by Adele Abbott
“I assume you’re aware of the incident involving Bessie and that other train?”
“Yes. It’s fortunate that no one was injured.”
“It was all the fault of that idiot, Kilbride. It’s just as well that he’s moved out, otherwise I might have done something I’d regret. The damage to Bessie is quite extensive—she’s practically a write-off.”
“That’s terrible,” I said with as much conviction as I could muster, which wasn’t much. “Still, life must go on. Well, thanks for the update—”
“I considered scrapping her, but then I thought how disappointed everyone would be.”
Who was this everyone he spoke of?
He continued, “That’s why I decided that Bessie had to be saved, and why I started the Restore Our Bessie fund.” He pulled open his jacket to reveal a T-shirt, which had a picture of Bessie (in happier times) on the front. Underneath the picture were the letters: R.O.B.
Only then, did I notice the cardboard box at his feet.
“All profits from the T-shirts go to the R.O.B. fund. Now, Jack, I assume you’re a large?”
“Err—that’s right.” Jack stuttered. “Large.”
“Hold on a minute!” I stepped forward.
“Don’t worry, Jill, I haven’t forgotten you. Medium?”
“Small actually, but—”
“One large and one small. That will be fifty pounds.”
“How much?” I gasped.
“A bargain, I know.”
***
Mr Ivers was all alone in the toll booth; he didn’t look very happy.
“Where’s your little helper?”
“Bert is back at college, so I’m having to do everything myself.”
“By everything, I assume you mean collect the cash?”
“My elbows are giving me gyp already.”
“Couldn’t you find someone else to step into Bert’s shoes?”
“I’ve been trying to, but it isn’t easy. It’s not like I can afford to pay very much. I don’t suppose you’d fancy it, would you?”
“I do have my own business to run.”
“You could do the odd shift between cases.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Apart from the pay, I’d also throw in a free subscription to Toppers News.”
“Tempting, but I still have to decline.” I handed him the toll fee. “Have a nice day.”
***
The outer office was looking so much better since Nails had redecorated. Both Mrs V and Jules were at their desks.
“Morning, Mrs V. Morning, Jules.”
“Morning, Jill. Have you heard?” It was obvious that Mrs V was bursting to tell me something.
“Heard what?”
“I thought your grandmother would have told you. About the ballroom dancing competition being held in the new Ever ballroom.”
“This is the first I’ve heard of it.”
“It’s going to be broadcast live on Broom TV.”
“Broom? As in sweep the floor broom?”
“Of course not.” Mrs V laughed. “Why would there be a TV station dedicated to brooms? It’s actually B Room, as in Ballroom, but everyone calls it Broom. I’m surprised that you haven’t heard of it with Jack being so keen on dancing.”
“He spends most of his time watching TenPin TV.”
“Armi and I will be entering, of course. What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Jack will want to enter, won’t he?”
“I wouldn’t think so. He’s very busy at the moment.” Plus, there was no way I was going to tell him about it.
What? I was only thinking of Jack. I just didn’t want him to overdo it.
“What about you, Jules?” I said. “Will you and Gilbert be entering the competition?”
“Me?” She laughed. “I’ve got two left feet. And besides, the only thing that Gilbert is interested in these days is stupid bottle tops.”
“How’s Lules doing? Is she making any progress with the modelling?”
“She’s signed with one of the agencies that Megan recommended, but so far she hasn’t had any assignments. I think she’s getting a little dispirited.”
“She’s a very pretty young woman. I’m sure the work will start to come through for her. She just needs to have a little patience.”
“That’s what I told her.”
Winky had his head buried in a book.
“Morning, Winky. What’s that you’re reading? Sleuthing for Idiots?”
He gave me a one-eyed death stare, but then went back to reading. My curiosity got the better of me, so I went over to take a closer look.
“Poker for Winners? You don’t want to get into that—it’s a mugs’ game.”
“Only if you don’t know what you’re doing. I’ve been grinding online for three months now—on the play-money tables. I’m unstoppable.”
“I suppose as long as you’re only playing for pretend money, it’s okay.”
“I’ve done with play-money now. I’m ready for the real thing.”
“Playing online for real money is a terrible idea.”
“I won’t be playing online. I’ll be playing live at Big Gordy’s.”
“Who’s Big Gordy?”
“He runs the biggest game in Washbridge.”
“I assume he’s a cat?”
“Of course he’s a cat! How am I going to get a game with humans? Be sensible.”
“I still think it’s a bad idea.”
“You worry too much. I’m going to take that crowd to the cleaners. This time tomorrow, I’ll be rolling in dough.”
***
Thirty minutes later, Jules burst into my office.
“Jill! Out there! It’s him!”
“Take a breath, Jules. It’s who?”
“That popstar guy! Murray Murray.”
“I’m not expecting him, am I?”
“No. Will you get his autograph for me?”
“I’m surprised you’re a fan. Isn’t he a bit old for you?”
“My mum got me into him. I love all of his stuff. Will you ask him about the autograph?”
“Sure.”
“And one for my mum. She’ll kill me if I don’t get one for her too.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks, Jill.” She stood there with a silly grin on her face.
“It might be a good idea for you to show him in.”
“Oh yes, of course. Right.” She popped her head out of the door. “Mr Murray, would you come through, please?”
“You can call me Murray, young lady.” He looked debonair as always in his white suit.
“Come and take a seat, Murray.” I beckoned him in.
“Nice to see you again, Jill. Keeping busy?”
“Quite busy, yes. Can I get you anything to drink?”
“No, thanks.”
Jules was still standing in the doorway, gawping at Murray.
“Thanks, Jules. That will be all.”
“Okay,” she said, and then mouthed, “Autographs.”
Murray took a seat. “I was hoping that you might have time to do a little job for me, Jill.”
“I will if I can.”
“In my position, I get offered lots of strange business opportunities—most of which I turn down. But recently, my agent, Doug Cramer, came up with the idea of publishing a book.”
“Your autobiography?”
“No. I’ve refused to do that a couple of times already. I’m way too young to write an autobiography.”
“Plenty of people do at your age, and younger.”
“Maybe, and good luck to them, but I’d rather wait until I’m ready to hang up my mic before I do that. I’m actually writing a novel.”
“That must be quite a challenge.”
“Not really. When I say that I’m writing it, what I actually mean is that it’s being written for me by a ghostwriter.”
“What’s the book about?”
&
nbsp; “A popstar. What else?” He grinned. “Who just happens to be an international spy, too. It’s pretty cheesy.”
“So where do I come in?”
“I only agreed to go along with it on the strict understanding that no one ever found out that I’d used a ghostwriter. It would be so embarrassing if it ever got out. I went to great lengths in the contract negotiation to make sure that everyone concerned understood that.”
“Sounds like you’ve thought it through.”
“The guy who is writing it is Lorenzo Woolshape.”
“I can’t say I’ve ever heard of him.”
“You won’t have. He never publishes his own work; he only ever works as a ghostwriter. He’s written books for loads of celebrities; he’s very good. Anyway, the arrangement is that he has to write the book at my house in a room where no electronic gadgets are allowed: no phones, tablets or computers.”
“What does he write on?”
“A manual typewriter. The manuscript never leaves my house. Every day, after he’s finished, I lock it in the safe.”
“Isn’t that rather extreme?”
“Maybe, but it means there’s no way the manuscript can be leaked to the press.”
“So, what brings you here today?”
“I’d like you to pay a visit to the house when Lorenzo is working on the book.”
“Why?”
“It’s hard to explain, but if you could drop by, everything will become clear.”
“Okay. When will he be there next?”
“Tomorrow afternoon. Can you make it around two o’clock?”
“Sure.”
“Thanks, Jill.” He stood up. “I’ll see you then.”
“Before you go. I wanted to ask you about an autograph.”
“Of course.” He took a small photo from the inside pocket of his jacket, and before I could stop him, he’d signed it: To Jill. Lots of love, Murray Murray.
“Actually, it’s for my PA. The young woman who saw you in just now.”
“Oh? Right, okay.”
“Her name is Jules. Oh, and she’d like one for her mother too. Perhaps you could check what her mother’s name is on your way out.”
“No problem.” He glanced at the photo that he’d already signed. “What shall I do with this one?”
“I—err—I’ll keep that, obviously. Thanks.”
Murray had no sooner left than Winky jumped onto my desk.
“What are you going to do with that?” He pointed to the signed photo.
“Throw it in the bin, probably.”
“I’ll have it.”
“I didn’t realise you were a Murray Murray fan.”
“I’m not. I can’t stand that awful row, but Peggy loves him. This will put me in her good books for sure.”
“But it says: To Jill.”
He grabbed a pair of scissors, and chopped off the top of the photo—above Murray Murray’s head.
“Now it doesn’t.”
Chapter 3
I had an appointment with Luther at my office; we’d arranged to go over my quarterly accounts. When he arrived, he looked very pleased with himself.
“Are my accounts that good?” I asked, enthusiastically.
“Your accounts? No, sorry, they’re terrible as usual.”
“But when you came in just now, you were beaming.”
“I’ve just heard that I’ve been nominated as one of the finalists in the regional accountant of the year award.” He passed me a sheet of paper which had a list of the four finalists.
“Seymour Sums?” I laughed. “That has to be a made-up name.”
“It isn’t. Seymour is probably the favourite to win.”
“Are these awards a big deal?”
“Extremely. They’re very prestigious. If I was to win, it would mean a lot more business would come my way.”
“I’m sure you’ll win. How’s Maria?”
“She’s okay, but I’m not sure she’ll stick with the job at Ever for much longer.”
“My grandmother did rather pull the rug out from under her feet by changing the shop so dramatically.”
“I don’t think it would have been quite so bad if it wasn’t for that awful red trouser suit she has to wear.”
“The Everette uniform? It isn’t a good look, is it?” I tried not to laugh, but I couldn’t stop myself.
“It really isn’t.” Luther dissolved into laughter too.
***
Despite Jack’s misgivings, I still thought it would be a good idea to introduce myself to Leo Riley’s replacement. My history with the police force to-date had not been great—understatement of the year! Maybe, if this time I took the initiative and made it clear that I wanted to work alongside them, and to co-operate whenever I could, then surely that would pay dividends.
“Yes? What can I do for you?” The sergeant behind the desk at Washbridge police station looked as though he wanted to be anywhere but there.
“Hi!” I treated him to my sweetest smile. “I’d like a word with Leo Riley’s replacement, please.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but I was hoping that he could spare me just a couple of minutes. That’s all I need.”
“Who are you? And what’s it in connection with?”
This guy was such a charmer.
“My name is Jill Gooder; I’m a—”
“Gooder? I know who you are. Take a seat over there.”
That didn’t sound good. He disappeared into the back, and when he returned a few minutes later, he pointed at me. “She’s over there.”
From behind the sergeant, there appeared a familiar face.
“Sushi?”
Susan Shay had worked alongside Jack for a brief period. She and I had not exactly hit it off.
“It’s Detective Shay, to you. What are you doing here, Gooder?”
“I—err—”
“I hear that you and Jack Maxwell are together now?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, while you’re here, I want to make one thing crystal clear. I’m not a soft touch like Jack. If I find out that you have interfered in any of my cases, I’ll throw your sorry backside in jail. Got it?”
“Loud and clear.” I started for the door. “Nice to see you again, Sushi.”
That went exceedingly well.
***
The excursions on the Washbridge Flyer were run by a company called Washbridge Steam Ltd. The director of the company was a Mr Desmond Sidings who had agreed to spare me a few minutes to discuss the tragic deaths of Gena and Gary Shore. Mr Sidings’ office was located on Upper Wash railway station.
I tried his office door, but it was locked. I knocked a couple of times, but there was no response. The station was now used only for the weekly steam train excursions, so I wasn’t too surprised that it appeared to be deserted. I was just about to leave when I spotted someone at the far end of the opposite platform. A man, dressed in blue overalls, was watering the flower baskets. To get to that side of the track I had to use a rather rusty footbridge, which was in dire need of a lick of paint.
“Excuse me,” I called to the man. “Could you tell me where I’ll find Mr Desmond Sidings?”
“Are you Jill Gooder?”
“That’s right. Mr Sidings?”
“That’s me. Call me Desmond. Shall we go to my office?”
“I don’t mind talking to you while you work.”
“No need. I’m done here. Come on. We’ll be warmer inside.”
Once we were in his office, he discarded the blue overalls to reveal a rather pleasing tweed suit.
“Now, Jill, you mentioned on the phone that you wanted to discuss the tragic deaths that occurred on The Flyer?”
“That’s right.”
“You do realise that the police have already concluded that the man murdered his wife and then committed suicide?”
“Yes. I understand that’s what the police believe happened.”
“I
s there any reason for you to think otherwise?”
“At this stage, I have an open mind. I’m working for Brucey and Lucy Gander. The deceased male was Lucy Gander’s brother.”
“I see. And how exactly can I help you?”
“My clients don’t believe that Gary Shore was capable of murder, and they totally reject the notion that he would have killed his wife. I’ve been asked to look into this tragic incident, to see if I can find evidence of foul play.”
“Don’t you think if there had been foul play, the police would have found some evidence?”
“In an ideal world, yes, but in my experience, that isn’t always the case. I’d like to speak to all of the passengers who were on the train that day if you could let me have their details?”
“I’m very sorry, but that’s impossible because we don’t record the passenger’s details when we sell day tickets; there’s no reason for us to do it. We do have a small number of season ticket holders—steam enthusiasts who take the trip regularly.”
“Were there any season ticket holders on that particular trip?”
“Just two: Stanley Sidcup and Barbara Hawthorne.”
“Could you let me have their details?”
“I can give you their phone numbers. It would be up to them whether they’d be willing to talk to you.”
“That would be great, thanks. Were you on the train that day, Desmond?”
“No. I don’t miss many, but that particular day, I had a mountain of paperwork to catch up on.”
***
What I needed was a nice cup of tea and some yummy cake, so I magicked myself over to Aunt Lucy’s house where I could hear voices coming from the lounge. When I popped my head around the door, I was appalled to see Alicia sitting on the sofa with Aunt Lucy; they were both enjoying a cup of tea.
“Jill.” Aunt Lucy greeted me with her customary smile. “Come in. Help yourself to a cup of tea.”
“Hi, Jill.” Alicia smiled.
“Hi.” I couldn’t bring myself to reciprocate.
What on earth was Alicia doing there? I quickly poured myself a cup of tea, and joined them.
“Help yourself to one of these.” Aunt Lucy offered me the plate of delicious-looking cupcakes. “Alicia made them.”
