A Slice of Murder

Chapter One

‘How are you coping after recent events?’

Reverend Alina Merrycott laid her rattling teacup down on the low table in the bishop’s diocesan office in Ipswich. She dreaded dropping the cup and its contents over the new bishop’s Persian rug. For some reason, she didn’t fully understand; she’d always found the rug a touch incongruous in this Church of England setting, but she admitted to herself, it was extremely beautiful.

‘Alina,’ the bishop prompted gently.

‘I’m fine, your Grace,’ Alina replied, using his formal title to erect a barrier between them. She was still getting to know this bishop and missed Michael, his predecessor who had been so supportive after her husband’s death.

‘Philip. Call me Philip,’ he urged. ‘I hope that we can become friends and that I’m not just your line manager.’

Alina leaned forward to pick up the cup and saucer again, but at the warning rattle of the china, she popped it back on the table. ‘I am fine, Your Grace… I mean, Philip,’ she said, head bowed and hands twisting in her lap. ‘It was just a shock, seeing him like that.’ She raised her hands, palms facing upwards, and shrugged.

Finding her husband dead with a knife in his stomach would be a shock to anyone, she supposed, but Jake Merrycott had been declared dead over twelve years before and was never expected to be seen again. Alive or dead. She raised her head, looking the bishop in the eye.

‘Very well, we’ll leave it there. But I am here if you do need to talk,’ he said. ‘Duty of care and all that.’

Alina nodded, pulling on her ear lobe before retrieving her tea. It was cold now, and she grimaced. Bishop Philip didn’t seem to notice. He certainly didn’t offer to refresh her cup. She dragged her mind back into the room to discuss the events of the rapidly approaching Easter weekend and the services being put on by the church of St Edmund, King and Martyr in the small town of Eastwold. Her now beloved parish. ‘This coming Saturday,’ she said, ‘will be the usual village fete to celebrate the spring equinox, cake and jam competitions, a brass band, all that sort of thing.’

‘Morris dancers?’ shuddered the bishop.

‘Probably,’ Alina replied with a soft smile. ‘I’ve heard bells and sticks around the village green.’

The bishop rolled his eyes. ‘I know the church sanctions them, but I can’t forget their pagan roots,’ he said.

Or forgive? Alina murmured to herself. Aloud, she said, ‘It’s a village tradition, your Gr—Philip. They are very popular. They bring in tourists, and that in turn helps raise money for other events.’

‘Talking of which—how is the marsh drainage project coming along?’

‘Oh dear, that’s quite the other end of the scale, your Grace, very unpopular,’ replied Alina. ‘There has been some backlash in Eastwold. A campaign has been set up to oppose it.’

‘But it will bring more new homes and families to Eastwold. Isn’t that a good thing?’ Bishop Philip rose.

Clearly, the meeting was over, and Alina stood. ‘Yes, your Grace, but not all change is for the best. Apparently, there’s some rare orchid that the marsh is home to, so that discovery may put a stop to the drainage scheme, in any case.’

‘I see.’ Bishop Philip pinched his chin between thumb and forefinger. ‘Perhaps you’d keep me appraised of any developments, Alina? After all we don’t want any more dead bodies popping up in Eastwold. You’re getting quite the reputation, you know.’

Alina opened her mouth to reply. It wasn’t her fault there had been a couple of murders since she’d moved to Eastwold—well, a few, if she was being completely honest, but she snapped her lips shut. Protests, she’d so often found, fell on deaf ears.

Alina stepped outside and pulled her jacket close. Although there was some warmth in the spring sunshine, it didn’t quite manage to take away the biting edge off the Suffolk wind. Glancing at her watch, she decided to have lunch at a local café before making it to the hospital and her second meeting of the day. She turned right and strode towards the café on the corner of St Peter’s Street and Bell Lane. She pushed the door open, the warmth inside the café hitting her cheeks, and she loosened her scarf, easing her way through a group of people. Not until she saw the back of his head, his face leaning closely towards an elegant and luscious-looking blonde, did Alina remember that this was the café Detective Inspector Richard Laidlaw had brought her to a few months ago.

‘Oh,’ she said. Instantly covering her mouth, she whirled around to leave. There were plenty of other restaurants in the area. She elbowed her way to the door through the grumpy lunchtime crowd and, once outside, gasped for breath. Perhaps he didn’t see me? She snatched a look behind to see Richard approaching the café door. She fled towards the diocesan offices and the car park, ignoring his shouts and the squealing of tyres. She looked both ways and raced across the main road, but a strong arm grabbed her and held her back. The horn from the red single-decker bus blasted out, and her heart thumped in return.

‘Alina, what on earth are you playing at?’ Richard, still grasping her shoulders, scowled at Alina, and she found herself wondering why he’d raced after her if he was annoyed.

‘I didn’t want to intrude,’ she sniffed. ‘You looked very friendly. Very close.’

‘She’s my cousin,’ Richard replied.

Alina raised an eyebrow but managed to control her lip before it curled.

‘No, really, she is,’ said Richard. ‘She’s called Tamsin. Come back and meet her.’

Alina shook her head. ‘I’ve got a meeting to get to.’

‘What about lunch?’ said Richard. ‘Clearly, you went in there to get something to eat.’

‘I’ll eat in the hospital canteen,’ said Alina as her stomach rumbled discontentedly. She placed a hand over it to dull the noise. Not that Richard could have heard anything over the traffic.

‘If you’re sure…’ He slowly released his grasp on her shoulders and stepped back. ‘Are you sure?’

At the piercing beep from the crossing signal, Alina nodded and raced across the road, this time in front of halted traffic. When she’d made it safely to the other side, she glanced back, and Richard was still watching her. She raised her hand in farewell. He didn’t respond and Alina turned away towards the car park. She didn’t dare look over her shoulder once more to see if he continued watching—just in case he wasn’t.

All afternoon, Alina sat in the stuffy meeting room, looking out the window at treetops, which were slowly coming into bud. The trees had been losing their leaves the last time she’d seen Richard. Surely, she should be over it all now? Gazing at the notepad on her knee, she saw images of the lighthouse she’d doodled while sat staring out the window or eyes glazed on the PowerPoint slides. Not over Richard? You idiot, she muttered to herself. You’re still not over Jake.