Marrow Jam by Susan A. King
English | 2020 | Mystery/Thriller | ePUB | 3.2 MB
MURDER, MYSTERY…AND MARROWS
Some people would describe Beattie Bramshaw as a pillar of the community. Many would applaud her numerous successes in the bakery competition at the annual village show. A small number might say, if pushed, that they find her a little on the bossy side. And one or two might just whisper the words ‘interfering’ and ‘busybody’ behind her back.
But no-one would have her down as a murderer.
So why is she being questioned in Dreighton police station after being found in the local allotments, at the dead of night, wielding a kitchen knife just yards away from where local lottery winner, Yvonne Richards, was found stabbed to death? And what does all of this have to do with Doug Sparrow’s prize marrows?
Marrow Jam is a comedy crime caper in the spirit of Agatha Raisin. It will have you chuckling all the way through many a cup of tea.
Detective Inspector Grayson stood a short distance from the Formica table and double-checked the details on the arrest sheet — When apprehended, the accused was found to be in a state of undress, wearing only a black jumper, black tights, and scuba mask.
On his initial reading he had automatically pictured a late-night reveller, but here sat a woman in her twilight years, wearing a blue rinse and set and very little else. His eyes fell on the undulating form of her thighs, the thick wool of her tights doing little to obscure the tell-tale signs of sprawling cellulite. Yet, despite her lack of clothing, he was surprised to note how at ease she appeared in her surroundings, teasing minuscule nodules of soil from the woollen pile of her tights before depositing them in a neat stack on the small table. A grey cell blanket had been draped across her midriff in an attempt at modesty but, it would seem, a night in the cells had done little to unnerve her.
He let out a long breath and acknowledged Constable Brown, already seated in the room, with a nod of his head. The constable, in turn, confirmed the attendee had been read her rights.
“And she’s refused the assistance of a solicitor, Sir,” said Brown, raising his hand to make a small circular motion with his index finger to the side of his temple.
Grayson’s eyebrows rose a fraction. That was all he needed, a fruitcake. Could his day get any worse? Although an early morning summons came with the territory of being on-call, youth was no longer an ally and his body had grown tired of rising at the command of the night shift, the dark grey walls of the interview room the perfect complement for his foul mood. He removed his tweed jacket and placed it on the back of a standard-issue plastic chair before signalling, with a wave of his hand, for the constable to push the ‘record’ button on the triple-deck tape recorder. He waited a few seconds to ensure the tape was recording, focusing his eyes on the whirring apparatus. If he did this right, and he held every expectation of doing so, he would make it in time for his customary Sunday lunch at The Crooked Staff on the High Street. He felt his mouth salivate at the thought of their famous crispy crackling, imagining the salty fat coating his tongue, and determined to wrap the interview up quickly. He rested his hands on the back of the chair, the sharp edge of the plastic digging into his palms, keeping him alert.
“The time is 6.29am on Sunday, 19th September 1999. This is Detective Inspector Robert Grayson of Dreighton Local Constabulary. Also present in the room is Constable Trevor Brown, the arresting officer.”