Over My Dead Body

by Claire Lorrimer

Genres: Suspense

Synopsis

A delightfully tranquil village seems a lovely place to live, but beware of seething resentments and violent passions waiting to erupt with dire consequences A typical English country lane: ten households forming a peaceful, if mundane community; it seemed the perfect environment for newlyweds lan and Migs Peters in which to raise their newborn son. A small dispute over the resurfacing and widening of their lane surely cannot cause too much discomfort in such an idyllic setting? But there are tensions and personal ambitions brewing beneath the surface, and history also has its place in such a firmly established community. Change comes at a price, particularly for certain members of the desirable Millers Lane ...

Release date: April 10, 2014

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 400

Sample

‘Best get off now, Shirl, while the coast’s clear!’

Reluctantly, the girl unwound her arms from about the boy’s neck and rolled over on to her back leaving her bare breasts exposed both to his gaze and to the hot, dusty air of the barn.

‘In a hurry to get rid of me now I’ve let you do it?’ she said, her tone both reproachful and provocative.

Jack Dodd looked quickly away from the sight of the girl’s naked body, aware of the temptation it evoked but equally aware that he’d taken a big enough risk as it was allowing her here on the farm in broad daylight. But at seventeen, he was still discovering the intoxication of sexual gratification; and although he wasn’t particularly attracted in other ways to Shirley, she was not only available but made no bones about the fact that she fancied him. He had only just discovered that his strong, muscular body, tanned to a deep golden brown by hours in the open air, had a special appeal to the girls in the village which overrode the disadvantage of his having no money to spend on them.

‘Go on, Shirl, get dressed!’ he said. ‘You know Mum and Dad could be back any time; and if we was caught …’

‘OK, OK!’ she said petulantly but at the same time, reaching for her miniskirt and suntop. She had a certain respect for Jack’s elderly father, Frank – a brusque man with old-fashioned ideas – the opposite of her own dad who’d said with a wink, ‘If you can’t be good, girl, then for God’s sake, be careful!’ That was when her mum had put her on the pill, so now they didn’t bother if she was back home late after a disco.

Jack was like his father. It had taken her the best part of a month to persuade Jack to use the barn. Even then they could only do so when he was certain his parents wouldn’t be around, and it irked her that he wouldn’t ever risk them being caught. There were plenty of other boys who would give their right arm to be in Jack’s place – she was undoubtedly the best looking of all the girls in their crowd.

Jack could tell now by the expression on Shirley’s face that she was angry; she could sulk for days if she didn’t get her own way and then she wouldn’t let him have his way and he’d become more and more frustrated.

‘We’ll fix another time soon!’ he said, trying to put an arm round her shoulders. She shrugged him off.

‘Ain’t hardly worth it, Jack!’ she said coldly.

‘Aw, don’t be like that, Shirl!’ he pleaded. ‘Look, I’ll meet you up the King’s Head this evening, eh?’

Her large blue eyes narrowed.

‘So’s someone else can treat me to a drink? Only time you treat me is on a Saturday when your dad gives you your pocket money!’ She laughed derisively.

Jack’s face flushed an angry red. This was not the first time Shirl had taunted him about the fact that he never had any cash in his pocket. Even the lads on social security had more to spend than he did. The fact that Shirl was right in that he wasn’t ever paid proper wages by his father but given a few quid on a Saturday as if he was still a kid, did nothing to ease his discomfort at her jibe. He’d tried to explain to his father who refused to understand his need for money. ‘Never had aught to spend when I were your age, boy!’ If he said it once more, Jack often told himself, he’d kill him! Even his mother hadn’t be able to talk the old man round.

‘You don’t understand, Jack!’ she kept repeating. ‘Your dad’s having a job to make ends meet. Things are in a bad way … the milk money … the harvest … the recession … You’ve got to be patient, dear. Look, here’s a couple of quid from my egg money. Will that help?’

Not much, with Shirl able to put away three vodka and tonics in the time it took him to get through a pint. Then there were her fags; she smoked like a chimney and the price of a packet of cigarettes was more than the cost of hiring a video – not that his family had a video recorder but Shirl’s parents had one and let them use it if they weren’t watching telly themselves.

Jack had searched his mind for ways he might make a bit of extra money; but his father kept him too busy on the farm to allow him enough time to take on odd jobs elsewhere. It wasn’t even as if there was anything he could sell, other than his bike and he needed that for getting up to the village to see Shirl.

The worst of it was he knew he couldn’t justify his resentment at his situation. Again and again, he’d heard his parents talking – Dad going through the accounts at the end of the month, trying to work out which bills would have to be paid and which could be left to run on a bit longer. There’d even been talk about having to chuck it all up and go on social security, and he’d not needed his mum to tell him that would kill his father, break his heart. One of the few times he’d ever heard his parents come close to a serious row was over money. Dad had said he’d have to give up paying the insurance premiums and Mum had said over her dead body. Just suppose one of the barns went on fire – it could happen … had happened not a year past over on the far side of Ferry-bridge. Several thousand pounds’ worth of hay up in smoke and no money in the bank to replace it. What would the cows eat then over winter? Whatever other economy they made, it mustn’t be the insurance.

‘Well, are you going to see me off or what?’

Shirl’s voice jolted Jack on to his feet.

‘I’ll wait here a bit and watch you from the granary!’ he said. ‘Someone might come into the yard and … well, go like you always do over to the dairy as if you’d come for eggs.’ His voice softened, became pleading. ‘Shirl, you know I don’t like it this way no more than you do. You agreed it was the only way we could be together … and well, you know how I feel about you. You …’

‘Oh, stuff it!’ Shirl said, pushing his hand away and turning her face to avoid his attempt to kiss her. ‘If you really loved me …’

She tossed her head and holding her heeled sandals in one hand, made her way down the ladder leaning against the bales of hay which were piled one upon the other almost to the granary floor. She paused, wondering if Jack would follow her down, wanting him to do so. She’d give him a minute or two – have a fag whilst she waited. She reached in her shoulder bag and pulled out a packet of Silk Cut. Her face creased in a smile. If Jack saw her smoking in here, he’d have a fit! Well, let him. Maybe the smoke from her fag would waft upstairs to the granary. That would bring him down quick enough if anything did! Then, maybe, she’d let him kiss her. She didn’t want him to change his mind about meeting her up the pub tonight. She was only just beginning to find out that ‘doing it’ once wasn’t nearly often enough for her.

On the other hand, if he caught her smoking after all his cautions, he might be so angry he’d dump her and take up again with that fat cow Lynn, who he’d used to snog before he met her.

She was momentarily distracted by the Dodds’ collie barking furiously in the yard.

Jack glanced at his watch. Several minutes had passed since Shirl had gone off in a huff and still he hadn’t seen her go into the dairy across the yard. Maybe she’d decided to go straight out of the farm gate which he couldn’t see from here – just to annoy him. That was one of the things about Shirl – she liked taking risks, egging him to go faster on his bike when she rode pillion and grumbling because he wouldn’t take a chance losing his licence by breaking the speed limit. In some ways, Shirl was a headache! But then he remembered how hot and eager and loving she’d been not a half hour since; how urgently he’d wanted her; how she’d let him do anything he wished and think of things to do to him, too. Maybe she had slept around a bit, but he didn’t care. She’d wanted him for all he hadn’t any money to spend on her.

Time he went back to work, he told himself. There was still plenty to do, but the air up here in the granary was soporific and it would be as well, if anyone were about, for him not to emerge too quickly after Shirl. The neighbours – particularly Mrs Brigend – were hopeless gossips and if word got back to his father …

Jack left the granary window, lay back against the sweet smelling hay and watched a large brown spider weaving a web between two beams. It worked methodically without pause until the noise of a sudden clatter from below disturbed the stillness of the room. Frowning, Jack rose to his feet and looked down the hatchway. There was no beam of sunlight coming through the barn doors and it was dark enough for him to have to feel his way down the rungs of the ladder. Halfway down he stopped, his breath catching in his throat. The air was filled with the acrid smell of smoke. There was a sudden whoosh and a bright tongue of flame leapt upward from between two hay bales. Beneath Jack’s horrified gaze, the flame became a sheet of fire as the dried grass erupted in ever growing circles.

Recovering from the initial shock, Jack could now see that if he was quick, he might yet make the safety of the barn doors and let himself out into the yard. He slid down the last half of the ladder and, coughing violently as the smoke attacked his lungs, he stumbled to the doors. That they might be shut from the outside had not crossed his mind and as he beat against them with his fists, panicking now, he realized that somehow the wooden bar had fallen into its heavy oak slots, effectively imprisoning him.

My God, Shirl! he thought as he stamped on the flames now licking his feet and edged his way back to the ladder. She must have closed the door when she left. But why? And how had the fire started?

His mind raced with thoughts as he groped his way up to the granary. It was now fogged with smoke, stinging his eyes and throat even further. He could see the outline of the granary window where once, long ago, the sacks of corn had been hauled up on a pulley for storage. The rope had long since gone and there was no escape but to jump the five metres to the concrete yard below. No sane person would risk a broken neck by jumping but one glance at the flames now creeping through the gaps in the floorboards made the prospect of the leap less frightening than death by fire.

Gasping, he tried to draw fresh air into his lungs as he leaned out of the window. The ladder to the granary was bolted and he knew without trying that it would be useless to attempt to loosen it. There was nothing beneath the granary window which would soften his fall. The boards beneath his feet were now unbearably hot and at any moment, the tinder dry floor would burst into flames. He must jump now – now before the lack of oxygen rendered him unconscious. For a moment or two, Jack clung to the wooden frame of the aperture and then, closing his eyes, he forced his fingers to unclench themselves.

Driving into the yard in their battered old Ford, Mary and Frank Dodd were just in time to see their son’s body hit the concrete. He lay there motionless as with a roar, the roof of the barn collapsed inward and a shower of golden sparks shot up into the sky and fell, gently covering his body with a myriad specks of soft, black ash.

Ian Peters poured himself a whisky and added a measure of soda before settling himself in the armchair opposite his wife. Megan – Migs to her friends – was curled up on the sofa giving their firstborn his going-to-bed feed. The sight added to his feeling of contentment as his glance slowly circled the room.

‘It looks great, sweetheart! How d’you manage to get so much done?’

This morning when he had left to catch his commuter train to London, the tiny room had been a clutter of unopened packing cases, odd pieces of furniture covered with unhung curtains and sundry bulging dustbin bags tied with string.

Migs sat the nine-month-old child on her lap. Smiling, she brushed back the sweep of blonde hair from her forehead. Her hyacinth-blue eyes sparkled with pleasure at her husband’s comment.

‘For a moment, I thought you hadn’t noticed!’ she said. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m feeling pretty pleased with myself. It’s beginning to look nice, isn’t it?’

The tiny semi-detached cottage – one of a pair of farm labourers’ dwellings – had taken all their capital and when Ian had learned Migs was pregnant only three months after their wedding, he’d been worried. There simply wasn’t going to be enough left in the bank to add on a larger kitchen and garage as they’d planned with the expense of all the gear a new baby seemed to need.

‘We’ll manage!’ Migs had said. ‘The windows in the cottage are tiny, so I can cut down those long curtains; and we’ve got those two Persian rugs Aunt Joan gave us as a wedding present to put on the sitting-room floor. Don’t worry, darling. Anyway, think how much better it will be for the infant breathing fresh Kentish air instead of the horrible London fumes! We must have had a premonition of things to come when we bought No. 1.’

Ian had been far too much in love with his young wife to reveal his own feeling that the purchase of this tiny cottage, tucked away down a bridleway in the heart of the Kent countryside, was going to prove a big mistake. They’d moved in on Saturday and as he’d taken his annual holiday to coincide with the birth of the baby, he’d had to go back to work this Monday morning. Yet despite the obvious handicap of their small son, Migs had already transformed the place into a home.

‘I met the two inhabitants of Rose Cottage today – that’s the one opposite!’ Migs was saying. ‘Miss Evelyn Bateman – she’s in her eighties, I think – is the elder of the two old girls. She brought me over that bowl of pansies, heartsease, she called them, as a welcome-in gift. She said if we were going to make a garden, she could give us lots of cuttings. It’s her passion, I gather – growing things. She asked me over to see her garden and it’s really lovely, Ian – a real olde worlde outfit full of lupins, old-fashioned roses, and things like that.’

‘What about the other old biddy – the one we saw picking those yellow things in the front who waved to us when we moved in?’

‘Well, Miss Daphne, as I was asked to call her, is rather odd – not quite all there, I gather. Seems she was in a loony bin until last year when the government shut them all down and her sister took her in.’

‘Didn’t that charitable act come a bit late in the day?’

‘Not at all, Ian. Miss Bateman was a legal secretary all her life until she retired – and that wasn’t until she was seventy as they kept her on because she was so ultra efficient, so you see, she couldn’t have been responsible for a dotty sister, could she?’

Ian grinned as he rose to pour himself another whisky.

‘How dotty? She looked like a witch to me in that long black dress.’

‘Stop it, Ian! She’s actually rather sweet – sort of childlike. As soon as she saw Dougal she came scurrying up the path to the gate all smiles. I told her who we were but she wasn’t much interested and started telling Dougal nursery rhymes in a sing-song voice, “Rock-a-bye Baby”, “Bye Baby Bunting”, etcetera, and she knew all the words. Dougie was intrigued. She was starting on “Georgie Porgie” when Miss Evelyn came along, grabbed hold of her and invited me in to see their garden. That didn’t stop our Daphne – she trotted along beside Dougal’s buggy giving him a nice rendering of “Mary, Mary, quite contrary, How does your Garden Grow”. Miss Bateman couldn’t hear herself speak, so she packed Daphne off to put the kettle on and that started the poor old girl on—’

‘Don’t tell me – “Polly, Put the Kettle On”!’ Ian said laughing. ‘Here, give me The Monster and I’ll take him up to bed. You must be tired. No little drink first?’

‘Not whilst I’m feeding him, Ian. Anyway, I honestly don’t miss it. The only thing I missed today was you!’

‘And I missed you!’ Ian answered, kissing her warmly before taking the sleeping baby up to his cot.

When they had first viewed No. 1 The Cottages, Millers Lane, they had driven to the end of the road where it became a footpath. It was a roughish surface, potholed, with grass verges filled with wild flowers. Migs had been delighted – it would be somewhere to walk Dougal. He’d love looking at the sheep and cows in the adjoining fields. There were ducks, too, on the lake which lay to the left of the bridleway just beyond the big manor house.

The estate agent had told them there were actually ten dwellings other than the old manor house but, for the most part, the houses lay back off the road in secluded gardens, which was why Ian and Migs had not noticed all of them. They had exchanged a private smile over the agent’s assurance that the residents were ‘all very respectable’, whatever that might mean.

‘Tell me more, darling!’ Ian said when he came back into the room and settled himself beside his wife. He put his arm round her shoulders. ‘Have you met any other of our neighbours?’

Migs nodded.

‘Ellen Brigend from next door popped in to see how I was getting on. Needless to say she had a good old look round but why shouldn’t she be curious? She’s a real gossip, of course, but kind as they come – said I must have a mountain of washing with the baby and to use her washing machine until we got ours going. Which I did! So I got to meet Mr Brigend who I was told to call Ray. From what I gather, Ellen “does” for most of the houses up the lane and Ray does the gardening. He used to work on the farm down the road but it seems Mr Dodd, the farmer, has been having a job to make ends meet and couldn’t afford his wages so Ray was forced to find other work. Ellen said he would cut our hedge for us one weekend if you hadn’t time.’

‘Sounds like we’ve landed on our feet!’ Ian said laughing. ‘Will this Ellen of yours babysit if I want to take you out for a meal?’

‘Couldn’t have anyone better – she’s had six of her own; and she adores babies!’

‘Just as well if The Monster starts yelling in the middle of the night. The dividing wall is pretty thin, you know.’

Migs drew a deep sigh.

‘I’m not complaining about anything. I think it’s wonderful that we’ve got our own home, a mortgage we can manage and no other debts. We’re very lucky, Ian. I don’t even mind being semi-detached. If you have to go away on business, I won’t be nervous with the Brigends next door.’

Ian nodded.

‘Shouldn’t think there’s much to be nervous about in this neck of the woods. Can’t see Millers Lane crawling with rapists, muggers, drug dealers and the like, can you?’

Migs pretty face creased suddenly in a frown.

‘Well, no,’ she said slowly. ‘But it’s not all rural bliss. You know that burnt out old barn we noticed in the farmyard? Well, Mrs Brigend – Ellen – was telling me that although the insurance investigators accepted that the fire last autumn was an accident, she and Ray don’t think so. The farmer’s son Jack was in the barn when it caught fire, and the investigators were convinced he must have used matches or a lighter because the straw bales had ignited from the inside.’

‘So the boy was having a quiet smoke!’ Ian said with a shrug. ‘A stupid thing to do, but the fire would still be accidental, so why the doubts?’

‘Because, according to Ray and Ellen, Jack doesn’t smoke – never has done! Moreover, he’d know better than to use a naked flame where there was straw or hay about. Ellen is convinced somebody deliberately set fire to the place.’

‘You must be joking!’ Ian said. ‘Did she give a reason? And what happened to Jack?’. . .