by Lynda Wilcox
“Oh, I see! You could be right.”
“And it’s perfect for our purposes, of course. Instead of the sergeant we have Agnes Merryweather to divine the girls’ secret.
I let the outrageous pun go.
“Clever. That’s really very clever.”
I sat back, surveying my boss with admiration.
“I’ll bet it’s not far from the truth. In any case it will do for our purposes. After all, we aren’t intending to solve the original case.”
Well, maybe not. Nevertheless I was intrigued now and wanted to know what had become of Charlotte Neal.
“Do you still want me to go out to Darrington?”
“Oh yes. Tomorrow morning, if that’s OK with you?”
“Yes, fine.”
I grabbed another sandwich before she could whisk the plate off the table. She had started to gather the remains of our meal together.
“I’ll go and wash up. You type up your notes from this morning,”
She was halfway to the conservatory door, a tray full of used plates and cutlery in her hands, when she dropped her bombshell.
“Oh, and don’t worry about coming in tomorrow after you’ve been to Darrington. Whatever you find can wait until Monday and I’m going to be working on the dodgy financier story all day. I shan’t need you for that.”
I was slumped on the settee mulling over KD’s words and wondering whether I would soon be out of a job when the door bell rang. What now? I was in no mood for visitors, I decided, walking through to the kitchen, the high heeled black mules I used as slippers clacking on the slabs in the passage that linked it to the living room. This had better not be my landlord demanding his rent a week early. It wasn’t.
“Good evening, Miss Long. Sorry to call so late but I wonder if you could spare me a minute?”
“Come in.”
Detective Inspector Farish smiled his thanks and followed me into the kitchen. There was no sign of his sidekick.
“I was just enjoying a glass of wine.” I indicated the three-quarters full bottle on the table. “Would you care to join me?”
“No, thanks.”
“Are you on duty? Is this an official visit? Perhaps you’d prefer coffee?”
“No, sort of, and no thank you,” he answered my Spanish Inquisition with a soft smile that reached his eyes as well as curving his mouth. The smile definitely improved him.
“Well, come on through, then.”
I led the way into the living room offering him a chair as I sat back down on the settee. This time I perched rather than lounged.
“So what can I do for you, Inspector?”
“Well, firstly, I’ve come to apologise.”
A pink tinge crept up his cheeks. He looked remarkably uncomfortable.
“For what?”
“For being so abrupt with you on Monday. You must have had a considerable shock …”
I bowed my head in agreement for a moment. It’s not every day you find a dead body.
“… and my sergeant tells me I was fairly brutal with you.”
His sergeant told him? Hell’s teeth! If he needed his sidekick to point out his appalling treatment then the man was a machine. I took a sip of wine and waited. I wasn’t going to let him off that easily. I watched with malicious pleasure as the man squirmed on his chair.
“It’s just that, well,” he paused, searching for the right words, the silvery hairs at his temple evident in the light from the table lamp. “This is, as I’m sure you’re aware, a high profile case.”
“Press giving you a bad time, are they?” I asked nastily.
The public too, no doubt. Detective Inspector Farish and his team must be under considerable pressure to find JayJay’s killer. After all, the Crofterton Gazette had apparently lost all sense of proportion and gone so far as to call her a National Treasure. The police didn’t need allegations of callous treatment of vital witnesses on top of everything else.
Surprisingly, Farish relaxed, leaning back in the chair, crossing one corduroy clad leg over the other. I didn’t want him relaxed, not in my lounge anyway. What I wanted was for him to grovel. I took another mouthful of wine - which I nearly sprayed all over him at his next words.
“We can offer you counselling, of course.”
Counselling? Bloody counselling? Oh, don’t get me started. I swallowed my wine, clenched my jaw and uttered a firm, “No.”
“You don’t want counselling?”
“No thank you, I don’t. Shit happens. That’s life. I deal with it.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“You don’t mince your words, do you, Miss Long?”
I shrugged.
“And secondly?”
“Your statement. Would you read and sign it, please? That is if you agree with what my sergeant has typed up from the notes he took at our interview.”
I ignored the sarcasm in his voice as I took the proffered sheets, though I made sure I took my time in going through them. He said nothing while he waited. Finally I appended my name to the bottom and handed them back.
“Anything else?”
“Umm? Oh, yes, this question of the smell in the bathroom.” He bent towards me, forearms on his thighs. “You are sure about it?”
“Oh, yes.”
“And it was definitely, ‘Youth Dew’?”
I eased myself back on the sofa, elbow resting on the arm, my legs curled to the side.
“Yes. It’s an unmistakeable fragrance, very heavy and pervasive. I had a friend who used to wear it.”
“So the smell would hang around for a while?”
“Oh, easily. She spilt some in my car, once. It was like driving around in a Persian brothel for months afterwards.”
His lips quirked with the beginnings of a smile. I went on as casually as I could.
“Of course, what makes it really interesting, is that JayJay wasn’t wearing it?”
He became serious again.
“Ah! You noticed that, did you?”
I nodded without saying anything, reaching for the glass on the table between us.
“And what did your perfumier’s nose detect on the vic… Jaynee Johnson?”
I caught the sarcasm again, and the hurried correction, but replied honestly.
“Nothing at all.”
I’d been within a few feet of the dead woman; if she’d worn ‘Youth Dew’ I would have known it. She might have used a different fragrance, of course, but my ability to smell it would depend on when she’d applied it - and how long she’d been dead.
“OK, thank you. Well, I think that’s all.”
“There is one other thing,” I said, uncurling myself from the settee and padding across to the desk.
“You’ve thought of something else?” His tone was eager.
“No, I’ve been given something else.”
I dropped JayJay’s diary into his hand resumed my seat, watching him closely. If he was surprised he hid it very well.
“Where did you get this?”
“As I said, I was given it. By Holly Danvers.”
“Johnson’s secretary? But …”
“It was in her desk drawer and she’d forgotten she had it when Sergeant Stott called,” I explained hurriedly. I didn’t want him blaming either Holly or his underling for what had been merely an oversight.
“How long have you had it?”
Dark eyes bored accusingly into mine as he undid the clasp.
“Only twenty four hours. You’ll need to get your cryptographers to work on it.”
“Hmm?” He glanced down at the book on his lap, long fingers turning the pages.
“There’s not a lot in it and what there is, is written in code.”
He closed it quickly.
“And neither you nor Miss Danvers thought to bring it to us?”
Unmoved by the anger in his tone, I shrugged.
“Holly was too scared to and I was going to drop it in tomorrow. I haven’t had time today. I’m a working girl.�
��
“Yes, you are. You work as a PA not a detective.”
I controlled myself with some difficulty. This man was making a habit of rubbing me up the wrong way. In an attempt to mollify him, I said,
“I’m not trying to be a detective …” which wasn’t true but I hoped sounded suitably apologetic.
“But you’ve looked at it.” He lifted the diary.
“Of course. I was intrigued. Wouldn’t you be curious about a dead woman’s diary?”
“Yes, but then I’m paid to be.”
The retort came quickly, hitting me like a slap in the face. Well, I thought sourly, I walked straight into that one. I lowered my gaze.
“I’m sorry.”
My voice sounded suitably contrite.
“Miss Long. Please.”
I looked up quickly at the pleading note in his voice.
“You didn’t mince your words earlier, so I won’t do so now. Stay out of this. You must have realised that there’s a very clever killer responsible for JayJay’s death.”
I nodded. That was becoming clear. Getting JayJay to a downmarket, empty house, the business with the keys; it all indicated a carefully thought out crime.
“I don’t want …” he turned his head away briefly, his profile revealing the strong line of his jaw. “I don’t want to investigate your death at the same time as Jaynee Johnson’s.”
“I’ll do my best,” was my only answer but I did take his concern seriously. He was right and I would have to watch my back if I was to take my interest in the case any further.
“Good.”
He got up to leave and I walked him to the door.
“Erm.. there is one other thing,” he smiled rather sheepishly, turning to face me, one foot already out of the door.
What now, I wondered, suddenly wary.
“Ye-es?”
“Will you have dinner with me on Saturday night?”
Stap me! Whatever I’d been expecting, it wasn’t that.
“Erm … erm,” I stammered like a schoolgirl asked out on her first date. “Yes. OK. Thank you,” I finally got out.
“Great. I’ll pick you up about seven thirty?”
I nodded, too dumbstruck to speak, wondering what on earth I was getting myself into.
“I’ll see you then. Good night, Miss Long.”
And he was gone, pulling the door shut behind him.
Chapter 6
The suburb of Darrington runs like a ribbon along the eastern edge of town. Although on the opposite side of Crofterton from my flat in Sutton, the opening of the northern bypass would make the journey easier. Even so I didn’t set off until after nine, when the morning rush hour had passed, determined to get a good look at the area where, on a bright summer’s evening twenty years ago, a young girl had simply vanished. The sun hung high in a cloudless blue sky, offering the promise of another perfect June day and I made good time to Conway Drive on the edge of the estate. I parked up in a lay-by in front of a parade of shops and took my notebook and digital camera from the glove box. KD liked to have photographs as a visual aid to her work; a few pictures of the two houses and a some shots of the surrounding area should do it.
I checked my notes and the street map I had brought with me. Kimberley Hughes and her family had lived at number 122 while Charlotte Neal had been just round the corner at 17 Rhyl Close. On the map the two streets were very close, but it gave no indication of house numbers so one of my tasks this morning was to check out the distance on foot between the two, then time how long it took to walk between them.
Once out of the car I slung the camera strap over my shoulder and headed for the small row of shops. Facing me from left to right stood a newsagents, a chemist, Patel’s Mini Supermarket, a hair salon called Curl Up and Dye - I nearly did - and Chan’s Cottage Chinese Takeaway. For the moment I resisted the temptation to go in and buy a newspaper, bottle of pills, bar of chocolate or have my hair done and Chan’s was closed, so I passed them all and carried on along Conway Drive. Before the houses began, a strip of unmown grass, waving in knee-high drifts, fronted a belt of undergrowth and trees. A couple of paths, beaten down by the constant passage of feet, ran across this mini meadow towards the trees. A large black labrador, old and fat, waddled through it in my direction. His owner, equally old but thin and wiry, walked behind.
“Sit, Blackie! Sit.”
What an imaginative piece of naming, I thought before, to my surprise, the dog did just that. It sat down on its haunches a foot or so from where I stood and gazed solemnly up at me.
“Good boy, Blackie.” His master’s approval followed instantly.
“Hello, Blackie.”
I put forward an open palm for inspection before scratching the top of its head.
“Good morning, Miss,” the man touched he front of his cap in an old-fashioned gesture. “He won’t hurt you.”
“ I’m sure he won’t,” I replied. Apart from a ripple of pleasure running down its flanks as I stroked the silky head, the dog hadn’t moved an inch. “He’s too well trained for that.”
Having thus earned the approval of both man and beast, I attempted to make best use of it while I could.
“Have the shops been there long?”
“About ten years or so, I guess. They took away some of your playground, didn’t they, boy?” He looked down at the dog, scratching it lazily behind the ears. As if in answer, the dog put its head against the man’s leg and gazed up with big, sorrowful eyes.
“Playground?”
“Yes, there were more woods and open land here, then. We’d not had him long as a pup,” he nodded towards the dog, “and we used to walk all over here, regular like, until the developers moved in.”
He looked as sad as his labrador.
“I’m surprised they’ve not built on what’s left,” I said. “Do the trees go back far?”
“Oh, a fair way. Half a mile or so till you reach a stream. There’s a bomb hole in the middle. A crater, like,” he explained seeing my blank look, “where a bomb exploded during the war. It’s all covered over now, nature reclaims its own, and farmer’s fields beyond that. At one time they had planned to extend, to build more houses here,” he pointed towards the woods, “but fortunately for Blackie and me, and the local kids, the property crash put paid to that.”
So twenty years ago there had been quite a stretch of woods and common land close to where the Hughes family lived. I glanced across to the trees. It was hard to see anything behind them. At this time of year the grass and undergrowth were high and straggling. If it stretched back for half a mile as the old man thought, well … it might be possible to hide a body there, perhaps at the bottom of the crater. I had a sudden vision of a girl, struggling to break free from her captor as he dragged her into the trees. I shook myself and brought my thoughts back to the present and the old man now looking curiously at me.
“Memories, eh?” He suggested.
More like an over-active imagination, I thought.
“Ah, well. Better be off home for some breakfast. Nice talking to you, Miss.” He touched his cap again. “Come on, Blackie.”
“Goodbye. Goodbye Blackie.”
I watched them go for a moment, the dog obediently walking a few paces behind his master, before I carried on up Conway Drive.
I passed the end of Rhyl Close before I reached my objective. Kimberley Hughes’s old home was a typical 1980s detached house with a small, neatly kept front garden and a curved tarmac drive. Somebody had been spending money on the place, for it had recently been fitted with new UPVC windows and fascia boards that shone brightly in the sun. Other than that nothing distinguished it from the identical little boxes that stretched away on either side. I took a couple of photographs from different angles to give KD some idea of the house when she got round to working on the story. There was every probability that the four bedroomed bow-fronted property would metamorphose into something completely different by the time she had finished but that, she had often t
old me, was the joy of writing fiction.
In contrast, Charlotte Neal’s house when I reached it some twelve minutes later, looked unkempt and uncared for. The garden was a wasteland of grass and dandelion intersected by a path of broken concrete slabs leading to a faded and peeling front door. I wondered how long ago Charlotte’s family had moved out and who lived in it now — there was no listing for a Neal at this address in the phone book. I needed a nosy, and talkative, neighbour but there didn’t seem to be anyone around and my job description didn’t involve ringing doorbells, asking prying and unwelcome questions. I crossed to the opposite pavement for a better angle and nearly dropped the camera when a voice behind me said,
“Excuse me.”
I spun round. Leaning on the gate of the house behind me, a small, elderly woman looked suspiciously up at me.
“What are you doing?”
What did she think I was doing? I was stood there with a camera in my hands, for goodness sake.
“I’m just taking some photographs.”
“Are they moving, then? The Jones’s?”
Manna from heaven! I seized my chance.
“Yes. Or at least, I’ve been told by my boss to come and take some photos.”
Which was no word of a lie. She didn’t need to know my boss wasn’t an estate agent.
“Unlucky house that,” she offered.
“Unlucky? In what way? It certainly looks an eyesore.”
“Oh, it’s never been cared for. Been let go to rack and ruin.”
“How does that make it unlucky?”
“It was the Neal house, that. Their little girl disappeared, you know, about twenty year ago or more. All over the papers it was”
“Did she? Were you here then? What happened?” I asked as casually as I could, though my eagerness was beginning to make me sound like the Spanish Inquisition.
“Oh, I’ve been here since these houses were built, love. Back in the eighties that were. The Neals moved in shortly after and it were their daughter that vanished coming back from a friend’s house.”
“How awful. What do you think happened?”
“No idea. No more idea than the police had anyways, and they were swarming all over the place for nigh on a week. House to house they come, asking if we’d seen anything. Well, of course, we ‘adn’t.” She sounded rather regretful at this as if she longed to be someone who gave the police vital information. “But then nobody ‘ad. At least, no one admitted ‘aving seen the girl.”
