Snow Angel Read online

  His handwriting was appalling and some entries impossible to decipher. Only occasionally had he added dates and the only way of telling one entry from the next was ink colour or level of scrawl. Those that were legible made for unpleasant reading. Beatrice flicked through pages at random at first.

  15 May: Still nothing from Carson Chambers. Three months without a single royalty cheque. Called Simple Simon to read him the riot act and threatened to take the new book elsewhere. Chinless wonder said unless it was ready by the end of the year, I would have to. Need to up the stakes at tomorrow night’s game if I’m going to take The Black Widow to Chez Bruno. Even the salads cost around twenty quid! She’d better thank me nicely.

  Heavy Weather came over and cooked something she called ‘cottage pie’. An accurate description, as it tasted exactly like a demolished cottage covered in bludgeoned potato. I refused to eat it and had a pork chop in Marsala sauce instead, ignoring her guilt-trip waterworks. Bored, bored, bored of this bullshit ‘Let’s try fooling a carnivore’ bollocks. Direct result of sullen little Gaylord going vegan. Supercilious wanker. Lock all vegans in a smug hippie camp somewhere near Glastonbury so the rest of us can just get on with enjoying veal, foie gras and steak tartare without some face-like-a-smacked-arse passing judgement. God she pisses me off.

  Sunday 3 June. Crippling hangover. Mason, will you ever learn? Never mix grape and grain. Managed to meet Bumble and Dopey for golf. Put the wind up them with a few hints about the new book and watched them sweat.

  ‘Acerbic university satire. All names changed, no need for alarm.’

  ‘Agent called it explosive, you know.’

  ‘Editor wants a quote from Amis Junior on the front.’

  Bumble called me after lunch, worried it might tarnish his wife’s reputation. Told him I couldn’t promise anything and rang off. One of these days, I intend to back his wife into a corner and give her reputation a damn good tarnishing.

  Beatrice screwed up her face in disgust. Then she punched her fist into her palm and reminded herself of her purpose.

  “Stop judging, starting working,” she said in a sharp whisper.

  The diary, as far as she’d seen, wholly vindicated her impression of an egotistical misanthrope. However, her job was not to validate her own opinions, but to glean any information about who might have poisoned him.

  She made up her mind to start at Bonfire Night and the infamous row with Heather. She flicked through the messy book and stopped at a page near the end of October. Filled with excitable scribbles and underlined phrases, the page showed this must have been an exceptional day. Or night.

  5am on The Day of the Dead and I am dead and the most alive I’ve been in years. Went to The Angel’s fancy dress do as Death himself with white face paint and real scythe and got plastered but not as much as usual due to all the dancing. Almost pulled the girl from the BP garage – red devil with fantastic tits – until Rugby Boy muscled in. BUT THE BEST WAS YET TO COME! After upping the ‘so drunk I cannot walk’ performance, Lil S. drove me home. Not for the first time, but after I slipped over on the path, she helped me indoors. The opportunity I’d been waiting for. Then she never knew what hit her! Ooh la la!

  Day of the Dead? November the first. The fancy dress do must have been a Halloween party. She turned the page.

  Don’t believe in luck or fortune as random happenstance. We make our own. Grab every opportunity and turn it to your advantage. Moron lost heavily last night and I dropped a hint he might be able to pay his debts another way. Lil S. is avoiding me, but I picked my moment when Moron was busy. Demanded a whisky chaser and slipped a letter into her hand along with a five-pound note. She gave me my change and made a big point of going over to the fire and chucking my letter onto it. Ha! I love it when they play hard to get. This little honey pot gets sweeter by the day.

  Lil S. The Everly Brothers. ‘Wake Up Little Susie’. Beatrice inhaled sharply, recalling her recent conversation with the landlady of The Angel. And that peculiar blush at the mention of Vaughan’s conquests. A shadow in her peripheral vision made her snap her head around.

  Dumpling padded into the living room, his expression curious. He sat beside her chair and gave a silent miaow. Beatrice patted the space beside her but he blinked, turned tail and leapt up to Matthew’s chair. He circled once and curled himself into an elliptical mound of grey, his eyes yellow in the firelight.

  Fireworks! Rockets and Catherine Wheels and sparklers and that was inside the pub! Tonight was no accident. I had every intention of breaking it off with Heavy Weather in public. Lil S. needs to know I’m serious so she can leave Moron. Mission accomplished. Free man bailing out – either women add value to my life or they can fuck off.

  The next three entries were impossible to read. For all the sense the lopsided squiggles made, it could have been in Arabic. Finally there was a more coherent post, including a date reference.

  Fuck them. Forget it. Stupid fucking gossipy bitches – I’m so arse-achingly bored of this female fucking ENTITLEMENT! 10 days after the row and everyone siding with Heavy Weather calling me a chauvinist pig or whatever hashtag trending term they’re use to attack us this week. Can’t win. They spread their legs, regret it, sling mud and suddenly all men are evil. Lil S. nowhere to be seen and I find out from Grimace she’s gone to Bath to visit her dyke of a daughter. Sick of this small town mentality. Card Night tonight. More than one way to skin a cat.

  Beatrice flicked back a few pages. The more lucid posts which included dates often fell on a Tuesday. So Vaughan stayed sober in order to fleece his friends at poker. She got up to find a pen and some paper. On the dining table, she found a discarded shopping list and took it back to her fireside spot to make some notes.

  Heavy Weather – Heather Shaw

  Gaylord – Gabriel Shaw

  Lil S – Susie Hancock

  Moron – Gordon Hancock

  Bumble – Mungo

  Dopey – Matthew

  The Black Widow / Grimace – ??

  She went back to the diary for more clues, stopping to shove another log on the fire and stroke Dumpling, whose purrs reverberated through his whole body.

  27 Nov. Priceless! Lil S. turned up at my house this lunchtime. Warned me not to mess with her family or ‘there would be consequences’. Seems she and Frenchkisser have been comparing notes. I took umbrage and said the bastard child of a Chinaman was not my type. Swore I’d never touched her and that the girl must have been fantasising. Can’t actually be sure of that as I know I made a pass or two. She was sixteen, for God’s sake, and what a doll! I do recall an incident on St Nicholas Day when I caught The Winter Queen coming across the green and bundled her up against a tree. Offered to warm her up the Mason way. Hard-faced little sow pressed her arm against my throat and told me never to touch her again. Her loss. Mummy was much more accommodating.

  The floorboards overhead creaked. “Beatrice?”

  She shoved both diary and envelope behind the cushion at her back. “Down here. Couldn’t sleep. I’ll just have a camomile tea and join you in a bit.”

  Matthew appeared in the doorway in his pyjamas, a rattle of claws in his wake. His hair stuck up in odd clumps, like a seascape, and Huggy Bear came wriggling past him, tail wagging, ready for whatever nocturnal adventures might be planned.

  “Are you all right, Old Thing?”

  “Yes, yes, just thoughtful. You go back to bed. I’ll just put the fire guard on and I’ll follow you up.”

  His tired eyes blinked and he shook his head. “I’ll make us both tea. That always helps us sleep.”

  After he’d shuffled out of the room, Beatrice slipped her stash back into Rose’s envelope and shoved it under the seat cushion. She gazed into Dumpling’s flickering yellow orbs.

  “What should I do, puss?” she whispered.

  The cat yawned, showing ivory teeth and a spiky pink tongue, then curled back into a ball with his paw tucked over his face.

  “Sleep on it? I think you might
be right.”

  Chapter Twenty

  At eight o’clock the next morning, snow was still falling and Matthew was still snoring. But both ladies of the house were wide awake. Sneaking once more out of bed, Beatrice took the terrier out into the forest, far from gritted lanes and salty paws. The dog dived and skipped and rolled in the white stuff while Beatrice’s pace remained ponderous.

  She was an amateur. Experienced detective work notwithstanding, she didn’t know this village, its inhabitants, its history and personal loyalties, grievances or relationships. Everyone’s opinion carried a taint of prejudice, even Matthew’s.

  How to get at the facts without the prism of prejudice? Who was honestly lying and who was deceiving her with the truth?

  Spiders’ webs encrusted with frost glistened like stage curtains, berries studded the hedgerows, prints criss-crossed the path, giving clues as to earlier visitors. Crows, foxes, rabbits all left their tracks and tiny funnels suggested mice had passed this way. Huggy Bear sniffed every single one of them.

  The moth-like thought which kept escaping had woken her at half past seven. This time she netted it. Frankie. Twice she’d heard from mother and daughter that the girl hadn’t been back to the village since the summer. Yet Gordon let slip she’d been home for her birthday. The seventh of December. The night someone poisoned Vaughan Mason.

  That wasn’t all he’d let slip. Francesca had received counselling. ‘A few teenage problems’ was how he described it. Of course, it could be anything: issues at school, confusion about her identity, an eating disorder, or quite possibly sexual harassment by an older man. She needed more information and knew exactly where to find it.

  She pulled out her phone. I’m a good client, returning her call. Responsive and respectful. No ulterior motives at all. Just being polite.

  The phone rang four times. It occurred to Beatrice it was Saturday morning and not all that polite to call just after half past eight.

  “Hello?”

  “Good morning, Gaia, this is Beatrice Stubbs. You left a message on my machine.”

  “Oh yes. Hello, Beatrice. How are you feeling?”

  “I’ve been better. It’s Christmas in two days, I have a wedding to organise and yesterday I set off the sprinklers after forgetting a coffee pot on the stove. How are you?”

  “In a similar state. How could I leave marzipan off the shopping list? I cannot wait for Boxing Day when all I need do is lie on the sofa and eat leftovers.”

  Beatrice chuckled. A noise attracted her attention. Huggy Bear was furiously digging at a patch of ground, scattering clods of snow and earth in arcs behind her. Her progress was impressive. “I’m sorry to call so early on a Saturday, but just wondered if the offer is still open for a quick chat. I think I had a bit of a down-cycle over the last few days.”

  “I’d be very pleased to see you. No pressure, more a get-to-know-you meeting. What are you up to this morning?”

  “Walking the dog, or to be precise, dragging the little bugger out of a rabbit hole. Would you have...”

  “Come over, bring the dog, let’s have coffee and flaunt every code of decency by having a mince pie for breakfast. I’m here until teatime so turn up when you’re ready.”

  “Will do!” Beatrice would have offered a more elegant farewell but Huggy Bear was rapidly disappearing into the ground. She ended the call and rushed to grab hold of the terrier by her tail. It was only when she noticed breath clouds in the frosty air that she realised she was laughing.

  “Morning, my love. Can you feed Huggy Bear? I just bagged a slot with my new counsellor this morning. I know there are a million things to do and I promise to be on duty all day. It’s just I really want to meet this woman and see if she can help. The last few days have convinced me I need some professional kind of support. I’ll only be gone a couple of hours. Do you mind?”

  Matthew stood in his bathrobe, hair awry. “Not at all. I’m happy to hear it. Go, and good luck.” He knelt to make a fuss of the filthy mess weaving in and out of his bare ankles. “What on earth happened to this dog?”

  “She went rabbiting without official permission. I was lucky to catch her before she disappeared into a warren. Let her dry off and it will all brush out. See you later!”

  The twenty-minute drive was precarious in the relentless weather and took closer to half an hour. Beatrice wished she’d spent an extra five minutes to make herself a coffee. Then she remembered the wrecked coffee pot and frowned. Gaia’s house was right out in the sticks with nothing around but a few farms. At least that meant tractors, whose mighty tyres had driven great ruts through the lanes, creating passable roads. The track leading to Gaia’s home, however, still had sufficient snow to give her pause. She drove on a hundred yards or so until she spotted a recess next to a five-bar gate. She parked the car, dragged on her wellies and trudged her way back along the lane to the track.

  Stomping through the mud and slush up to the house, she saw no evidence of sundials, wind-chimes or one single esoteric talisman to ward off evil. The house was about as remarkable as a loaf of bread. She rang the bell, observing a lean-to to the right, under which a black Land Rover was parked along with an assortment of snow shovels and a wheelbarrow. Either Gaia was a poor driver or the car was a farm vehicle, as it was scratched and dented in several places. Perhaps Gaia’s husband was one of the farmers. Surely she wouldn’t be managing all on her own all the way out here. It wouldn’t be Beatrice’s idea of fun.

  The woman who opened the door looked exactly like the sort of person who should live in such a house. She was in her early forties, with laughter lines around her dark eyes. Her shoulder-length dark hair was flecked with grey and she wore jeans with a zip-up top. Beatrice knew the sort. Women’s magazines and Waitrose were full of them.

  “Beatrice, hello!” She stretched out her hand. “We finally meet.” It was warm and soft, as if she’d just been baking muffins. “Where’s your dog?”

  “At home. She got covered in mud so I left my partner to sort her out. I tried to send you a text but I only have your landline number.”

  “Come on through to the kitchen. It’s very considerate of you to send a message but I’m afraid the landline’s all I’ve got. No signal out here so a mobile is a waste of time. What breed is your dog? I used to have a Labrador.”

  Of course you did. Internally, she chastised herself for making assumptions, but continued to do so as Gaia chatted on while settling her in at the kitchen table (cosy), serving coffee from one of those Italian capsule machines (delicious) and offering her a plate of mince pies (home-made). Beatrice scoped the room but saw no childish drawings stuck to the fridge, no men’s muddy boots or any other indication of family members. Just clean, glossy perfection. This woman could never be her counsellor. Beatrice would always feel inferior opposite this domestic goddess with her retro kitchen and cookery books and quilted cushions.

  As if she’d been listening, Gaia said, “My practice is actually in Crediton, but as we’re not having a formal session today, I thought we’d just sit in the kitchen and chat. It’s the warmest room in the house and I’ve been baking so it smells nice and Christmassy.”

  “It definitely does,” Beatrice replied, wondering how to keep up her end of the conversation. She was not comfortable with small talk when this woman knew everything about her. “On the phone, you said you would be here till teatime. Are you and your family going away for the festive season?”

  “Yes, I’m going to join my mother and sisters in Cornwall. It’s our tradition. We share all the duties and my job is to do all the baking.”

  Beatrice flailed around for a socially acceptable comment but could only come up with a limp observation. “That’s nice. Everyone loves cake.”

  Instead of taking a chair on the other side of the table, directly opposite, Gaia sat at the end so she and Beatrice were at right angles to each other. The natural place to focus was the conservatory and beyond, the snow-covered garden. James used to do something ve
ry similar. Rather than looking at Beatrice as the problem, they focused on her issues together, objectifying them against the wall. She was grateful.

  Gaia stirred her coffee. “If we decide to work together, we’ll need to go into a bit of background and you might want to set some ground rules. But today, let’s just deal with the here and now. You mentioned you’d had ‘a bit of a down-cycle’. I couldn’t help but notice you used the past tense. How would you describe the way you’re feeling now?”

  “Stressed. My to-do list is out of control because I’ve taken too much on. We adopted two animals just recently and I’m conducting an investigation on behalf of my partner. I’m matron of honour at a wedding on Sunday and I’m not ready, nor anywhere near prepared for Christmas.” Beatrice stopped.

  Gaia stirred her coffee. “You’re giving me reasons for your feelings, past and future. I’d like you to stick to the present. Can you describe your current state of mind for me?”

  On the bird table in the garden, a team of blue tits took turns to peck at the bag of nuts while blackbirds staged noisy raids on the scattered seeds.

  “Panicky,” said Beatrice. “Anxious and worried and stuck in fifth gear. But at the same time, I just want to crawl into a hole and lie down. My whole body is heavy, as if it will never have energy again and even if it did, there would never be enough. I want to please people but I just can’t achieve a single thing. I already know I’m going to let them all down.”

  They watched the birds. “Are you describing how you feel now or how you felt when you were in a down-cycle?”

  Beatrice was surprised by her insight and a little offended at being so transparent. She drank her coffee and considered. “Both, I suppose, but it was much worse a couple of days ago. Matthew made me take my mood stabilisers again, so I still feel panicked but not quite as wobbly. As if I might fall and there’s nothing to catch me.”