Fethering 08 (2007) - Death under the Dryer Read Free Page A

“There just don’t seem to be any men in Fethering.”
    “Ooh, I wouldn’t say that,” he said coyly.
    “Are you saying you’ve taken them all, Theo? I bet you never have any problem finding men.”
    The stylist let out an enigmatic, silvery laugh.
    Throughout Carole’s haircut, this archness continued. Connie, who had tried commendably hard to keep conversation going with her client, eventually gave up and joined in the false brightness of Sheena and Theo. Carole found it quite wearing. A little too lively for her taste. She wasn’t sure whether Connie’s Clip Joint was going to be a long-term replacement for Graham and the anonymous salon in Worthing.
    On the other hand, Connie did cut hair very well. Though keeping within Carole’s minimal guidelines, she had somehow managed to give a freshness to her client’s traditional style. With glasses restored, Carole couldn’t help admiring the result she saw in the mirror.
    “Excuse me for a moment,” said Connie, “I must just ring Kyra and find out what on earth’s happened to her. Now, I’ve got her mobile number somewhere.” She crossed to the cash register table and started shuffling through papers.
    Carole felt awkward about the business of paying. When booking the appointment, she hadn’t asked how much it would cost and now she was worried it might have been very expensive. Prices varied so much. And then there was the big challenge of tipping. Should she tip and, if so, how much? She’d never tipped Graham—that had been an accepted feature of their austere relationship—but she was in a new salon now and she wasn’t sure of the protocol.
    Connie listened impatiently to the phone. “Well, she’s not answering.”
    She was poised to end the call, when suddenly they were all aware of a new noise, cutting through the harmonies of Abba. The insistent jangle of a phone ringing.
    Carole and Connie exchanged looks. The hairdresser huffed in exasperation, “Oh, don’t say the bloody girl’s left her mobile here.”
    As Connie moved towards the source of the sound, Carole, curiosity overcoming her natural reticence, found herself following.
    A door led through to the back area, storeroom, kitchenette and lavatory. As Connie opened it, there was a smell of stale alcohol and cigarette smoke. Beer cans and a vodka bottle on its side lay on a low table. On the work surface beside the sink stood a vase containing twelve red roses.
    But it wasn’t those that prompted the involuntary scream from Connie’s lips. It was what she could see—and Carole could see over her shoulder—slumped in a chair over which loomed the dome of a spare dryer.
    The girl’s clothes were torn. There were scratches on her metal-studded face.
    And, tight as a garrotte, around the neck of her slumped body was the lead from the unplugged dryer.

TWO
    “Drink this.” Jude placed a large glass of Chilean Chardonnay on the table in front of her neighbour. “You look as though you need it.”
    The extent of Carole’s trauma could be judged from the fact that she didn’t look at her watch and ask, “Isn’t it a bit early in the day…?” It was in fact only two-thirty in the afternoon, but a lifetime seemed to have elapsed since she had entered Connie’s Clip Joint that morning. She hadn’t felt it proper to leave until the police had arrived and, once they were there, she couldn’t leave until she had submitted to some polite, though persistent, questioning. Her training in the Home Office told her that they were only doing their job, and she knew that they were starting from an empty knowledge base, but she did feel frustrated by the depth of information they seemed to require. Though she kept reiterating that it was the first time she had ever entered the salon, the police still wanted her to fill in far more of her personal background than she thought entirely necessary. What business of theirs was it that she was divorced? Surely, rather than following up such