H.V. Coombs - A Taste of Death - The gripping new murder mystery that will keep you guessing

‘That’s Whitfield’s house,’ she said.

It all made sense. I had been wondering what kind of man would have a monstrosity like that in his garden. Well, here was the answer – it was Whitfield’s plastic tower, his turquoise aura. His own personal advert for his construction business. The letters D.W. were etched into it for all to see. Now I knew what they stood for.

‘How on earth did he get planning permission?’ I asked. Planning was a sore point. My window frames were rotten (thank you Mrs Cope!) and needed replacing. They were listed, though, and this added insanely to the cost. The point was any form of deviation from the established was fraught with difficulty and had to be ‘in keeping with the village’. You couldn’t just put any old window in, it had to be identical. And not just looking the same, the material had to be an exact match. God alone knows how Whitfield had managed to get his huge, glowing pillar through the council planning department. It certainly was not ‘in keeping with the village’ in any way, shape or form.

Jessica said darkly, ‘That’s the question everyone here asked. Let’s just say, money talks.’

There was a small window in the kitchen that overlooked the green. I could see a dark cloud rising from somewhere. I walked up to the window and Jess followed me, curious to see what had attracted my attention. Right now, Whitfield’s tower, clearly visible, a Perspex testament to what money and no taste can do, wasn’t talking but it was certainly communicating. In smoke signals. It was emitting a huge black column of the stuff. Not just smoke, big yellow flames licked upwards. It was very dramatic, like an illustration I had in my children’s Bible when I was very young. A fiery pillar. Jessica and I stared at it in fascination. At first I wasn’t sure what I was looking at.

‘Is that his …’ I started to say.

‘Yes,’ said Jessica. She had a triumphant smile on her lips as if she had been somehow responsible and was delighted with the way that things were going.

We both stared at each other, Jess happily, me perplexed, and then I quickly went to the door to go into the restaurant to tell him. I reached the entrance. Whitfield was sitting there with his back to the window, oblivious to the towering inferno in his front garden, scowling at his phone.

I made a motion forward towards Whitfield, to warn him, and Jess grabbed my jacket.

‘Don’t tell him,’ she urged, sotto voce , ‘let it burn!’

She dragged me back into the kitchen.

‘Shouldn’t we be calling 999?’ I said.

‘God, no. Someone will probably call them but I don’t see why it should be us. He made a really crap job of my uncle’s conservatory. Hopefully the fire will take his house with it.’ She scowled at Whitfield who was visible through the partially open door. He was still oblivious to his tower and its fiery state. ‘Payback time, that man’s got it coming,’ she added with extra venom. ‘Everyone hates him round here …’

Jess’s brown eyes were sparkling with dislike. She, like ‘everyone’, obviously really detested the man.

I heard the sound of sirens. Someone more charitable than Jess had obviously phoned the fire brigade. Then I heard the sound of the bell as the front door of the restaurant opened.

‘Oi, Dave!’ someone shouted.

It was one of the many builders who lived in the village, a tall, good humoured, grey-haired man called Chris Edwards.

Whitfield scowled at him. ‘What?’

‘Your tower’s on fire, mate.’ Chris was known for being laconic, I found out later.

Whitfield put his phone down, his back still resolutely turned to the window.

‘What are you on about?’ he said angrily. The other man pointed and only then did Whitfield turn round and look out of the window. ‘JESUS!’

He leaped to his feet and was out through the door, running over the green in the direction of his house, helpfully indicated by a thick plume of smoke and the fire engine.

Jess went over to the door and closed it.

‘Hello, Chris!’ she said, smiling. Obviously she wasn’t against builders in general, just Whitfield in particular. ‘Can I get you anything to eat or drink?’

‘Hello, Jess, I’ll have a cappuccino since I’m here.’

He leaned his rangy, muscular frame against the counter and appraised the restaurant with that calculating air that builders have when it comes to property, then he turned to me. Now it was my moment to be appraised.

In all truth there probably wasn’t an enormous difference, no unbridgeable gulf between me and Whitfield. I think that most bald men in middle-age generally look quite similar. Rather like babies tend to look the same to me. If I were a bank robber, when asked for a description, witnesses would shrug, ‘Bald bloke, forties.’ That more or less describes half of the country’s males of a certain age.

If you were charitably minded you would say that I was powerfully built and had a certain physical presence. When I was young I’d been quite good-looking, model like, and although no longer in the head-turning business, I still got offers. But looks are, by their nature, ephemeral. Where I like to think I differed from the similarly shaped Whitfield, was a trace of warm sympathy behind my eyes and a general cheeriness that was undeniably lacking in the builder. Even the staunchest of Whitfield’s supporters would have to admit he was deficient in the geniality stakes.

Jess handed Chris the cappuccino, and smiled warmly at him. Perhaps he’d repaired her uncle’s conservatory after Whitfield’s ravages.

I offered him a biscuit from a batch I had made earlier. ‘Try one of these: langues de chat, I made them this morning …’ He accepted the biscuit, ate it suspiciously. Then his face brightened.

‘That’s good,’ he conceded, ‘can I have another one?’

‘So what’s happening with Shitfield’s tower, Chris?’ asked Jess, handing him another three biscuits. I winced internally; they’d taken ages to make, they were supposed to be a treat, not wolfed down by a hungry builder. They weren’t Hobnobs.

‘Burning nicely,’ said Chris. He smiled maliciously.

‘So did it happen by accident?’ asked Jess.

‘I doubt it.’ Chris sounded quite satisfied by that. He added, ‘Chinese Andy did the electrics, he doesn’t make mistakes. In my opinion, someone obviously doesn’t like Dave.’

‘Well, that narrows it down,’ said Jess sarcastically.

Chris stood up, unfolding himself from the stool. He was very tall.

‘So what are your plans for this place?’ he asked me.

‘I have a long and detailed business plan,’ I said. ‘I’ve got global ambitions. In the meantime, I shall be introducing a limited range of hot food as specials …’

‘To supplement the sandwiches,’ added Jess like a loyal chorus.

‘Well, I’ll tell the wife,’ he said, ‘maybe come in for lunch. Nice to have met you …’

‘Ben,’ I said.

He nodded. ‘Well, Ken, I’ll go and see how the Blazing Inferno ’s getting on.’

We watched him striding across the green, his long legs carrying him speedily towards the fire. I wanted to bring the subject of the langues de chat up but I didn’t want to offend Jess by telling her off. She had become invaluable.

The previous day after service, she had seen me with pen and paper, a ruler and a copy of the menu.

‘Working out costings …’ I said.

She pointed at the PC in the cubbyhole I call my office. ‘Why not use Excel?’

‘I don’t know how it works …’

She shook her head sorrowfully. ‘Come on, Grandad, let’s see if we can drag ourselves into the twenty-first century. Do you know what a spreadsheet is?’ A deep sigh as I shook my head.