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working on the paper, I get to hear the gossip.
    Tina is slim, chic and perfectly packaged. A regular Barbie doll. She favours pastel trouser suits, with toning shoes and handbag, and wears her long straight hair tied back by a chiffon scarf which always, but always, matches her outfit. That some women devote vast chunks of their time and energy to their appearance never ceases to amaze me. I keep a couple of decent outfits for work – today I am in a black skirt suit with a lavender sweater and high heels. In all modesty, I have good legs and high heels are a vanity. If you’ve got it, why not flaunt it? But I would never go schlepping from one shop to another in search of a handbag to match the exact shade of a dress and, at home, I’m a slob. Tina Kincaid won’t be a slob. She’ll wear smart casual and full make-up, not pad around barefoot with a shiny face, clad in fraying chain store jeans.
    ‘However,’ Beryl went on, ‘the other chaps backed Peter up. Confirmed Duncan had indeed taken four shots, but said four was excellent, to be applauded. Still Duncan insisted he’d only had three. When Peter tried to explain that he was mistaken, Duncan swore. Told him to –’ she lowered her voice and I needed to strain to hear ‘– eff off and go stuff himself, and waved his five-iron around as if he intended to batter them all.’
    ‘For heaven’s sake!’ exclaimed her companion.
    ‘Then, all of a sudden, Duncan dropped to his knees and fell forward. One of the other chaps was Frank Carr, you know him, the doctor, now retired. He diagnosed a heart attack and asked Peter to summon an ambulance on his mobile. It’s a Nokia, top of the range. You can send and receive emails on it. And there’s an FM radio, plus digital music player. But it was too late. A minute or so later, Frank pronounced that the silly old fool was dead.’ Placing her empty wine glass on a side table, Beryl repositioned a bucket-sized handbag on her arm. ‘I suppose I’d better pay my respects. Do excuse me.’
    As she made her way through the crowd – pausing to greet people, tracking the waiter to demand another glass of wine, helping herself to three prawn florets from the buffet table – I followed by a more circuitous route. Having eavesdropped this far, I wasn’t going to miss out on what came next. You could say I was being nosey, though I prefer to think of it as the journalistic drive. As I wove my way through I needed to briefly acknowledge, and avoid, several people in the throng. Though I saw that Councillor Vetch, who had seen me, kept his distance. Could Eric have warned him of my suspicions?
    Ron Vetch, who exudes a persistent bonhomie, claims to be a devoted family man. His election literature always carries a photograph of him with his wife and four children, arms around each other and smiling brightly. Yet I have been reliably informed that he treats his wife, who is a timid woman, like a skivvy. She rarely appears with him in public and she was not with him today.
    Beryl reached the widow just as a couple who had been voicing words of condolence were shifting into their goodbyes.
    ‘You must come round for coffee,’ the wife declared. ‘Some day.’
    Tina Kincaid nodded. ‘Some day.’
    Fat chance! A definite invitation would never be issued. You didn’t need extra-sensory perception to know that the women in the room – the wives of Duncan Kincaid’s golfing, Chamber of Commerce and Rotarian associates, he was a busy socialiser – disapproved of Tina. The glances she’d been receiving made it clear. Fifteen or whatever years ago when Duncan had married his ‘child bride’ as he’d called her, she had been slotted into the role of gold-digger and there she had stayed. If she had attempted to break down prejudice and encourage camaraderie, it hadn’t worked. Though she may have thought ‘bugger you lot’ and remained aloof.
    It wouldn’t help that she was younger and left the wives standing in the looks