

### Hilda Hopkins, Murder, She Knit

### Vivienne Fagan

StreetWise Publications

Published by StreetWise Publications

Suite 1/22 Waikanda Cres, Whalan, NSW 2770 Australia

All Rights Reserved.

http://streetwiseworldpublications.info

' _Hilda Hopkins, Murder, She Knit'_ first published 2011

Copyright Vivienne Fagan 2011

Fagan, Vivienne 1948-

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional. The publisher, author and their officers and assigns assume no responsibility for the misuse of wool or knitting machines. No yarn was harmed in the writing of this story.

Dedication

With grateful thanks to Kevin and Jamie-Lee for their advice regarding Police Procedure.
Prologue

"There's three of the things in here, Sir" called out Police Constable Clive Barcroft, opening the door of a display cabinet in the corner of the sitting room. He glanced at a paper in his hand and compared the photographs shown there with the finely detailed faces of three knitted dolls who stood smartly to attention, held in place by doll stands.

"Looks like Morris, Johnson and Bartlett, Sir. You know what, she's bloody good."

The elderly woman sitting in the kitchen looked up as she heard the young constable's comments. She smiled serenely and nodded.

"There are another two in the front parlour," added DS Claire Naylor, "either side of the mantelpiece."

"That will be Mr Abbott and Mr Tompkins," murmured the old lady, "and you'll find Mr Smith in my bedroom, on top of the bookcase, next to Abigail. Of course I didn't make Abigail," she continued vaguely, "men are much easier, they are craggier in the face and there's not so much shaping, perhaps the odd beer belly but one doesn't have to worry about the size of the bra cups."

The police woman who was standing behind the old lady's chair looked baffled. Was the old dear senile, and wandering in her mind?

Detective Inspector John Brent however had no such illusions.

"So where have you hidden them all, Mrs Hopkins?" he asked gently, "we've found two in the coal cellar, and the one in the lock, where did you put the others?"

Barcroft had appeared holding the three dolls in his arms. They were each about eighteen inches high, beautifully crafted with startlingly life like faces.

"Oh, my little gentlemen," crooned Hilda Hopkins, "you mustn't take them away, they belong here." She stood up. "I need to go to the toilet," she announced, making for the door. "You'll find Mr Abbott and Mr Tompkins behind the shed in the garden. They are not very deep, I just can't handle a spade now like I used to."

She smiled benignly and headed towards the downstairs cloakroom as Brent moved towards the back door.

"Leave those things on the table, Constable" he told Barcroft, "and come with me."

Claire Naylor hurried through from the front parlour and dropped two more dolls onto the table before following the men outside. The remaining officer, Barbara Grey examined the dolls as she watched the door of the cloakroom. They were all roughly the same height, but there the similarity ended. Each one had his own face and hair style. Barbara picked up the sheet of photographs of missing persons which Barcroft had laid on the table. The faces were very easy to identify. How had she done it? Some of the features had been formed by knitting in a contrast yarn, other details had been highlighted by the use of a fine permanent maker and fabric paints. Two of the dolls wore glasses, tiny little doll spectacles in perfect proportion to their faces. The clothes too were carefully crafted to suit each character, and fitted each doll perfectly.

Barbara glanced towards the cloakroom door. The old lady had been in there some time, she hoped she hadn't passed out or anything. Eventually she crossed over and rapped on the door panels.

"Are you all right Mrs Hopkins," she called.

There was no answer. Barbara stood there, unsure what to do. She rattled the doorknob but the door was locked. Concerned now, she decided to go round the house and try to look in through the window. To think was to act, and she let herself out of the front door. The cloakroom window was opened to its fullest extent, the cloakroom itself was empty. How on earth had a woman of that age climbed out of the window? And more importantly, where was she now?

PC Grey ran to the front gate and looked up and down Merrydown Crescent, nothing. Surely she couldn't have gone through the back garden, not with all those police officers swarming all over it. She'd have to tell DI Brent that she had lost her. She'd lost the suspect, a woman who was alleged to have done away with six elderly men. He was not going to be best pleased.

Chapter 1

Hilda Hopkins sat in the corner of a café in Midchester and pensively stirred her cup of tea. She'd been lucky when she had left the house after scrambling through the window. She'd slipped down Merrydown Crescent and turned the corner just as the Midchester bus trundled along the main road. She'd had her bus pass in her cardigan pocket along with a small wallet of credit cards. Once arrived in Midchester, the neighbouring town to her own small village, Hilda had quickly cleared the dead men's accounts of all their remaining money. Serves them right, she had thought, if the Banks or the Police hadn't got round to closing the accounts yet, what did they expect? She could put the money to good use.

She wasn't really hungry yet, the excitement of the morning had robbed her of her appetite. The appearance at her door of a senior police officer and his team had been something of a shock. She wondered how they had got on to her. She took a sip of tea. Well, she'd think about that later, she'd have a slap up meal in a good restaurant and consider the problem fully. In the meantime she needed to find somewhere to rest. She finished the tea, paid up and left.

Along the road were two or three charity shops. Hilda wandered into the first one and bought herself a slightly battered looking suitcase on wheels. The next shop provided her with a serviceable, if dowdy coat and woolly hat, together with a slightly shabby but good quality tweed skirt, a couple of blouses and a woolen jumper. She wrinkled her nose over the jumper. A bought one, how long was it since she had actually bought a jumper? She much preferred to make her own on her trusty knitting machine. Still, needs must when the devil drives. Underwear next, but not from here though, Hilda did have a touch of fastidiousness about her, there was an M&S further along the High Street, they would have nighties too.

Everything fitted neatly into her suitcase. Hilda donned the hat and coat, and pottered along the road looking every inch the suburban pensioner intent on an afternoon's shopping. She entered the portals of a Journey Lodge and approached the counter. It took several minutes for the young woman at Reception to notice her. Hilda felt the old stirrings of resentment. No-one ever took any notice of her, she might as well be invisible. She paid for a room for two nights with cash, filling out the forms with the name and address of one of her neighbours. She was handed the key, directed to the lift, and otherwise ignored.

Back at 46 Merrydown Crescent, Barbara Grey surreptitiously wiped her eyes dry. DI Brent had been furious, and had wasted no words in his opinion of someone who could lose an elderly woman in a tiny under stairs cloakroom. Clive Barcroft gave her a sympathetic grin as they returned to their patrol car preparatory to hunting for the woman. John Brent was a good bloke to work for, but he did have a rough edge to his tongue if he considered the occasion demanded it. Scenes of crime tape festooned the neat suburban garden, and a tent had been erected to cover the excavations behind the shed.

"Well at least she hasn't actually been arrested yet, Barb," said Barcroft sympathetically, "if she'd already been charged with all those murders the shit really would have hit the fan."

Barbara Grey shuddered, "I know, thirteen days' pay docked and a Final Warning letter, my career wouldn't have survived that, Clive."

"Let's get on with it," he murmured, "the old dear couldn't have gone far."

"She's gone far enough to get me one hell of a bollocking," replied Grey resentfully, "I really want to track her down Clive, and snap a pair of cuffs onto her wrists. She won't bolt a second time."

They had reached the end of Merrydown Crescent, Barcroft paused to let a bus go past. Grey read the destination board, "Midchester Town Centre".

"She might have caught that bus, or rather another one going to Midchester. It's a fair sized place, she could lose herself there to some extent. Did you see her Clive? Whoever would have thought she would be capable of anything like this, let alone carry it out. Do you think anyone helped her? She looks like a fat Miss Marple."

"Except the Marple woman is always on the right side of the law," replied Barcroft.

"She lured six old men into her house as lodgers....."

"Paying guests" interrupted Barcroft, "remember she said her gentlemen had been there as paying guests."

"Whatever," snapped Grey, "and then she did away with them. Wonder what the post mortems will show, poison do you reckon?"

"Well it is a women's thing, generally, poison," Barcroft reflected, "but it's those doll effigies that spook me. Did you see them?"

Grey nodded. She had been examining them when Mrs Hopkins had scrambled out of the window and made her escape.

"They are very clever," she acknowledged. "Why do you reckon she made them? Some sort of trophy?"

Barcroft shrugged his shoulders,

"I've no idea."

They drove in silence for some time before entering the environs of Midchester. Barcroft drove slowly along the High Street while Grey craned her neck and inspected every grey haired old lady, and there were a lot of them about at this time of the day. They circumnavigated the town, criss crossing the streets but there was no sign of their quarry.

"Either gone to ground, or not here at all," decided Barcroft. "We'd better get back."

Chapter 2

Hilda returned to her hotel room from the restaurant where she had treated herself to the promised slap up meal. She settled in an armchair and turned on the local news. She was the first item.

"Police are concerned about the whereabouts of Hilda Hopkins," here a photograph flashed onto the screen. "They wish to speak to her regarding some irregularities concerning lodgers who resided in her house."

"Paying guests, not lodgers," fumed Hilda, who was nonetheless pleased with the photograph they had used. It was a copy of her bus pass photo, taken when she was still colouring her hair a rich brown. Now it was snow white, and her skin, which had been of the famous English peaches and cream variety, had, over the past few months, crumpled into wrinkles like a dried out apple. She bore little resemblance now to the smooth skinned dark haired individual in the photograph. She would be able to fade into the background for a little while longer.

There had been a brief view of the house, neatly roped off with blue police tape, and a hint of the activity still going on in the back garden. She would go to prison when she was caught of course. She was realistic enough to appreciate that, but she wondered if they would let her keep the dolls, her little gentlemen. Would they have craft classes or clubs in prison? Maybe if she got a long sentence she would be able to have her knitting machine sent in. She would like that, machine knitting was her passion.

She giggled to herself. What would she give to see the smug faces of her neighbours and her ex work colleagues when they found out what she had been doing. Would they believe she was capable of carrying all that out on her own? They hadn't found Mr Smith yet by all accounts. Mr Bartlett and Mr Morris had been in the coal cellar. She was rather glad they had been discovered because truth to tell, they had been starting to smell. Nothing too obtrusive just yet, just a lingering miasma in the air, but it certainly wouldn't have improved with time.

Mr Abbott and Mr Tompkins were behind the shed in the garden. That had been hard work even though they were in shallow graves. She had scattered the loose earth over the rest of the garden, but there had been so much of it! That was why she had dumped Mr Johnson in the canal lock just beyond the end of her garden. She had had to leave him in the shed for a day, he was much too heavy to drag all the way there in one go. All her gentlemen had been of slight build in life, but goodness, they had been so heavy once they were dead.

Maybe she could say that Mr Smith had killed the others, and had disappeared once he knew the old bill were on his track. She could make out she had been his unwilling accomplice, too scared to resist. That might be a bit difficult though, Mr Smith had disappeared from her house long before Mr Bartlett and Mr Morris the two men who had each ended up in the coal cellar, had arrived. She should have thought of that sooner, stayed in the house and passed herself off as a frightened vulnerable old lady. Running away would simply complicate matters, unless of course she had believed that Mr Smith was going to take her away from all this? She could say he was supposed to meet her, but he hadn't turned up. It wouldn't be the first time she had been dumped. Mr Hopkins had walked out on her less than six months into their marriage.

"Just popping out to get some fags, love," he had said, "won't be long."

That had been well over thirty years ago and he still hadn't found his way back home. Not even when her widowed mother had died and Hilda had inherited the three bedroomed semi, so much nicer than the furnished flat she had been renting.

She would have an early night, and go for a leisurely breakfast in the morning. What a pity she hadn't thought to buy a book to read in the charity shop.

Hilda changed into her nightdress, and settled herself on the bed. It had been a tiring day. She drifted half in and out of sleep, mulling over the events of the past three years.

Chapter 3

Hilda had retired after thirty odd undistinguished years of Local Government service. She hadn't managed to save much over the years, it seemed to her that everything she earned went on the nitty gritty of living. Plus of course she had her hobby, she was an ardent machine knitter. Over the years she had collected every magazine and book about machine knitting that she could find. She had also spent large amounts of money on yarn and equipment. So once she stopped working and found herself existing on a small pension she found that she really did need a second income. She briefly considered selling the jumpers and other bits and pieces that she made on her machine, but there wasn't much call for that sort of thing these days. Machine knitting had had its heyday, it was a craft only followed now by a small but enthusiastic number of committed adherents.

Hilda thought about the layout of her house. She had changed the box room into a small knitting room, and she herself slept in the back bedroom. It was a little smaller than the master bedroom, but it was away from the road so a bit quieter. Not that there was much traffic passing around Merrydown Crescent. She decided that she could let the larger bedroom out and earn some money from the rent.

She had deliberated long and hard about what sort of person to have as a lodger. Certainly not a student, another woman perhaps? But Hilda didn't really get on too well with other women. She had made no lasting friends at work, and she had been asked to leave her knitting club for constantly causing upset there. They had just been jealous of her of course, she thought bitterly, she had been much cleverer at making things than the others. They had tried to say her knitting tensions were wrong, her knitting was too loose, it needed to be tighter for well-fitting cuffs and welts, and that Emmie woman had said that her mattress stitch wasn't even. Hers wasn't any better in Hilda's opinion, and she had had no compunction in saying so. Naturally the stupid woman had burst into tears, and the Club leader had suggested that Hilda might like to find another club. Hilda knew that she had been better than any of them. It was the same old story, people were always envious of her because she was far superior than any of them.

So, a male lodger. No, a paying guest. That sounded much better. Someone with a bit of age and dignity, no riff raff. A professional man. But then, wouldn't a professional man already have his own home, would there be any who would just want a room? She had worried round the problem like a terrier gnawing at a bone. In the end she decided she would see who actually replied to her advertisement in the newsagents' window in Midchester. There'd been no point advertising locally, she knew there were no spare men looking for accommodation in her village. They would have to share the bathroom with her, but she would make out a rota, some sort of timetable so they wouldn't both be trying to get in there at the same time. She would cook the meals and they could eat at the kitchen table and the guest would have the use of the sitting room, but the front parlour was going to be private for her. She would just have to see who would turn up.

What turned up was Mr Arthur Smith. Sixty-six years old, widowed, childless and sick and tired of living on the fourth floor of a building with no lift. He was a small slight man, very nearly totally bald, and very quietly spoken. Hilda found him eminently suitable. He liked his bed room, and was quite content to sit in the sitting room all day watching television. He ate the meals which Hilda put in front of him. She wasn't a particularly good cook, although of course she believed that each meal she produced had a touch of haute cuisine about it, and Arthur Smith was canny enough to thank her gravely each day for his meals. He was a man who liked a quiet life, and he could read something in Hilda's face which warned him not to upset her.

He had been staying at Hilda's house for nearly six months when he was late down for his breakfast one morning. Hilda slid two hard fried eggs onto a cold plate, added a dollop of baked beans, and fished two rashers of streaky bacon from under the grill where they were rapidly turning black round the edges. Hilda laid the plate on the table and went to the kitchen door. There was no sound at all from upstairs. Sighing she ascended the stairs and rapped on the bedroom door.

"Breakfast is on the table Mr Smith."

No answer.

"It's going to get cold. Are you up yet?"

No answer.

Knock, knock, knock.

No answer.

Hilda had taken five months' rent off Mr Smith during his stay, she hoped he hadn't done a moonlight flit leaving her short of this month's rent. Tentatively she opened the door and peeped inside.

Arthur Smith lay on the narrow single bed. He was deathly pale, deathly still, deathly cold. Hilda moved across to the bed and briefly touched his forehead, it was icy cold. She let out an involuntary squeak and retreated to the landing. What now? She supposed she would have to ring 999. Who would be responsible for his funeral? Did he have enough money of his own to cover the cost? It was a pity she hadn't opened a life insurance policy on him....the thought popped unbidden into her head.

Hilda went back into the bedroom and looked down at Mr Smith. In life he had been a short, slight man, in death he appeared even smaller and more shrunken. His wallet lay on the bedside cabinet next to the bed. Hilda picked it up and rummaged through it. She would take the rent he owed her, even if he wasn't going to be here for the rest of the month. There were several currency notes, and a couple of bank and credit cards. There was also a small piece of paper, neatly folded. Curious, Hilda unfolded it, and discovered three sets of four figure numbers neatly written in Mr Smith's handwriting. Hilda realised that these must be the pin numbers for the cards.

She went downstairs and looked at the telephone. She made no move to pick up the receiver but instead went into the kitchen and poured the rapidly congealing breakfast into the waste bin. Calmly she made herself a cup of tea, and sat down to think. Mr Smith had had no visitors during the time he had lived in her house. Any mail that arrived for him was of a business rather than a personal nature. Would he be missed? She thought not. If she could park him somewhere out of sight and out of mind, she could relet the room. His pensions went into his bank account, he had never gone down to the Post Office to collect any benefits so he wasn't known there, and she had the pin numbers for all his cards. If she wasn't greedy she could withdraw a little each week, so long as the accounts were active and not in the red, surely no-one would notice.

Where to put him? He couldn't stay upstairs, especially if she was going to get another paying guest. She had a small garden to the front of the property, and a larger one behind. There was a gate at the end of the back garden which led out onto the tow path which ran alongside the canal. She considered the geography of the area. It could be done.

Hilda removed her slippers and put on her outdoor shoes. She went out into the back garden. Her stomach was churning with excitement. She could do this. If she had a steady income from Mr Smith's account would she even need another paying guest? She decided she had better get another one, just in case the neighbours noticed that Mr Smith wasn't around. They tended to be a nosey lot around here. She would choose someone similar, elderly and on the short side. People didn't bother looking too closely, one elderly chap coming-out her house would look much the same as any other at a cursory glance.

Hilda smiled, she hadn't had so much fun in years. But this plotting and scheming, it just showed what a clever woman she was. She had been passed over for promotion time and time again when she had been working. She knew why, they were jealous of her, scared for their own jobs because they knew if she got a toehold on the ladder she would be better than all of them and their jobs would be in danger. And then she had got older, so all the young ones got the advancement. What did they know about the work, they didn't have her experience. She had always obeyed the rules, never deviated, never took any short cuts just stuck to the book at all times, well, this was different. Now she would show them she could use her initiative. Or rather she wouldn't show them, she would do this under the noses of the neighbours and any one else who might show an interest, and get away with it. She would prove to them who was the best.

She let herself out of the garden gate, and looked up and down the tow path. About a hundred yards up the towpath there was a lock, the water churning at the foot of its gates. She started to walk downstream away from it. The houses curved away from the canal at this point, and the trees in the adjoining park came down to fringe the tow path. Hilda plunged in amongst the trees. She didn't want to have to drag the body too far, but it did need to be somewhere where it wouldn't be found too quickly either. There was a natural hollow amongst the roots of a tree which had been blown down during the winter storms. Hilda reckoned if she brought a spade along, she could deepen the hole slightly and Mr Smith would fit in there perfectly. She stirred the soil with her foot. It was quite loose. She glanced around. The hollow was far enough from the tow path not to be seen. It wasn't on the route of the dog walkers either, it could work. Hilda hurried back to her home, and took the spade from the garden shed. She wrapped it in a piece of sacking and scuttled back down the tow path to her chosen site. She had been right, the soil was fairly loose, and she was able to make a decent sized cave like hole under the tree. She left the spade there, wrapped in its piece of sacking; she would need it later to do some filling in.

The danger period would be getting him from the garden to the burial site. It was quiet enough now, but later on there would be joggers and dog walkers and goodness knew who else wandering along here. Hilda decided that she would wait until after dark that evening. She thought she would be able to find her way back to the tree easily enough; she had spotted a couple of landmarks she could use. She needed to get back to the shed. There was a wheel barrow in there she could use to transport the body, but it might need oiling. She didn't want to go creaking along the path calling attention to herself.

It had been a lot more difficult than she anticipated, but Hilda managed it. Once she had an idea, she was quite tenacious. She was amazed how heavy Mr Smith was as she struggled to manoeuvre his body down the stairs into the hall where she wrapped him in wheelie bin bags, tying string round and round his body to keep them in place before strapping him onto the wheelbarrow. Rigor had passed by now, and he flopped alarmingly as she balanced him on it. The oiling had worked well though, and she glided through the garden and along the path with the minimum of noise. He fitted quite nicely into the hole she had dug, and she soon had his body well covered in soil, followed by detritus and leaves which camouflaged the grave perfectly.

Hilda was exhausted, but curiously elated. She had done it. That would teach him to go and die on her. Now she would enjoy herself at his expense, literally. She giggled. She looked down at the ground, carefully flashing a torch around to make sure there was no hint of what was buried here. The smile left her face as she contemplated the grave. There could be no memorial, no headstone, no cross, that bothered her slightly. Her face creased in concern for a few minutes as she stood there in a contemplative silence. Her expression cleared, she knew what she would do. She would make one of her look a like dolls. Over the years Hilda had perfected her technique in making amazingly life like dolls. She made them to represent people at work who had annoyed her, either with a real or an imagined slight. She would take the dolls out and berate them, saying all the things she couldn't say to her colleagues for fear of losing her job. Some had even been slapped, or had arms and legs twisted as a punishment.

This one would be different though. She would keep the woolly Mr Smith in her bedroom as a tribute to his memory. He could stand on top of the wardrobe, next to Abigail, a porcelain doll which she had owned for years. She had his picture on his bus pass...yes, that would make a fitting memorial, combining her interests and skill with his demise. Hilda turned-on her heel and returned to the house, eager to start designing her little gentleman doll.

Chapter 4

Hilda woke early the next morning, and stretched luxuriously in the comfortable double bed. She opened her eyes and had a moment of confusion as the unfamiliar room met her gaze. Then she remembered, she was a fugitive from the law. How exciting, Hilda Hopkins, armed and dangerous! Well not armed, but she had nothing to lose now if anyone crossed her. She giggled as she threw back the covers and went into the bathroom. The shower was lovely. It was a power one, and quite fierce. Hilda stood under the jets of water and felt the force of the water on her skin. It was exhilarating. She would dry herself, dress and go down for an early breakfast.

She finished drying her hair and replaced the hairdryer neatly in the fitment drawer. Today she would wear the skirt and jumper she had bought in the charity shop. They weren't all that appealing, but the police had a description of what she had been wearing yesterday. She dressed herself and went across to open the curtains. Her window overlooked the entrance to the car park. As she jerked the curtains aside, she looked down to see a police car driving into the forecourt. She leapt back from the window, heart pounding and sat on the edge of the bed. Were they looking for her? The chances were quite high. And when she had booked in she had used the name and address of a neighbour just along the Crescent from her. It had seemed amusing at the time, but perhaps she should have used a purely fictional address. The police would zoom in on that, they weren't stupid, and they must have some idea what they were dealing with now.

Hilda picked up the carrier bag which had contained her new underwear. Quickly she stuffed one spare pair of pants and a bra in there, she would just have to wash a change of underwear each day once she was settled somewhere. She added the two blouses she had bought yesterday to the bag. She slipped her money and bus pass into the pocket of the dowdy brown coat along with the woolly hat. She glanced around the room. Yesterday's skirt, blouse and cardigan lay over the armchair, her nightdress was on the bed. She would leave her toiletries in the bathroom too, so it would look as if she had popped out for breakfast and intended returning. She picked up the carrier bag and let herself out of the room. It had taken minutes. She walked along the corridor to the lift, then paused. She might meet the police officers in the lobby if she went this way. There was a flight of service stairs at the end of the corridor, she went down those and let herself out round the side of the car park. She headed towards the low wall surrounding the building, sat on the parapet, and with a surprising show of grace, swung her legs over the top of the wall and onto the pavement.

Breakfast. That needed to be the first priority. If she was well fed she could concentrate on the day ahead. Hilda ambled along the road, trying to appear unconcerned and succeeded completely. No-one took any notice of her whatsoever. She came across a small café, a "greasy spoon" and decided this would do. She paid for a full breakfast and was pleasantly surprised when it arrived. The bacon and sausage were nicely cooked, as were the mushrooms and black pudding, the fried egg was runny, the toast a pleasing brown and they hadn't been stingy with the butter either. The cup of tea was a disappointment. It had been poured out of a large metal teapot, and Hilda reckoned they must make one pot in the morning and fill it up with more hot water and the odd extra spoonful of tea as the morning went on. It tasted stewed and was far too strong. Still, she needed to keep a low profile so she bit back her natural desire to complain and got on with the meal.

Where to now, she wondered. If the police had come as far as Midchester searching for her, they probably had the bus station and the railway station alerted too. She didn't drive. She briefly considered buying, or even stealing a bicycle but it was years since she had ridden one. She left the café and wandered through the streets with no particular destination in mind. She came across the canal. It was the same one that ran behind her house. A little further along she could see a small jetty. A barge was moored there next to a sign proclaiming "Canal Trips. Three hours duration." A blackboard next to the sign announced that the next trip would be at 11am. Hilda checked the time, it was nearly a quarter to ten. With a bit of luck the police would be relying on her returning to her room in the Journey Lodge. After all her possessions were there and she had paid for two nights. She felt that she would be safe pottering around the High Street amongst the other elderly shoppers until she could return here and buy a ticket for the canal trip. Once they arrived at the destination, she would quietly disappear, and they could return without her. She had been on the odd canal trip before years ago, and she knew that sometimes people caught a later barge back if they wanted to sightsee for more than the fifteen minutes stay.

It all worked out as she had planned. Of course it had, she thought self-righteously as she settled herself in her seat, she was organising it, there was no way it could go wrong. Hadn't she proved herself to be the best so far? Twice now she had out-witted the police.

It was a pleasant trip. The barge glided along between the fields and Hilda felt herself relax. She mustn't get complacent though, she reminded herself. She had to keep her wits about her if she was to stay free. The barge gently bumped into its mooring, and Hilda accepted the hand of the young bargeman to assist her back onto dry land.

They had arrived at the small village of Neston. The young man had helped several other passengers off the barge, and obligingly pointed to a passage just ahead of them.

"If you go through there, you'll be in the High Street, There's a couple of nice tea rooms, and if you like gardens, you can walk along to Neston House and see the gardens there for free. You can go round the house too, but you have to pay for that. We're leaving on the half hour, but we'll be back an hour after that if you want to stay longer."

Hilda grinned. They obviously didn't check who got on or off their barge. If you missed the last one, tough, you'd have to find your own back to Midchester. Well that suited her fine. She didn't want a hue and cry because they had lost a passenger. She tagged along behind the knot of people heading towards the village. A cup of tea would be nice, and perhaps a toasted tea cake, dripping with butter to accompany it? Hilda was starting to appreciate the finer things of life now that there was a strong chance they would be snatched away from her. She didn't suppose that toasted tea cakes would appear on a prison menu.

As she emerged from the passage, Hilda noticed a queue composed mainly of women outside a hall halfway down the road. Curious she strolled towards them. There was a large poster on the side of the wall, "Jumble Sale, Neston Village Hall, Saturday, 11am (this had been crossed out and 12 noon scribbled in its place) tea and refreshments, admission 20p." Hilda liked jumble sales at the best of times, and serendipitously she had arrived in good time to visit this one. She fumbled in her pocket, fished out 20p and joined the end of the queue just as the doors opened and the crowd surged forward.

The first stall inside the hall was covered in bags and shoes. To one side Hilda spotted a blue and green tartan shopping trolley on wheels. She snatched it up and waved it at the helper behind the table.

`"50p, dear."

Armed with her trolley Hilda turned her attention to the rest of the jumble sale. She thoroughly enjoyed herself. She loved being in the scrum, fighting over a garment, diving forward to pick up a book before another hand grasped it. She bought herself another skirt, a jacket, and a pair of trousers, plus a couple of blouses, a head scarf and several books. Everything went into the shopping trolley. It was a nice one, sturdily built with solid rubber tyres on large wheels. It would be very useful.

Hilda looked over at the refreshments. She read the list, tea, coffee, cold drinks and digestive biscuits. Tea would be fine, but she had a real hankering for a toasted tea cake. She decided to go in search of a proper tea room. As she was manoeuvring the trolley down the steps of the village hall a police car drove past. Hilda had her head averted as she bumped the trolley down, and the car passed without slowing down and continued on its way out of the village.

Hilda stood gazing after it. She was so clever. They couldn't even catch her when she was within feet of them. Complacently she towed her new shopping trolley behind her and strolled down the road. The Willow Tree Tea Room proved to be delightful. Hilda sat by the window, there was tea in a real teapot, a china cup and saucer had been placed in front of her, and milk appeared in its own matching jug. Hilda poured out her first cup, and sat there in seventh heaven savouring the exquisite flavour. How very different from the café where she had breakfasted! The waitress appeared bearing a plate on which not one, but two toasted teacakes nestled. They were delicious, plump, nicely toasted, bursting with fruit and slathered in butter. Real butter, not a cheap spread. This was luxury indeed.

Mr Bartlett would have liked this, she reflected. She frowned. He had been such a fussy eater. He had dared to criticise her cooking, and she could cook, like everything else she did, she was excellent at it, or so she believed. Mr Bartlett had been Mr Smith's successor. He too had been elderly, a slight man with no family or friends that Hilda could discover. She had interviewed several people for the room before she had decided on him. He was in his seventies and looked very frail, hopefully he would go the same way as Mr Smith. But he was such a complainer! Mr Smith hadn't worried about hard fried eggs; Mr Bartlett told her he could only eat eggs if they were runny, and would she please warm the plates because his meals got cold so quickly.

He had a habit of looking at the plateful of food and curling his lip back, ever so slightly. This really infuriated Hilda. One day he told her that he didn't fancy chicken, he had gone off it, would she kindly provide something different for him in future, please? Hilda bought chicken a lot. Not only did she enjoy eating it, it was cheap and plentiful. She tried buying TV meals which she heated up in the oven for Mr Bartlett. He wasn't keen on these either, he said they were too dry and they all tasted the same. How could they taste the same she had fumed silently to herself when they were all different varieties? Why wouldn't the infuriating man just quietly expire in the middle of the night the same as the obliging Mr Smith?

One morning he came into the kitchen a little early. Hilda was making scrambled eggs. The mixture wasn't setting properly. She had the gas turned up beneath the pan as she stirred the eggs and milk, but it obstinately retained its fluidity. She was starting to lose her temper. Her face suffused to a dark red, small flecks of spittle collected on her lips and she banged the top edges of the pan with the spoon, making small dents around the edge.

"At my last place," commented Mr Bartlett, settling himself at the table and opening his newspaper, "we always had scrambled eggs made in the microwave. Lovely they were, always creamy. Handy things microwaves Mrs Hopkins, you don't seem to have one?"

"I'm not having one of those things in here," snapped Hilda, "they're dangerous, waves can leak out of them and give you tumours, I've read about it."

The egg mixture in the pan turned suddenly from liquid to a solid mass. She mashed it up with a fork and piled it onto a couple of slices of leathery toast.

"You might need to put some butter on that," she said, pushing a tub of vegetable spread across the table.

"I've never heard of that before," commented Mr Bartlett.

Hilda gazed at him before she realised he was talking about microwave ovens and not buttery scrambled eggs.

"I've no time for new fangled things like that. I've got my food processor and a blender, that's enough gadgets for me to be going on with. I don't want anything nasty leaking out in my kitchen."

"They are quite safe, you know, these days," continued Mr Bartlett as if Hilda hadn't spoken, "and you can use them for all sorts of things, microwave meals, defrosting stuff, nice scrambled eggs."

He had eaten half of his egg on toast, and pushed the remainder away with an expression of distaste.

Hilda pursed her lips. This one was too healthy to pop his clogs in the middle of the night, he might need a bit of help to shuffle off this mortal coil. Nothing too messy. Hilda was an avid fan of CSI, she knew a lot about blood splatter and luminal. There were fingerprints and DNA to take into account too. Committing the perfect crime was much harder these days, but of course if you were as clever as Hilda believed herself to be, it was just a matter of a little forward planning.

What about poison? Hilda had thought long and hard about that, but where would she get poison from? It had been all right in Victorian times, arsenic could be found all around the house, it was used in so many things, but in these days of Health and Safety there were too many restrictions. Antifreeze was supposed to be pretty lethal, but it would look odd if she bought that down at the local garage seeing that she didn't drive or own a motor vehicle. There was rat poison too, but did she want the man in the shop thinking she had vermin in her spotless house? She thought not. Plus it needed to be quick, she didn't want to see her gentleman suffering, even if he had turned his nose up at her cooking. She wasn't a nurse, she couldn't cope with a long illness. Hilda herself had very robust health and despised bodily weakness in others.

It was two separate television programmes which finally solved the problem for her. One was fictional, the other a documentary. In the fictional story the baddie had sedated her victims with valerian before despatching them. The other was a documentary programme dealing with the history of the garrotte. Hilda reflected that if she used both things together, the valerian to sedate her gentleman, then the garrotte to finish him off, it would be a clean kill. Plus she wouldn't have to see his face as she did it either, Hilda was a little squeamish about some things. She could knit a garrotte, and use a knitting needle to wind it tight.... It would work....what a clever and resourceful woman she was, and what a shame she couldn't proclaim that from the rooftops!

First of all though, she needed to be sure that she had her facts right. She trotted off down Merrydown Crescent and caught the bus into Midchester. She knew there was a herbal shop in the precinct there. On the pretence that she suffered badly from insomnia, Hilda closely questioned the shop's owner about sleeping draughts. He actually suggested Valerian tablets, warning her not to drive if she took them as they were quite potent. Hilda thanked him profusely, with an effort she could appear quite gracious. She dithered and twittered a little as she imagined old people must do, and asked if she could buy several bottles to save her the journey into town, it was such an ordeal at her age, especially if she didn't get a seat on the bus. The man, kindness itself, not only wrapped up several bottles for her, but even gave her a discount for bulk.

Hilda spent some time experimenting with different weights and types of yarn. She knitted long cords, then practised the strangulation on a baby doll. She kept this as a model for displaying the baby clothes she sometimes made. Some of the cords gave too much, and she decided she would have to make them using a much firmer tension. After several abortive attempts she settled on a wool and nylon mix. The wool was soft to the touch, it would be gentle on the old man's neck, and the nylon added strength. It wouldn't do for the cord to stretch or break when it was being used for real.

Hilda sat on the edge of her bed, the baby doll on her knee, twisting the knitting needle round and round, before deciding that a double pointed thicker needle would be better. The thinner ones tended to bend as the knot tightened. The baby doll lay limply across her knee, there were Herod genes somewhere in Hilda's make up.

All her preparations paid off. Mr Bartlett drank his well laced coffee, and actually fell asleep at the table, falling across his plate. Hilda slipped the loop of brown wool over his head, poked the knitting needle through the cord, then twisted and twisted, pulling Mr Bartlett's head up from the table as she struggled to make the cord tighter. It bit into the old man's neck, cutting off the circulation. Mr Bartlett's arms and legs twitched feebly, and then it was done. His body slumped to one side, and Hilda was nearly pulled off balance as he slid towards the floor. She hauled up on the cord and straightened him out. Tentatively she let the cord slacken. She pulled the needle out of it and watched fascinated as the twisted cord folded in on itself. Would she leave it on him? It might be used as evidence some time in the future if she was very unlucky and got caught. And it would be bad luck, she was far too clever to be caught out by carelessness, but you could never depend on luck, it was fickle, it could be good or bad. She reckoned she had better remove the cord while she could.

Blood splatter; she would have to be careful and make sure she didn't cut him. Did dead men bleed? She couldn't remember, better be safe than sorry. Hilda fetched her thinnest, sharpest pair of scissors from her work room and returned to the corpse. She gingerly inserted the scissors' blade under the cord and snipped away it. She eased it free of his neck, sliding it along gently before dropping it in the bin. The bin men came on Tuesday that would soon be long gone in the landfill.

She already had the wheelie bin bags ready. This time she would use duct tape to tie it all up. She had used string on Mr Smith and it had slipped about something chronic. Still she wasn't taking Mr Bartlett as far as Mr Smith. She would use the old coal cellar outside the back door. It had been disused since central heating had been installed in the house. It was more of an outhouse than an actual cellar, but the door was always kept locked, and there was still a pile of coal in there at the very back. Hilda hauled Mr Bartlett over the coals (in a manner of speaking) and settled him in the far corner, covering his body with the small black rocks until nothing more could be seen.

She went up to his room and neatly packed all his belongings away. They could go up in the loft with Mr Smith's things. She removed the money from his wallet and hunted through his paper work until she found a small card with pin numbers written on the back. It seemed to be a common thing amongst the elderly, writing down their numbers so that memory loss wouldn't leave them destitute. The bed was stripped, all the bedding went into the washing machine, new newspaper lined the drawers, a quick Hoover round and a flick with the duster...perfect Hilda had thought, all ready for the next one......

"Have you finished?"

Hilda came out of her reverie and looked up at the waitress.

"It's just that we get busy on Saturday afternoons," explained the girl picking up Hilda's plate.

Hilda glanced round the tearoom, it was half empty, but she had been sitting there for some time. She was wearing that god awful coat too, the girl probably thought she was some sort of bag lady. She had had to leave her good cream woollen coat behind at the house, she could hardly have taken that into the loo with her. The policewoman certainly wouldn't have fallen for that. Still, she mustn't draw attention to herself even though she was itching to tell this insolent girl off for her cheek.

"Yes thank you. I'll have the bill, please."

Hilda paid up, leaving a meagre 10p tip, and wandered out into the main thoroughfare, towing her shopping trolley behind her. Where to now? She didn't want to go back to Midchester, but where could she spend the night? She turned off the main road and ambled down one side road and into another. This was a lovely street she thought, looking round at all the little bungalows set back behind high hedges. She pottered along, looking through the gates at the neat gardens. Ahead of her a van was drawn up partly onto the pavement. It was a supermarket delivery van. Hilda paused, debating whether to cross the road. She was getting tired, she really needed to sit down for a few minutes. There was a small pathway between two bungalows towards the back of the van. Hilda turned into it and walked down a few yards until she found a low wall she could sit on.

She heard the doors of the van slam, the engine started up, and it drew away and disappeared down the road. Hilda continued to sit on her perch. She turned her head as she heard voices coming from the other side of the hedge.

"I've put the perishables in the fridge, Sue" said a deep voice, "I completely forgot the shopping was due. I was so intent on surprising you."

"You're such a sweetie," presumably this was Sue. Hilda eased herself round slightly and tried to look through the hedge but it was too thick.

"It's just like you, Brian, to swing a surprise holiday on me! Put that last bag in the kitchen would you?"

There was a rustling sound as something was lifted and taken into the bungalow.

Voices sounded again just inside the open door of the bungalow. Hilda strained her ears, she had excellent hearing for her age. A useful asset for someone who was such a nosey parker.

"Well I thought five days in Venice would be a nice run up to our proper holiday," said Brian, "hurry up Sue, the taxi should be here in a couple of minutes. I think I've packed everything you'll need in your bag, I didn't want to spoil the surprise by asking you what you'd want to take. Anyway, anything you're missing we'll buy when we get there."

"I must look a mess," replied Susan, "you didn't give me chance to shower or anything."

"You look wonderful, as ever," replied Brian.

Hilda's mouth turned down at the corners. A wave of envy poured over her. Her husband hadn't treated her to surprise holidays, the only surprise he had ever sprung on Hilda was to disappear one afternoon.

The taxi arrived on cue.

"Have you got your passport?" called out Brian.

"In my handbag where it always lives," laughed Sue, "what about yours?"

"It's here safe with the tickets. I didn't let Mrs O'Grady know we were going away, we'll have to ring her once we get there."

"She's away for the week," said Sue, banging the door shut, "gone to Herne Bay to stay with her Colin and his wife and the grandchildren. Remember, I told you we'd have to clean for ourselves this week."

"Not now we won't. Shove that key under the pot Sue, just in case Mrs O'Grady gets back before us. Come on, the taxi's waiting, he'll have his clock on."

There was a flurry of footsteps, and much slamming of car doors. Hilda pressed back into the hedge as the taxi swept by, but there was little chance of her being seen.

She sat and waited for a good five minutes. There was no more traffic, no pedestrians, just silence. She went round to the gate and boldly walked up the path. She knew instinctively that furtive scurrying would call attention to herself, she had to look as if she belonged here. She examined the small flowerbed directly in front of the bungalow. An upturned flowerpot sat discreetly towards the back. Hilda peeped underneath and saw a Yale key. She snatched it up and inserted it into the lock, moments later she was inside the hall, the door closed behind her, heart thumping. This would make a glorious bolt hole for a few days while she worked out her next move.

Chapter 5

Detective Inspector John Brent looked round the room at the assembled officers and rapped on the desk for attention. All eyes swivelled towards him. He stood by a board on which were pinned several photographs and maps.

"We've retrieved the bodies of five men," he summarised, "a sixth is still missing, presumed dead. Preliminary findings from the pathologist indicate that the men were sedated then strangled. We've not identified the ligature that was used yet."

He looked irritably towards the back of the room where two uniformed officers sat near the door. The woman officer had muttered something to her colleague, who now had a broad grin on his face. Clive Barcroft felt Brent's eyes upon him, and hastily rearranged his face into a serious expression.

"Would you care to share your thoughts with us, Constable Grey," asked DI Brent frostily, "don't be coy Constable, let's hear your words of wisdom."

Barbara Grey flushed deeply crimson but answered steadily enough,

"I just wondered if she had knitted a noose to hang them with, Sir," she explained, "she had all sorts in that workroom of hers, a knitted clock, dolls all sorts. It seems to be something she's comfortable with, knitting I mean, and she seems to have quite an imagination........."

She trailed off as the senior officer gazed at her. She was already in his bad books having let Hopkins escape, was she digging a deeper hole to bury herself in?

"That Constable, is a very astute observation. Sergeant", Brent turned to Claire Naylor, "get on to Forensics and see if there were any fibres present on the wounds. If there are, we'll need to match them up with the yarn in the workroom. We'll get all of that bagged and labelled."

He swung back towards Barbara,

"Excellent, Constable. If you get any more bright ideas, share them with all of us not just your partner. This is a serious investigation and I welcome ideas from any of you."

He let his gaze travel over the group of officers,

"Don't be shy, I'll not bite your heads off. This woman has a natural cunning and the luck of the devil. We need to be as shrewd as she is. We nearly caught her this morning. Apparently she spent last night at the Journey Lodge in Midchester but she's disappeared again."

Barcroft nudged Barbara's arm and gave her a quick wink. She let out a sigh of relief. If only she could redeem herself further in the DI's estimation.

Chapter 6

Hilda left her shopping trolley in the hall while she examined her new quarters. The master bedroom was at the front of the bungalow, together with a smaller bedroom obviously used as a guest room. To the back was an even tinier room, Hilda reckoned it was smaller even than the box room she used as a workroom back in Melody Crescent. This room had been turned into a small office cum study. Hilda decided she would sleep in the spare bedroom, she wouldn't feel comfortable using the young couple's bed. The two comfortable looking single beds were already made up, it was ideal. The bathroom held a bath as well as a shower. Hilda inspected the range of toiletries in the cabinet. She would have a lovely long soak before bedtime.

The living room was at the rear of the bungalow, overlooking a long garden fringed by a high Leylandi hedge. Hilda pulled the heavy curtains across the windows, it was as well to be cautious she thought. She went through to the kitchen. The fridge was well stocked, plus there was a freezer and a cupboard full of tins and packets. There was also a microwave oven. Hilda looked at this askance and quickly pulled its plug out of the wall socket. She turned the kettle on, selected a mug from a cupboard and found the tea bags. She would make a nice cup of tea, and take the chance to relax before planning for the next stage of her escape.

Once she had finished her tea and washed the mug, Hilda went on a proper tour of inspection of the premises. She poked amongst the papers in the study. There was a state of the art computer sitting on a small desk next to a filing cabinet. Hilda turned it on. She was fairly competent with computers, she had a small home one which she used to keep track of goods on EBay, plus she belonged to a number of on-line knitting groups. She left the computer humming quietly to itself while she sorted through the drawers in the desk and the filing cabinet. Her search turned up a credit card in the name of Susan Morris, and several papers with the name Brian Morris.

Morris, that was something of a coincidence, Hilda's third gentleman had been a Mr Morris, Vernon Morris, she did hope he wasn't a relative of these people, although Morris was a fairly common name. She didn't really know much about her Mr Morris. The man had only been at Merrydown Crescent for about ten days when Hilda had given him a mickey finn in the form of valerian tablets. He had complained of a headache, and Hilda had offered him the tablets, telling him they were a herbal analgesic which would send him to sleep and cure his headache. She had omitted to mention that he wouldn't be waking up again.

He'd obediently swallowed the tablets, drunk his hot chocolate and drifted peaceably off to sleep. Hilda had strangled him with another home made garrotte. Her reason for getting rid of him so quickly was quite simple. She didn't want to get fond of him. She had quite enjoyed the company of Mr Smith, and had felt a genuine pang of remorse when he had died. Mr Bartlett had simply been a nuisance, always complaining, never satisfied. He had actually dared to criticise her cooking. In Hilda's opinion he wasn't worth keeping. Mr Smith had always eaten anything put in front of him. Mr Morris had all the makings of a quiet, compatible guest. It would be a wrench if she grew to like him and then had to do away with him. This way had been much better. He was gone, buried in the coal cellar next to Mr Bartlett. He hadn't suffered, and she had yet another bank account to plunder.

Hilda went back into the master bedroom. She had noticed a collection of photographs on the dressing tables. There were a couple of wedding photographs with them, and Hilda studied the faces of the families intently. There was no one amongst them with any resemblance to her Mr Morris. From what she could tell, this branch of the Morris family tended to run to sturdily built amongst their men folk. Hilda's penchant was for small, frail and slight in her paying guests, they were easier to dispose of.

She wandered back into the living room and flicked on the television. She would be in time for Weakest Link, she liked that. She would sit and shout the answers at the screen, she was in point of fact very clever with general knowledge questions, and she nearly always got them right. She would like to take part on the show, she was sure she could beat Ann Robinson at her own game when it came to trading insults, but she knew that she wouldn't be able to cope if she was voted off as a Weakest Link. And they would reject her at an early stage. She had seen it happen before, someone who was clever and intelligent and knew lots of general knowledge was soon voted off in tactical voting. All of the other contestants would quickly realise she was the best and get rid of her. She settled back, glancing at the clock. Five fifteen. Just in time. The TV screen flickered and the sports results came on. What? Of course, it was Saturday. Hilda had lost track of the days in her headlong flight.

She simply sat there for several minutes, staring blankly at the screen. Sport held no interest for her but she realised she was very tired, too languid to do much. Eventually boredom roused her into action. She jabbed at the remote control and changed channels just as the adverts came on. The first one was for an on-line fashion catalogue, the advertiser was exhorting customers to buy before 9pm tonight for delivery on the next working day. Hilda perked up and gazed intently at the web address, her lips working soundlessly as she repeated it to herself. She went through to the study, the computer was still on, in sleep mode. She pressed enter and it sprang into life. She quickly typed in the catalogue address and studied the screen intently. A plan was forming in her mind. She remembered the disdain in which the waitress at the tearooms had held her as she had sat at the table in her dowdy brown woollen coat. She needed to look the part she was playing, that of a well off mature woman, out and about on her travels.

Hilda let the cursor move over the pages of the catalogue. At first, out of habit, she looked for the cheapest articles. It took her several minutes to realise that she could choose anything she wanted, she wouldn't be paying for them herself. Hilda had a good eye for colour and style, and she soon chose several stunning outfits and dresses. She moved onto lingerie, she needed more than one change of underwear, and she could get herself a couple of those expensive girdles, give herself a bit of shape. Hilda was wise enough to know that her figure could best be described as dumpy. What else? A couple of pairs of shoes, some comfortable slippers and a decent sized handbag. Hilda usually liked to try shoes on when she bought them but she would just have to risk it this time. If they didn't fit, she would leave them behind for Susan Morris as a thank you for your hospitality gift.

She scrolled through the pages until she found a page dedicated to luggage. She chose a large wheeled suitcase in a cheerful red tartan, she did like tartan, and it had a matching overnight case. Everything would fit nicely in there. She carefully filled out the checkout details with Susan Morris's credit card details and hotmail address. Susan had left her account on "remember me" and "remember my password" so all Hilda had to do was open the emails, and get the confirmation that her order would arrive the next working day. That would be Monday morning, there would be no deliveries round here on a Sunday. Hilda wondered if Susan Morris was usually so lax with her computer security, or whether the excitement of a surprise holiday had knocked everything else out of the young woman's head?

Chapter 7

Barbara Grey parked her car in the car park of the Journey Lodge hotel, and contemplated the façade of the building. This was where the Hopkins woman had slept the night before last. Sunday was Barbara's rest day this week, but she knew she wouldn't be able to settle to anything at home. Barcroft was lucky, she thought, he had his wife and children to distract him, and he wasn't in DI Brent's bad books either. She allowed her mind to wander for a few moments. She really fancied her team partner Clive Barcroft, but he was a married man. Happily married too by the snippets of information he let slip. She had to be careful not to let her heart rule her head. No good would come of starting an affair, even if he felt the same way as she did which hardly seemed likely.

Barbara was ambitious, and the shock she had had on Friday when Hilda Hopkins had escaped had seriously rattled her. She had come within a hair's breadth of suspension. Consequently she was prepared to give up her own free time to see if she could track the woman down. It would feel so wonderful to apprehend her. This was personal now.

Barbara wondered which way Hilda Hopkins would have left the hotel. By all accounts she hadn't left by the lobby, she had disappeared while the police officers were in Reception. Barbara frowned resentfully, she bet they hadn't been reprimanded, just commiserated with for their bad luck. She was thankful it hadn't been her though, not a second time.

She locked her car and walked round the side of the building. There was a door along there, but when Barbara tried it, it was locked. It may have been open yesterday though, perhaps when the chambermaids were cleaning the rooms. Barbara walked across the car park, avoiding the front of the building. She scrambled over the low wall with considerably less grace than Hilda had shown, and looked up and down the street. If Hopkins had come this way, which way would she have turned? Well there were only two choices, left or right. She would follow both routes, work her way round from both directions.

Barbara strode purposefully down the road, looking about her keenly. She had no idea what she was looking for, she doubted that the woman would suddenly appear in front of her, she just wanted to try and see if she could retrace some of her steps. Barbara walked down the road, past a café and plunged into the small streets leading down to the canal. There weren't many people around, certainly there was no sign of her quarry. She came out on the tow path of the canal. They'd found Mr Johnson in the canal. He had floated up from the bottom of the lock much to the consternation of a passing jogger. It was that which had kick started the whole investigation once they had identified the man and discovered the address where he had been living. A plastic driving licence had slipped down through the torn lining of his pocket. Hilda had obviously missed that when she had dumped Mr Johnson's body in the water.

Hilda had been out when the police had first knocked at her front door, but the next door neighbour had said that there seemed to be a new man there nearly every week just lately. All elderly, all lodgers of "that Hopkins woman, interfering old cow that she is" as the neighbour had bitterly described her.

Well she was not likely to have swum down the canal reflected Barbara. She couldn't imagine the old biddy rowing herself away in a boat either, the woman was no spring chicken after all. A movement caught her eye, and she watched as a barge chugged slowly up the canal and spluttered to a standstill. Barbara walked briskly towards it, taking in the fact that canal barge trips took place from here. She waited while the crew went through their mooring manoeuvres, before approaching a young man who had just leapt onto the tow path. She flashed her warrant card and asked if she could have a word.

The man eyed her warily, and gave a perfunctory nod.

"I'm looking for an elderly lady who has gone walk about," explained Barbara, "I wondered if you'd seen anyone like that on your boat yesterday? Female, elderly, a bit plump, grey hair?"

"We get a lot like that, this time of year," replied the boatman, "it's a popular run from here to Neston. We did have some elderly folk on the boat yesterday, but I couldn't say if your old lady was definitely amongst them."

"Neston? Is that the first stop?"

"It's the only stop, we don't go any farther down the canal than Neston. Just there and back again, not the most exciting journey in the world but it's a good little earner during the summer months."

Barbara thanked him, and stood contemplating the water. It would make sense, Hilda Hopkins could have left Midchester on the boat easily enough. The police were watching the railway station and the bus station, but apparently no-one had considered the canal. She might be on to something. She needed to tread warily though, she didn't want to draw D I Brent's attention to her again too soon, especially if she was mistaken. She made up her mind, she would drive to Neston, and have a look around there. If nothing else, it would be a nice trip out into the countryside.

Hilda had finished her lunch, washed everything up and replaced it all where it came from. Apart from the inroads into the food, she was keen to leave no trace of her incursion. Hopefully the Morris's would either not notice the missing items, or would think that that Mrs O'Grady, the woman who cleaned for them was responsible. Hilda had no scruples about ruining another woman's honest reputation.

She returned to the small study. She had the glimmerings of an idea for moving on from here. The owners would be back by the end of the week, she mustn't get too comfortable. Tomorrow her new clothes would arrive, so maybe by Wednesday, or Thursday at the latest she should be on her way elsewhere.

Hilda looked up coach trips for the over fifties. She came across one company who advertised tailor made trips. They were quite expensive. Their speciality was to collect their customers from home and ferry them to a central meeting point to join the coach before setting off to various venues. Hilda checked the timetable and discovered there was a coach this coming Tuesday. It was a circular tour, taking in several famous gardens and Houses and included a two day visit to Danemouth, a pretty coastal resort. Hilda quite liked gardens, she had worked hard at Merrydown Crescent in order to make sure her front garden was always in immaculate order. The back garden had been something of a wilderness, but that had been all the better when she needed somewhere to bury her paying guests. A grave in the middle of her front lawn would surely have excited comment, even from her dull neighbours.

And this trip included a visit to the seaside, that would be wonderful. It had been years since Hilda had had a seaside holiday. She carefully gathered all the stuff she thought she would need, credit card, hotmail address, the postcode for this bungalow, and reached for the phone. She dialled the customer services number shown on the screen, and enquired about trips to Danemouth.

"Actually we do have one cancellation for this Tuesday," said the helpful voice on the other end of the phone, "you are lucky, madam, someone dropped out at the last minute. It's not a direct journey to Danemouth, more of a circular tour with Danemouth included, and it's not a window seat I'm afraid, but if you are interested........?"

Hilda was very interested. She booked the seat in the name of Susan Morris, paid the amount asked, on Susan's credit card, and gave the address for the taxi pick up.

"It'll be a very early start, Mrs Morris," explained the caller, "the taxi will call for you at six thirty on Tuesday morning. Will you be able to manage that?"

Hilda assured her that she would be up and ready in plenty of time........

Chapter 8

Barbara Grey had never visited Neston before. It wasn't really on the way to anywhere, and it was out of her own patrol area. She found a parking space easily enough, near the passage which led down to the canal. The place looked very sleepy. Barbara strolled down the main street. There were two tearooms, "The Singing Canary" and "The Willow Tree Tea Room". Both were closed. Barbara checked the opening times. The Singing Canary would be open from 2pm, but the Willow Tree was closed all day on Sundays. Would it be worth while waiting until 2pm she wondered? What would she do round here for the better part of two hours?

She walked on down the road. There was a hall, with a ripped poster on the outside wall announcing that there had been a jumble sale there on the previous day. Several black bags were piled neatly to one side of the door. Unsaleable jumble waiting to go to the dump she supposed.

There was a flurry of movement ahead of her. Barbara hurried across the street. People were streaming out of the church, evidently it was the end of the morning service. The vicar stood in the doorway of the church, shaking hands with his parishioners. Three choir boys, still in their surplices were chasing around the gravestones.

"How very English," the thought popped unbidden into Barbara's mind.

The vicar broke the spell by shouting at the boys to go back inside the church. Barbara gave herself a mental shake. She wasn't here sightseeing. All the time she was scanning the faces of the women as they passed through the lych-gate, although she doubted if Hilda Hopkins would have the gall to enter a church considering what she had been up to.

There was no sign of her. Barbara returned to her car and drove around the village. It didn't take long, it was a very small village. There appeared to be no hotel here, but the local Inn advertised rooms to let on a board next to the door of the Public Bar. Barbara went in and flashed her warrant card at the landlord. This wasn't really her jurisdiction, but it would be such a feather in her cap if she tracked the miserable woman down.

There was no-one staying there though, no-one at all, and they hadn't had any guests for some time. The landlord explained that although they had the board up advertising rooms, they didn't actively seek guests, he felt they were often more trouble than they were worth. There was a nice B & B in the village, Wisteria Lodge, he normally tried to steer any would be guests in that direction.

Barbara took the address of Wisteria Lodge and followed the directions the landlord had given her. The Lodge turned out to be a large chalet bungalow in a road of smaller bungalows. Barbara rang the doorbell and was shown into a neat sitting room by a middle aged man who gave his name as Mr Hartley. Barbara flashed her warrant card, and explained that she was concerned about the whereabouts of an elderly lady who had gone missing. Without actually saying so, Barbara gave the impression that the old lady suffered from memory loss, Alzheimer's and dementia hung unspoken in the air between them.

"Can't help you, I'm afraid m'dear," replied Hartley, regretfully, "we've got a Mr and Mrs Broome staying here at the moment. They are from the States and are over here looking for their roots. Well Mrs Broome's roots actually. Mrs Broome's ancestors were from around here apparently. The other room is vacant just now. Would you care to see it?"

He was obviously proud of his home, and Barbara accepted the invitation to look round. The single bedroom was made up, ready for its next guest, a pretty room looking out over a garden overshadowed by high hedges. The double bedroom next door showed signs of occupancy by two people. Hilda could not have acquired a partner and an American accent in the space of two days. Asked, Mr Hartley said that the couple had been staying here since Wednesday last, so that was that.

Barbara thanked the man for his hospitality and returned to her car. Maybe Hopkins hadn't travelled to Neston on the barge, or if she had, she had continued her journey elsewhere under her own steam in some way. This definitely seemed to be a dead end, unless, she thought with a grim smile, the wretched woman had slept amongst the tombstones last night. Barbara accelerated down the street, passing the bungalow, three doors away from Wisteria Lodge, where Hilda Hopkins was settled on the Morris's sofa, a plate of biscuits to hand, watching one of her favourite films on the television.

Chapter 9

Hilda was up bright and early on Tuesday morning. She had spent the previous day making sure that she had left no obvious signs of her stay. The credit card had been returned to its place, and the history on the computer had been cleared. All the emails to Susan regarding the clothing and other purchases, plus the information about her planned coach trip had been deleted. Hilda had stripped the bed and washed the sheets before stuffing them into the tumble dryer. She slept on the bare mattress that night, and remade the bed in the morning. The sitting room had been hoovered, the curtains opened, while all the crockery she had used was washed and stacked neatly in the wall unit where she had found it. The cutlery too had been cleaned and replaced in its drawer. She even managed to plug the microwave oven back in, although she shuddered as she did so. Hilda had a genuine though irrational fear of microwaves.

Hilda had packed her old clothes along with the new. It had crossed her mind they might be useful at some point as a disguise. She looked at the shopping trolley she had bought at the jumble sale. She wouldn't be able to take that as well, she only had one pair of hands. Regretfully Hilda took the thing to bits and stuffed all the pieces into a black bag, together with the odd remainders of food that she had purloined. With a bit of luck, the Morris's wouldn't realise that anything was missing from their kitchen. The black bag went out with the bins, it would be long gone before the Morris's returned at the end of the week. As to the purchases on the credit card, hopefully if the woman received a monthly statement, it would be another three weeks before she noticed the extra spending on there.

Hilda Hopkins was neatly dressed in a powder blue suit whose colour suited her perfectly. The girdle had made all the difference to the fit, and she looked quite elegant in her smart new shoes and matching handbag.

Hilda lurked by the front door, listening for the taxi. As soon as she heard it draw up at the front gate, she let herself out, slipped the key back under the flowerpot and met the driver halfway down the path. He took her luggage from her, and opened the door so that she could settle herself in the back seat. Hilda smiled grimly to herself. What a difference the hint of money, and nice clothes made to people's attitudes.

She settled back in the seat as the taxi set off. A holiday, a real little holiday, just what she needed after all the stress and excitement she'd experienced lately. She dipped her head and gazed at her lap as two police cars swept past on the other side of the road, heading into Neston.

"Unusual to see two of them around here," muttered the driver, glancing into his driving mirror, "wonder where they are off to?"

"They are like buses," replied Hilda brightly, "you wait ages for one, then two come along together."

The driver laughed appreciatively as he changed gears before tackling the steep hill which took them out of Neston.

Chapter 10

Barbara Grey picked up her breakfast tray and looked around the crowded police canteen. Over in the far corner Detective Constable Graham Perkins sat alone at a table. Barbara wended her way across to him.

"Can I join you? This place is choc a block today."

Perkins glanced up and nodded.

"Feel free Barbara. Clive not with you?"

"He'll be along in a few minutes, he's just sorting something out."

Perkins looked at Barbara, with her clear skin and softly waved auburn hair she would make an ideal model for a police recruitment poster he thought.

Barbara stirred her coffee wondering how she would bring up the subject of Hilda Hopkins and her own thoughts about Neston.

"So," Perkins groped for something to say, "how was your weekend? Do anything interesting."

It was the perfect opening.

"I had a potter around Midchester, down by the canal. They have barge trips from there, they cruise up to Neston and back. I thought I'd mention it to Clive."

"Oh yes," grinned Perkins.

Barbara scowled at him.

"So that he can take Lillian and the kids for a day out. He is a married man, Graham. Children love boats, and that would be something a bit different. It's not expensive either."

Perkins coloured and mumbled something incoherent.

Clive Barcroft arrived at the table.

"Room for a little one? Hi Graham, how's it going?"

He sat down and the two men started a conversation about United's performance the previous Saturday. Barbara ate her bacon sandwich, wondering if the seed she had planted in Perkins' mind would grow into something definite. Would he pass on the tip about the canal trips to Claire Naylor, or even Detective Inspector Brent?

Chapter 11

The taxi had stopped by a long coach drawn up outside The Royal Oak on the outskirts of Midchester, and the driver informed Hilda that they had arrived at the departure point. He carried her luggage across to the coach for her and saw it safely stowed away in the hold. Hilda wasn't sure whether she was supposed to tip the driver or not. The trip was expensive and he presumably got paid for each trip he did, so she decided she wouldn't bother. Hilda still had her sense of frugality despite the roll of notes secreted in her new handbag.

The courier swooped down to greet her.

"Hello there, my name is Hazel, and I'm here to make your journey as comfortable as possible. Anything you need, you must just ask."

She was dressed in a bottle green and gold suit that matched the livery of the coach. Hilda thought it very tasteful, if a little old fashioned looking.

"I don't have a ticket," said Hilda, "I was told to quote 10372?"

"Oh yes, Mrs Morris, you are our last minute replacement." Hazel gave a tinkling laugh. "I'll show you your seat; you'll be sitting with Miss Leverson."

Hilda didn't much care who she would be sitting with so long as she was on the coach and away from the road. Despite her little joke, she was a little unsettled by the two police cars which she had seen heading into Neston.

Hazel bustled along the aisle of the coach, prattling away, and Hilda followed her. Her seat she found was about halfway down the coach, and she saw a small mousey woman already ensconced in the window seat, reading through a brochure.

"Here's our new passenger," said Hazel gaily, "I'm sure you two will get on famously."

Her smile faltered slightly at the expression on Hilda's face. Hilda realised she had to keep up the pretence of a well to do, and presumably well mannered lady. She stiffly moved her features into the semblance of a smile, confessed to being tired, not used to such an early start, and agreed that the coming excursion sounded very exciting.

Hazel retreated towards the front of the coach in search of more new passengers and Hilda settled herself in her seat. Her neighbour was still engrossed in the brochure. Hilda gazed past her into the street.

Another taxi had arrived. A woman with a blue rinse that was nearly purple disembarked, calling out to someone still in the back seat. The taxi rocked slightly as the occupant moved across the seat and backed out before standing up and looking around him.

Hilda gave an audible gasp and clutched at her breast. The man was the image of Mr Tompkins. But he was safely buried in the earth behind her shed in Merrydown Crescent...... well probably not now, the police wouldn't have left him there, he'd be in the mortuary by now. Hilda leaned forward slightly. No, this man was taller than Mr Tompkins, but the similarity was marked. Mr Tompkins had had a small moustache, much like that worn by David Niven, a toothbrush moustache, but this man was clean shaven.

Hilda strained her ears to catch the name of the couple. Hazel was escorting them down the coach to a seat a few rows behind Hilda.

"You are by the window, Mrs Toddington-Smythe, Mr Toddington-Smythe you have the aisle seat."

Toddington-Smythe, so not Tompkins, but just take the moustache off Mr Tompkins' effigy, and it would do for this man too! Hilda had had something of a fright, she gave herself a little shake and giggled quietly to herself. Miss Leverson in the next seat looked at her in alarm.

"Sorry, just thinking about something funny," murmured Hilda, "private joke."

She'd had a bit of trouble with that moustache of Mr Tompkins'. She'd tried embroidering it onto his face at first, but it came out too bushy. She carefully snipped the pieces of thread away and tried again, using smaller stitches. This time she was left with an aging Adolf Hitler. The small square moustache and the lick of hair falling across the forehead had given the man an uncanny resemblance to the late German Dictator. In the end she had used a fine permanent marker just to hint at the facial hair.

In character Mr Tompkins couldn't have been farther away from the despot though. He had been a very quietly spoken man, calm and unruffled, no histrionics. Not that Hilda had known him for very long. This one had only lasted five days, he had hardly had chance to get his feet under the table. It had been his own fault of course ruminated Hilda. She had found him in the back garden, poking around the back of the shed. Mr Abbott was already there, about three foot under the ground, and Hilda's heart had thumped uncomfortably in her chest as Mr Tompkins surveyed the area of dug earth.

She had made up a tale that she wanted to have a patio out here, perhaps change the shed for a summerhouse, and have barbecues during the long summer evenings. Mr Tompkins had nodded thoughtfully, before stirring the ground with his toe.

Hilda had shivered slightly, and commented that there was a chill in air this evening; Mr Tompkins should really come indoors, he would catch his death out here. Obediently Mr Tompkins had turned and followed Hilda into the kitchen. And that was where he had caught his death before accompanying Mr Abbott behind the garden shed. Hilda settled back comfortably as the excursion began.

The coach swept into the car park of King's Abbott Manor House and the passengers were disgorged. Hazel, the cheerful courier, swiftly divided her charges into two groups, those who were going to do the House, and those who wanted to roam around the gardens. Hilda joined the latter group, alongside her travelling companion, Miss Leverson. Each group moved off, and Hilda quickly left the others to wander off by herself. She came across a bench overlooking the rose garden, with the mellow pile of the Manor House just beyond, and sat down to enjoy the view.

King's Abbott. Her Mr Abbott had been quite kingly, she thought, he had had a regal air about him. It was the way he held himself, despite his advanced years he had something of a military bearing, straight backed, brisk in manner. Although a short man, below average height, he appeared taller, there had been a presence about him. He had kept himself beautifully turned out too. Hilda had scented money when she first interviewed him. Once he had moved in, he set up an ironing board in his bedroom, and spent a lot of his time pressing his shirts and trousers so that they were impeccable. Hilda kept a clean and tidy house, but ironing was something she abhorred. She very rarely bothered, choosing clothes that were fairly crease resistant and could simply be washed and dried and worn again.

Hilda had planned in advanced for the disposal of Mr Abbott. The coal hole was full up now that she had Mr Bartlett and Mr Morris packed in there.

She didn't want to risk taking another body along the tow path. She had been lucky with Mr Smith, but the risks were really too great. Behind the shed in the corner of Hilda's garden there was a depression in the ground. This was left over from the Second World War and had been the site of the old Anderson shelter now long gone, but there was still something of a hole left. Hilda took her spade and began to dig. It was hard going, but she eventually had a small trench dug.

She didn't encourage her gentlemen to use the garden, and she was taken by surprise when Mr Abbott appeared around the side of the shed and asked her what she was doing. Hilda started, and leaned on her spade, a little breathless.

"I want to pave this bit over," she replied brightly, "make a patio out of it. Perhaps replace the shed with a proper summer house. I thought it would be nice to have a barbecue down here in the summer, away from the houses so that the smoke doesn't waft over."

Hilda had had several acrimonious arguments with her neighbours over the years when smoke from their barbecues had drifted into her sitting room.

"You should get a man in to do that for you," commented Mr Abbott gravely, "you'll do yourself damage Mrs Hopkins, slaving like that at your age."

She'd bridled at the reference to her age, but managed a lop sided though gracious smile as Mr Abbott had reached for the spade, offering to dig over the patch a bit more for her. He'd made a good job of it too, she reflected, despite his own advanced years.

She'd killed him that night. He was already tired from his efforts, and the valerian tablets in his coffee had finished the job, sending him into a deep sleep in his chair. Hilda already had the new garrotte ready and despatched the old man quickly and neatly. It took quite a while to bury him, and she had earth left over when she finished,. She scattered that around the garden rather than leaving it humped over the grave. The ground was still uneven, but it didn't look like an obvious burial site once she had flattened the soil somewhat.

"Isn't it lovely," twittered a voice, "may I sit with you?"

Hilda looked up. It was Miss Leverson, her fellow passenger from the coach. Hilda put her handbag onto her lap and moved her ample hips along the bench, leaving room for the younger woman to sit down. Ideally she would have liked to have told her to go away, but Hilda was aware she mustn't draw any unwonted attention to herself.

They sat there in silence for several minutes, each drinking in the tranquil scene.

"Mother would have liked this," murmured Miss Leverson, "she would have loved poking around in the House."

'Great', thought Hilda, 'I'm saddled with one of the recently bereaved. I do hope she doesn't start weeping and wailing on the coach.'

She decided she had better show some sympathy to the blasted woman.

"I'm so sorry dear, did you lose your mother recently?"

"Oh Mother's not dead!" Miss Leverson looked slightly shocked, "she's eighty-six and determined to get her telegram from the Queen."

"Ahh right, sorry," muttered Hilda, "you didn't think of bringing her with you when your friend dropped out then?"

"Mary was rushed into hospital with appendicitis last week," explained Miss Leverson, "I dare say Mother would have liked to come, but the lady from Social Services said I had to have a break from caring. They've arranged for Mother to stay in a nice nursing home while I'm away."

For a moment she looked wistful.

"And then she'll come back once I'm home. I daresay she'll be a bit awkward for a while afterwards, she doesn't like change much, but I intend enjoying this holiday. I just wish Mary's appendix had held out a bit longer."

Hilda's mind had been working. The police were looking for a lone elderly woman. She could use this woman as camouflage. The police wouldn't take that much notice of a pair of women pottering about the place. How to reel her in though. Hilda had had very few friends during her life, and wasn't sure how to attract them. Perhaps the sympathy card?

"I'm on my own too," confided Hilda, "I er lost my husband years and years ago, and we weren't blessed with children." She paused before adding "maybe we could go round the House together?"

"That would be lovely," beamed Miss Leverson, "What shall I call you, my name's Lettice."

"Lettuce? I've not heard of that as a name before, is it a nick name?"

"Lettice with an "I"" replied Miss Leverson ruefully, "the girls at school used to call me Lettuce Leaf. Mary calls me Lettie. I know you are Mrs Morris, what's your first name?"

"Hil....." began Hilda, hastily amending it to "Hilary. I used to be called Hilly when I was younger."

She had a sudden vision of her five year old self being swung up in the strong arms of her father. He had been a giant bear of a man.

"Up, up and away, little Hilly, and over the mountain." He would dangle her over his shoulders as he said this, her nose pressed against his back, secure in the knowledge that she wouldn't be dropped.

She'd gone to school as usual one day, and a strange lady had come in at lunch time to take her to stay at the local children's home for a few days. When Hilda had returned home, her mother had told her that Daddy had gone to live with the angels, and that had been that. She'd learned years later that he had had a sudden fatal heart attack.

"I'll call you Hilly then," replied Lettie, who was bending down fiddling with the strap on her sandals and missed the expression on Hilda's face. "These are new and they are rubbing my foot a bit."

"Pour some hot water through them when we get to the hotel tonight, that'll soften them."

Hilda stood up and started to make her way towards the House with Lettie trailing in her wake.

Chapter 12

There was a choice of activities the next morning. Either a visit to the mediaeval church, or a chance to spend some time pottering around the shops. Hilda didn't want to go to the church, shopping held much more appeal for her. Lettie was undecided, and was prattling away trying to balance the pros and cons of a historic walk against the pleasures of shopping.

Hilda ignored her, she was too busy reading the newspaper. Her little gentlemen had made the nationals. There weren't any photographs of the dolls, but there was a picture of her house under the caption "Boarding House of Horrors." Boarding house, where had they got that from? It was a normal house with paying guests, one gentleman at a time too, it wasn't a bed and breakfast hotel, just bed and burial, Hilda giggled at her little joke. Lettie looked across the breakfast table and asked Hilly what was she reading?

"Just bits and pieces in the paper," replied Hilda. Lettie craned her neck to see the page.

"Oooh, I saw that on the news, isn't it dreadful? That woman must be a real monster. I'm so glad we're not going anywhere near that place, Hilly, Mother wouldn't like it if she thought I was exposed to that sort of thing."

Hilda frowned. "Mother wouldn't like it" was a frequent remark from Lettie. During the journey Lettie had confided to Hilda that she had never married because Mother hadn't considered that any of Lettie's young men were "suitable". Besides, Mother had said, an only daughter's place was at her mother's side, looking after her needs, time enough for dalliances once Mother was gone. Hilda had been amazed that anyone should think like that in this day and age. Hilda had always gone her own way, done what she wanted to do and blow anyone else's needs. It wasn't often that Hilda considered the idiosyncrasies of others, other than to work out how to use them for her own purposes, but she suspected that poor mousey Lettie had spent her life trying to please Mama, and the sad thing was, she would never succeed.

"Well it's certainly not the sort of thing I would expect to happen in Neston," replied Hilda, remembering that she was supposed to come from there, "ours is a respectable neighbourhood."
Chapter 13

The respectable neighbourhood was undergoing door by door enquiries by the police. Barbara Grey's seemingly casual comment to Detective Constable Perkins had borne fruit. Perkins had indeed passed on the information about the canal trips to Claire Naylor and John Brent, once told, had ordered the search area to be widened. Claire had shown Hilda's photograph, now enhanced with grey rather than brown hair, to the waitress in "The Willow Tree Tea Rooms". The girl, Bryony Fraser had havered for several minutes, saying she really couldn't say, she really wasn't sure, but there had been a woman in there on Saturday...... not quite their usual clientele, she had been wearing a coat which smelt faintly of mothballs, a brown woollen coat, completely unsuitable for the time of year, and a woolly hat. Claire had felt quietly triumphant. This matched the description that they had obtained from the Reception staff at the Journey Lodge.

"She looked like a bag lady. She had this awful shopping trolley. A sort of blue pattern I think, stuffed with all sorts of rubbish by the look of it. She left me 10p for a tip, I'd have thought better of her if she'd left nothing. 10p," the girl sniffed, "it's an insult. What do you want her for anyway?"

"We are pursuing enquiries," said Claire vaguely, "and we think she can help. Did you see where she went when she left here?"

"Sorry, I was just thankful to have her out of here. She had a sort of, I dunno, a sort of presence that was a bit malevolent. That sounds a bit melodramatic I know," she smiled, "I just wasn't comfortable somehow, I couldn't put my finger on it, just a feeling, you know? A sort of charisma in reverse."

Claire nodded, "woman's intuition. That's a useful instinct you have there, Bryony, hang on to it."

Chapter 14

Hilda had persuaded Lettie to forego the church visit and come shopping with her. Not that she particularly wanted Lettie's company, but once again she considered that two women out shopping would attract less interest than a lone shopper. The police, so far as she knew, were still looking for a solitary pensioner.

They were in a large newsagents shop. Lettie was trying to choose a suitable postcard to send to Mother. Apparently the old woman would expect a postcard every day. Hilda had spotted a machine knitting magazine. Should she buy it? Would the police have put out an order for any purchases of machine knitting books to be reported to them? They knew of her hobby after all. Hilda desperately wanted to buy the magazine, but would it be her undoing? She decided to compromise. She glanced around, no-one was looking. She stood and scanned through the pages. Looking at the photographs of the garments, which ones would she like to make, this cardigan perhaps, and that sweater was lovely with the cable detail round the neck.

A full page advertisement caught her eye. "Machine Knitting Exhibition" 10 am to 4pm, to be held at Danemouth Girls' High School." It was this Saturday, the day after tomorrow, and she would be there, in Danemouth. Hilda had attended an Exhibition years ago, in Bristol. It had been a wonderful day out. She hadn't been since, it was too far, but she would go to the Danemouth one this year. This would be her special treat. Hilda slipped the magazine back onto the rack, picked up a gossipy woman's magazine and went across to the till.

The excursion arrived in Danemouth just in time for dinner at their hotel. The porters came out and took charge of the luggage while Hazel sorted out the rooms. Hilda found herself allocated to a small single room at the back of the hotel, overlooking one of the long chines leading down to the beach. By rights she should have been sharing a twin room with Lettie as she had taken over her friend Mary's ticket, but Hazel had managed to get her a room on her own in each hotel they had stayed in so far. Hilda was pleased, she didn't want to share with a stranger, and what would happen if she talked in her sleep? Whether she did this or not she didn't know, but it wasn't safe to take the chance. She could have done away with Lettie if she had had any suspicions of course, another death at her door wouldn't faze her, but it would draw attention to the coach trip, and Hilda really wanted to keep a low profile.

Hilda glanced at the woman dozing in the seat next to her. Lettie really was a very trusting woman. Hilda could easily slip into her room any night and just smother her in her sleep. It had been a couple of weeks now since Hilda had last killed. She loved the thrill that went through her when she felt the spirit leaving the men's bodies. The knowledge that she, Hilda Hopkins, had absolute power over life or death was intoxicating. Lettie's head lolled against Hilda's shoulder and she snored gently. Hilda sat rigidly, hating the feel of another human being in such close proximity to her. Would she risk another killing? Hilda gradually relaxed, probably not; Lettie had been very useful to her in her own innocent and unwitting way. Besides, thought Hilda, with a grim smile, it wouldn't really do for Lettice Leverson to end up as a murder victim, Mother wouldn't like it!

After dinner most of the party retired to the Lounge to watch the television. There was a small segment about the Merrydown Crescent murders. Police enquiries had been extended out to Neston, where there had been a positive sighting of Hilda Hopkins. The Morris's were due back about now. Would they have noticed that anything was amiss in their home?

Hilda needed to make plans. She really wanted to visit the Knitting Machine Exhibition. She would probably be safe for that, they wouldn't have worked out yet where she was. She was far cleverer than they were, she knew that. So, tomorrow she would go to the Exhibition. She would tell Hazel she had been called back home. Some sort of domestic crisis, that would do. She would go along to the railway station and take the first train out to wherever. It would be exciting seeing where she would end up.

She went back up to her room and checked the money in her handbag. There was quite a considerable amount. Hilda sat and cogitated. Eventually she came to a decision. She sorted the money into four lots. Three lots went into plastic bags, the fourth share was returned to her handbag. She slipped downstairs and walked out, heading towards the shopping centre. She bought a child's spade from a souvenir shop and made her way towards the fringes of the town. There were long valleys, called chines, leading down towards the sea.

Hilda dug holes in the side of the chine, and buried each bag of money. She was careful to note landmarks, a gorse bush here, an outcrop of rock there. Once all the money was safely stashed away, she climbed higher up the chine, dug a hole, laid the spade in it, wrapped in a carrier bag, and smoothed the ground back over it. She might not have a spade if she needed to come back and dig up the money, a bit of forethought, that was what was needed. That was what made her a cut above ordinary killers, she was much better at the planning aspect of it all.

Chapter 15

"Sarge, sarge," Barbara Grey hurried into the incident room, waving a brightly coloured magazine, "look at this."

She laid the magazine in front of Claire Naylor. Naylor picked it up.

"It's a knitting mag, so what?" she asked.

"The Hopkins woman. She's into that machine knitting malarkey, look at this," she repeated, opening the magazine at a page with a turned down corner, "there's a convention or Exhibition or something. And it's taking place tomorrow in Danemouth. Anyway, it's a big day out for machine knitters. I bet we'll find her there."

Claire sat back and perused the advertisement.

"She's on the run for multiple murders, is she likely to pop off for a day's knitting?" she asked.

"She's certainly full of herself enough to," replied Barbara, "have there been any other sightings of her Sarge, since Neston?"

"Nothing," admitted Claire, "but how would she have got to Danemouth. It's nearly fifty miles from here?"

"Flew on her broomstick like the old witch she is," suggested Barbara venomously. "I have no idea Sarge, but much as I dislike the woman, I think she would be capable of getting there somehow. You've seen her workroom, she's obviously besotted with the subject. She even made trophies of her victims in knitting. I just feel it's somewhere she would gravitate to."

Claire ran her hand through her short hair and looked at the magazine.

"It's not our jurisdiction, we'll have to get the Danemouth police to stake the place out," decided Claire, "I'll have a word with the boss."

"That won't work," retorted Barbara, "look at the picture." The advertisement showed a crowd of visitors from the previous year's exhibition. The majority of the women ranged from middle aged to elderly, and many of the women had white hair. "She'd disappear amongst that lot, they'd never spot her. Can't we go, we know her."

"Let me speak to the boss," repeated Claire. "We'd have to liaise with the Danemouth lot whichever way we do it. Can't go round stepping on other Forces' toes Barbara."

She looked at the younger woman's anxious face and suggested she went and changed into her uniform for her shift while she spoke to John Brent. Reluctantly Barbara acquiesced. She would have to find Clive Barcroft and tell him all about her idea. They were on lates today so he should be here at any minute.

Claire hadn't returned when it was time for Grey and Barcroft to go out on patrol. Barbara was on tenterhooks. She really felt that they were on to something. She let Barcroft drive, she felt too keyed up to concentrate on driving.

"She needs to be caught Clive. She has to spend the rest of her life in prison, she's just too dangerous to be left out in the community. Surely she must be tired of being on the run, she must know we'll catch up with eventually. I'm just afraid she'll kill again if she gets cornered somewhere. The woman has no conscience."

"Just relax, Barb, I'm sure the Sarge will chat Brent into following up your lead."

"Maybe," replied Barbara, "I just want to be in at the kill!"

Chapter 16

When Hilda walked into the Danemouth Machine Knitting Exhibition, she felt that she had come home. All around her were stalls selling patterns, yarns and all the minutiae of machine knitting. A Fashion Show was advertised for half past one, and there were a couple of workshops later in the afternoon which Hilda decided she would like to attend. She had several hundred pounds in her handbag, the rest of the money was safely stashed away in one of the long chines that dotted the coast around here. A useful little back up if she needed to go on the run again. Hilda was proving to be a quick learner.

She had thought she would have a problem with Lettie. For the past three days the two women had been almost joined at the hip. Hilda found her new companion a little wearing. She was used to doing what she wanted, when she wanted, and she had found cooperating with another person very difficult indeed. Thankfully Lettie had wanted to go on the optional excursion to the Aquarium. Hilda had said that she had no interest in fish, other than on a plate with a mound of chips, well doused in salt and vinegar, and declared her intention of walking around some of the antique shops in Danemouth. She had dutifully waved Lettie off after breakfast and set out to find the venue of the Machine Knitting Exhibition with Lettie's wishes for her to have a good time still ringing in her ears..

Hilda knew she would have to try and find a permanent place to stay so that she could get a new knitting machine. Well a second hand machine of course, but it would be new to her. She really missed her knitting. She could take up hand knitting again in the meantime, but she loved the possibilities that a machine opened up to her. Even if she was just staying in a bed sit she would find room to set one up. It could live in a corner of the room. Her mind buzzed with possibilities.

She strolled around, looking at all the exhibits, handling the fabrics, running her fingers down the cones of yarn to test their softness. She paused by the Knit and Knatter stall where the knitters were sitting working on Dorset buttons. She watched fascinated as one woman picked up a small plastic curtain ring, then deftly covered the edges with blanket stitch. Several spokes of yarn were stretched over the ring before the woman began to weave the yarn in and out, her needle flashing under the light, as she filled in the centre.

'What an excellent idea' thought Hilda. She could make those to match her jackets, instead of searching high and low for buttons of the same colour as the yarn. And what else? Yes, draughts, or checkers as the Americans called the game. If she made twelve white buttons and twelve black ones and knitted a board in black and white squares she could make a travelling draughts game. Hilda liked playing draughts. She had occasionally played the game with some of her gentlemen, those who had managed to stay with her for some weeks of course.

She started to go through the calculations, seven stitches and ten rows to a square inch. She would need a board eight squares long by eight squares wide. One inch wide squares might be a little too small, maybe two inches. That would be one hundred and sixty rows long and fourteen by eight stitches wide. She stood there, engrossed in mental arithmetic. Four eights were thirty-two, add eighty that would be, yes, one hundred and twelve stitches. She would only need to punch out two rows on the punch card, she could lock the card so long as she was careful about changing the colours every twenty rows. If she backed the squares, she could make a pocket to keep the playing pieces in, maybe sew a zip across the top so that the pieces were all kept tidily in place. Hilda was nearly dizzy with delight; her mind was brimming over with ideas.

At the front door, Detective Sergeant Claire Naylor, accompanied by PC Barbara Grey, was speaking earnestly to the Exhibition Organiser. Both women showed their warrant cards, and were ushered through into the main hall. Two officers from the local Force stayed on guard by the front entrance.

Hilda had wandered away from the Knit and Knatter stall. She headed towards a small room just off the Main Hall. One of the helpers was beavering away at a tuck stitch lace scarf on a machine similar to the one which Hilda had used. She looked up at Hilda and smiled.

"Would you like to have a go?" she asked cheerfully.

Hilda changed places with her with alacrity. She looked at the punch card, and the set up of the needles, looking to see which needles were out of work to form the "holes" of the lace, and which were set to tuck the yarn to give a delicate ruffled appearance. She lovingly took hold of the carriage handle, and in a single smooth, fluid movement pushed the carriage across the needle bed. It felt so good. Hilda swung into the familiar rhythm, passing the carriage back and forth, not too far, but making sure she cleared the edge of the stitches. The scarf grew in length in front of her eyes. She must make a note of the needle set up and the number of the punchcard that was being used, this was a lovely pattern, it would be a useful addition to her library.

A hand gripped Hilda's shoulder as Detective Sergeant Claire Naylor recited the Police Caution.............

"Hilda Beatrice Hopkins, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Albert Johnson and there may be other charges to follow...... You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court, anything you do say may be given in evidence."

Hilda's hand shot out and grasped a large ribber weight sitting on the table behind the knitting machine. Like a flash she snatched it up and dropped it onto Claire Naylor's foot.

The Detective Sergeant let out a squawk of anguish and hopped back, bending down to try and clutch at her injured foot. Hilda sprang out of her chair and sprinted towards the door with a surprising turn of speed for someone of her age and stature.

PC Barbara Grey stepped into the doorway and seized hold of Hilda's arm, snapping a pair of handcuffs onto one wrist, before twisting the woman's other arm to complete the action, pinioning her arms effectively behind her. Claire Naylor had taken the seat which Hilda had so rapidly vacated. Grey grinned over Hilda's shoulder,

"You okay Sarge?"

"I think my big toe is broken," replied Naylor through gritted teeth. "Give Barcroft a call on your radio, Barbara, get him in here to give us a hand. You can drop me at Casualty on the way to the Station."

Flanked by Constables Barcroft and Grey, Hilda Hopkins was escorted out to the waiting police car. A crowd of people had abandoned the Exhibition to come out and gawp as the trio made their way across the car park, with Detective Sergeant Naylor limping in the rear.

As the back door of the car was opened, Hilda looked round haughtily at the onlookers. A line from one of her favourite Fu Manchu films came into her mind. She drew herself up to her full five foot four inches and announced in stentorian tones....

"The world shall hear of me again."

###

The world does indeed hear of Hilda Hopkins again in 'Hilda Hopkins, Bed &Burial', wherever excellent machine knitting can be found and great books are sold!

About The Author

Vivienne Fagan lives in London with her husband and middle son and a knitting machine of her own. She makes the lifelike dolls that feature on the cover while hatching plots for Hilda to put into action. After serving in the Intelligence Corps in 1960s Germany, Vivienne spent the next few decades sorting out the nation's enemies from somewhere rather hush hush. Her crime thrillers are a mix of black comedy, authentic police procedurals, secret service spycraft and of course, machine knitting!

