by Lynda Wilcox
“No, sorry, Jim. ‘How did I feel’?’ is not a question I’m prepared to discuss with the readers of the Crofterton Gazette. What business is it of theirs how I feel? Beside, it’s a stupid question.”
His eyebrows shot up in surprise but I was in full rant mode now and carried on regardless.
“How do you think I felt? How would you have felt?” I jabbed a finger in his direction.
“Gosh! Well, nice to know that age hasn’t mellowed you any, Verity.”
He laughed and realising how I must have sounded, I laughed with him.
“Be sensible, Jim. Anyway, I’ve given you what I can.”
“Thanks, Verity, and I’m no end grateful. My editor is going to love me for this.”
He grinned boyishly before leaving me to go back to the office with his story, promising to return as soon as possible in order to lock up
For the next hour or so I worked feverishly through the archives, searching out the cases that I thought would interest KD. I’d just finished when he reappeared.
“That’s good timing,” I said, arching my back after so long poring over microfiches and the computer terminal.
He gave my shoulders a friendly rub.
“All set?”
“Yes, thanks, Jim. I’ve got what I need. Now I’m ready for some fresh air.”
We parted as we’d met, on the library steps and promised to keep in touch.
I turned into the drive leading up to KD’s house, Bishop Lea, well pleased with my morning’s work. I had only found two cases between 1985 and 1990 that I considered would be of interest to KD - a murder in 1986 and the disappearance of a schoolgirl during the summer of 1990 - but the news reports of the time had supplied enough facts and figures, as well as acres of righteous editorial, to allow my employer to put some fictional flesh on these few remains.
I let myself in with my key, dropped my bag and notebook on my desk in the empty office then ambled through to the kitchen to make a cup of tea and a sandwich. KD’s kitchen was so vast you could die of starvation between the fridge and the sink. I reckoned it covered the same square footage as my entire flat. The same might be said of the rest of the house. There wasn’t a small room in the place, even the loo could accommodate a cocktail party for 25 people.
KD allowed me free run of the place, including the kitchen and its contents so, while I waited for the kettle to boil, I buttered a couple of slices of bread - fortunately my boss hated imitation butter, those spreads that claim a taste they don’t possess, as much as I did - slapped a thick piece of ham between them and dropped a tea bag into a mug.
I’d just finished when her dark head appeared round the door.
“So you’re back, are you? Thought I heard you. How did you get on this morning?”
“Not bad,” I replied, brushing crumbs from my mouth. “I think I’ve found a couple of things that you could use. The details are on my pad in the office.”
When I’d eaten my lunch and we were both at our desks, I gave her the gist of my morning’s work.
“The first involves a local farmer who killed his wife and fed her to the pigs.”
KD made a moue of distaste — for a crime writer she can be remarkably squeamish.
“And the second is the case of a disappearing school girl, though that mystery remains unsolved.”
KD’s eyes lit up.
“Excellent. I can have Agnes solve it any way I like. Tell me more.”
I looked down at my pad.
“Charlotte Neal, a fourteen year old from Darrington, disappeared in broad daylight on a summer’s evening in 1990 whilst returning home from a friend’s house.”
“And she was never found?”
“No. Full police investigation, TV and poster appeals, searches, the lot. Nothing. No trace of her, whether alive or dead, ever found.”
“Excellent!” KD said again, clapping her hands together. “That’s the one we go for.”
“OK. So, what do you want me to do?”
She thought for a moment, leaning back in the chair and swivelling from side to side.
“I’ll need you to go out to Darrington and get me a feel for the place. The sort of area it is, the house the girl lived in and so on. Also, what facilities were provided for youngsters, you know, playgrounds, youth clubs, all that stuff. When did you say this happened?”
“1990.”
“Only twenty years ago, so there may still be people around who remember it, remember the girl and what she was like. See if you can find any and talk to them. Neighbours perhaps, or shopkeepers. What did they think of the family or the girl herself - and don’t forget the friend and her family, ask about them too - and what did everybody think happened.”
I scribbled all this down.
“Then check with the police. See if you can find out who was in charge of the investigation.”
“Detective Chief Inspector George Plover,” I supplied. The Crofterton Gazette had named and quoted him several times, to start with in full page articles under hyperbolic headlines such as ‘How Could This Happen?’ and ‘Agony of the Waiting Parents’, before they’d lost interest in a vanishing girl and a case going nowhere and turned their attention elsewhere.
“Right.” The ideas and questions were still pouring out of KD as she went on, “Find out if he’s still alive and go and interview him. It would be helpful to have the police’s take on this. You know the sort of thing; did they think she’d been murdered, kidnapped or … or,”
“Went of her own accord?” I suggested.
KD smiled.
“Precisely. But first, type up your notes and let me have them, please.”
I spent the rest of the afternoon doing just that, as well as checking through the phone book for the Neals and the family of Charlotte’s friend, Kimberley Hughes. I found no trace of the Neals at their former address, hardly surprising perhaps, but there was an A. Hughes still listed at 122 Conway Drive. I tried the number but got no reply. Turning my attention to the policeman, I found a G. Plover on Main Street in Harcourt and dialled again. Bingo! Right first time. Mr Plover, who had reached the heights of Detective Chief Superintendent before he retired, or so he told me, was more than happy to see me once I’d explained who I was and what I wanted. Arranging to call on him the following morning, I replaced the receiver then returned the directory to the bookcase of reference works that stood beside the door and took down the map of the Crofterton area. Mr Plover’s address was easy to find — he lived in the next village to mine and had a cottage on the main road. The two addresses in Darrington I located quickly from the gazetteer. Then, with no little difficulty and a lot of bad language on my part together with shouted instructions from the far side of KD’s desk, which were totally inaccurate and no use at all, I battled with refolding the map.
“Right. That’s me finished for the day unless there’s anything else you want me to do?”
It was nearly six o’clock already.
“Did I hear you make an appointment with the Inspector chappie?”
“Plover, yes. Ten o’clock tomorrow morning. Is that OK?”
“Fine. I’ll see you when you get here. Have a good evening.”
“You too. ‘Bye.”
Perched on my favourite stool in the wine bar that evening, I decided it was time to go home; I could do with an early night and the place was beginning to fill up. I glanced around at the crowd and suddenly changed my mind. Stepping out of one of the booths at the back of the room came Greg Ferrari! The first thing I noticed about him was his height. He was about a head taller than anyone else in the place and seemed to tower over them as if on stilts. I had a momentary flight of fancy at the idea of him dancing on giant platform boots, before glancing down at his footwear. Even at this distance they appeared to be made of hand-tooled leather. Ten to one they were Italian and specially made and shipped over for him. Given how much money he must be making out of Star Steps no doubt he could afford to buy them by the boat-load. The sui
t too looked Italian, superbly tailored with sharp lapels, waist darts and buttons that were probably hand-crafted on the banks of the Arno by some dark haired, oval-eyed maiden. He filled it immaculately from broad shoulders to narrow hips. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m no expert on men’s fashions - or even women’s for that matter - but Greg Ferrari just oozed class, style and money. He moved, not unnaturally, like a dancer with a lithe cat-like grace. He was on the prowl, that was for sure. More surprisingly he was prowling in my direction.
“Hello. Didn’t I see you at the studios yesterday afternoon?”
Had he? I hadn’t seen him - and believe me I would have noticed him, if I’d done so.
I could have jet-skied off the plane of his cheek bones, his eyes were like molten chocolate. I wanted to dive right in and lap it all up. I held his deep brown gaze for a moment, wishing I was ten years younger, before I snapped out of my fantasies.
“Well I was there.” I admitted. “So, perhaps you did.”
“Greg Ferrari,” he said, as if it wasn’t a household name and held out a smooth well manicured hand. Still, I thought, as I shook it, up until a few days ago I’d never heard of him so it was possible there were others like me. Monks in a silent order perhaps or hermits in some cell in a valley in deepest Wales.
“Verity Long.”
“Can I get you a drink, Verity?”
He smiled, lines showing at the corner of his eyes. He wasn’t as young as I’d first thought him to be and I found his stare somewhat disquieting. Suddenly, I was on my guard.
“I’ll have an apple juice, please.”
Val raised a surprised eyebrow at this change to my usual order of a glass of Merlot but then gave an almost imperceptible nod, perhaps in acknowledgement of the wisdom of my choice. I would need all my wits about me dealing with Mr Ferrari.
“We don’t see you in here very often, Mr Ferrari,” I said.
“I don’t often get into the city centre. Is this a favourite watering hole for you?”
“Me? Oh I’m a habitué,” I laughed.
“So what were you doing out at the studios, Verity?”
Is that what he’s after, I wondered? Is he going to start pumping me for information? Well, two can play at that game.
“I interviewed Candida Clark for a magazine article about Jaynee Johnson.”
I caught a momentary flash in his eyes. Anger? Fear, perhaps? Hard to tell but this was getting more interesting by the moment.
“Really? Which magazine?”
The question was casually put, but again I became wary.
“I’m freelance. There are lots of magazines interested in JayJay right now.”
“Of course. She will be a sad, sad loss,” he said, echoing Candida’s false sentiments word for word. And with the same amount of conviction. This man was not mourning the death of his co-star.
“It must be awful for you. So distressing,” I sounded suitably sympathetic.
“Indeed. I shall miss her so much.”
Yeah! Like you’ll miss a hole in the head, I thought.
“What will happen now?”
“That rather depends on the studio.” He shrugged.
“Will the show continue? It’s very popular, I’ve heard.”
His eyebrows shot up. “You’ve heard? You mean you don’t watch the show?”
Heaven forfend! I’d rather have my teeth drilled than watch a bunch of talentless twerps prancing around in the name of entertainment.
“I’m usually busy on a Saturday,” I said with total dishonesty. “Hadn’t you nearly finished the run, though?
“Yes, it’s an eighteen week season and we had three more programmes to record. I’ve suggested Kaylee Blake would make an excellent replacement. Should the studio heads decide they want the show to continue, of course.”
Of course. And your career too, I thought nastily.
“Greg! Darling!”
A woman’s high pitched shriek shattered my eardrums.
“Hello, Babs.”
He turned towards the newcomer and I slipped from my stool.
“I’ve got to go. Nice meeting you, Greg.”
“Wait.”
He laid a hand on my arm, bedroom eyes gazing into mine.
“Dinner next week?”
“Oh!” Surprised at his quick work, I agreed. It fitted in nicely with my plans, too. “Yes. OK.”
“Great. Next Tuesday?”
I nodded.
“I’ll meet you here, say seven thirty? We’ll go next door, shall we?”
“Sounds good to me.” I never refused dinner at Chez Jacques - especially if someone else was paying. “See you then.”
I left them to it, turning and blowing a kiss to Valentino as I passed.
My flat in Sutton Harcourt occupied the ground floor of what had been a substantial two-storey brick cottage. It had once possessed a large garden but during the last property boom the land had been bought by an enterprising builder who’d thrown up a couple of boxes, called them ‘bijou residences’ and sold them for a fortune. Instead of sitting outside in the evening and admiring trim lawns and flower filled borders, I had four slabs and the side of a house to look at.
I finished wiping the last of my supper pots, stacking them away in the few cupboards that made up my fitted kitchen, and poured myself a glass of wine. It was nearly nine o’clock and, if I couldn’t sit out in a garden then I would have to make do with the lounge. I was half way there, wine in hand, when the doorbell rang. I sighed and carried my glass back to the kitchen. The original front door now served the flat upstairs while I made do with the back door re-sited to the side wall when the cottage was divided.
“Hello, Miss Long. I hope I’m not disturbing you?”
“Not at all. Come in, and please call me Verity. I was just about to have some wine,” I waved the glass in my hand, “would you like one?”
Holly Danvers refused but asked for a soft drink.
“Do you like Youth Dew, Holly?” I asked on a whim when we sat down in the lounge.
“Youth what?” She looked blank. “Is it a drink?”
I shook my head.
“Youth Dew. It’s a perfume.”
“Oh, I can’t wear perfumes. They give me a headache.”
No, Holly Danvers wasn’t the sort to suit perfume - certainly not a heavy fragrance like Estée Lauder’s classic. Candida Clark, on the other hand … I kicked myself for not having asked her when I’d had the opportunity.
“So, what can I do for you, Holly?”
I took a small sip of wine before putting the glass on the table. For the sake of the precious contents, it was a good job I did so because Holly said:
“I’ve got JayJay’s diary.”
“What? Here?”
She nodded, reaching down to her bag out of which she drew out a fancy leather bound book with a metal clasp and passed it to me. Just in case there was any doubt it had the word ‘diary’ picked out in gold on the front.
“Where did you get hold of this?”
Holly coloured slightly.
“There’s an office next to mine with a connecting door. JayJay always used it for the thirteen weeks when she was recording ‘Star Steps’ “
“But haven’t the police already searched that?”
“Oh, yes. A nice young sergeant came and went through JayJay’s desk.” This time a more pronounced blush appeared on her cheeks. “But I’d got it.”
Whether the blush was for the sergeant, probably D.I. Farish’s sidekick Stott, or her failure to hand over what could be a vital piece of evidence was hard to tell.
“You see,” Holly went on, anxious to explain herself, “JayJay kept the diary in a drawer. She didn’t carry it round with her.”
Easy to see why, I thought. It had the dimensions and weight of a medium sized paperback and wouldn’t fit in the type of small, flimsy handbags so favoured by celebrities.
“Anyway, one day she phoned me from outside and asked me to check up o
n an appointment so I went and fetched the diary but I didn’t take it back. I was busy, um …” she faltered to a stop.
“So you put the diary in your drawer and forgot about it?”
“Yes. It got pushed to the back and, and …”
“Well, no harm done. Don’t blame yourself,” I said in an attempt to console her. The poor kid had guilt written all over her face. “The police will need to have this, though.”
“Oh yes, I know, but I thought, as you are investigating, you might like to see it first.”
I nearly sprayed the mouthful of Merlot I’d just taken all over the carpet.
“Me! Investigating?”
“Yes. And then you could give it to the police, couldn’t you?”
“If that was a hint, Holly, it was about as subtle as a train crash,” I informed her. “Anyway, what makes you think I’m investigating?”
“Well, you found her and when you came to the studios yesterday, I rather got the impression you wanted to do a bit of detecting, yourself.”
“Hmmm, maybe I did but that was before everyone started telling me to stay out of it and leave it to the police.”
I thought bitterly of my conversation with Inspector Farish and KD’s pronouncements.
“Oh,” she looked disappointed. “I thought you’d be pleased to have the diary.”
I was, of course, but I still didn’t want to give her any unnecessary encouragement to think of me as Agnes Merryweather.
“I suppose it won’t do any harm to have a look. Are there any secrets or racy details inside?”
If I’d thought to catch her out I didn’t succeed.
“I don’t know, I’ve not looked.”
“But you looked when JayJay called you.”
“Yes, but I just went straight to the date and it said ‘12.30, lunch, KC.”
“Do you know who KC is?” I asked, taking another sip of wine before sliding the clasp undone and opening the diary.
“I don’t think so,” said Holly, shaking her head.
I flicked through the pages until I got to June. There was only one entry and that was for Tuesday 8th June when she’d had, but never kept, a hairdresser’s appointment at 10.30. I turned back a page to the previous week. JayJay had had no appointments between Monday 31st May and Sunday 6th June. I went back another week.
