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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 found the nosiest, and the deadliest, neighbourhood possible.
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 . . .
Police Officer Jemima Cotton expected Little Cote to be a quieter pace of life. But, unlike London, everyone knows everyone, and beyond the cake sales and coffee mornings, tea parties and village fetes, the neighbours aren't all the best of friends . . .
When Jemima is unpacking her mugs and teabags in her new home on Foxglove Close, she's called to attend her first murder investigation. She's excited, until she discovers it's only a few doors down from her. And she hasn't even met her new neighbours yet! As she steps out of her house in full uniform, Jemima can feel the eyes on the back of her neck, and she can see the curtains and blinds twitching.
But the crucial question is why did the lonely gentleman at the end of the road get murdered, eating dinner alone at his garden table, tucking into a new bottle of Chablis? As she digs deeper into the murder, Jemima discovers that here in Little Cote, underneath the surface, tensions bubble away . . . and the smallest vendetta can erupt into full blown murder.
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: June 17, 2021
Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton
Print pages: 256
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The Murders at Foxglove Close
Rose Temple
Wasn’t country life supposed to be all about peace and quiet? she asked herself. Wasn’t this one of the principal reasons she had moved to Little Cote from London, kissing goodbye to a career on the up and a satisfying social life in the process? Had she misjudged the situation entirely?
Just then, another noise assaulted her eardrums, a hideous squawking, accompanied by a violent thrashing of wings – the precursor, no doubt, to some sort of avian mating ritual. Knowing she’d never be able to get back to sleep now, she opened her eyes. The clock on the bedside table said 8.32. A perfectly civilised time for the average person to rise, but not when, like Jemima, you’d been gunning a 4x4 down a bumpy track in pursuit of a lawnmower thief till two in the morning.
Tossing off the lightweight duvet, she swung her legs out of bed, yawning as she replayed the previous night’s events in her mind. For several months now, the local villages had been plagued by an unusual and upsetting string of shed burglaries, with power tools and garden machinery the prime target. She may have been the newest member of Sussex Constabulary’s neighbourhood policing team (NPT for short), but Jemima was convinced the offences were the work of one person, and she had a strong suspicion she knew exactly who the antisocial weasel was. But before she could do anything about it, she needed hard evidence – or better still, to catch him in the act.
Yesterday’s late shift had started uneventfully. After dispersing a group of youths drinking in a children’s play park, Jemima had visited a local farmer to inspect CCTV footage of diesel thieves at work on his land. Afterwards, she’d spent the best part of an hour hunting in vain for a deer thought to be grievously wounded at the side of the road. But then, sometime after midnight, an urgent call had come over the radio alerting officers to a shed burglary in progress. Grabbing the keys to the station’s ancient Land Rover Defender, Jemima and fellow PC Harry Mudge had sped to the scene – just in time to see the suspect fleeing on a quad bike.
Back in London, Jemima had been used to dealing with much greater challenges – shootings, hate crimes, horrifying incidents of modern-day slavery. But every crime, no matter how small, deserved to be treated seriously in her book. As she set off in pursuit of the offender, her spine tingled and her mouth filled with the familiar tang of adrenaline.
She was hot on the quad bike’s tail as it took an abrupt left turn, cutting across the village green and heading for the footpath that ran down the side of the church. She licked her lips in anticipation, realising the suspect planned to make his getaway along the South Downs Way – the long-distance trail that connected most of the villages on her beat.
Ignoring Harry’s protests that the Defender’s fifteen-year-old suspension would never be able to cope, Jemima jerked the steering wheel violently to the left, almost taking out a fingerpost in the process, as she followed the quad onto the deeply rutted bridleway.
Her prey practically within touching distance, she was already envisioning celebratory drinks in the pub with her fellow officers. But then, quite unexpectedly, the quad veered off the trail, heading instead for a metal barrier that guarded the entrance to a swathe of arable. Jemima watched in horror as the rider ducked his head, allowing his vehicle to pass smoothly under the barrier, clearing it by a matter of inches. She pulled on the handbrake and leapt from the Defender, thinking she might be able to continue the pursuit on foot. But it was too late – the only thing left of the quad by the time she arrived at the barrier was a cloud of dust.
Having informed the control room of their failure, all the officers could do was return to the station to write up the incident before they went off shift. ‘Never mind,’ said Harry, as he offered Jemima a consolatory humbug from the stash he kept in the pocket of his stab vest. ‘We’ll get him next time.’
She forced a smile, knowing that there probably wouldn’t be a next time. This thief had proved he was smart; he was unlikely to get caught out twice.
It was several months since Jemima had transferred to Sussex, and only now was she beginning to feel like part of the team. When she’d first arrived, her fellow officers had been deeply suspicious. Why, they wanted to know, would someone with many years of inner-city policing under their belt, especially someone who was a hair’s breadth from making sergeant, throw it all away for a job in the back end of beyond?
Jemima told them the same thing she told everyone. That she was tired of being a hamster on a wheel at the Met, endlessly chasing her tail and drowning in the never-ending paperwork. She yearned for a slower pace of life and the chance to focus on the aspects of policing she enjoyed the most – getting out in the community, meeting people, making a difference.
It was, to all intents and purposes, the truth. But what she had neglected to mention (because quite frankly it was nobody else’s business but hers) was the messy relationship break-up that had hastened her decision. She tried not to think about it too much – the hurt, the betrayal, the humiliation – but the pain was always there, sharp needles jabbing uncomfortably at her skin.
Shaking her head free of intrusive thoughts, she rose from the bed and pushed her feet into her slippers. She had a busy day ahead, and now that she had been rudely awoken, she might as well get on with it.
Downstairs, the house lay quiet and still; Nat must have left for work already. Jemima’s Aunt Natalie – Nat to everyone who knew her – had lived in Little Cote forever. For the past three months, Jemima had been occupying the spare room in her aunt’s neat mid-terrace while she looked for a place of her own. Today she was finally moving out, but right now her immediate priority was breakfast.
After setting the kettle to boil, she headed for the front door. The idea of a daily milk delivery was something she found quite novel. Nobody she knew in London had a milkman. What was the point when there was a convenience store on every corner? But here in Little Cote it was different; here people still did things the old-fashioned way.
It was the warmest July on record. Outside, the sun was already shimmering overhead, warm and bright with the promise of another beautiful day. Clad only in the oversized T-shirt that did as a nightdress, Jemima made her way to the end of the pocket-sized front garden. After bending down to pick up the two pints of semi-skimmed that the milkman had placed in the cool of the log store, she took a moment to admire the blowsy begonias that filled her aunt’s flower beds. Then she raised a hand to her forehead, shading her eyes as she gazed out at the soft peaks of the South Downs in the distance. As she did, she felt something tight and clenched unfurling within her, like a fern releasing its fronds and stretching out into the light. Seconds later, this was replaced by another sensation – a tautening of the muscles and a tingling in the scalp that told her she was being watched. Frowning, she turned her back to the Downs and returned to the house.
Back in the kitchen, she doused a bowl of granola in milk, made coffee and carried it all to the table. She was still eating when her mobile phone cheeped, signalling the arrival of a text. Thinking it might be the removal men advising her of their ETA, she stood up to retrieve her phone from the worktop. But it wasn’t the removal company; it was a WhatsApp message from the street’s Neighbourhood Watch group.
Jemima had joined the group soon after moving to Little Cote. She considered it professional research, a way of gaining a valuable insight into the needs and concerns of the villagers. She had provided a fake name, concerned that the presence of a police officer might have an inhibiting effect on the discussions. Or worse than that, trigger a slew of spurious requests and unreasonable demands from members that she would doubtless be expected to deal with in her downtime.
She stared at the words on the screen.
Just spotted no.22’s lodger out and about in the front garden. You should have seen what she was wearing – or rather NOT wearing. I had to cover my husband’s eyes when she bent down to pick up the milk!
Her nostrils flared in outrage. Wearing a mid-thigh-length garment in the privacy of one’s own garden did not constitute indecent exposure. And it was hardly her fault the informant’s husband had been ogling her. Didn’t these people have anything better to do with their time? Apparently not, because just then a response pinged through.
Not very becoming behaviour for a member of HM Constabulary … talk about lowering the tone!
As a four-letter word threatened to erupt from Jemima’s mouth, another member joined the chat.
Yeah, I saw her too, and I’m pretty sure she wasn’t wearing a bra. Somebody ought to report her to the chief inspector. LOL!!
She pushed her bowl of cereal away, her appetite suddenly gone. This wasn’t the first time she’d been the subject of village gossip; the truth was she’d been under surveillance since the day she arrived. Previous WhatsApp exchanges had debated her unsocial working hours, the number of wine bottles she’d placed out for recycling, the male visitor she had ‘entertained’ for several hours one afternoon (a plumber, no more, come to fix a faulty radiator valve).
She knew the neighbours bore her no malice, and they would certainly be horrified to know she was scrutinising every word they wrote. All the same, she wished they didn’t feel the need to air their opinions quite so freely. Her life in London hadn’t been perfect by any means, but at least in the city one could live in relative anonymity. There was precious little chance of that here, where people enjoyed sticking their noses in and rumours were disseminated at lightning speed. It was something Jemima doubted she would ever get used to. But what choice did she have now? She’d just bought a house in the village, and she was stuck in Little Cote for the foreseeable, whether she liked it or not.
‘You look as if you’re really enjoying that,’ Jemima said to PC Roger Fleming, hoping he couldn’t detect the distaste in her voice.
The two officers were enjoying a few moments’ relaxation in the break room. The TV was on and Roger was sitting at the dining table eating a bowl of cereal, the spoon travelling up and down to his lips at alarming speed, his eyes never leaving the screen. If he didn’t slow down, he was going to have a nasty case of indigestion, Jemima thought to herself.
When she’d entered the room, cradling her mug of tea, she had deliberately chosen a seat as far away from him as possible, which was difficult in a room that was barely ten feet by ten. The station was a hundred and sixty-four years old and hadn’t been designed with modern policing in mind. All its rooms were cramped and oddly shaped, and nothing was quite where you expected to find it. Its corridors twisted, its floors sloped and there were several low-slung ceiling joists that posed a serious hazard to anyone more than five feet ten inches tall. Nevertheless, Jemima loved the quirky building. It had history, it had ambience, it had character. It even had a ghost – purportedly that of a nineteenth-century pickpocket who had died while incarcerated at the stations – several of her colleagues claimed to have seen it. Jemima, who despite her practical nature liked to think she also had a spiritual side, nursed a secret hope that one day she too would have the privilege of glimpsing the ghoul.
‘Best meal of the day,’ replied Roger, peppering the carpet with cornflakes as he spoke.
Jemima didn’t have a lot of time for PC Fleming. He was, to put it bluntly, a shirker; someone who expended the minimum amount of effort in every task he performed. His communication skills were lacking and his paperwork was sloppy. The skipper would have come down like a ton of bricks on anyone else who dared underperform so outrageously, but Jemima had heard that Anita and Roger went way back. It was presumably for this reason – for Jemima could think of no other – that Sergeant Jones chose to overlook the officer’s many and varied shortcomings.
Just as Roger’s mastications were building to an almost unbearable crescendo, PCSO Connor Brady entered the room. As usual, his beard was neatly trimmed, his uniform pristine, his boots freshly bull-polished. Jemima couldn’t help smiling to herself. She had a soft spot for Connor. He reminded her a little of herself when she was newly graduated from training college: full of enthusiasm and desperate to make a difference. He still had a long way to go – as Sergeant Jones was fond of pointing out – but he had the right attitude, and in Jemima’s book, that was the most important thing.
‘Hey, Connor, how it’s going?’ she asked.
‘Good, thanks,’ he replied.
‘Busy day ahead?’
His face lit up. ‘You bet. I’ve got a beat surgery at Crumpleford community centre, and then I’m giving an educational talk to some Year Elevens at Laversham High School.’
‘Sounds interesting … what’s the topic?’
Connor drew quote marks in the air. ‘The dangers of posting explicit selfies on social media.’
At this, Roger broke into a coughing fit. ‘Rather you than me, son,’ he spluttered, clearly amused. ‘I know what Year Elevens are like … fifteen going on twenty-five. Those little toerags are gonna eat you alive.’
Connor’s eyes grew wide with fright. ‘Seriously?’
‘Ignore him,’ Jemima said firmly, even though Roger was probably right. ‘You’ll do just fine.’
Connor’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down furiously. ‘I don’t suppose you’d come with me, would you, Jem? Just for a bit of moral support.’
‘Sorry, buddy, no can do; I’ve got a couple of statements to take this afternoon.’ She reached out and gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. ‘You’ll smash it, Connor, I know you will.’
Connor blew a puff of air out through pursed lips. ‘I wish I shared your confidence.’
Roger lifted his cereal bowl to his lips and drained the remaining milk in two giant gulps. ‘Connor, mate,’ he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Could you help me out with something?’
Connor, who had ambitions to be a police officer himself one day, broke into a wide smile. ‘Sure, what is it?’
‘A welfare check. I’d do it myself, but I’ve some urgent phone calls to make. It’s not far, so if you go now, you’ll be back in time for the briefing.’
Connor produced his notebook. ‘Give me the details.’
‘David Graves. IC1 male. Seventy-five years old. Lives alone. Not very sociable, apparently – a bit of a stiff, in other words. Quite secretive, too … the sort who probably has lots of skeletons in his closet. His family hasn’t heard from him for two weeks, and they’re dead worried.’
Connor’s face creased in concern. ‘What’s his address?’
Roger’s mouth twisted. ‘Sixty-two Park Rise; it’s walking distance from here.’
‘Got it,’ Connor said, his cheeks flushed with excitement at the thought that he might just be about to save someone’s life. ‘I’ll get round there right away.’
As he bolted from the room, Jemima found herself inhaling noisily in just the way she had always deplored in her junior school headmistress. ‘That was a bit shitty, wasn’t it?’ she remarked to Roger.
He gave a hard laugh. ‘If the kid can’t take a joke, he shouldn’t be in the job.’
Shaking her head despairingly, Jemima rose to her feet. ‘I’d better get on; I’ve got a few things to do before the briefing.’
‘Yeah, me too,’ Roger said, his hand moving towards the TV remote control. ‘Homes Under the Hammer starts in five.’
Back at her desk, Jemima made a point-to-point call on her radio. Connor picked up straight away.
‘What is it, Jem?’ he said, sounding slightly breathless.
‘That job Roger just gave you …’
‘Yeah, I’m almost there, what about it?’
‘Sixty-two Park Rise …’ She paused and bit her lip. ‘That’s the address for Laversham Cemetery.’
There was a brief silence, before Connor released a string of choice expletives.
‘You’d better start making your way back here,’ Jemima said. ‘The briefing starts in twenty minutes, and you know how grouchy Anita gets if anyone’s a nanosecond late.’
The weekly crime briefing was one of the few occasions when all of Laversham NPT were in the same room at the same time. Jemima arrived promptly and was surprised to see Inspector Paul Metcalfe already sitting at one end of the long table. He was an attractive man with a square jaw and salt-and-pepper hair that folded away from his face in a majestic swoop. He had many demands on his time, and was usually too busy to attend the briefing, but whenever he did, everyone sat up a little straighter in their chairs.
‘Hello, sir,’ Jemima greeted him. ‘It’s nice that you’re able to join us today.’
It was strange standing on ceremony when she was more used to seeing Paul Metcalfe in the kitchen of her aunt’s house, clad only in a too-small bathrobe as he tucked into one of Nat’s cooked breakfasts.
‘It’s nice to see you too, Cotton,’ he said in his deep, rich baritone. ‘I’ve been hearing a lot of good things about you lately. It sounds as if you’ve bedded in with the team very well.’
Jemima felt herself go pink. ‘I’m really enjoying working her. . .
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