by Amy Myers
Which was probably also the circle that had known Fanny Star. ‘And the other factor?’
‘Even tougher to fight. The wheels within wheels.’
‘Defined as?’
Angela considered this. ‘Ever tried to do a family tree for the Greek gods, especially Zeus?’
Georgia laughed. ‘No, but I can see there might be a problem.’
‘Unfortunately,’ Angela said drily, ‘one can’t see it in Friday Street. But it’s there, believe me. Who married who, and when. And who didn’t restrict their sex lives to the marital bed. And,’ she added hastily, ‘don’t look at me so hopefully. I don’t know. Even if I did, I couldn’t tell you, of course, but I really don’t. I just have the feeling that Friday Street might be, or more relevantly, has been even more closely knit than it appears on the surface.’
And that, Georgia thought, as she left, limited her humble Somebody’s Son for the gang. It was a skeleton framework only. The noughts and crosses remained unknown.
*
She drove carefully through Friday Street to Dana’s cottage later that day, conscious of her tense hands on the wheel. Quite what she expected, she didn’t know. A brick through the windscreen? Rather too obvious. Closed doors and mouths were more effective. Even so, she wouldn’t be staying long at End Cottage because she didn’t fancy driving back through this village in the dark. She’d debated whether to tackle Dana when she was at work but that wasn’t fair, nor was it conducive to chatting. Georgia was aware that after her talk with Luke her hackles were raised over Dana, probably unfairly so, and she needed time to overcome this. Was Dana an ally or unknown territory?
‘How’s it going?’ Dana asked, pouring Georgia what she described as her own personal non-alcoholic cocktail.
‘It isn’t. It’s stationary until I can get a visa for entering Friday Street. Otherwise we’re stuck with the trial reports, witnesses’ statements and Jonathan Powell’s support.’
‘So you’ve tracked him down, have you?’
Georgia glanced at her. So she knew him. Perhaps Luke was right, and there was more to this story. ‘He seemed quite happy to talk.’
‘Um.’
Keep those prickles down, Georgia, she told herself. Judge for yourself. ‘I felt “um” about him too,’ she said cheerfully.
‘I met him too,’ Dana continued. ‘He was helpful, but only so far.’
‘Are you considering writing about it?’ She was going to pin this down once and for all.
‘Articles for magazines.’ Dana laughed, as though reading Georgia’s mind very clearly. ‘I won’t be rivalling Marsh & Daughter.’
Why not mention this earlier, Georgia wondered, and why had her few words with Luke put a barrier where none had existed before? ‘So that’s what brought you to Kent?’ she asked casually.
‘No, that was coincidence. I came here for the job, through a contact of my parents, and realized my private hobby might fit in rather well, especially if I lodged in Friday Street. So, about this visa you want,’ she said, switching direction. ‘I’m afraid you’re right. The word has gone out. No chatting to the Marshes.’
‘Doesn’t the cold shoulder apply to you too?’
‘No, because I don’t ask specific questions about the murder, or about the music. I’m interested in Fanny’s early life, because of how her music developed. As you probably know, I saw Mrs Gibb. Sorry I didn’t tell you I knew where she was. I wasn’t sure about you,’ Dana said frankly, making Georgia feel warmer towards her. ‘Now I know you a little better, I can apologize for that.’
‘No problem. I’d have done the same myself. Did you get anything out of Mrs Gibb except the Queen of Sheba?’
‘A little, but it’s a cryptic crossword puzzle, as I’m sure you found. It’s all there inside her, but it’s jumbled. The Queen of Sheba must mean something, but who knows what?’
‘A link to Solomon’s Temple or the Knights Templar, and from them the Knights Hospitallers, who bunged Rose Smith inside the tower. Friday Street’s Fair Rosamund.’
Dana frowned. ‘I don’t see Doreen Gibb getting involved in medieval history. She was quite a looker, though. She gave me a photograph of herself taken during the war. A real pinup. Want to see it?’
‘Yes, please.’ From the Doreen Gibb she had met, Georgia couldn’t imagine what a younger version would be like, and gazed in astonishment at the black and white photo Dana produced. Here was a Hollywood-style, Hollywood-standard woman, whose beauty shone out despite the heavily lipsticked lips and forties hairstyle. She was a Rita Hayworth, and a decade or so later would have rivalled Marilyn Monroe in her liquid-eyed beauty. Georgia stared at it for some time. ‘When was it taken, do you think? There’s nothing on the back to indicate a date. So,’ it occurred to her, ‘it might not even be her.’
‘It is. I showed it to Josh Perry to be sure. Although he was a small child during the war, he remembered her looking fairly much like this as he grew up.’
‘Was she born in Friday Street?’
‘Yes. She worked on Winters’ Farm, and married Ronald Gibb just before the war broke out. He was in the Navy, so she lived with her family until after the war. Fanny was born in 1944.’
‘Did Fanny inherit the ginger hair from her?’ If only, Georgia thought, one could get deep inside the soul of a photograph, instead of bringing one’s own less than objective baggage to it.
‘I wouldn’t know.’ Dana studied the photo. ‘Doreen’s could be light red, I suppose. Or perhaps Fanny Star dyed her hair or had a wig. As the sixties wore on, colours and wigs were the fashion. “Anything goes” and all that.’
‘Henry Ludd said Fanny was a kind child, and that doesn’t seem to fit with her being a wild teenager.’
‘That’s the odd thing. From the other photo I saw she looks almost demure.’
‘Other photo?’ Georgia pricked up her ears.
‘Jane Winters showed it to me. She’s taken Alice’s death very badly, and we’ve struck up an acquaintanceship. It was a photo of Fanny with her parents. Rather sweet. Brian Winters, Jane’s father-in-law, was a member of the gang, of course.’
So Dana knew about the gang. And that Brian Winters was a member of it. It brought the name of Winters one step closer to Fanny.
‘For this visa,’ Dana continued, ‘I suggest you try gently pushing Josh Perry. But don’t blame me if you get nowhere.’
*
‘Give me one good reason why we should talk to you,’ Josh challenged her.
‘Because neither you nor the village will stop me by not doing so, and I want to get my facts right, not wrong. Can I buy you a drink?’
It hadn’t been easy to get this far. Georgia had chosen her time carefully, immediately the pub opened in the morning. Josh’s wife, Hazel, had served her coffee, and obviously knew exactly who she was. Hazel was a small woman with a sharp face, which discouraged Georgia from tackling her as an alternative to Josh, and she found it hard to imagine her as a member of the gang. She was the other witness to Fanny and Adam’s row. Georgia chose a table by the window, and summoned up her resolve to remain until they could ignore her no more. If she sat here long enough, she might win the battle of nerves. Now the battle had at least begun.
It had taken forty minutes, with Hazel coming back and forth several times, before Josh himself had emerged from the inner sanctum and come over to her. No ‘good morning’, or any other preamble. And ‘no’ to the offer of a drink.
Instead: ‘You can follow me to somewhere where I can put you right about a few things.’
It didn’t sound promising for a cordial chat. She followed him across the yard at the back of the pub to the cottage where Josh and Hazel obviously lived. It made a good battleground, if there had to be one, even if it meant she was playing on foreign turf. There was no further sign of Hazel. At least Josh was going to fight fair, one against one, and her questions for Hazel could wait.
She promptly fired the first shot. She had to take command of the situ
ation, and this wouldn’t be easy with Josh Perry. ‘You can’t stop this investigation, you know,’ she said quietly, ‘unless you can prove there’s nothing to investigate. Even if your tactics did succeed in getting Marsh & Daughter to abandon the Fanny Star case, sooner or later it will open up again.’
‘Why should it, Georgia? Hasn’t done in nearly forty years.’
‘What about in 1987 when Adam Jones came here after he was released from prison?’
‘First I’ve heard of it.’
He was avoiding eye contact, she noticed. ‘Probably on the day he died.’
Josh was even more cautious now, as though Georgia were trying to trip him up – and perhaps she was. ‘He was found up Maidstone way,’ he said.
‘Having been here first, perhaps even silenced for his pains.’ No harm in exaggerating a little, even if that scenario seemed unlikely now.
‘What the blazes are you talking about?’ he asked angrily. ‘What bees are buzzing in your bonnet now?’
‘Adam Jones maintained he was innocent; he told his manager he was coming here to find out the truth, and the next thing is that his body is found in the Medway.’
Josh glared at her. ‘Suicide.’
‘Probably.’
‘You don’t know what you’re getting into here.’
The classic bluster. He’d lost his cool, which meant she’d hit a nerve at last. ‘Then tell me.’
More bluster. ‘What bloody business is it of yours?’
‘This is my business, and it is bloody. There’s blood on someone’s hands. Friday Street hasn’t done too good a job of tracking down the truth, despite this fancy music of yours.’
‘I’m not going to discuss that with you.’
‘You prefer to let one murderer, perhaps two, get away with it, do you?’ She had meant Fanny and Adam, but Josh took it differently.
‘Out!’ he yelled at her. ‘Haven’t you any respect? Jane Winters has enough to put up with in losing Alice, without you poking your nose in.’
So be it. The Alice Winters case was on the table too. ‘Why was the Friday Street tune played? I heard Tim play it at Christmas—’
‘Are you saying our Tim’s involved?’ Josh interrupted furiously.
‘No,’ she said steadily, ‘I’m not, but more recently someone played the music after Alice’s death. Someone thought they knew who the real murderer was. Couldn’t that someone have been Tim on behalf of his friend?’ Seeing him about to explode again, she continued quickly: ‘Don’t you think you carry some responsibility for tracking down whom he thought it was, if so? Friday Street doesn’t seem to be making much of a job of policing itself. Nothing happened after the music was played on Adam Jones’ arrest, and if by any chance Fanny Star’s murder was a factor in Alice Winters’ death—’
‘How could that be?’ Josh was visibly shocked.
‘I don’t know, Josh. But the same dagger was used, and even if that’s coincidence there could well be a link, especially if Jake Baines is innocent.’ She paused, wondering if she’d been unfair in using Alice’s death as a lever to get his attention. ‘This is a small village and the gang that you and Fanny belonged to still lives in Friday Street. Except for Tom.’
Josh was curiously still. ‘Get out,’ he said quietly. ‘Get out and don’t come back.’
‘Certainly.’ She rose to her feet. ‘Provided you remember that the Alice Winters case is still open if Jake is innocent. You can’t shut yourself off from that.’
*
‘I did rather well, I think,’ Georgia said complacently, ‘even if I do still think Jonathan Powell is the right prong of the carving fork to concentrate on.’
‘That remains to be seen.’ Peter seemed oddly uninterested, to her surprise. ‘Still, you’ve thrown down a gauntlet. It’s possible someone might pick it up.’
‘And if by a miracle someone does, we’ll ask Luke for the contract.’
‘I have faith in you, Georgia. I rang him this morning. He wasn’t there, in fact, but I left the message.’
‘At lunch?’
‘No, gallivanting in Faversham.’
Having lunch with Dana, was the unwelcome thought that popped into her mind. It was promptly pushed out again. ‘How’s Suspects Anonymous?’
‘I set up a new programme. Alice Winters.’
‘Peter,’ she said warningly, ‘that’s not officially in our remit.’
Margaret put her head round the door. ‘Someone hammering at your door, Georgia. Says Ted sent him down here.’
Curious, Georgia went to investigate. The miracle had arrived. Josh Perry was on her doorstep. She had difficulty in holding back a grin.
‘We operate from here,’ she called. ‘Come in.’
He did so, looking grim rather than bearing olive branches. ‘I’ve come to meet you halfway, Georgia.’
‘Excellent.’ She led him in and glanced at Peter, who nodded. The garden on a June day was better than their office, with its reminders that all cases might end in books, even in films, and that the spoken word could be retracted but not forgotten.
‘Halfway,’ she repeated invitingly, when they were established in the garden. ‘Can you define that?’
‘The past is one thing, the present something different. We leave Alice Winters out of it.’
‘For the moment,’ Peter stepped in.
‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ Josh said quietly. So he could fight on foreign turf too, she thought. ‘You were talking about the gang, and I can tell you about that. Ask away.’
‘How did it form? Were you all at the village school?’
‘Up to a point. Michael went away to prep school, so did Oliver – he’s his younger brother, who tagged along after him. Toby was at the village school though. No public school for him. No money in the family. Sheila wasn’t at the school, but she spent a lot of time at her aunt’s house in Friday Street. We were of different ages, of course, but despite that and despite being separated by schools we stuck together. Owlers’ Smoke, where . . .’ he cleared his throat ‘. . . where it happened, was where we’d meet. Never afterwards, of course.’
‘Why were you all so close? You came from different backgrounds.’
‘Goodness knows – it just happens, doesn’t it, when you’re kids. Michael wasn’t the oldest of us, but he tended to be the leader – in a way.’
‘In which way?’
‘He made the running. What he said, we did. We were an assorted bunch. People came and went, as they do in such gangs, but there was a steady core of us who stuck together. Michael, Toby, me, Oliver, Sheila and Frances, Hazel Winters, now my wife, Liz Smith, Johnnie and Brian Winters – Johnnie Winters was Brian’s older brother, killed in Korea. Brian’s son was Bill, who married Jane.’
‘What happened to Oliver Ludd?’ And what about Tom? Georgia thought. She wasn’t going to be the first to mention him though. She’d see what Josh volunteered.
‘He went away to university. Lives in the States now.’
‘And Liz Smith?’
‘Left the village,’ Josh said a shade too quickly. ‘As I said, Michael was the leader but Frances was the one who had the ideas and created the fun. She didn’t get on with her father and didn’t have brothers or sisters, so she needed us around her. Her mother was all right, but she always took Ron’s side, so there were constant rows.’
‘Was Fanny still at school when she left the village or did she leave at sixteen?’
‘Left school. Came to work in the pub,’ Josh said briefly.
‘You must have known her well then. Did your father run the pub at that time?’
‘Yes.’ His tone didn’t invite further questions on that tack.
‘Was Fanny musical then?’
‘Not so you’d notice. We had a local group used to play in the pub. Oliver played with it from time to time, so did Brian. Hazel was the singer though. Odd, isn’t it? Frances used to sing along with them but never stood out. I remember her telling us one day when sh
e was in a temper that she was going to be a famous singer or musician. We made fun of her for it. We’d never seen so much as a penny whistle in her hand, but it turned out after she’d left that she was in the school choir, played the piano, and was even more deeply into listening to music than we were. She wasn’t fussy. She’d listen to everything from Lonnie Donegan, Elvis and Bill Haley, to Ruby Murray or Rogers and Hammerstein, and end up with Wagner.’
‘Folk songs too? Did she learn those at school with you?’
‘Reckon she must have done. I remember her singing “Banks of Allan Water” once, and “Greensleeves”. We sneered at her for liking them, and she said, no, they were okay songs, just needed a kick up the backside. That’s what she and Adam gave them, all right.’
Georgia wondered how this gang worked. ‘If the gang continued for such a long time, there must have been emotional entanglements between you.’
‘Michael fancied Frances, so did Toby,’ Josh said woodenly.
‘And you?’ The words were out before she could think twice. She waited for the blast, but oddly it didn’t come.
Josh shrugged. ‘I loved the girl. They all used to laugh at me. “Josh, poor old Josh” they’d say, “following her around like a pet spaniel. She’ll never look at you.” And they were right. I married Hazel the year after Frances left and, though it’s none of your business, it’s worked out. I couldn’t have handled Frances, no way.’
‘What made Fanny leave the village?’ Peter asked. ‘Too much pressure from you? Or the gang? Or her parents?’
Josh gave him a cool look. ‘She left to be a singer.’
Okay, they deserved that. ‘That’s not the answer,’ Peter said softly.
‘She’d had rows with her parents for years and I reckon she decided it was time to go,’ Josh said obstinately.
‘Why do you say “reckon”?’ Peter asked. ‘If you were all so close, surely she’d have said goodbye, and told you at least why she was going, especially if she had no intention of coming back.’
