Death at Rainbow Cottage, Jo Allen [top 100 books of all time checklist .TXT] 📗

‘Was there much? Cash, not cake.’

‘Not a huge amount. Three hundred pounds, maybe. So many folk pay contactless these days. When I heard he was dead I did wonder if someone had hit him over the head for it, but your constable said it was all there.’

Len’s flat hadn’t been broken in to and the cash had been in a brown envelope on the mantelpiece when Chris had gone along to take possession of his laptop. He made a note to check the will. Three hundred pounds in cash wasn’t all that Lenny had left and people had been killed for less than a two-bedroomed flat in Appleby. ‘Tell me about him. What was he like?’

A pensive expression crossed her face. ‘I don't know what I can tell you that’ll help. He was just our Lenny. He cooked and baked. It was his hobby as well as his job. He liked a smoke. He had a dog but when the dog died he never replaced it. Devoted to old Fly, he was. But that’s all, really.’

‘Mr Pierce was gay, is that right?’

She gave him an injured look, as though they were already into terminology she preferred not to use. He could imagine her whispering to her friends that Len was a confirmed bachelor. ‘Yes. Always was. He never told anyone about it, as such, never mentioned it. After our parents passed away he stopped even pretending.’

‘So he’d been openly gay for how long?’

‘Five years. But you say openly… really. Folk around here know him. They either don’t care or don’t talk about it. I’m not judging him. It was his life and he knew the risks.’

‘The risks?’

‘Yes. It’s not like he ever settled into a proper relationship. Maybe he was just happy living on his own. I don’t know. He never told me he was meeting people, but I guessed he was. People like that always do.’

Jude thought of Doddsy and how he might have rolled his eyes extravagantly at the phrase people like that. No doubt Faye Scanlon, with her determination to bring the police into the forefront of the twenty first century, would have pulled Maisie up on it and ended by alienating her. What mattered to him was what Maisie had to tell him and even her prejudices, tinged with affection though they might be, were of interest. ‘People like…?’

‘You know.’ She pursed her lips.

‘Did you know for certain he was meeting people?’

‘Everybody knew.’

‘But not for certain?’

‘Not for certain, no. But he’d often get dressed up to go off in his car on a Sunday afternoon. Why do that if you aren't making an effort for someone? And one time last year one of my customers said they saw his car parked up beyond Temple Sowerby, right where they found him. So it stands to reason. Meeting people on line. Nasty, sordid business.’

Speculation. All speculation. ‘One time last year? Do you know when?’

She shook her head.

Jude spared a thought for Len, dressing up in his Sunday best and setting off on a sunny day, to meet his fate. ‘Did he have many friends?’

‘I’d say none, not what I'd call friends. Not people he’d tell his secrets to. Oh, he’d stop and chat as long as you wanted about the weather and the like, always give you the time of day, but never anything about himself. Some’d call him a loner. Even when he was a kid. He was civil enough, and everyone knew who he was, but he never went out. He never went to the pub. He’d always come to us for Christmas and family occasions — the kids’ big birthdays and so on — but even then he never said much about himself. I wouldn’t say he was a listener, either. Sat in the corner with the telly on.’

‘Was he happy enough in general?’

‘I’d have said so, sitting there with his own thoughts for company, but I could be wrong. And that’s what happens, isn’t it, if you go meeting up with strangers on line and not knowing who they are? I warned my daughters about strangers long before the age of the internet, and it applies just as much to a grown man. Sometimes I’d say something, in a roundabout way. But he thought he could look after himself. Turned out he was wrong.’

It was hardly surprising Len hadn’t confided in his sister, with her narrow judgement and her insistence on lecturing him for his own good, but there was every chance her guess about what had happened was correct. The post mortem would tell them whether Len had put up a fight, but Jude’s assessment of the scene had suggested not. There had been no marks on his hands, as if the first blow had caught him so completely he hadn’t been able to respond. ‘Did he make a will?’

A shadow passed over her face. ‘I don’t know. He never thought about death, or if he did he never talked about it.’ She shrugged. ‘I’ll just keep carrying on until someone tells me I have to stop. As long as I can find someone to do the baking now he’s gone.’

‘Six days a week,’ said Jude, remembering the opening hours pinned on the café door. ‘But the shop’s closed on Sunday?’

‘Aye. It’s the only day off I get. Tony – my son – was back from college yesterday and we went up to Ullswater for lunch.’ She brushed a wisp of grey hair back from her face, tiring of him. ‘Check if you want. They have a note of the booking. Four of us, at the Sun at Pooley Bridge.’

The bell in the shop clanged, and she shot a look towards the door. Accepting that Maisie had told him all she could, Jude allowed her