A Body in the Village Hall by Dee MacDonald (best business books of all time .txt) 📗

about looking pretty and learning lines but was damned hard work. George Norton, her long-suffering husband, had let her get on with it, indulging her every whim and immersing himself in work to pay the bills.

When Jeremy was born, Angie took a couple of years off. Her son became her passion, her raison d’être. That is until he took off to Sweden to study anthropology and got himself a Swedish wife while he was about it. Angie did not like Ingrid, and the feeling appeared to be mutual. Nevertheless, she headed to Sweden for a week each year to where Jeremy and Ingrid lived in Scandi splendour on the edge of a lake in a village with an unpronounceable name near Malmö. Each year she swore she’d never go again. Her son had grown a beard and looked like a Viking, his tall, stunning, blonde wife openly disapproved of Angie’s drinking habits and the whole family – including their two little boys – liked nothing better than tramping through forests and swimming in icy water.

Such was Angie’s suspicion of all things Swedish that Kate was barely able to persuade her sister to go through the door of IKEA these days and frequently had to prevent her from kicking passing Volvos.

The dog needed a walk and Angie wasn’t going to be doing it, so the painting of the bedroom would have to wait.

Kate couldn’t face the cliffs today but she’d discovered there was a very pleasant route up by the churchyard in Middle Tinworthy. She set off up the hill for the thirty-minute walk up to the middle village, and both she and Barney were panting as they reached the top. They strolled past the medical centre and the school towards the ancient church of St Swithin, with its graveyard that straggled up the hill towards the woods behind, where Kate intended to go.

She decided to take the path round its old stone walls to reach the woods, and it was then that she heard the voices – raised voices, furious voices – coming from somewhere among the graves. Kate stood stock-still behind the wall and listened.

‘What the hell do you want coming here? How dare you! They should have thrown away the key when they locked you up!’ a furious female voice shouted. ‘Go away!’

‘Listen, Maureen,’ a male voice shouted back, ‘listen! I’ve something to tell you!’

‘I don’t want to hear anything from you!’

Kate peered out from behind an escallonia bush and saw that the woman was – without a doubt – Maureen Grey. She appeared to be placing what looked like a posy of primroses on what must be Lucy’s grave.

‘But Maureen…’ the man’s voice wheedled.

‘You’ve got nothing for me, nothing!’ Maureen screeched. ‘Don’t you dare come near this grave! We don’t want your bloody flowers!’ She bent down and picked up a bunch of pink tulips and flung them towards the wall.

Kate could now make out the figure of Kevin Barry.

‘You don’t understand!’ he said.

‘Bloody right I don’t!’ Maureen picked up an urn and, raising it high, ran towards him, aiming at his head. Kevin moved quickly away and down the path. ‘Didn’t you get my letter?’ he yelled back at her. ‘And I got a recording now that proves it!’

‘Makes no difference,’ she snapped, laying down the urn. ‘I don’t care who was driving! You were in the car and off your head on alcohol and drugs.’

As Maureen turned back to the grave, she caught sight of Kate, who was moving slowly up the path by the wall. ‘What are you looking at?’

‘I’m not looking at anything,’ Kate said, ‘I’m just walking my dog.’

Kate watched Kevin walk away. He seemed deflated, dejected, defeated. She felt a little sorry for him and then wondered why. There was no good reason why she should and there was every good reason to feel sorry for Maureen. She hesitated for a moment then turned back towards the gate – dragging an unwilling Barney by the lead – and headed to where Maureen was kneeling on the ground, weeping silently.

‘Maureen?’

Maureen looked up, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘Oh, you’re still here!’

‘Yes, I’m still here.’ Kate looked at the little white gravestone. ‘When you’re ready I’m going to walk home with you.’

‘Why the hell would you do that?’

‘Why? Because I’d like to chat with you. I can see you’re angry and you don’t want to have another breakdown.’ Or do someone harm, she thought, looking down at the urn into which Maureen had now arranged her primroses.

Maureen shrugged and stood up. ‘He had the gall to bring tulips to Lucy’s grave.’

‘Perhaps he meant well?’

‘That man does not mean well,’ Maureen snapped. ‘He’s an evil bastard.’ She picked up the bottle of water and plastic bag she’d brought with the primroses. ‘As are all men.’

‘No, Maureen, they’re not all bad. You’ve just had more than your share. You’ve been so unlucky.’

‘Unlucky! Is that what you call it? I’ve had to face all this on my own, you know, thanks to a weak husband who couldn’t cope and took off to God-knows-where.’

‘Well,’ said Kate, ‘my husband took off too, but with another woman, and left me with two little boys.’

Maureen looked at her for a moment. ‘But you still have your boys.’

‘Yes, I still have my boys; one in Scotland, one in Australia, so I don’t see them often.’

‘But you still have them,’ Maureen repeated, ‘and you saw them grow up.’ She began to walk slowly towards the gate.

Kate followed her down the stony path, the dog dragging on the lead. Outside the gate Maureen turned left and Kate fell into step alongside her. Nothing was said for a few moments until Maureen asked, ‘What sort of dog is that?’

‘He’s a springer spaniel. His owner died and he was put into an animal shelter, which is where I found him. He’s nine, and he’s settled in well. His name is Barney.’

‘Barney,’ Maureen echoed. They continued walking in silence towards the housing