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Synopsis
If you enjoyed Midsomer Murders, you will love the Nosy Neighbour Mysteries. PC Jemima Cotton escapes to Little Cote from London for a quieter life . . . but she soon discovers she's moved into the nosiest, and the deadliest, neighbourhood imaginable.
The sleepy village of Little Cote was meant to be a quieter pace of life for ex-Met PC Jemima Cotton. But she soon discovers, here a petty rivalry can erupt into full-blown murder . . .
After PC Jemima's Cotton's first murder investigation, she knows now to trust no one. She leaves the gifted lasagne's uneaten in her freezer, and won't go near a cake sale either. But when Perry Noble, head of the Little Cote darts club, is found dead on his doorstep, even PC Jemima Cotton can't believe she's found herself involved in yet another murder investigation in this sleepy village.
As Jemima starts to investigate, she discovers Perry had his fair share of enemies . . . especially among the darts players themselves. So it's no surprise when the murder weapon is revealed to be a poisoned dart.
Jemima used to love playing darts at the Met, so when her boss recommends she join the club, she jumps at the opportunity to get closer to the potential suspects. But several red herrings later, she's none the wiser and realises she might have to search further afield for the killer before they strike again.
Perfect for fans of Faith Martin, Helen Cox, Betty Rowlands, and the Midsomer Murders series by Caroline Graham.
(P) 2021 Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
Release date: July 15, 2021
Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton
Print pages: 256
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
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Death on the Doorstep
Rose Temple
The entire cottage had been crying out for a makeover when she bought it last summer. The previous owner clearly hadn’t wielded a paintbrush for several decades, and it had been left to Jemima to bring the property kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century. Unable to afford the services of a professional decorator, it had taken her many arduous months to complete the work – but boy, had it been worth it. Room by room, she had painstakingly transformed every square inch of wall, ceiling and skirting board, until all that remained was the retina-scarring hallway. Now, even that was unrecognisable, thanks to three coats of ‘Nun’s Petticoat’ – which looked an awful lot better than it sounded.
It was eight months since she had swapped her rented London apartment and a career with the Metropolitan Police for a quieter pace of life in the Sussex countryside. At least, that was the theory. So far, life in the village of Little Cote had proved to be anything but quiet. Less than a fortnight after moving in, Jemima had found herself investigating a murder in Foxglove Close, the very street in which she lived. With CID unable, or just unwilling, to pull their finger out, it had taken every ounce of skill and intuition she possessed to solve the case, with a little help from her colleagues on the Neighbourhood Policing Team – NPT for short. The murder victim’s house had been sold several months ago, and now she had a new neighbour – a recently divorced carpenter called Ollie. The property’s gruesome provenance had proved off-putting to many, but Ollie was a no-nonsense sort who knew a bargain when he saw one.
As a general rule of thumb, Jemima liked to keep herself to herself, especially where her somewhat eccentric, not to mention inordinately nosy, neighbours were concerned. But given the dreadful events of the previous summer, she felt it was her duty to roll out the welcome mat and demonstrate to Ollie that the folk in Foxglove Close were perfectly normal. Well, perhaps not normal, but harmless enough.
With this in mind, shortly after Ollie moved in, she invited him round for coffee. They’d spent a rather pleasant couple of hours together, during which he had had kindly given her some free advice regarding the kitchen extension she was vaguely considering. They’d bumped into each other in the close several times since then and lively conversations had ensued. On one of these occasions, Ollie had briefly introduced Jemima to his five-year-old son, who, he explained, came to stay with him on alternate weekends. The following day, she spotted the pair from an upstairs window playing together in the garden. As she watched Ollie hoist the little boy onto his shoulders, she had experienced a sudden sharp pain in her lower abdomen, as if someone had pressed their fingernail into some exquisitely sensitive scar.
Career had always come first for Jemima. She’d believed her life was so full that there would never be room for children of her own. But just lately, she’d been having second thoughts. She wasn’t likely to be impregnated any time soon, however; not when she’d been single for what felt like forever. She’d fleetingly considered internet dating, but, still smarting after a painful break-up with her last boyfriend, a fellow officer in the Met, she wasn’t sure she had the emotional energy to swipe right, never mind actually meet someone face to face. Besides, based on her experiences so far, she strongly suspected the pool of single, attractive, well-adjusted men in the local area was a small and somewhat murky one.
Just then, a loud noise made her jump. Her eyes swivelled towards the front door, just in time to catch one of the village do-gooders thrusting the parish magazine determinedly through the letter box. She retrieved it from the doormat and began idly flicking through the pages.
The scout group’s recent cake sale proved to be a great success, raising almost £1,000 for drug abuse began the short news story on page 1. Jemima giggled out loud; the magazine was evidently edited by an individual with only the flimsiest grasp of proofreading. Sometimes the bloopers were so awful, she wondered if they hadn’t been inserted deliberately. Page 4 yielded another delicious example. St Agatha’s is raising funds to pay for repairs to the church roof. It currently has a number of donated items to sell, including a ladies’ five-speed bicycle. Also two gents for sale, both in good running order. Test drives available on request. Please contact the vicar for more information.
Still sniggering, she tossed the magazine down on the console table she’d bought from a local junk shop and spent the best part of two days Annie Sloan-ing the bejesus out of. It was nearly 5.30. Just enough time to change out of her paint-spattered clothes and grab a quick shower before the start of her shift.
The training was much more enjoyable than Jemima had anticipated. The team at Laversham certainly took their preparation seriously – much more seriously than her old team in London had ever done. The session began with a series of practice games, aimed at improving accuracy and developing consistency. It gave her an opportunity to chat to some of the members she hadn’t met before – although not, unfortunately, to ask any more probing questions about Perry Noble. It did feel a little strange being the only woman in the room, but by and large she was made to feel welcome.
Afterwards, they each took a chair from the stack in the corner of the room and sat in rows in front of a projector screen, while Alan gave a PowerPoint presentation. It outlined in fascinating detail how breathing techniques could be used as an aid to performance – an aspect of the game Jemima had never even considered before. The acting chairman certainly seemed very knowledgeable on the subject, even demonstrating several of the exercises in person. During the lecture, she took the opportunity to covertly observe the other Lions. Judging by their silence and rapt expressions, they all had a good deal of respect for Alan – and if Perry’s presence was missed, it wasn’t obvious.
The session drew to a close shortly before 10 p.m. As the players began clearing their chairs away, Jemima made a beeline for Roger.
‘I wish I’d known you were on the team,’ she said as she watched him stash his darts in a smart monogrammed case. ‘It would have made things a whole lot easier.’
He gave her a quizzical look. ‘Why – did you need someone to nominate you?’
‘No, my next-door neighbour’s a member; he did the honours.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I’m talking about the Perry Noble murder inquiry.’
‘What about it?’ he said, looking at her blankly.
‘You knew I was helping CID with the investigation. Why didn’t you tell me about your connection to Perry?’
He tucked the case into the folds of the waterproof jacket that was hanging on the back of his chair. ‘I didn’t think it was relevant, to be fair. It’s not like Perry and I were friends or anything. In any case, I hadn’t seen him for ages before he died. Like I told you, this is the first time I’ve been to the club in a while.’
‘But as a long-standing member, you might have vital intel, even if you don’t know it,’ she hissed. ‘Perry was killed with a poison dart by a player with pinpoint accuracy. It’s stating the obvious to say that one of the Laversham Lions could be responsible.’ A sudden thought struck her. ‘You haven’t mentioned the cause of death to anyone at the club, have you?’
‘I’m not a complete fucking idiot; I know the SIO wants to keep that under wraps for now.’ He leaned closer. ‘I haven’t breathed a word to a soul – not even the wife.’
They fell silent as a couple of players passed close by on their way to the exit. Jemima waited until they were safely out of earshot.
‘I know you said you two weren’t friends as such, but what was your general impression of Perry?’
‘He was very smooth, very persuasive … the sort of person who could convince anyone of anything.’
‘A born salesman, in other words,’ she said wryly. ‘No wonder his car dealership was so successful.’
Roger snickered softly. ‘But you know, underneath that suave exterior, there was something quite cold and calculating about him. I can’t be any more specific than that; it was just a feeling I had. He always seemed like someone who covered his bases, kept several balls in the air at once, so he always knew he would have at least one in his hand at the end of the day.’
‘Can you think of anyone at the club who might have held a grudge?’
Roger pressed his clenched fist to his lips. ‘Perry definitely knew how to get people’s backs up. He treated the club as if he owned it … it was his way or the highway. I never butted heads with him myself, but over the years, there were plenty of players who did. Did he piss one of them off so much they’d want to kill him – and not just kill him, but make him suffer one of the most agonising deaths imaginable? That, I can’t tell you.’
He picked up his jacket and slung it over his broad shoulder. ‘It might be worth looking into a player by the name of Jamie Fennell.’
‘Is he one of the Lions?’
‘No, but not for want of trying. He did a successful trial and then found himself on the infamous waiting list for the best part of a year. He’s only a young lad, but hugely talented. I’ve seen him play a few times; he would have been a real asset to the Lions, but—’
‘Perry didn’t want anyone stealing his thunder,’ she cut in.
‘Yeah, that pretty much sums it up. Eventually he got tired of waiting and joined another team, the Crumpleford Crusaders. We’ve met them in competition tons of times; they’re pretty good, but not as good as us.’
‘And was that the end of it?’
Roger shook his head. ‘That was just the beginning. Jamie started bad-mouthing Perry at competitions and charity events. He accused him of unsportsmanlike behaviour because he operated a waiting list that was basically a stepping stone to nowhere. The darts scene round here is pretty small, and when one player slags off another, word gets around pretty quickly.’
‘How did Perry react?’
‘He bad-mouthed Jamie back, calling him a liar and insisting that the waiting list was legit – which basically was a load of old bollocks because I know of at least two players who did a trial after Jamie and made it straight onto the team.
‘Then, around Christmas time, there was a charity tournament at the Brushmakers’ Arms. A few of the Lions were competing and I went along to cheer them on. It was a knockout, so each player was trying to outscore the person who threw before them. It got down to the last two players, who happened to be … wait for it … Perry and Jamie.’
‘Shit,’ said Jemima. ‘A chance to settle old scores then … quite literally. Who was up first?’
‘Perry. He threw seventy-six – a big score that ninety-nine per cent of players in the pub that night wouldn’t have been able to beat. By the look on his face, he thought he had it in the bag. He wasn’t even watching as Jamie stepped up to the oche; he was too busy doing a thumbs-up to his mates in the audience.’
‘And Jamie’s score?’
Roger grinned. ‘A round ton; basically, he kicked Perry’s arse, and proved in the process what a bloody idiot he was to let a player of Jamie’s calibre walk away from the Lions.’
‘I bet Perry wasn’t too happy about losing.’
‘No, and he didn’t take defeat graciously either. Later on, when everyone was crowded around the bar, he deliberately shoved Jamie from behind, making him spill his pint.’
Her mouth formed an incredulous line. ‘How pathetic; he sounds like a kid in the playground.’
‘I think he thought that because Jamie’s young and pretty skinny, he wouldn’t retaliate. But he did – big time. He grabbed Perry by the collar of his polo shirt and practically lifted him off his feet – at least that’s what Liam told me.’
‘You didn’t witness this altercation yourself, then?’
‘No, I’d already gone home by that point. Apparently the situation was seconds away from turning into a full-on fist fight when a couple of Jamie’s teammates intervened and pulled him away. Liam said Jamie spat on the floor in front of Perry and then walked out of the pub.’
‘Wow,’ said Jemima. ‘Mr Fennell definitely sounds like someone with an axe to grind. I’ll look into it, and if you think of anything else that might be relevant, do let me know. I was hoping we’d have at least one decent lead by now, but right now, we’re stabbing in the dark.’
‘Will do.’ Roger zipped up his jacket and patted the pocket, checking his darts were safely stowed inside. ‘Right then, I’d better get home to the missus.’
‘OK, night, Rog. I’ll see you at work tomorrow.’
Glancing around, she spotted Ollie helping Alan pack up the projector screen, which meant she had time to nip to the ladies’ before her carriage home was ready.
She stepped out into the long corridor and looked from left to right. There was no helpful signage in sight, but she did spot Liam a short distance away. He was leaning against the wall, texting fiercely on the mobile phone he seemed to be permanently glued to.
‘Can you point me in the direction of the loos?’ she asked him.
Liam looked up. He had the spectral look of somebody who hadn’t slept in a long time. ‘Down there,’ he said, jerking his thumb leftwards.
‘Thanks,’ she replied.
She was halfway down the corridor when he called after her. ‘A little bird told me you’re Old Bill.’
She stopped. ‘That’s right,’ she said with sham lightness, as if to indicate this was of no consequence.
‘Are you based at Laversham Police Station?’
She turned to face him. ‘I am.’
‘Are you working on Perry Noble’s case?’
She hesitated, reluctant to tell an outright lie. ‘I’m not a detective. I work for the neighbourhood team.’
A slow, contemptuous smile appeared on his face. ‘It’s a simple enough question, PC Cotton. Are you working on Perry Noble’s case – yes or no?’
She sighed. ‘I’m helping CID with some routine enquiries. I can’t tell you any more than that.’
Instantly his expression hardened. ‘So our cosy little chat on Monday night was less of a getting-to-know-you and more of a cross-examination.’
‘I wouldn’t call it that.’ A spider of anxiety crawled up the back of Jemima’s neck. Although she was confident she hadn’t breached any code of conduct, she was possibly treading a thin line. The last thing she wanted was to open herself up to an accusation of obtaining information by deception.
‘So what would you call it?’ he persisted.
‘I was just being friendly,’ she said, brazening it out. ‘I only moved to the area a few months ago and that’s part of the reason I wanted to join the darts club – to meet new people.’
‘So your boss didn’t send you here on a fishing expedition?’
‘No, he didn’t,’ she said, knowing that technically speaking it was the truth.
He raked his cool blue eyes up and down her. ‘If I were you, I’d tread carefully as far as Perry Noble is concerned. People round here don’t take too kindly to two-faced coppers, me included. If you want to be on the team and you’re prepared to put a hundred per cent effort into helping us win the President’s Cup, that’s great. But if you’ve got an ulterior motive, then you’re playing a very dangerous game and you’ll have to accept the consequences.’
It was hard to ignore the thinly veiled threat in his words, but if she didn’t want to get chucked off the team, her best hope lay in trying to assuage him.
She dropped her shoulders and lowered her eyes, adopting a passive posture. ‘Listen, Liam,’ she said, taking a step towards him. ‘I’m ever so sorry if I’ve offended you. There’s obviously been a misunderstanding; how about we start again?’
With exaggerated ennui, he turned back to his phone, as if even the keypad held more interest than her pathetic attempt at an olive branch.
‘I heard your cover got blown tonight,’ said Ollie as they pulled out of the car park.
Jemima chewed the inside of her cheek. ‘You know about that, do you?’
‘Yeah, word round here travels fast. Who let the cat out of the bag?’
‘Roger Fleming; we work together.’
‘Ah,’ he said, fiddling with the heating dial on the dashboard. ‘Sorry, I should’ve told you there was another police officer on the team. To tell you the truth, I haven’t seen Roger for so lo. . .
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