by Andrew Hill
It’s interesting to observe that these artists’ impressions of Genevieve are more like ‘Action Woman’ than Carol had written her. Perhaps this latest outing does portray her more in that line.
“I’ll have to be careful not to overdo it,” she murmured to herself. Carol wanted to create a younger version of Miss Marple and not to enter into competition with any super heroes we now have. In front of the display stood a grand table with a swivel chair somewhat oversized for Carol to sit on. The table was clear of all items giving the author of the Genevieve stories an air of apparent importance; she had come to sign a novel not an international peace treaty. Several hundred copies of the book were neatly positioned on another large table for the punters first to collect one and to take it over for signing before going to the specially set up tills to pay.
Carol looked nervously at her watch once more: eleven o’clock was approaching, a queue outside was getting longer as was regularly reported by Carol and Rob’s seven year old son. Carol had brought her favourite fountain pen and a spare cartridge just in case.
“I shall have to remember to sign ‘Verity’ not ‘Carol’,” she remarked to Rob.
“You could sign both,” responded the excited Josh who, under the circumstances could be forgiven for mistaking his mother for royalty.
Rob and Carol just laughed and a Rob added, “I suppose so.”
Up came the shop manager and asked Carol to take her seat as they were now going to open up. Carol did so and watched the manager as he descended the stairs to the ground floor. It seemed a long wait but shortly customers began to appear from the stairs and the first of them picked up a book and promptly dropped it followed by a little pushing and shoving. A young woman managed to land the first book on the presidential desk. Carol asked her name which turned out to be Josephine and wrote ‘To Josephine, I hope you enjoy the book, Verity Green.’
Josephine thanked her and moved on to the till to pay. There was a Peter, Susan, two Carol’s and even another Verity among these early birds. Soon a male hand placed a book on the table in front of Carol who immediately opened it to the flyleaf asking:
“What’s your name?”
“Grant.”
Carol glanced up as he spoke but no impression was made on Carol who simply wrote her usual comment and handed the book back to him. As she looked up once more, Grant took hold of the book and stared intensely for a few moments into Carol’s eyes. Now there was a hint of recognition from one of the two authors; she seemed a little taken aback. Carol had seen him before but couldn’t place him and she kept her eyes on him as he moved over towards the till. For a few moments Carol was disturbed by this brief encounter while the next customer placed her copy on the table and anxiously waited for Verity Green to speak to her. Josh eagerly intervened saying, “ Mummy, someone’s waiting.”
No more hitches or unpleasant surprises were in store for Carol that morning with the book signing coming to its scheduled close after several hundred signings. Carol, Rob and Josh left the shop shortly before midday; they did not leave unobserved.
Grant had shown himself to Carol and must now take precautions if he is to follow her. Back at his flat he changed his clothes, donned a flat cap, which he normally doesn’t wear, and put on a pair of thick rimmed glasses with plain glass instead of lenses as his eyes have not yet deteriorated to the stage where he needs them. Once disguised he made his way back to the bookshop and found that Carol was still busy signing copies of the novel. He watched and waited and while he watched and waited he saw himself sitting there signing the books. And why shouldn’t he?
“I wrote the first of these novels and that bitch stole it.”
His resentment grew and grew until he thought this was the time to make his move. It was equally hard for him to yell out at the top of his voice that she was a fraud as it was to keep quiet. Would he have the courage to halt the proceedings and proclaim publicly for the first time that he, Grant Webster, was the true author of Dead Letter Perfect? But Grant knew that would not be in his interest. He knew what would happen; he’d be arrested for causing an affray or some such petty offence and with his record he’d probably wind up back in prison and the police would believe her not him, his allegation of copyright theft would be ignored.
Grant did nothing but let his mind fester even more. Maybe he was wrong, bringing the whole thing out into the public eye would have taken a weight off his mind and his emotions but in doing nothing about his situation his hatred of Carol came more and more to dominate his thoughts and very soon a sinister plan began to form in his mind.
Grant followed the three around central Oxford including lunch at one of the classier cafés. He followed them in and took a table for one close by. He positioned himself behind Carol so there was less opportunity for her to catch a glimpse of him. Rob could see him clearly but Rob was unaware of the incident at the book signing.
Fifty minutes went by before the family of three paid and made their exit. Grant did likewise but as the waiter wasn’t visible he put some money on the table and left. Grant exited to the street looking both ways and sure enough there they were, he followed, briskly at first but slowed and followed at a discreet distance.
Before long Rob hailed a taxi and all three boarded. Grant looked for another taxi which came along and he flagged it down and scrambled in.
“Follow that taxi.”
“I can’t do that,” replied the cabby.
“What do you mean, you can’t do it?”
“It’s illegal, you must give me your destination.”
Grant remonstrated but finally gave up. The Wilsons’ family taxi was now out of sight anyway. Grant got out and the cabby went about his business.
At home Carol turned to Rob and said:
“Something funny happened this morning.”
Carol re-told the incident with Grant. Rob pointed out that she may have seen him out and about in Oxford from time to time. Carol did not seem to regard that as the reason, she thought she’d seen him a long time ago. Rob was reassuring but Carol wasn’t reassured: she remembered the look he gave her. It was almost a look of death. She didn’t tell Rob that.
* * *
A drizzly Monday is a drizzly Monday whether in Oxford or some run-down council estate in a northern town. An undistinguished car driven by an undistinguished driver in a flat cap and thick rimmed glasses was parked outside the John Harris primary school, a private school in Oxford. So why was Grant so positioned that he can see the school’s main entrance clearly and why look at every car bringing a child to school or every adult pedestrian bringing one? What was his reason? Grant wanted to find Carol’s address, he knows she must have a reasonable sum of money and presumes that she sends her son to a private school, although our stalker didn’t know which one there aren’t that many private primary schools in Oxford, so Grant listed them in the order he found them. The John Harris school was the first. It was only a matter of sitting in his car and waiting for the children and their parents to arrive and if he didn’t he would return at 3.30pm, and if there was no luck then there would always be the next school to move on to on Tuesday morning.
That day there was no sign of Carol or Rob with Josh either in the morning or in the afternoon, nor the next day, nor the next, then came Thursday. A woman, not noticed by Grant, walked briskly past his car, it was 3.25pm. She was mid-twenties with longish dark blonde hair and wearing a dark blue coat and a similar coloured hat. After passing Grant’s car she crossed the road and waited by the main gate. Grant saw her but paid no attention as it plainly wasn’t Carol.
At 3.30 the children of the school poured enthusiastically out of the building into the playground and towards the main gate. There were dozens of them in all shapes, sizes and colours, all smartly or not so smartly in the livery of the school. But could Grant find a seven year old ginger haired boy among them, especially as they were all weari
ng caps? One boy knocked the cap off another’s head in play revealing Josh who picked up the cap and replaced it. Grant saw this and noticed the boy running up to the unknown woman in blue.
“Of course, they have an au pair or nanny or something.” Was Grant’s initial thought.
The au pair and the boy spoke for a few moments before commencing their walk, which took them straight past Grant’s car. As they approached, Grant became certain there was no error; the boy really was Carol’s son.
Carol could not only afford to send her son to private school but can even pay someone to take him and bring him back. This made Grant even more angry. Once the two had passed he opened his car door and exited, following them at close quarters. They stopped at a bus stop and Grant waited immediately behind. The woman and boy boarded the vehicle together with the woman showing some sort of prepaid tickets for herself and her charge while Grant paid a full single fare to the end of the line which he had to do having no idea where they would get off. After not a very long journey they appeared to be getting ready to alight, which they duly did at the next stop, followed once again closely by Grant. Just a few minutes later the woman and the boy turned into a front garden and approached the front door of the Georgian house which Grant presumed, quite rightly, was the home of Carol and Rob. He returned to his car and drove home pleased with the day’s outcome.
The next morning Grant and his car are just along the road from Carol’s house, another car left its parking space taking the occupant to work, Grant was able to quickly occupy the vacant area leaving him with a good view of the house. Carol, however, no longer works regular hours and Grant must surely realise this so what’s his game? He’s seen Josh being taken to school by the au pair, now he’s waiting for Rob to go to work, knowing Carol will be alone in the house he’ll challenge her over the authorship of the novel.
The front door opened and Rob appeared with his wife. Rob’s business suit, a rather boring dark shade of grey, a collared white shirt and a sober dark blue tie indicate that he’s going to work. Carol on the other hand is dressed as though her intentions were firmly on staying at home – ideal, perhaps, for Grant’s intervention. They kissed and Rob walked off along the garden path he has trudged so many times in the past. He opened the gate and stepped out into the street, turned back and blew a last kiss to Carol. All this just encouraged Grant to detest her even more. To Grant’s further frustration Carol remained at the door watching Rob until he turned into the main road. Carol disappeared back into the house and closed the door behind her. This was Grant’s opportunity, he leapt out of his car and crossed the road towards the house but then walked briskly past it and up the road as if he was following Rob and not about to challenge Carol. Maybe Grant will confront Rob and tell him how his wife stole his work, what would Rob do about that? Tell him he’s mistaken might be his first tack or even lying. Perhaps Grant is going to blackmail them. One thing for sure, Rob would demand proof which Grant doesn’t have.
Just as Grant reached the corner a bus came along. Rob was already waiting at the stop. Before Grant could join him in the queue the bus pulled away and Grant was stranded. His car was just around the corner, he started to run back towards it but slowed to a quick walk in case running aroused attention which definitely was not what he was looking for.
Once back in his car, Grant tried to follow the bus but not knowing the bus’s route it could have turned off the main road, but where? Grant could not find the bus. It seems we shall have to wait to discover Grant’s true intentions.
Grant looked down at his watch, it read eight fifty-five on this drizzly morning with a chill in the air. It was the following morning and Grant was at the bus stop. He had let one bus go because Rob wasn’t at the stop, but soon he turned up as did the bus. Grant boarded first and paid a single fare to the city centre, Rob showed his pass and said nothing to the driver. Grant managed to find a seat where he could observe the exit door in the middle and kept his eyes on Rob. Just before the city centre the bus came to a halt and several passengers disembarked including Rob. Grant quickly rose from his seat to follow.
It was around a ten-minute walk with Grant behind then he saw, a few yards up on the other side of the road, the magistrates’ court.
“Of course, that’s where he’s going.” Grant now remembered from the old tower block days. Rob crossed the road towards the main entrance and entered the courthouse.
* * *
Susan Jeffers was then a woman in her forties, married with three teenage children, one boy, one girl and one – well let’s say she’s an open minded mother. Around five feet four inches in height, not of slim build though by no means overweight. She carried her pounds well. Shortish, very dark brown hair which is natural, though now sadly greying and was neatly permed. Susan worked in a bank, wore clothes that are modern but she brought with her an air of the 1940s or 50s. Perhaps she was born in the wrong decade. All her life Susan had lived in Oxford and wouldn’t want it otherwise though, since her marriage, she lived with her farmer husband just a few miles outside. Oh, and one more thing, Susan has had her car stolen which accounts for her now entering the local police station.
It was Susan’s practice always to drive into work and to leave her car in the same car park behind the bank. The dark blue Kia registration number Y872 PBW is a modest enough vehicle in which the absence of a suitable bus route carried her back and forth to work. But this time her homeward journey would be by pickup truck when her husband comes to collect her.
When, after work, Susan returned to her car, all she actually returned to was an empty parking space where the vehicle once stood. The first thought to cross Susan’s mind was that she was mistaken about where she had parked it but quickly put that thought to bed. This was the right place and the right car was gone and all that was left of it was some broken glass on the ground the car had once occupied. Questions ran through her mind as to who would want to steal such a modest car and why didn’t the alarm go off? Susan could answer none of these questions the only thing remaining for her to do was report the affair to the police.
“It could have been taken for any number of reasons,” explained the officer behind the counter. “Probably a joy rider,” he added.
Susan expressed the view that such a person would have taken a more sporty car or even a luxury limo.
“Perhaps yours was the only car he could get into. But then there’s no accounting for taste, not even in the criminal classes.”
Susan noticed the implication that she was tasteless but made nothing of the point and asked, “How did he start the engine?”
“There are ways,” was the uninformative reply.
After a few more minutes Susan left the police station and also our story behind but the dark blue Kia is staying for a little while longer.
* * *
In another part of Oxford there was a row of garages, all but one are currently locked up. That one had its door slightly lifted to allow in the air but not so much as to let anyone outside see in. It will be no surprise that the vehicle housed in that garage matches exactly the description of Susan’s missing mode of transport.
Some little time later an examination of the CCTV footage revealed that the car had been stolen by a rather tall woman with shoulder length dark brown hair and thick rimmed spectacles, perhaps a little unusually she was not carrying a handbag.
Later that woman was sitting in the garage and gave a quick look at her watch, not the most feminine timepiece you’ll ever see nor is it wrapped around the most feminine wrist. The dark brown wig was beginning to irritate her so she reached up and revealed herself as Grant Webster. He sat back in the seat to relax a little.
After a short while Grant once again checked his chronometer which was now reading four o’clock. The time was approaching, Grant put on his wig to become a tall, dark haired woman once more; he checked it in the mirror before climbing out of the car and
opening the garage door all the way. Stepping out of the garage Grant looked both ways as well as at the various buildings within sight of the garage to ensure that no one appeared to have had any suspicions aroused. Everything was peaceful. Grant returned to the car and drove out leaving the garage completely empty, apart from what the regular garage tenant kept in it, with nothing to suggest that either a tall, dark haired woman or a slim six-foot man with a shaved head had ever been there. The garage door was left fully open allowing any dishonest passer-by to help themselves.
Earlier that morning our would-be car thief had observed someone leaving that very garage and presumed that the driver would not be returning until teatime. Once that car was well out of the way Grant broke into the garage in readiness to house the vehicle he was to acquire by theft.
The young schoolteacher who rented the garage would have a nasty surprise when he returned from trying to educate some of Oxford’s more challenging pupils.
Grant drove through Oxford avoiding the main roads as a precaution against being seen by an observant police officer who had been given a description of the missing dark blue Kia. Of course Grant didn’t know that Susan Jeffers was at this precise moment checking that the amount of money in her till equalled the amount her computer had calculated there should be and wasn’t even aware that the car was no longer where she left it. Never before had Grant driven so carefully to keep within road traffic law as best he knew it and in accordance with the highway code lest he aroused the wrath of a police officer who hadn’t nicked enough violators that month.
