An Unholy Mess Read online

  ‘Can you help me?’ she asked forlornly.

  Slowly, Graham leaned forwards and took her hand. ‘First of all, Trisha, I’ll have to do some research and some reading up on the subject. Find out a little more about it. I’m not really au fait with the body-building culture or what causes men to develop an obsession with it.’

  Trisha cast a quick look over his own lean and fit (not to mention, buff) frame, opened her mouth, and then quickly closed it again. He was a vicar, after all. And a happily married one, at that.

  ‘Then I’ll talk to a friend of mine, who’s a psychologist and a counsellor,’ Graham went on. ‘And I’ll see what he recommends.’

  Trisha nodded. When it came right down to it, she hadn’t really expected the vicar to actually do anything for her. She’d only truly come because then at least she’d have felt as if she’d tried something, and could tell herself that at least she’d done something positive. But now she was actually beginning to feel optimistic.

  ‘But I shall need to speak to your husband too,’ Graham said firmly and Trisha instantly began to gnaw nervously on her lower lip. Jim would have a fit if he thought she’d been talking about him behind his back to the vicar.

  But before she could start to object, Graham swept on.

  ‘After all, he might not think he has a problem. Perhaps he doesn’t have a problem. It might not be as bad as you think.’ Graham was always very aware during any consultation that he was only hearing one side of an argument. ‘I’ll do some reading and talk to my friend. Then we’ll see what he advises. How’s that to begin with?’

  The last phrase seemed to work magic. Trisha’s pinched and anxious face suddenly relaxed. It implied further action. That she was no longer on her own. Two things that gave rise to that most needful of all things – hope.

  ‘All right,’ she agreed tremulously, even managing a smile now.

  Graham rose, ushering her to the door.

  Monica, reading in the lounge, glanced up as she heard the study door open and got to her feet. She was just in time to see a very different woman from the one who’d entered, turn and smile into the study.

  ‘Thank you, vicar,’ Trisha said gratefully, then turned and walked confidently to the door.

  Monica smiled and went back to her magazine.

  In flat number 11, Pauline Weeks poured a long, cold drink for her attractive visitor and handed it over.

  At forty-three, Pauline was a fairly recent divorcee, and living well off her alimony payments. Too humiliated to stay in Wimbledon, where her well-heeled husband and his newer, younger wife had set up home as well, she’d decided to move and ‘be something’ in the country set. A whole new way of life was so appealing, or so she told all her friends. Or so-called friends, since most of them had decided to stay in her ex-husband’s camp after the split. So when she’d spotted a small but pretty flat being advertised in an up-market country lifestyle magazine, the idea of living in a 200-year-old plus converted vicarage, situated in a pretty village in the heart of the Cotswolds, had seemed just the ticket.

  But after only a couple of weeks of it, she had been beginning to wonder. The countryside was so … well, quiet. But then Paul Waring had moved into another flat, and things had definitely begun to look up.

  Now she smiled at him provocatively, glad that she’d spent so much money on a good dentist, and showing her whiter-than-white teeth to their best advantage.

  ‘I would suggest we take our Pimms outside and soak up some rays, but I’ve got a feeling that the Franklyns are already out there, and I don’t fancy having to make small talk with that charming pair. Why she ever left Bath, I’ll never know. To hear her talk, you’d think she was practically the mayor of the place.’

  She smiled down at the blond Adonis lounging in her best armchair and observed him shrewdly. She hadn’t yet been able to wheedle out of him his exact age, but she put it somewhere in the early to mid-thirties. Not young enough to be called a toy boy, at any rate, surely? That is, if she ever managed to pin him down. So far, he was proving adept at slipping out of all of her carefully-laid nets.

  But she was determined to persevere. At just over six feet tall, he would have towered over her ex-rat Jeremy, that was for sure, she thought now with savage satisfaction, picturing the two men side by side. Paul had a mass of thick, attractive sandy-coloured hair, whereas poor old Jeremy was definitely going thin on top. What’s more, Paul Waring was a walking advert for his business, with finely honed pecs, and a washboard stomach. Jeremy, the last time she’d seen the cheating bastard, had distinctly been developing a paunch.

  In her best fantasies, she’d roll up at one of her old Wimbledon set’s parties, with Paul in tow, and waft him under the nose of her stupefied ex, and that bimbo of a new wife of his. One day… . Reluctantly dragging her mind from such thoughts, she brought her mind back to the here and now.

  ‘Didn’t you say that your friend, you know,’ she snapped her fingers restlessly, ‘the estate agent…?’

  ‘Jim?’ Paul Waring drawled idly, not paying much attention to her chatter but enjoying the drink. One thing you could say about Pauline, she never stinted on the good things in life.

  ‘Yes. Jim, that’s the one’, Pauline agreed. ‘The last time I was at your place working out, he was telling me how you introduced Sean Franklyn to the flats here, and practically helped him to sell flat 4 to them. What’s more, he said you were happy for him to earn the commission free and clear. How come?’

  She tried to keep the suspicion out of her tone, but the truth was, she’d taken against Margaret Franklyn in a big way, and at first sight. If ever there was a praying mantis in human form, it was that one, Pauline thought grimly.

  Paul Waring, owner of a number of gyms and keep-fit centres in the county, took a long gulp of the cold drink and sighed happily, his Adam’s apple bobbing attractively in his tanned throat, a fact that didn’t escape Pauline’s eagle eye.

  She caught him looking at her, checking out her newer, even more slender figure, and preened a bit in her white summer dress. For once she’d learned what her new and dishy neighbour did for a living, naturally she’d wasted no time in applying for membership of his nearest gym. And the results of all those workouts with him were now paying off real dividends with an even more honed body to show off. Which was especially satisfying with the stick-thin Margaret now on the scene.

  ‘Oh that was nothing,’ Paul said airily, finally answering her question. ‘Jim Lancer’s a really good client of mine, so when he told me that he hadn’t had many sales commissions recently, and that his boss was beginning to give him the evil eye, I remembered how Sean was looking for a place. I insure the gyms with Sean’s insurance company, that’s how I know them,’ he tossed out casually. ‘So I just helped them both out by steering them towards this place.’ He waved his glass around vaguely, indicating Pauline’s nicely appointed apartment, and, by implication, the wider environs. ‘It’s a nice enough development, after all, and the Franklyns are the sort of tenants we want if we want to keep up standards.’

  Pauline snorted. ‘You think? I think that Margaret is positively a poisonous reptile.’

  Paul laughed at her gently. ‘Maybe she is, but she’s a well-heeled, upper-middle class poisonous reptile, and her husband is in insurance. You couldn’t get more solid, safe bets when it comes to keeping up the tone of the place.’

  ‘You know them well then, do you?’ she asked, wondering jealously just how close he might be to the very fashionably thin and ever-elegant Margaret.

  ‘Sean?’ Paul said, reading her mind and deliberately mis-understanding her.

  Pauline had taken care of herself, he had to admit, but he wasn’t sure that he was in the market for a Mrs Robinson figure of his own, just yet. Not even a slim and youthful-looking version, with a thick cap of dark brown hair, attractive, foxy face, and immaculate makeup.

  ‘Sure, Sean’s all right,’ he said, deliberately leading the conversation away from the jewe
llery designer.

  What was it with women, that they always felt the need to compete with each other? Still, it could be entertaining to wind them up and watch them spit fire. And with that in mind, he decided to do just a little bit of gentle stirring.

  ‘He’s got the reputation for being a bit of a lad, mind you. Rumour has it that he’s been casting his net a little too close to home this time though. I doubt if Margaret is going to stand for it.’

  ‘Oh?’ Pauline’s dark brown eyes instantly lit up with spiteful enjoyment, her mind racing. ‘Who’s he seeing then?’

  But Paul merely shrugged. ‘Gentlemen never tell.’

  Pauline bit back her annoyance at that, and eyed him thoughtfully. Dressed in what was nearly a uniform for him – pale shorts, white ankle socks, trainers, and a short-sleeved T-shirt, bearing the logo of a famous designer on one shoulder – she was very much aware of the strength implicit in his tanned legs and arms. So what if he was a handful of years younger than herself? Didn’t she deserve a bit of a treat, after all the crap that life had been throwing at her lately?

  All she had to do was think of a way to manoeuvre him more firmly into her life – not to mention her bed – and things could start to look rosy again.

  Unless he had someone else in mind. She knew he wasn’t married, and was pretty sure he wasn’t gay. So was his eye on someone else?

  ‘I daresay what’s sauce for the gander can be sauce for the goose,’ she said, her lips tightening very unattractively. ‘I don’t expect Margaret is exactly faithful either. Sure you didn’t get the Franklyns to join us in our merry little camp here just so you could see more of her?’

  Paul sighed heavily. Pauline might be very much the available and eager divorcee, but it was also obvious that she could be hard work.

  ‘Don’t be daft, there’s a love,’ he said mildly. ‘I didn’t have any ulterior motive in helping Sean or Margaret get a flat here, I assure you. I was just helping out Jim, like I said. In fact, I helped him earn two commissions, because I also put good old Maurice into flat 6 too, as it happens.’

  ‘You did?’ she asked, clearly surprised. Now that she thought about it, Maurice Keating, the retired Oxford Don, had been the third one to move into the vicarage after herself and Paul. ‘Why?’

  ‘You’ve got to have a professor or two to give the neighbourhood a touch of class,’ Paul drawled.

  Pauline laughed. ‘You’re wicked,’ she said. ‘Mocking poor old Maurice like that.’

  Paul grinned. ‘Don’t tell me the old duffer hasn’t already pigeon-holed you and bored you witless going on about the major opus that he’s writing.’

  Pauline rolled her eyes dramatically. ‘Hasn’t he ever? The metaphysical poets, isn’t it? Or something like that.’

  Paul nodded. ‘Sounds about right. I’m not sure, my eyes start to glaze over whenever he starts to speak about it. It’s all those perfect vowels and ever so proper BBC announcer’s voice that does it.’

  ‘He’s not a fan of Margaret’s, though, is he?’ Pauline said with a small smile, unable to let the subject of her nemesis go. ‘Have you seen the way he glares at her whenever they pass each other in the hall?’

  ‘She probably rebuffed the randy old sod, and he’s bearing a grudge,’ Paul said carelessly.

  Pauline chuckled, then her smile abruptly fled as the blond man drained his drink in a gulp and rose lithely to his feet. ‘Well, thanks for that, but I must be off. The staff at the new gym need a collective kick up their backsides. Subscriptions are falling off.’

  ‘Oh, OK. Fancy coming over for dinner tonight? Something healthy,’ she added hastily. ‘I’ve got some organic vegetables in, thought I’d make a stir-fry. Virgin olive oil, naturally.’

  Since she’d moved to the vicarage, she’d been inexplicably converted to healthy-eating and exercise.

  Paul shot her a beaming but regretful smile. ‘Sorry, I’ll probably still be working. ’Sides, it’s too damned hot to eat. I haven’t had an appetite since this heat wave struck. Maybe some other time, eh?’

  Casting around desperately for something to stop him leaving so soon, she grasped the first thought that came to her. ‘So what are you going to be doing for this garden party thing the vicar’s wife has saddled us with? Aren’t we all supposed to be bringing a casserole or something, à la W.I.?’

  Paul grinned, finding it hard to picture Pauline baking a Victoria sponge. ‘Oh, are we supposed to bring our own goodies?’ he asked vaguely. He’d received the invitation through his door, of course, but hadn’t paid much attention to it. A week or so ago, Monica Noble had decided that, with most of the flats now sold, it would be nice to get all the residents of the big old house together for an official getting-to-know-you do. ‘I thought it was a housewarming party?’

  ‘Whatever,’ Pauline said, rolling her eyes. ‘It’ll hardly be the “do” of the season, will it? I thought I’d bring some salads and perhaps some of those artisan breads they sell at the farmer’s market.’

  Paul grinned. ‘When in doubt, bring booze, I say. I’ll bring along some good bottles of wine, I think. Maybe splash out on some Champers. What do you think?’ Although he rarely drank much alcohol himself (the Pimms just now being too good to pass up), he knew it went down well with others.

  Pauline’s eyes glittered. ‘Super. I love champagne.’

  ‘Right, that’s settled then,’ he said, and headed for the door.

  As he thankfully escaped the divorcee’s clutches to go back to his own flat (the problems at the new gym having been slightly exaggerated), he passed Joan and Julie Dix, the mother and daughter who’d recently taken flat 9.

  Joan Dix, noting the number of the flat he’d just come out of, smiled grimly to herself, then caught her 19-year-old daughter’s curious eye, and shook her head slightly. It was nothing to her what her neighbours got up to. She had problems enough of her own to think about.

  Once inside their own flat, Julie went straight to her bedroom, no doubt to use her mobile phone. She was hardly ever off it, these days, Joan thought uneasily. Wearily, she sat down at a table and rubbed a tired hand over her face.

  She was going to have to do something about the way things were going. Her old mother had always said that it was best to just nip things in the bud before they had a chance to get worse. It might hurt in the short-term, but in the long-term, it saved a heap of trouble.

  Now all she had to do was work up the courage to act. The trouble was – she didn’t know if Julie would ever forgive her. After taking a gap year to do some travelling before starting uni, Julie was at just that age when she thought she knew everything. When, in fact, she still knew so little of the world, her mother acknowledged now, grimly. And just what foul things it could do to you.

  A still-attractive woman, with blonde hair and tired eyes, Joan Dix contemplated her next move with grim determination.

  As Trisha Lancer walked back to her car and began the drive home, somewhere in the big converted vicarage behind her, somebody sat at a table making lists. To an observer the list wouldn’t have made much sense, but to the author, it was a complete blueprint for murder.

  Each item was gone through minutely and ticked off. Reminders got underlined. A memo to hide clean clothes in the darkest alcove of the stairs was heavily underlined – as was the note to burn the old clothes after changing.

  The maker of this list then slowly put down the pen, stretched, yawned lazily and leaned back in a chair. It was amazing how easy it was going to be to murder somebody and, even more importantly, to get away with it.

  After all, all you really had to do was carefully plan each and every step beforehand, time it, hone it, and then finally have the nerve to go through with it. To leave nothing to chance, but calculate all the odds, and be prepared to take just the odd, well thought out risk.

  And, of course, make clever use of a few everyday household items.

  CHAPTER 3

  The next day, Julie Dix pushed a lock of long, hone
y-coloured hair behind one ear and glanced out of her third storey window into the gardens below. She was sitting in her favourite place – the wide window seat in the largest window in the lounge – on a padded cushion that her mother had covered herself with some lovely, old chintz-style curtain material that they’d found in a charity shop.

  Ever since she’d been a little girl, she’d loved exploring such shops with her mother, on the hunt for ‘treasures.’ These could be the genuine thing, like a piece of undiscovered Moorcroft pottery, or a piece of atypical Clarice Cliff, which her mother would inevitably swoop on, or simply some cheap but pretty costume jewellery that appealed to a little girl, and had Julie happily forking out her pocket money. So when she’d come back from Thailand, and had moved into her mother’s new flat for the summer before starting university, it had seemed natural for them to pick up old habits.

  For as long as Julie could remember, it had always been her and her mother against the world. But she was grown up now, and the sooner her mother accepted the fact, the better.

  She gave a small sigh as the ancient church clock struck ten, but a quick glance at her watch showed her that it wasn’t yet even a quarter to. And the warm air wafting in proclaimed another blazing day was on its way, making her lift the sash window up even higher, to let in more of a breeze. Lazily she lifted the hair off her neck and let the breeze play around her nape.

  It seemed almost a shame to be leaving the country during such an unusually fine spell. Still, Sean was right. It was now or never.

  Down below, Vera and John were putting out the folding tables, ready for this shindig that Monica Noble had arranged, and Julie smiled as she watched them. It was kind of nice to see the two, lonely, middle-aged people getting tentatively together. A bit embarrassing maybe, but sweet. At nineteen, Julie was still inwardly convinced that true love, real love was really only the province of the young. But she liked Vera Ainsley, who never seemed to give her growing success and fame much credence, and John Lerwick, although he rarely said much. Julie hadn’t got the faintest idea what his life story was, but found herself liking him as well. There was something about a quiet, strong, mature man that made her feel safe. Now she felt her lips give a small twist as she thought about that. Did she still have Daddy issues, or what?