Unnatural Wastage

Table of Contents

Recent Titles by Betty Rowlands from Severn House

Title Page

Copyright

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

ALPHA, BETA, GAMMA… DEAD

COPYCAT

DEADLY OBSESSION

DEATH AT DEARLY MANOR

DIRTY WORK

A FOOL THERE WAS

A HIVE OF BEES

AN INCONSIDERATE DEATH

MISS MINCHIN DIES

PARTY TO MURDER

SMOKESCREEN

TOUCH ME NOT

UNNATURAL WASTAGE

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

First published in Great Britain and the USA 2012 by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

This eBook edition first published in 2012 by Severn Digital an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

Copyright © 2012 by Betty Rowlands.

The right of Betty Rowlands to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Rowlands, Betty.

Unnatural wastage.

1. Reynolds, Sukey (Fictitious character)–Fiction.

2. Policewomen–Great Britain–Fiction. 3. Detective and

mystery stories.

I. Title

823.9'14-dc23

ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-327-3 (epub)

ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8214-1 (cased)

ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-454-7 (trade paper)

To my dear son Michael,

in ever-loving memory.

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

This ebook produced by

Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

T
he hand that held a half-slice of toast and marmalade paused briefly in mid-air as the attention of its owner was drawn to a headline reading, ‘Further Shake-up at Maxworth's' in the business section of the local paper. As the toast was slowly masticated, the reader studied with growing interest the report that followed.

Following the death of Gareth Maxworth, managing director and great-grandson of the founder of the old and established biscuit and confectionery manufacturer, Maxworth Foods, the new chief executive, Anton Maxworth – Gareth's nephew – lost no time in calling in a firm of consultants to conduct a review of the entire organization. ‘My uncle was a great man and a very good man, but he resisted change,' Anton said during a recent interview. ‘The problem was that he was still living in the early twentieth century. I think if he'd had his way we'd still be using the double-entry method of bookkeeping. After I qualified he put me in charge of the Accounts Department. It took forever before I could get him to allow a computer into the place. And as for the machinery, some of it's so old it's a miracle Ben Webb, our production manager, has managed to keep it up and running. It's only the quality of our products and the support of so many of our established customers that has kept our heads above water this past couple of years, but it couldn't have gone on much longer. That's why we're opening this new factory; the present one is totally unsuitable for the new machinery we've ordered.'

The words ‘new factory' caused the reader to pause for a moment to butter another slice of toast and spread it thickly with marmalade before continuing to read. Anton Maxworth had issued a statement to the effect that a proportion of the existing employees would be offered jobs at a new plant being built in Birmingham.

‘Our existing premises are unable to accommodate the new machinery we need to improve production. Regrettably, but inevitably, jobs in several departments will have to go, but we hope that this will largely be achieved through natural wastage.'

Had there been another person in the room, he or she would have been intrigued at the various expressions that flitted across the reader's features: first surprise and a hint of regret, possibly at the loss of a local employer at a time when jobs were increasingly hard to find; next a narrowing of eyes and knitting of brows; and finally, after several minutes of deliberation while the toast and a second cup of coffee were consumed, a hard, ­calculating and totally mirthless smile.

T
he sharp click of the cat flap acted as an alarm clock and Patsy Godwin, already on the verge of waking, smiled as she opened her eyes and noted with satisfaction the morning sun piercing the curtains. Once again, the weather forecast had been accurate. She yawned, stretched her limbs with a little sigh of contentment and rolled over under the duvet to await Henry's regular morning visit. He snaked round the half-open bedroom door, leapt on to the bed and settled into the space she had made for him, purring with satisfaction.

‘It's going to be a lovely day, Henry,' Patsy informed him. His purring increased in volume as she caressed his thick, soft fur. ‘Ideal weather for my first visit to my cousin Kate in her new flat,' she went on. ‘She's moved, you know . . . remember I told you? She's quite a bit older than I am and the garden got too much for her so she sold Elmfield – that's her house up in the Cotswolds, we used to love going there, didn't we? – and bought a flat near Bristol. Well, it's
in
Bristol actually, although she's pretending it's in a village. “A couple of miles from the city centre, but very handy for shops and buses,” she says. She's been there for nearly six months, but every time I mentioned coming to see her she kept putting me off because she wanted to get everything straight first. She's always been very house-proud, you know. So that's why I haven't been before. But I'm afraid, Henry,' Patsy added after a moment's pause and with a note of regret in her voice, ‘you'll have to stay at home and mind the house today. Pets aren't allowed in Sycamore Park.'

Abruptly, Henry ceased to purr. ‘I don't pretend he understands every word,' she would say to friends who remarked on the way her pet appeared to respond when she spoke to him. ‘It's my tone of voice that he recognizes. He really is very intelligent, you know.' And the friend would smile and agree that Henry was indeed a very remarkable cat.

‘You've really landed on your feet here, Katy,' said Patsy, as she accepted a glass of orange juice and helped herself to a handful of nuts from the dish on the low table in front of them. They were seated in two comfortable chairs on the balcony of the second-floor flat, which overlooked a well-tended garden bordered by sycamore trees with a distant view of the Welsh hills in the background. ‘Lovely flat in a quiet cul-de-sac with a fantastic view and the village shops in walking distance – it seems ideal.'

‘Yes, I do feel I've been very fortunate,' Kate Springfield agreed. ‘I had a buyer for Elmfield and found this flat all in the course of just two weeks. I got it at a very favourable price,' she added, discreetly lowering her voice. ‘Mr Branksome had just been offered a job overseas – in South Africa I think – and was anxious for a quick sale, so when I said I'd sold my house and there was no chain, he jumped at my offer.'

‘How many flats are there here?'

‘Forty; twenty in this block and twenty in that one.' Kate pointed to a second building of identical design on their left. ‘Being at right angles to ours and facing north-west they don't have quite such a nice view or get so much sun as we do.' Her smile as she sipped her orange juice held a hint of complacency.

Patsy gestured with her glass at a low brick-built structure tucked discreetly among the trees in one corner of the garden. ‘They get a nice view of the potting shed, though. It's a fair size,' she added. ‘I suppose the gardener needs some quite large machinery to do the lawns and keep all the shrubs under control.'

‘What?' Kate leaned forward to see where Patsy was pointing. ‘Oh you are a goose, Patsy – that's not a potting shed; it's our own mini recycling centre. It's all very well organized; there are separate bins for bottles and papers and several big skips for household waste. We put that in black plastic bags and Wilkins, the caretaker, puts them all in the skips and the council collects everything once a week.'

‘Who looks after the gardens, then?'

‘Two young men – they work very hard and, as you see, they do a very good job. They come in a van with “Green Fingers” painted on it, which is rather appropriate, don't you think?'

‘The management company seems to have thought of everything,' said Patsy. ‘So where's the catch?' she added mischievously. ‘You've been here almost half a year – you must have sniffed out something wrong by now. Any wife-swapping parties? Or mysterious foreigners suspected of being illegal immigrants or drug dealers?'

‘Don't be ridiculous, dear,' said Kate, administering a gentle slap on her cousin's wrist. ‘This is a very respectable neighbourhood. The only foreigners I know of are the two American gentlemen in the flat opposite mine – Jared is some sort of businessman who travels a lot, and Larry owns an art gallery in the city. They're both very nice – they invited me in for supper a week after I moved in. Larry is a superb cook; I told him he's good enough to be a chef.'

‘You're no mean cook yourself,' said Patsy warmly. ‘There's a delicious smell coming from your kitchen.'

‘Oh well, there are a few things I do reasonably well,' said Kate modestly. ‘About Jared and Larry,' she continued reflectively, ‘it seems a bit odd to me, two gentlemen living together, but as they're both bachelors and best friends – and Jared's away a lot – I suppose it suits them.'

Patsy hid a smile at her cousin's unworldliness and said, ‘I'm sure it does. You're very lucky to have such friendly neighbours.'

‘Oh, I am,' Kate agreed, ‘and there are plenty of other nice people here. I met some of them a week or two ago. We have what's called a residents' association and I thought it would be a good idea to join so I went along to one of their meetings. It seemed a good opportunity to get to know a few more people.'

‘I'm sure it was.' Patsy nodded approval. ‘Was it an interesting meeting?'

‘To be honest,' said Kate, ‘I didn't understand a lot of what went on. It was their annual meeting so there was some formal business – election of a new chairman, or chairperson I suppose I should say – and a discussion of last year's accounts and so on, which of course I didn't know much about. Although two of the residents – a man and a woman – were having quite a fierce argument about something in the accounts. And –' at this point Kate leaned towards Patsy and once again lowered her voice – ‘it seemed to me that it was getting a bit personal. One or two people sitting near me were shaking their heads and making tutting noises, which made me think those two people weren't exactly good friends.'