A Market for Murder Read Free Page A

made a big production about his ‘tasters’. Small crumbs of warm meat were provided for would-be customers. He had to keep a heater going all morning, powered by a small generator which made a large noise. Stallholders on either side complained they couldn’t hear their own customers over the racket, and the Council inspector clearly didn’t like it either, when he did his rounds. Oswald made helpless deprecating gestures, but did nothing to reduce the nuisance. Tall and thin, a big white apron wrapped around himself, he presented a gloomy demeanour,despite the somewhat ludicrous ostrich feather that he wore in his white chef’s hat. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, from time to time. ‘I’ll soon be out of business at this rate.’ Ostrich meat sold slowly.
    Maggie Withington sold bread, and did a roaring trade. There was never enough, and by ten o’clock she had usually sold out, and was impatient to pack up and go home. But she couldn’t because she was always blocked in, and to dismantle her stall and take it all home would leave a gaping hole that Geraldine would not permit. So she counted her profits, tucked it all away safely and then went off to stroll around town and get herself a cup of coffee.
    Geraldine had her undoubted favourites. Karen Slocombe was one of them. Quiet but friendly, reliable and good-natured, she caused very little trouble. She was also interesting to talk to. It generally happened that the two would slope off to a side street coffee shop in the middle of the morning and spend a pleasant twenty minutes in companionable gossip.
    The gossip this week was mainly about a developing romance between two other members of Geraldine’s favoured list. Peter Grafton and Sally Dabb were both married, and seemed to be complacently convinced that nobody had noticed a thing. Their stalls were side by side,and they often had to be shouted at by customers before they would disengage from their intense conversations. Peter’s fruit juices and Sally’s pickles were dependable stalwarts of the market, neither presenting any competition to other stalls – which was probably why everyone seemed to like them.
    Over coffee with Karen, Geraldine chuckled tolerantly, having commented on the increasing intimacy between the two. ‘Have you ever seen Sally’s husband?’ she asked.
    Karen shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. He doesn’t come to any of our meetings, does he?’
    Geraldine gripped her mug of coffee with a strong brown hand, and tossed her grey-blonde curls dismissively. ‘Doesn’t want to get involved. He’s an electrician; about five foot five – at least two inches shorter than Sally, with nasty thin hair and a strong Birmingham accent. When you compare him to Peter … well, who can blame her?’
    Karen’s smile was queasy. ‘It just seems – well, so …’ she stuttered. ‘ Blatant , I suppose.’
    Geraldine patted her hand maternally. ‘When you get to my age, you learn to live and let live.’
    For the hundredth time, Karen wondered exactly how old Geraldine was. It bothered her that she couldn’t find an answer to such a simple question. The woman had no children, nohusband, not even any parents as far as anyone knew. She just was . Her face was weathered, but could have been a battered fifty as easily as a mobile sixty-five. And for some reason, Karen had never felt able to ask outright. It felt like a secret that Geraldine seemed anxious to preserve, which struck Karen as silly, but insurmountable.
    Using a phrase like ‘when you get to my age’ was pure provocation, and Karen sighed impatiently. ‘But Sally’s got that little boy,’ she objected crossly. ‘Doesn’t she know what a risk she’s taking? It can’t possibly have a happy ending, can it?’
    Geraldine shrugged. ‘Who can say? It might turn out to be best for everyone.’
    Karen felt even angrier. ‘Of course it won’t. Peter’s got a perfectly nice wife. How long’s he been married – five years?