‘I’d shake hands, but . . .’ Liz laughed, holding up her shopping bags.
‘Actually, we are just about to head off home. Can we give you a lift? It’s almost on our doorstep, and we are only parked over there.’ He pointed across the square.
‘That’s very kind,’ said Emilia. ‘If it’s not too much trouble, that would be wonderful.’
Liz smiled to herself, hearing the “v” in wonderful. Emilia might have lived here for the greater part of her life, but she had never lost that accent.
Matt took some of her bags and they made their way to Matt’s Toyota hybrid. After loading everything in the boot, he helped her up into the car.
‘I hate using the bus,’ she said, ‘but my old car is finally kaput. I knew it would happen one day. My husband, he told me so many times that I should get a new car every three years, but my Petunia, she was running so well that I kept her longer than he suggested.’ Emilia shook her head. The passing of Petunia had obviously been a great personal loss.
‘How long did you have, er, Petunia then, Mrs Swain?’ asked Liz.
‘Ah, let me see. We bought her in 1967, brand new, of course, one of the last they produced.’
After a quick calculation, Liz came to the conclusion that Petunia had had an incredible run for her money — she had to have been well over fifty.
‘What kind of car was she, Mrs Swain?’ asked Matt.
‘An Austin A40 Farina Mark II in Horizon Blue,’ Emilia declared proudly, then opened her capacious handbag and rooted around in it. ‘Of course, I shall get a replacement. You cannot exist out in the fen villages without wheels. While I was at the market last Wednesday, I also went into a couple of garages.’ She extracted two brochures and handed one to Liz. ‘I’m torn between that . . .’ she indicated the first, ‘and this one.’
Liz found herself staring at the spec sheet for a Lexus ES saloon. She coughed to hold back a laugh. ‘Nice cars.’
‘My husband always had a Lexus. It was just me that liked my little bit of history. I sold his motor when he died, one old lady and two cars was a bit extravagant. Do you know anything about this one, Mr Ballard?’
They had pulled up at some lights, and he glanced across at the other brochure. It was for a Ford Mustang Fastback. ‘Oh, that one’s a bit classy for me, I’m afraid. The only Fords we ever drove were police transit vans, and a Focus traffic car.’
Emilia pushed the pamphlets back into her bag and sighed. ‘Perhaps I should buy a, ah, what are they called, a banger?’
Liz smiled at her. ‘If you are used to nice cars and can afford one, why not have one?’
A dark look passed over Emilia Swain’s face. ‘I’m not sure now is the right time.’ She paused. ‘Mr Ballard. Liz. You were both police officers, were you not? I can tell you this. Last week I found my cat dead. She had been thrown into my flower bed, the one with the geraniums and the marigolds, just outside the front door.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that,’ Liz said. ‘Perhaps someone ran her over and didn’t want to leave her out on the road.’
‘Road accidents do not generally leave an animal with a cleanly slit throat, do they, Liz?’
‘Are you sure about that?’ Liz said.
Emilia Swain gave her a withering look. ‘And the week before that my potting shed had the lock snapped off.’
‘Was anything taken?’ asked Matt.
‘Everything was thrown outside, trampled. A terrible mess, terrible, but I think that nothing was stolen. It was hard to say with all the chaos.’
‘Did you report these incidents, Mrs Swain?’ Matt asked.
‘What could anybody do about it? Nothing was taken and the cat is dead. Even your wonderful local constabulary cannot perform miracles, can they?’
‘Still, you should have told them.’ Liz said kindly. ‘They could keep an eye on things for a while.’
‘I’m sure that they don’t have the time or the manpower. There must be plenty worse things than that going on.’
Emilia was right, but a couple of private investigators might be interested in following it up. ‘Any idea who it might be?’
‘I cannot begin to think. I know nearly everyone in Whisper Fen and the surrounding villages. There are a few newcomers, but they seem good people. There is old Robert Lenton’s son, he is not what my husband would have called quite right in the head, I think, but the poor soul has the mind of a child and he loves animals. No, I cannot think of anyone.’
‘Do you know a man called Gerald Grove?’ asked Matt, easing the big car on to the road leading to the villages.
‘A rude and ill-mannered man. Certainly. However, I think that he is too intelligent to ransack garden sheds and garrotte domestic pets.’
‘Where’s he from? Do you know?’ Matt asked.
‘He has never opened his mouth to me. It was the postmistress in the village who told me he has some sort of degree or other — you know, letters after his name — and he has a lot of publications sent to him, academic journals and the like.’
‘I’ve been told he looks like a tramp,’ said Matt.
‘Do not be deceived by his looks, Mr Ballard. There is a good brain beneath those greasy locks, believe me.’
Liz decided to chance a suggestion. ‘Mrs Swain, as Matt said, we are both retired and have time on our hands. We would be more than happy to keep a discreet eye on your lovely cottage for you. If we gave you a card, then if anything should worry you, ring us and we can be with you in ten minutes.’
‘Oh no! I couldn’t be such a nuisance, honestly,’ Emilia protested, but Liz caught the relief in her eyes.
‘Liz is right, Mrs Swain,’ Matt added. ‘Why should some mindless moron get away with it? It’s totally unacceptable. We’d be happy to keep our eyes and ears open for anything suspicious.’
They stopped at her cottage and helped her in with her bags. Liz was full of admiration for the garden.
‘It’s my one passion now,’ said Emilia Swain. ‘I used to have many different hobbies and interests but now it’s just the garden — and reading. I do love my books.’
‘While we are here, Mrs Swain, could we take a look at the damage to your shed?’ asked Matt.
Emilia frowned. ‘If you want. Such a mess! I haven’t had the heart to sort it all out yet.’ She led the way around the back of the cottage and down a neatly trimmed pathway.
Approaching the large wooden structure, Liz saw exactly what Mrs Swain had meant. The lock had been wrenched off, the door itself damaged. The contents had been thrown out and most of them, it seemed, had been trampled. Emilia had retrieved a few things and taken them back into the shed, but most of it was fit only for the bin.
Matt set his jaw, angry. ‘I’ll come round tomorrow, Mrs Swain, and try to fix that door for you, and I’ll fit a new lock. We are coming over to have lunch with Will and Kate, so we’ll call in afterwards.’ He held up a hand. ‘And no arguing. I’m no master carpenter, but I can sort that for you.’
‘It’s a very good thing you ran into me, Mr Ballard, and you too, Liz. You are turning into my guardian angels.’
‘And it’s Matt, please, Mrs Swain.’