two, because this has nothing to do with you—right?” He cocked his head to one side. “And why are you here?”

  Mike shrugged. “We were just curious about the cause of death, that’s all. And whether SOCO had turned up anything.”

  Graham’s eyes gleamed triumphantly. “I knew it! Well, after this DI gets here, you won’t get so much as a sniff of the evidence.” He paused, then smiled. “So you’d better learn all you can now before he arrives. How does the saying go? ‘What the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve over.’” Graham picked up a folder from the desk and opened it before glancing up at them. “Well, sit down and take notes if you’re going to. I know full well you’re gonna look into this, and it’s not as if I could stop you, so why mess about wasting time?”

  Mike grabbed a couple of chairs and moved them to the front of the desk before sitting. “Was the head wound the cause of death?”

  Graham shook his head. “Strangulation. And those ginger roots were stuffed in postmortem, the coroner says. No fingerprints obtained from her throat.”

  “Is that even possible?” Jonathon asked, his eyes wide.

  “It can be done. Sometimes iodine fuming works, but in this case, no. So we don’t know if the killer wore gloves. And considering we found fingerprints around the place that weren’t hers, it seems unlikely.”

  “There were prints?” Mike exclaimed.

  Graham chuckled. “Yeah. Someone didn’t read his or her Basic Killer’s Handbook. You know, where it says wipe all your prints before you leave the scene? We’ve got one or two clear prints from the doorknob.”

  “And you have DNA too, right? From the knife?” Jonathon asked eagerly.

  Graham chuckled. “Oh dear. Someone else who thinks real-life forensics is like what you see on TV. No, Mr. de Mountford, we don’t have DNA results yet, because that can take weeks. But we will have them.”

  “I take it the fingerprints didn’t match anyone on record.”

  “Nope. Though when DI Mablethorpe arrives, doubtless he’ll have me taking the fingerprints of everyone seen in the vicinity.” Graham eyed Jonathon. “I suppose you want to know who they were an’ all.”

  “That won’t be necessary, thank you,” Jonathon said with a polite smile.

  Graham blinked, then facepalmed. “You already know, don’t ya? It’s just come to me. Old Ben, he’s your gardener, isn’t he? Well, isn’t that a coincidence?” His lips twitched, however. “Now, is there anything else I can help you with? Wanna see the SOCO photos, perhaps?” There was a hint of yet more sarcasm in his tone.

  “There is one more thing.” Mike leaned forward. “Do you have any idea why someone would want to kill her?”

  Graham sank into his chair. “Not a one. All we know about her is what was on the last census, which is her name, and date and place of birth. For some reason she went by her middle name. She was born Jane Naomi Taylor, in Nottingham in 1943. We know she lived for a while in Australia, which must be where she got married and had a family, and came to live in Merrychurch in 1998. As for reasons why someone should do her in… I can’t really see someone strangling her because some beauty cream brought them out in zits, can you?” Graham winked. “I hear the stories, same as you must do. But so far they don’t add up to a motive for killing her.” He clasped his hands in front of him on the desk. “Now, on the off chance that you two turn up something—and I’d be a fool to discount the possibility, especially after this summer’s goings-on—you will make sure I get to see it, right? I mean, if I can solve this, rather than the DI, then it’d look good on my record, for one thing. And you never know, they might think about promoting me.”

  Mike got to his feet. “Of course. We’ll let you know if we find out anything. Won’t we?”

  Jonathon nodded in agreement. “Of course.” He got up too. “And thank you for sharing all this with us.”

  Graham laughed. “It’s not as if I have all that much to share. Just remember, though—things will be different tomorrow. I don’t know anything about this DI, which is worrying.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “No one will tell me anything about him. And that doesn’t bode well.” He gave them a nod. “Good luck with the sleuthing, but remember—there’s a murderer out there, and they might not take too kindly to amateur detectives sniffing around, so watch your backs.”

  Mike placed his hand around Jonathon’s waist. “I’ll watch his back, and he can watch mine.”

  Graham coughed. “Whatever. Just be careful.”

  Mike thanked him and led Jonathon out of the police station. As they approached the 4x4, Mike mulled over what Graham had told them. “We’re not much better off, really.”

  Jonathon sighed. “You’re right.” Then his face brightened. “You know what we need?”

  Mike didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to know the answer to that. “A pot of coffee and some cake at Rachel’s?”

  Jonathon beamed. “Accompanied by a few questions.”

  Coffee, cake, and questions. All they really needed were some answers.

  Chapter Eight

  “SO, HAVE you solved it yet?” Rachel said as she brought them a pot of coffee and two slices of coffee-and-walnut cake. Her eyes twinkled. “Go on, tell me whodunnit.”

  Jonathon couldn’t resist. “Well, according to one witness, it could have been you,” he joked, “seeing as you were there that morning.” Not that he believed for one nanosecond that Rachel Meadow was capable of murder. She was a sweet lady, usually with a warm, friendly expression, and streaks of gray in her hair that were quite stylish.

  Rachel stilled. “Oh my God, how exciting! Of course. I went to pick up my supply of jams.”

  “How did she seem to you?” Mike asked as he poured the coffee.

  “That presumes I saw her.” Rachel glanced around the shop before pulling out a chair and sitting at their table. “It was the same as always—there was a
box waiting for me by her back door, all taped up. We didn’t normally see each other. I’d already paid her when I placed the order last week. I prefer doing it that way.” She grinned. “Wow. I’ve never been a murder suspect before.”

  “It sounds like you were her first visitor that day.” Jonathon took a bite of cake and let out an appreciative sound. “This is delicious.”

  Mike chuckled. “When you’ve finished getting sidetracked….” He addressed Rachel. “So there was nothing unusual at the house?”

  “I don’t think so.” Rachel frowned. “Her table was there, like it always was, and the box and clipboard. I think there were about eight or nine jars left, maybe three or four varieties.”

  Jonathon made a mental note. He’d counted five jars on Sunday morning. “Did you take one?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Didn’t I just say I picked up a whole box of them? Why would I need another?” Her mouth went down at the corners. “I gather that means you don’t have a clue who did it, then. Does Graham know you’re ‘helping’?” She air-quoted.

  “First rule of amateur detectives—always keep the professionals in the loop,” Mike said gravely. Then he smiled. “Well, one of us is an amateur. Jonathon needs me around to make sure he doesn’t get into trouble.”

  Jonathon poked him in the ribs with his elbow. “I seem to recall it was me insisting we give Graham those bits of plastic from Melinda’s greenhouse. I also recall a certain ‘detective’ being reluctant to enter said greenhouse for fear of—now, what was the reason? Oh yes—spiders.” He beamed at Mike, who glared back.

  Rachel burst into a peal of laughter. “You two are priceless. You already sound like an old married couple. It’s adorable.”

  Jonathon smiled to himself. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard such a statement.

  Rachel got up from the table. “I’ll leave you two to enjoy your coffee and cake. Thanks for brightening my day.” She gave them a sweet smile, then went over to greet a couple who’d just entered the shop.

  “Well, it wasn’t as if either of us thought she was involved,” Mike said under his breath. “And it backs up what Ben said about her carrying a box. So tell me, Sherlock, who do you want to see next?”

  Jonathon pulled the Post-it from his pocket. “I think I’ve run out of aspirins,” he announced emphatically.

  Mike laughed. “Driscoll’s it is, then. But that will be it for me for this morning. I have a pub to run, after all.”

  Jonathon didn’t reply. He was too busy enjoying the coffee-and-walnut cake.

  Some things should never be rushed.

  JONATHON’S IMPRESSIONS as he took in his surroundings hadn’t changed since his first visit to the chemist’s shop. Nathan Driscoll couldn’t be a very good businessman. The interior of Driscoll’s cried out for a revamp. The shelves were full, but there was room in the middle of the floor for standing displays. It was a chemist’s shop heavily rooted in the seventies, although above their heads were oak beams that added a little character to the otherwise drab decor.

  “Christmas is coming,” Jonathon whispered to Mike, his gaze trained on Nathan, who was dealing with a prescription, “but you wouldn’t know it in here. If I owned this place? There’d be stuff out that people might consider buying as gifts. You know, perfume, talc, soap, bath stuff… not to mention accessories like back scrubs and body mitts. Those things always go down well as Christmas presents.” He glanced around the shop. “Not exactly inviting, is it?”

  “Word is, he’s not doing so well,” Mike said quietly.

  “And now that I’ve seen the place a couple of times, I’m not surprised. He needs marketing advice.” That had to be the understatement of the week.

  The gentleman in front of them paid for his prescription and exited the shop, leaving it empty but for Jonathon and Mike.

  Nathan looked up from the till, and for a second, Jonathon was sure he appeared a little flustered. Then he straightened and pasted on a smile. “Good morning, gents. What can I do for you?”

  Jonathon gave a nod toward the shelves behind the counter. “A box of aspirins, please.”

  Nathan reached behind him and picked up a small box. “Anything else?”

  Mike cleared his throat. “I can’t see condoms anywhere. Do you stock them?”

  Jonathon did his best to stifle the chuckle that bubbled up inside him, thinking of the almost-full box in his bedside cabinet. As if Mike would let us run out of those.

  Nathan’s cheeks flushed. “Yes, but we only have a limited range. Not much call for them in Merrychurch, I have to say from experience. I keep them under the counter.”

  “You might sell more of them if people could actually see them,” Jonathon suggested innocently. “And you also might find out that there’s a bigger market for them than you suspect.” His impish sense of humor rose to the fore. “I mean, there are other related products that could prove very popular. Some gels and lubricants, for instance, to make life more… interesting.” He grinned. “After all, they’re being advertised on TV nowadays, so there’s obviously a call for them.” He shrugged. “Just a suggestion.”

  Nathan’s flush hadn’t receded. “I’ll… er… bear that in mind. So, did you want a packet of… condoms? I just have… ordinary ones, I’m afraid.”

  Jonathon nudged Mike. “Wait until I go to the supermarket. They’ve got those ribbed ones that you like.”

  The strangled noise that escaped Nathan told him they’d better quit before Nathan had a heart attack.

  “I think that’s everything,” Jonathon added quickly.

  Nathan bundled the box into a small paper bag and told them the price.

  As Jonathon counted out his change for the payment, he asked nonchalantly, “Did you enjoy the bonfire party?”

  Nathan appeared relieved at the change of topic. He tugged at his tie, loosening it a little. “Yes, it was splendid. I hope you’ll be doing it again next year.”

  “If feedback shows it was well received, then possibly,” Jonathon admitted. “However, the event was somewhat marred by the following morning’s news. I only got to meet Mrs. Teedle for the first time that evening.”

  “A remarkable woman,” Nathan intoned solemnly. “Gifted, I always thought.”

  Jonathon caught Mike’s less than subtle cough but surged ahead. “Did you know her well?” It was as if Nathan had completely forgotten the episode in the pub. That was Nathan the regulars were calling out for lying his arse off? Does he have amnesia?

  “Not exactly,” Nathan said hesitantly. “I wouldn’t have called us friends.”

  Jonathon frowned. “That’s funny. I’d kind of gotten the idea that you knew her better than that. Now, where could I have got that from?”

  Mike took up the hint. “Ah, I know. It was because you paid her a visit Sunday morning. That must be it.”

  There was no mistaking Nathan’s reaction. He paled. “Me?” he squeaked.

  Mike nodded. “You were seen walking toward her house.”

  Nathan stared at him in silence for a moment, swallowing hard once or twice. Then he gave a weak smile. “Ah yes. I was walking the dog. I often go past her cottage on my way into the forest.”

  “Past… then you didn’t go in?” Jonathon asked.

  Nathan blinked several times. “I had no reason to call on her. I did stop and buy a jar of jam, however. She makes—made—lovely jam.”

  “I bought some myself,” Mike said with a bright smile. “Which flavor?”

  For a moment Nathan stilled, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “Just a sec.” Then he darted out of sight.

  Mike turned to face Jonathon. “That man is very nervous. I’d like to know why.”

  Before Jonathon could reply, Nathan appeared behind the counter again, holding aloft a jar. “Plum,” he declared with a relieved smile.

  “Ooh, I must have missed this variety,” Jonathon lied. “Can I see?” When Nathan handed over the jar, Jonathon peered closely at it. The label bore the sam
e date as those on the table, and the red-and-white checked cloth was still in place. “I won’t open it and take a sniff, because it’s still sealed, but I bet it’s delicious.” He handed it back to Nathan, who placed it under the counter. “And she wasn’t around when you bought the jam?”

  Nathan shook his head. “I just put my money in the box and the jar in my pocket. Then I carried on with my walk. Frisky loves the forest.”

  “Frisky?” Mike inquired, his lips twitching.

  Nathan narrowed his gaze. “My cockapoo.”

  “And is he? Frisky, I mean?” Jonathon asked playfully.

  Nathan’s manner thawed a little. “Not since he had the snip,” he said with a half smile. Behind them, a bell rang as the door opened to admit more customers.

  “We’d best be off.” Jonathon gave Nathan a polite nod before pulling on Mike’s arm to lead him out of the shop. When they were outside, he looked back toward the shop. “Yeah. Very nervous. More of you than me, I think.”

  “Told you. It’s the ex-copper bit. And I didn’t buy his compliments for a second.”

  “Well, of course you didn’t. Who would after his past performance? But it doesn’t tell us why he could possibly want to kill her. Unless we’re thinking his flyers about fake healers are a motive.” The visit hadn’t been a complete waste of time. Nathan Driscoll was definitely going on the list of suspects. All they had to do was figure out why he would have wanted Naomi dead. Killing off the competition, however much they might like it as a motive, wasn’t all that likely.

  “Time I went back to the day job and opened the pub.” Mike unlocked the car. “After dropping you home first.”

  “Thanks.” Jonathon wanted to make sure there’d be a room ready for his father’s arrival. “Will I see you tonight?”

  Mike smiled. “As soon as I’ve closed those doors. You can warm the bed for me.”

  “I’ll keep you warm, have no fear of that.”

  Mike stepped closer to him and kissed him languidly, sending heat spreading through him. “Good to know.” He walked around the car and got behind the wheel.