by Lynda Wilcox
Chapter 1
I had been in the job only six months when my employer pulled a gun on me.
“You do see that you have to die, don’t you Verity. That I can’t allow you to live.”
She sat on the opposite side of the desk, perfectly composed, perfectly groomed, not a dyed black hair out of place, her glossy red fingernails curled around the weapon she pointed directly and steadily at my heart.
“I know my typing speeds haven’t been so hot lately,” I began, my voice surprisingly calm though my mouth felt as dry as a sandpaper sandwich.
She smiled grimly. Using the hand that wasn’t engaged in threatening my life, she removed a cigarette from a packet on the desk in front of her and placed it between her red-painted lips. She tilted her head to one side, her eyes never leaving mine. Then she pulled the trigger.
I jumped in my chair, hand clutched to my chest, eyes closed, anticipating the bang, the searing pain and the ensuing darkness. Instead I smelled smoke — cigarette smoke. I opened my eyes.
She still had one end of the cigarette pressed between her lips but now the other protruded into the flame of the novelty lighter she held in her hand.
“Really, Kathleen. You nearly gave me a heart attack. If that’s your idea of a joke I don’t find it at all funny.”
“I’m sorry, Verity, I thought you’d realise the gun wasn’t real.”
She dropped it on the blotter. I picked it up, turning it over in my hand, giving it closer inspection. A clever little piece of work.
“Where did this delightful bauble come from?”
“Hmm?” She drew on the cigarette. “Oh, it’s just some toy of my ex–husband’s.”
I got up and crossed to my own desk on the other side of the room where I dropped the ‘gun’ into my bag. I’d dispose of it later.
“And what’s this about not allowing me to live?”
“Ah yes.” She became animated, stubbing out the cigarette in an ashtray and wafting away the cloud of smoke with her free hand. “It’s my new idea for a story.”
It is my joy, I use the word loosely, to work for the famous author Kathleen Davenport, writer of crime stories featuring the massively popular detective, Agnes Merryweather, a Church of England vicar. Her books sell in shed loads but KD had written nothing in the last two months, claiming writer’s block. In reality we hadn’t found a case meaty enough for KD to get her teeth into. My role in this was to discover and research old cases, spending most of my time in libraries, dusty newspaper archives or trawling the internet. KD would then take the bare bones and basic facts of an old real life crime and, changing names, locations, genders and dates, work her magic to weave them into a new piece of fiction. In some cases she had been known to change even the guilty party, making it the butcher, rather than the baker, whodunit, as it were. As a system it worked and worked well, earning KD a lot of money and giving me an interesting, well paid job with the added bonus of the occasional cardiac arrest. What more could a working girl ask for?
“Is this from an old case or an original idea?” I asked.
“Oh, it’s an original idea,” her eyes gleamed with excitement. “Where an employer, a financier perhaps, shoots his secretary because she knows too much about his dodgy dealings. I thought you might be pleased if I modelled the secretary on you.”
“Not if I end up dead, I won’t be.”
I poured myself more coffee from the percolator on a table by the door. Putting the jug back on the hot plate I went on,
“Besides, if you start having original ideas, I could be out of a job.”
“Unlikely, Verity, dear. I employ you for more than your skills as a researcher, you know.”
“Really? What skills might these be?”
I resumed my seat as she rose from hers.
“Well, obviously, they don’t include anticipating my need for caffeine at the same time as your own,” she laughed, making a beeline for the coffee machine.
“But other than that,” I prompted. Getting praise out of KD was akin to drawing teeth.
“Your main skill as far as I’m concerned, is coping with me. I’m aware that not everyone can do that, Verity, but you do it very well.”
I nodded. My two predecessors in the role of PA had lasted a mere six weeks - between them.
KD took the coffee mug to the circular table placed between two easy chairs in the conservatory that formed an open extension to the large office. She sat down gracefully and reached out a hand for the morning paper.
“I see they’ve still not found her.”
“Who?” I asked, still pondering how my ability to cope made me so attractive to my boss.
“Jaynee Johnson.”
She turned the paper round to face me and I crossed to the table for a closer look. Splashed across the front page in large banner headlines were the words “JayJay still missing!” Underneath a grainy photograph of a buxom woman took up nearly the rest of the page, with just enough room left below for the words ‘Full Story Page 4’. I didn’t bother to read it.
“Who the hell is JayJay” I asked taking the newspaper from KD’s outstretched hand.
“Oh, come on, Verity, you must know who JayJay is. She’s a celebrity, the star of Star Steps.” She caught my blank look. “With Greg Ferrari.”
“Nope. Never heard of either of them.”
“Don’t you watch television?”
“Not the rubbish that passes for light entertainment these days, I don’t, no. When I was a girl cream rose to the top while dross sank to the bottom. These days it’s the other way round.”
She gave me a glance that implied I must live in a cave.
“Oh but you should. It’s a massive hit; people are queuing up to take part in the show.”
I wasn’t listening, I was studying the photo - it showed an averagely pretty face with a big mouth full of white teeth surrounded by a profusion of wavy hair. Blonde obviously - if not naturally.
“So what’s this show about then?” I asked throwing the paper back onto the table.
“It’s a dance programme, on every Saturday,” KD told me. “Contestants, members of the public, are teamed with celebrities and they have one week to learn and practice a dance routine before they are filmed in a dance-off to decide the winners.”
“A dance-off?” Already I’d decided I didn’t like it. Any programme that could so butcher the English language in a quest for tabloid ratings was not for me.
KD nodded.
“It’s the same celebrities every week but a new member of the public and, at the end of the series there is a finale where the winners have a…”
“Dance-off?”
“Right. To find the overall winner.”
“And where do this Jaynee Johnson and Greg Whatsisname come in?”
“Oh, they’re the presenters. Greg Ferrari used to be a professional dancer and Jaynee Johnson is a celebrity.”
“A professional celebrity, I assume?”
My sarcasm brought me a glare from KD who probably never missed a programme.
“They do their own routine at the beginning of the show before they introduce the contestants. They’re really good,” she assured me before adding, wistfully, “it’s like watching Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers.”
Bless her! Bloody Star Steps must have been the highlight of her week.
“So how long has the bimbo been missing?”
“Really, Verity, if you’ve never watched the show how can you judge her a bimbo?”
I shrugged. I knew the type.
“Maybe she’s in a secret love nest, somewhere,” I suggested. “Or having a face lift in a private clinic. Or a brain implant in Switzerland.”
“She disappeared about a week ago, I believe,” said K
D in her frostiest tone, getting up and going to her desk. Opening a drawer she took out a DVD case. “I’ve got a recording here of the show that I made for a friend. You might like to watch it. You know, to bring yourself into the 21st Century.”
I took it from her and put it in my bag.
“How’s the house hunting going?” KD asked, leaning back in her chair at the computer, the subject of the disappearing JayJay closed for now.
“OK. I spotted a likely place at the weekend and I’m hoping to go and view it this afternoon when I’ve finished here.”
“I’ve told you, you’re more than welcome to move in here with me. There’s oodles of space, Bishop Lea is a huge house with five bedrooms and even I don’t need that many.”
“Yes, I know, KD. It’s a kind offer and I am grateful, but the reason for moving out of Sutton Harcourt, apart from my dreadful landlord and the poor state of repair, is to be closer to the centre of Crofterton.”
“Closer to the action eh? To the night life?”
I smiled at her.
“Hardly. Not at my age.”
“Nonsense, you’re a spring chicken just like me.”
I was thirty two and, at a guess, KD was about twenty five years older. Neither of us bore any resemblance to spring chickens. Broilers, maybe. I changed the subject.
“I was thinking of going to the library tomorrow or the day after, KD, to have a rummage through the old newspaper archives there. I might find some local crime reports of cases we could use.”
“Good idea,” she swung round to face me. “Are you going to call that friend of yours?”
She meant Jim Hamilton, chief crime reporter on the Crofterton Gazette.
“Yes, I’ll need to use his library card”
“Go ahead. Give him a call now if you like.”
She swung back to the keyboard while I picked up the ‘phone.
By the time I quit work for the day — I work hours and times to suit both KD and myself — and arrived in Crofterton the warm, early June sunshine made me glad of my light summer clothes. I was still in time for a late lunch in Valentino’s and strolled along the High Street looking forward to a baguette and a glass of wine. The promise of summer had brought out the shoppers who, unusually for a Monday, crammed the pedestrian High Street wearing too few clothes and showing far too much flesh. I popped into the stationers for a new writer’s notebook having left my old, nearly full one in the office. It would come in useful this afternoon and I would certainly need it at the library. Jim had been delighted to oblige when I’d phoned with my request and agreed to meet me on Wednesday morning.
“Lovely day,” observed the girl in the stationery shop, sliding my purchase into a paper bag.
“Indeed,” I smiled my agreement. They were always friendly in here which is why I gave it my custom rather than the larger Smith’s down the street.
Once back outside, my stomach rumbled like some active volcano about to erupt. It was nearly two o’clock and hours since I’d had breakfast. I opened the plate glass doors of Val’s place with relief. Inside cooler air greeted me and the wine bar was virtually empty apart from a couple, dawdling over coffee, at one of the small, circular tables. I made my way to the ‘L’ shaped counter and perched on a bar stool.
“Bonjour, Verity, tu veux manger?”
Yes I did want to eat and soon. I settled on a ham baguette and a small glass of wine. While Val disappeared to order the baguette from the kitchens, I sipped gratefully at the cool, fruity wine and pondered KD’s decision to write an Agnes Merryweather story entirely out of thin air. That she was capable of it I didn’t doubt and most of her work had been written that way but, about five years ago, she had been struck down — in her words — with a bad case of writer’s block. She had worked her way through it, though maybe round it would be a better description, by hitting on the idea of using genuine crimes from the past, whether solved or unsolved, as the basis for her stories. That’s why I spent more time researching than I did answering the phone, typing letters, dealing with autograph requests and the mounting fan mail as well as making salon and other appointments. My duties could undergo a dramatic change if she no longer required any research and wrote everything from thin air again and I wasn’t altogether sure that I liked the idea. I didn’t relish being only a secretary and I might find myself looking for a new job as well as a new place to live. I didn’t want that. I enjoyed the job I currently had, the work was both interesting and varied, and I needed the sort of money KD was prepared to pay me.
“Your baguette, cherie.”
“Thanks, Val,” I said before almost snatching it from the plate and falling on it like some underfed mongrel who’d found an unattended butcher’s shop.
“You were hungry, yes?”
Val smiled as I brushed away the last of the crumbs from around my mouth.
“Oh, yes. Boy, I needed that.”
I had been friends with Val and his brother Jacques for over ten years, ever since I’d met them on holiday in France. I wouldn’t have minded him making some pointed comment about the piggish speed with which I’d disposed of the delicious, thickly cut ham and soft bread, I knew many an English person who would have done so, but Valentino had always shown me typical Gallic courtesy.
“Are you going so soon?” He asked as I reached for my bag on the bar stool beside me. “It is bad for the digestion, that.”
I glanced at my watch. It was barely three o’clock and there was plenty of time before I needed to be at the estate agents, I didn’t have any appointment, but I knew that if I stayed I would be tempted to have more wine and I needed a clear head.
“Yes, sorry Val. I’m house hunting this afternoon.” I got down from the stool.
“You are buying a house? That is good.”
“Oh no, I can’t afford that. I’m just looking for a new one to rent, that’s all. I want to move out of Sutton Harcourt and closer to Crofterton.”
“Ah yes, I see. Well, bonne chance mon amie.” He blew me a kiss as I went out the door.
Knight’s estate agents had boasted a discreet presence on the High Street for as long as I could remember. It offered its upwardly mobile dreams, to those who could afford them, from behind freshly painted dark green woodwork and an expanse of plate-glass that was only ever filled with the most select of properties. And why not? After all, the Knights themselves lived in the largest, most opulent house in the area although the founding Knight, as it were, had long since departed for a more bijou residence in the sky. His grandson now carried on the business without ever setting foot in the premises that bore his name, content behind the walls that surrounded his home and the layer of managers that protected him from doing a day’s work. I didn’t bother to read the current crop of beautifully typed and illustrated cards intended to entice the wealthy into parting with more in monthly mortgage payments than I earned in a year. I just kept my head down and walked past. Then I took a deep breath before putting my hand to the door and going in.
None of the heads lifted as the jangling of the door bell announced my arrival, not a single pair of eyes raised themselves to meet mine, no lips curved in a welcoming, albeit insincere, smile. The five occupants of the outer office had obviously sussed me out as a waste of their precious, busy, time when I’d passed the window. I glanced around, looking for any indication of a lettings department or any desk with such a sign on but could see nothing. Nearly a minute passed with me standing in the middle of the plush carpet like some unwanted piece of lost property. Either that or I had put on my superhero’s cloak of invisibility that morning without realising it. If I’d been in a better mood I would simply have turned round and walked back out of the door. Instead I spoke loudly and clearly, in the kind of voice I normally reserve for naughty children.
“I apologise for interrupting you at a busy time but would it be too much to ask if you have a lettings department, please?”
For a moment I thought even this simple request would be too muc
h. Then, just when I had decided to throw in the towel and go elsewhere, a tall, dark haired man in a sharp suit appeared from an office at the rear.
He weaved his way towards me through the desks, a task made easier by the sheer oiliness of his manner. He aimed a condescending smile loosely in my direction.
“Good morning. John Adams, office manager. How may we help you today?”
“I’m interested in a house you have to let.”
“House lets. Ah, that would be Tom. If you’d just come this way.”
He oozed his way back between the desks towards a partition at the far end of the room. Here, behind the screen, shoved in a corner and hidden from sight like an ageing and incontinent relative one nurses but doesn’t quite like admitting to, lay what constituted Knight’s Estate Agents Lettings Department. A boy, a table and a filing cabinet.
“Tom, this lady is interested in a house let,” Mister Oily introduced me to his colleague. “I’ll leave you in Tom’s hands.”
His departure back into the inner sanctum he had sprung from left a moment of silence. The shrill note of a telephone from the main office finally roused the youth looking curiously up at me.
“Take a seat Mrs …?”
“Miss. Miss Long.”
“Ah, right. I’m Tom Powell, Miss Long. Did you have a particular property in mind?”
“Yes, 27 Willow Drive.”
“Um, Willow Drive, Willow Drive,” he muttered, finally standing up and taking a step to the filing cabinet, his part of the office being so small that a step was all that was needed.
“Yes, it’s in that maze of streets off the Bellhurst Road. Down Old Church Street and turn left.”
“Ah, yes.” He nodded as though my directions had filled in some gap in his mental road map. “Just give me a moment.”
While he flicked through the files in one of the drawers I gave him a closer look. To my more advanced years and, admittedly jaundiced, eyes he appeared about twelve years old but was probably nearer to twenty five. He would have left school with a media studies A-level and become a car salesman before trying tele-sales and finally settling on a career in estate agency because he got to wear a smart suit - though the one he wore today probably cost him less than a hundred quid and came from Next.
