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Chapter 01

'Slain woman with rose tattoo naked in holiday home rural retreat murder'

the headline screamed.

Alice scooped up the national newspaper from the mat behind the front door, turned, looped her hands behind her husband's neck and pulled him down to her for a goodbye kiss. There wasn't much space in their tiny semi-detached hall and although he avoided her lips, as was his custom when off to work, he couldn't avoid the bodily contact she engineered as he squeezed past her and out of the door. It was a daily tease that Alice enjoyed.

Alice watched him disappear down the road towards the railway station where he would catch the same train he caught every working day to the same office with the same people. She waved cheerfully, knowing he wouldn't be looking - because he never did.

The front door clicked closed behind her and she walked into the kitchen with quick tiny steps. Deftly, she clicked the switch to boil the kettle, pulled out a chair from behind the kitchen table, patted her to light curly fair hair, pursed her lips and read on.

'Police have no leads in holiday home murder and fear now stalks the pretty valley where this attractive woman lost her life.'

Alice usually avoided sensational stories about murders. In her opinion, they were profiting from someone else's grief. These stories offered little for the reader. They were usually repetitive and almost always lacked meaningful detail. But this one was different. The tattoo and the victim's name reminded her of a friend she had known at school.
 
'Estelle' was an unusual name. It suited the gay, vivacious young woman who had started life in an orphanage, grabbed every opportunity in life and wore her name with panache.

In those last long sunny days of the sixth form before going up to College, Estelle and Alice lived to escape from school for a secretive Danish pastry and cappuccino coffee in the local Italian Café. Alice as a teenager was unadventurous, prim and proper. But she loved to listen to the exciting plans her friend dreamed about for herself and the world.

Now years had passed and Alice wondered if Estelle had achieved her dreams. It would be terrible if they had ended in a small holiday cottage in a tiny inconsequential country village. The surname in the newspaper was different but marriage would explain that. It was the tattoo of a tiny red rose on her left shoulder that persuaded Alice. She still remembered the day she had spent arguing with Estelle trying to persuade her not to have it done.

Alice felt sad, but out of the sadness came a curiosity and then a determination. It would do her husband good to be alone for a few days. He had not been very attentive recently and a little bit of mystery in his life worrying about what she was doing might just spice up their relationship.

At the same time, she could find out more about the apparent sad demise of her friend. It would tidy up her friends memory and Alice liked everything to be tidy and in its place.

She wrote a short note explaining to John, her husband that she would send him a telephone number when she had one, packed a few clothes into an overnight bag and headed for the M3 motorway in her small Ford saloon car to the sound of classical music on the radio and an unusual feeling of freedom in her heart.

Four hours later, she gingerly drove down a very steep hill into a deep valley in the heart of the Devon countryside. There was an Inn at the bottom of the hill that looked out across the valley and a river that ran through it.

Inside, Alice approached the bar cautiously. She always felt ill at ease in a bar without her husband. The man behind the bar was not reassuring. He looked up from his newspaper which was spread out across the bar and, when he saw that it was a woman alone, returned to his reading.

Alice coughed. It was a delicate cough. She even put her hand with its neatly manicured nails in front of her mouth.

The man behind the bar looked up. He had a ruddy face, arms that looked as if they moved beer barrels for fun and a strong West Country brogue.

"And what might I be doing for you, my dear."

"I was wondering if I might have a drink," said Alice timidly.

"It's what we do here," the man observed, loftily.

Another man who was wearing jodhpurs came through the door of the Inn. "Pint of the usual, Jack", the barman said, pulling on the tall pump handles without waiting for a reply.

"Yes that would do nicely, Fred."

The foaming glass of beer was placed down in front of the newcomer who raised it to his lips and swallowed a deep appreciative draught.

The barman went back to reading the paper.

"I was wondering," said Alice.

The barman raised his eyes to her again.

"And what might you be wondering, my dear," he said.

"I was wondering whether I might have a drink," said Alice, tersely.

"That's what we're here for, my dear. I've already explained that to you. Which bit didn't you get?"

"Then can I have a drink please?"

"Of course you can, my dear. Let me try again. It goes like this. You tell me what you want and I'll get it for you. Of course, they may do things differently up in London where you come from. They probably do mind reading up there. But down here in the quiet old countryside you just tell me what you want and I go and get it for you. It's sort of a tradition you see."

"I'll have a glass of dry white wine, please, how much is that?" Alice said in a rush, feeling herself blushing.

"A glass of dry white wine is £2, my dear," said the barman.

Alice fumbled inside her handbag for the money. She looked up as she retrieved it. The barman was still looking at her and there was still no drink.

"I suppose that it is also traditional that you take my money before I get my drink."

"Take your money, my dear, no I don't want your money."

Now Alice knew her blush had now reached her chest. "If you really are going to give me a drink, a glass of white wine which I can't help doubting, then surely you will be wanting my money," she said irritably.

The barman took a deep breath and sighed as if he were explaining something very obvious to a child.

"On any other day, yes, I would love to take your money. But today is a special day, you see. It's what we call a Ladies' Day. You can't have a drink in this bar unless a gentleman buys it for you."

"Which actually means that I can't have a drink at all," said Alice, furiously, "because I don't know anybody here who is going to buy me a drink."

The barman reached behind him and drew a large glass of white wine from an optic and deposited it on the bar in front of her.

"There's your drink, my dear."

"But I haven't paid for it," say Alice.

"I thought we'd been through all that," said the barman wearily.

"But you won't be able to stay in business if you keep giving drinks away."

There was a gentle prod on Alice's elbow. She turned and found that it was the young man in jodhpurs.

"I have just bought their drink for you," he said, with a smile. "Welcome to the village. Would you like to join me at that table over there?"

Update - 29th April 2004

Holiday to Murder is now available online here and chapter 2 is here

Copyright of this site is Rob Hopcott's, 1999 - 2007, all rights reserved. Web site owners and other publishers may copy free the first page of this story to add content to their site or publication provided the site or publication is lawful and the story is attributed to Rob Hopcott with copyright retained and a prominent link is provided to the second page of the story here . All characters in this story are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.
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- a free romance mystery thriller from Rob Hopcott - bookmark the page and tell your friends ...