there had been no witch-hunts, no angry mobs, no poison pen letters.
Silently that had surprised her. Surely somebody would find a way of attaching blame to the mother of the prime suspect.
Whether consciously or subconsciously, the majority of the villagers either did not believe Debra Harrison to be dead or they refused to accept that she was.
Jen hated herself for blowing the opportunity.
At least she’d never make that mistake again.
Jen re-emerged onto the high street, heading back toward the Hog. She knew that the best way to Lovell’s was to cross back over the bridge and take the footpath by the church, heading into the nearby countryside. From there on she would have to rely on guesswork. She knew from her map, and from what the locals had told her, that the houses belonging to Lovell, Ratcliffe, and Catesby were three of about fifteen in that part of the village – both the oldest and wealthiest. She assumed that most of them would be gated. That worried her.
Any slipups and she wouldn’t even reach the garden.
Jen crossed the high street at a zebra crossing in front of the post office, opposite the bank, and stopped in her tracks. About a hundred metres away on the other side of the street, the hairdresser’s was just opening. A young girl, probably in her late teens, was putting up the sign: a blackboard, opening up into a triangle shape, informing prospective clients that they were open for business.
Jen watched the teenager from across the street. She knew from her visit to the church that Martha Brown owned the hairdresser’s, and that her daughter was on the payroll. Martha had said she was welcome to pop her head inside the door.
She checked her hair in the window of the post office.
Perhaps she could kill two birds with one stone.
Jen waited for a passing car before returning to the other side of the high street. The hairdresser’s was located in between an art shop and a tearoom, and had an impressive white stone façade. The building, though old, was more recent than some – Georgian, based on the architecture.
The door opened easily, accompanied by the sound of a ringing bell, revealing a modern interior with a tiled floor, white walls, lots of mirrors, and what seemed to be hundreds if not thousands of bottles of cosmetics.
A woman in her late forties was washing her hands in one of the sinks. She turned on hearing the bell.
“Jennifer, how nice to see you again, pet.”
It took Jen a couple of seconds to realise that the woman was Martha Brown. Gone the apron, the rubber gloves and the polish: instead, the woman was abundant in make-up, and her hair done up with a clipper.
Jen smiled warmly. “Wow, I love what you’ve done with the place.”
The comment went down well. “We’ve only recently redecorated.”
Jen held her smile while her eyes continued to take in the interior. Designer brands dominated: the posters ranging from that of cosmetics to models and celebrities. It was like looking at something from a fashionable city centre.
“Were you looking for me daughter?”
Jen was, but she decided against making it too obvious. “I was actually wondering if I could make an appointment.”
Martha was practically beaming. “I can fit you in right now.”
“That would be fantastic.”
Jen followed Martha to a vacant seat one from the end. She hung up her jacket on the nearby peg before allowing the luxurious texture of the leather upholstery to relax her tense back.
“Is your daughter working today?”
“She’s just put the kettle on. Would you like a cuppa, luvvy?”
Jen answered yes, milk, two sugars.
“Anything else?”
She declined. Was this a hairdresser’s or a café?
“I never did thank you properly for your help yesterday,” Jen said. “Had it not been for you, I’d probably still be looking around the altar.”
Martha smiled as she placed a black cloak around Jen’s shoulders. “It was my pleasure. We don’t often get journalists or TV
Silently that had surprised her. Surely somebody would find a way of attaching blame to the mother of the prime suspect.
Whether consciously or subconsciously, the majority of the villagers either did not believe Debra Harrison to be dead or they refused to accept that she was.
Jen hated herself for blowing the opportunity.
At least she’d never make that mistake again.
Jen re-emerged onto the high street, heading back toward the Hog. She knew that the best way to Lovell’s was to cross back over the bridge and take the footpath by the church, heading into the nearby countryside. From there on she would have to rely on guesswork. She knew from her map, and from what the locals had told her, that the houses belonging to Lovell, Ratcliffe, and Catesby were three of about fifteen in that part of the village – both the oldest and wealthiest. She assumed that most of them would be gated. That worried her.
Any slipups and she wouldn’t even reach the garden.
Jen crossed the high street at a zebra crossing in front of the post office, opposite the bank, and stopped in her tracks. About a hundred metres away on the other side of the street, the hairdresser’s was just opening. A young girl, probably in her late teens, was putting up the sign: a blackboard, opening up into a triangle shape, informing prospective clients that they were open for business.
Jen watched the teenager from across the street. She knew from her visit to the church that Martha Brown owned the hairdresser’s, and that her daughter was on the payroll. Martha had said she was welcome to pop her head inside the door.
She checked her hair in the window of the post office.
Perhaps she could kill two birds with one stone.
Jen waited for a passing car before returning to the other side of the high street. The hairdresser’s was located in between an art shop and a tearoom, and had an impressive white stone façade. The building, though old, was more recent than some – Georgian, based on the architecture.
The door opened easily, accompanied by the sound of a ringing bell, revealing a modern interior with a tiled floor, white walls, lots of mirrors, and what seemed to be hundreds if not thousands of bottles of cosmetics.
A woman in her late forties was washing her hands in one of the sinks. She turned on hearing the bell.
“Jennifer, how nice to see you again, pet.”
It took Jen a couple of seconds to realise that the woman was Martha Brown. Gone the apron, the rubber gloves and the polish: instead, the woman was abundant in make-up, and her hair done up with a clipper.
Jen smiled warmly. “Wow, I love what you’ve done with the place.”
The comment went down well. “We’ve only recently redecorated.”
Jen held her smile while her eyes continued to take in the interior. Designer brands dominated: the posters ranging from that of cosmetics to models and celebrities. It was like looking at something from a fashionable city centre.
“Were you looking for me daughter?”
Jen was, but she decided against making it too obvious. “I was actually wondering if I could make an appointment.”
Martha was practically beaming. “I can fit you in right now.”
“That would be fantastic.”
Jen followed Martha to a vacant seat one from the end. She hung up her jacket on the nearby peg before allowing the luxurious texture of the leather upholstery to relax her tense back.
“Is your daughter working today?”
“She’s just put the kettle on. Would you like a cuppa, luvvy?”
Jen answered yes, milk, two sugars.
“Anything else?”
She declined. Was this a hairdresser’s or a café?
“I never did thank you properly for your help yesterday,” Jen said. “Had it not been for you, I’d probably still be looking around the altar.”
Martha smiled as she placed a black cloak around Jen’s shoulders. “It was my pleasure. We don’t often get journalists or TV
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