by Lynda Wilcox
“Then the Beaune it is.”
He closed the wine list and handed it back. Jacques glided silently away.
The Inspector looked around, taking in the surroundings. The restaurant had twenty tables and a maximum of eighty covers, most of them full this evening — as on most Saturdays.
“It’s the first time I’ve been here, though I’ve heard good reports about it.”
“The food is excellent,” I assured him.
“So I understand. It came highly recommended by the Assistant Chief Constable, no less.”
I made a face to show that I was suitably impressed, before saying:
“He’s a man of taste, then, obviously.”
“Oh! Obviously,” he laughed back.
“And if you haven’t been before, then you are in for a treat.”
“Well, if the company’s anything to go by then I’m sure I am.”
His hazel eyes twinkled at me, as he tasted the small amount of wine Jacques had just poured into his glass. Then they widened as his eyebrows raised.
“That’s fine, thank you,” he said to Jacques before looking at me and adding, “Good choice, Verity.”
Stupidly, I found myself basking in his praise. Stay on your guard, I told myself. You still don’t know what he is after.
“So how come you know so much about wine?
I swallowed the forkful of chanterelle I’d just put in my mouth and wiped a trace of cream sauce from my lips before replying.
“I worked for a wine exporter in the Burgundy region once - a long time ago - and then later, when I’d moved back to England, I worked for a wine importer.”
“Did you enjoy the job?”
“I certainly enjoyed their products,” I laughed. “And learned a fair bit about wine in the process.”
“Is that where you met Jacques and,” he paused, searching for the name.
“Valentino,” I supplied, “usually shortened to Val and no, it’s not his real name. I don’t know what that is. Anyway, I met them in 1999 when I took a French holiday. They ran a small bar cum bistro. Look, it’s a long story. Are you sure you want to hear this?”
He finished the last of his salmon and pushed the plate away. “Yes, please.” He looked genuinely interested. “Frankly, I’m fascinated.”
“By what?” I asked sharply, aware of his eyes on me.
“You,” he said, simply. “Besides, I’ve never met a wine importer before.”
“You haven’t met one now,” I pointed out. “I only worked for one.”
“Whatever. Go on.”
Encouraged by his smile, I gave him the bare bones of the story.
“For various reasons the boys were thinking of moving to England. When they mentioned this to me I said that a wine bar and bistro was just what Crofterton needed. So they looked into it from their end, I did the same over here and voila! as they say, here they are.”
“Just like that?”
“Well no, hardly,” I laughed, leaning back in my chair as a large plate of duck on top of sauteed potatoes was placed in front of me.
We ate in silence for a while. Was he really that interested in the life and works of Verity Long, I wondered, or was it a ploy to keep off the subject that had thrown us together? Pleasure, Verity, I reminded myself. Tonight is about enjoying yourself, remember. Besides, the JayJay case was hardly a suitable topic for discussion over an excellent meal and damned fine wine. Maybe there would be an opportunity later to raise the subject.
“So, are you into old films or do you just like quoting lines from Casablanca?”
He put down his knife and fork and raised his glass, looking at me over the rim.
“Yes, I like old films,” I told him. “They’re less violent, less overtly sexual and in your face than modern ones.” I sounded remarkably prim.
“You don’t approve of sex and violence?”
“In the right place. I certainly don’t want to watch it in a cinema with hundreds of others.” Fearing that this made me sound like a secret voyeur I hurried on, “or on television in my own living room.”
Goodness! I’d made a right hash of explaining that.
“What I mean is …”
“I know what you mean.” He smiled to put me at ease. “So what is your favourite film?”
I speared a piece of potato while I considered this.
“Do I have to choose just one?”
“Well,” he glanced at his watch, “the night is young. I don’t mind a long list.”
If he was laughing at me, I didn’t care. I laughed back.
“I think I could narrow it down to three.”
“And they are?”
“Apart from Casablanca I would also include Singin’ in the Rain and Some Like It Hot on my list.”
“Yes, they’d probably be on mine too. What about, It’s a Wonderful Life,?”
“It’s OK. A bit too sentimental and schmaltzy, though, for my liking.”
He nodded as if this list of films had revealed some hidden aspect of my personality. He put the last piece of fillet into his mouth.
“And what about you? Do you prefer more modern movies?”
“I hardly get the chance to watch them.”
Jacques removed our plates and offered us dessert. We settled on coffee and liqueurs.
“Thank you, Verity,” he said later, savouring his Calvados. “Your taste in restaurants is as excellent as your taste in films.”
“Don’t thank me. It was your ACC’s recommendation,” I pointed out, “I merely approved of it.”
I finished my Tia Maria and went to the ladies while he settled the bill. I re-applied my lipstick and brushed my hair, chiding myself for my vanity whilst admitting that Jerry Farish was a damned attractive man — especially when he set out to be as charming and entertaining as he had been that evening. I stared at my face in the mirror, inwardly laughing at myself. I’d no idea where I was heading. I just hoped I could control the ride.
“You’ve been very good,” he said. We sat side by side on my settee drinking the coffee I’d made, the taxi driver that had brought us home agreeing to come back for him in an hour.
“Good?” my eyes flashed. “I do know how to behave in public, you know. Did you expect me to strip off and dance on the tables?”
“Hardly, though I would have been interested in watching the performance.” He caught the warning glint and hurried on, “I meant that you hadn’t mentioned the Jaynee Johnson case all night.”
“Oh well, I decided you deserved a break.”
He smiled, relaxing, putting his arm along the back of the settee
“Thank you. You’ll never know how much I appreciate that.”
A wicked voice inside my head said ‘show me’. I leaned towards him.
The arm came down around my shoulder pulling me closer still. My head was almost on his chest.
“Jerry,” I began, looking up at him.
His lips were on mine. I felt their warmth, their softness as I responded. Eventually I pulled away. Thank goodness he had a taxi coming.
“Jerry, I’m sorry but I must talk to you. How did JayJay die?”
“She was stabbed. Obviously.”
I waved a hand to dismiss the obvious.
“Yes, but there would have been blood all over the place if she’d just been
stabbed. Was she drugged first?”
“Possibly. We’re still waiting for the coroner’s report.”
“Oh. Now, about JayJay’s diary.”
He sighed.
“I just wanted to tell you that I think I’ve worked out one of the names.”
“Which one?”
He sat up, retrieving his arm which had slipped to my waist. Stupidly, I felt bereft.
“I think Xmas Wreath refers to Holly Danvers, JayJay’s secretary. There’s only one entry in the diary with that name, January 7th, when Holly had an interview with her at Silverton Studios. So Holly, Christmas, it all fits.”
He nodded.
; “Yes, I think you’re right. I’ll pass that on to Emma.”
“Emma?” Why did I suddenly sound jealous?
“Sergeant Emma Harrison. I’ve given the diary to her on the assumption that it takes a woman to get inside another woman’s mind.”
I laughed at his logic.
“I’m still going to work on it and the rest of the names,” I informed him.
“I wish you’d stay out of it.”
“I can’t, Jerry. I have to be honest with you. I’m intrigued, curious, involved.”
“Curiosity killed the cat,” he warned me. “I can see that I’ll have to keep a close eye on you.”
He smiled as he said it. If he meant what I hoped he meant, then I would raise no objections.
A ring at the doorbell announced his imminent departure. So soon? I reluctantly walked him through to the kitchen and opened the door to the driver.
“Right you are, guv, I’ll wait in the car.”
“Verity, thank you for a lovely evening. Can we do it again?” His arms slid round my waist holding me close.
“Yes, please. I’d like that.”
This time, I offered my lips up for his kiss, yielding to him, to his gentleness and the warm firm pressure of his mouth on mine.
“Good night, Verity.” His voice sounded husky in my ear.
Then he was gone, into the night.
Chapter 8
As usual on a Sunday, I allowed myself the luxury of a lie-in. Curled up in bed, warm and drowsy with the last vestiges of sleep still clinging to my mind, I thought about my date the previous night and wriggled my toes in pleasure at the memory. My earlier dislike of the Inspector had gone, replaced by a growing sense of attraction, a sexual pull that I found hard to resist. For a while I daydreamed, imagining what it would be like to surrender myself to him, to give in to my desires. Then I took a cold shower.
After breakfast of bacon and scrambled eggs I fetched my notes, eager to get my thoughts on the JayJay case into some kind of order. I’d no sooner started when the doorbell rang. My heart leapt in the hope that it might be Jerry again and I gave myself a mental slap for such girlish enthusiasm - then hid my disappointment.
“Oh, hello, Barbara. Come in.”
I stood back to let my neighbour into the kitchen. A trim 70 year old, she and her husband John lived in the flat above mine and although friendly, it was unusual for either of them to call. I wondered what was wrong.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Verity.”
“That’s all right. Would you like coffee?”
“No, I won’t, thanks. I’ve only popped in to tell you we are moving.”
“Oh! I’m sorry to hear that.”
I was. The Lawsons were good neighbours. Quiet and unobtrusive, keeping themselves to themselves yet willing to offer help when needed. They had no children - at least not young ones - no pets and didn’t hold rowdy parties. An ideal couple to have living in the flat upstairs.
“Well, we felt it was about time we moved to a bungalow. John finds the stairs increasingly difficult, with his arthritis you know, and we’ve decided to move closer to our daughter and the grandchildren.”
“So, you are moving out of Sutton Harcourt altogether?”
She nodded. “Yes, at the end of the month. We just wanted to let you know.”
“Thank you, Barbara. I shall be sorry to see you and John go but I wish you all the best.”
“Thanks, dear. Now I must go. I’ve left John packing my best china.”
I appreciated her sense of urgency as she smiled and said goodbye. Never leave a man in charge of packing. You’ll end up on your week’s holiday with enough dresses to clad a hen party and no shoes or underwear. As for delicate crockery, Barbara might as well go out now and stock up on paper plates. I laughed at the thought but felt depressed after she had gone, my earlier pleasurable mood dispelled. Knowing my luck, my landlord would house a young couple with a screaming baby or a constantly barking Doberman over my head. Yet another reason to get out of this place. Still, there was nothing I could do about it for the moment so, as a consolation, I decided to treat myself to Sunday lunch at the Fox Inn. Then, as an added distraction, I returned to worrying over Jaynee Johnson’s murder. I fetched a new pad from the front room and compiled yet another list.
1. The keys
2. Who was ‘Mrs Smith’?
3. Why had Jaynee gone there?
4. Where was her handbag? And her mobile phone?
5.The diary
I made fresh coffee while I mulled over these questions. Given the type of keyring used by Knight’s, it would be easy enough to slip the key from the ring and substitute one of your own. There would be an element of risk involved but nevertheless I was convinced this was how it had been done, so I wrote ‘Easy. Substitution’ next to item one.
Mrs Smith might well be a harder problem to solve. An old woman, according to Tom Powell, and the name was likely to be an alias.
I left this for the time being and moved on to question three. Jaynee must have gone willingly to the house; there would have been signs of a struggle otherwise and the chance that somebody — a neighbour or a passerby — might have seen or heard something. And why? The answer stared me in the face. She went to view it! Her killer invited her there on the pretext that they were thinking of renting it and moving in. Well, that let out John Brackett and I couldn’t see Candy Clark or Greg Ferrari in a Victorian villa so I could strike them off my list of suspects as well. Or could I? There might be other reasons, besides the obvious one, for JayJay to have gone to Willow Close, so that still left the producer and the co-star in the picture. Damn.
I walked around the kitchen while I pondered what I’d got so far - unlike KD I don’t fiddle while I’m thinking, I walk - and wished I’d pumped Jerry Farish for more information last night. How much of this did the police already know? How much brain work could the man have saved me? Maybe, as our relationship developed — relationship? What relationship? Did one dinner together constitute an affair? — he might be prepared to discuss his work with me. For one wild moment I wondered if he talked in his sleep and then laughed uproariously at my own lascivious folly.
Calming down, I realised Jerry and his team would have the answer to my next point. They’d be able to trace the mobile and I could understand the killer taking it.
I plodded and pondered on then, at twenty past twelve, I threw my notebook and pen in my bag, combed my hair and set off on the short walk to the Fox, my local pub. I bought an Observer and a Sunday redtop from the newsagents on the way intending to read them over lunch. If I couldn’t winkle any information out of the police then I’d just have to get it from the press.
The Fox Inn was a traditional English pub selling real ales, good food - including an excellent steak pie and a tasty beef stew with dumplings - and with a halfway decent wine list. It boasted no jukebox, piped music, widescreen TV, fruit machines, pool tables, karaoke nights, ridiculously named cocktails or children’s play areas. Unpretentious, it refused to call itself The Fox at Sutton Harcourt - as if this made it sound classier or more up-market — and remained the plain Fox Inn. The staff were friendly and well trained to observe, as well as pass, the time of day. You’d get no, “Hiya” here but a warm “Good afternoon” or “Good evening”, as the case may be.
I ordered a plate of thickly cut home-cured ham with chips and a glass of red wine.
“I’ve got some nice roast beef with Yorkshire pudding on today, Verity,” the landlord offered.
“Thanks, Bob, but I’ve had a good breakfast. I’ll stick with what I’ve ordered, I think.”
I took my glass and the papers to an empty table, spreading the tabloid out in front of me. They reported no further news on the demise of Jaynee Johnson but a centre page spread by a features writer proclaimed, ‘Stars Mourn Death of Showbiz Icon’. I read through the lurid prose with distaste and a growing sense of unease. If this article by the, no doubt pseudonymous, Dolly Dawkins was anythin
g to go by, the beatification of JayJay had already started. I learned nothing that I didn’t know earlier and the piece concluded with the usual predictable quotes from her colleagues in the TV industry. They praised her character, her talent and, even, her work ethic yet nothing of the woman’s personality, no insight into the real Jaynee Johnson came out in their words. To me, she remained as artificial in real life as she had appeared on the screen. I grabbed the paper off the table and threw it on the bench beside me in disgust.
I read the letters page in the Observer while I enjoyed my ham and chips then fetched another glass of wine from the bar. I returned to my seat and searched for an account of the JayJay case in the news section. It took up a mere two paragraphs on page 4. The staid nature of the writing came as a welcome relief from the hysterical style of the Sunday Scream, reporting only the facts.
The body of Jaynee Johnson, presenter of the popular Saturday night TV show, Star Steps, was found last Monday by an estate agent and his client viewing an empty property in Crofterton, home of Silverton Studios where the programme is recorded. The star, who had been missing for nearly a week prior to the discovery, had been stabbed with a thin-bladed dagger. Why and how Miss Johnson went to the neat Victorian villa in the centre of the town is currently unknown.
I read on but there was no mention of what she had been wearing or the missing handbag and phone. However, the next sentence held a surprise.
The police team, under the leadership of Chief Superintendent John Ward, head of Crofterton CID, are asking anyone who saw or heard anything in the area on the night of Sunday 6th or morning of Monday 7th June to come forward. The number for the incident room is …
Chief Superintendent John Ward, eh? Well, he was a new one on me. Presumably this was the guy cracking the whip over Jerry Farish and his sergeants’ heads. Which could explain why my dinner date from yesterday had been like a cat on hot bricks on Thursday and needed to relax last night.
“Ah, there you are, Verity. I thought I’d find you here.”
I looked up in surprise as Jim Hamilton slid into the chair opposite me and raised his glass.
“Hobgoblin on draught,” he told me. “I’m impressed.”
“Hello, Jim. What are you doing here? We don’t often see you round these parts?”
