MURDER AT THE VICARAGE
So, here’s how it started: Early one winter’s morning before it was properly light JB was preparing for her daily executive battle at retail heaven. Black suit: bolero jacket, pencil skirt. White blouse, black tights, black patent leather pumps, and putting the finishing touches to the make-up she really didn’t need. The radio was tuned to LBC, and Steve Allen was blathering away in his usual style, the volume just about audible for the news and time checks.
I was in bed, in t-shirt and Calvins, chewing on a slice of Warburtons farmhouse bread toasted by her own fair hand, smothered with Waitrose Brittany Butter avec sea salt crystals, and some very expensive French raspberry jam whose name I couldn’t pronounce, but cost a bomb and tasted heavenly. How come the Fre
