by Lynda Wilcox
“I love seafood,” he wiped his lips and chin on his napkin. “it reminds me of my childhood in Naples.”
“You were born in Naples?”
“Close to. A small town near there, Pozzuoli. We moved to Naples when I was three. I helped my father with his lobster pots and shellfish.” His eyes took on a wistful, far-away look, very likely intended to make me think he was remembering the halcyon days of his Italian youth.
In a pig’s ear, you did, I thought. For a start it’s pronounced Pots - woe - lea, not Pass-you-oli as he’d said it, and if there were any shellfish still in existence in the pollution rich waters of the Bay of Naples, it wouldn’t be long before his father had no customers left alive to eat them.
What an interesting evening this was turning out to be. Twenty minutes in and I’d already caught him out in his first lie. Let’s see what else we could unearth of the (literally) fabulous back story of Greg Ferrari.
“So when did you move to England?”
I made my voice casual while turning what I hoped was a suitably rapt gaze upon him.
“I was nineteen. My father had died and my mother decided to start a new life here.” He finished the last of Whitby’s finest, for which I was inordinately grateful, and signalled to Jacques that he could take the plates away.
“That must have been hard for her.”
And totally un-Italian, where families are important and stick together. Still, it tallied with the fact that I had been unable to find out anything about him before the age of twenty. The man seemed to have sprung into life fully formed - like Aphrodite out of Zeus’s head, and just as beautiful.
“Yes, but we Ferrari’s are nothing if not adventurous.”
He smiled at that, wrapped up in the fairy tale he had created for himself.
“What other adventurous things have you done?”
I’d thought it an innocent enough question but, for a moment, a look of sheer panic had flitted across the chiselled features.
“Oh, this and that,” he waved a dismissive hand, nearly knocking the empty plates that Jacques was carrying from the table behind us onto the floor. The mâitre d’ executed a swerving side step manoeuvre equal to any that Ferrari had ever performed with his deceased co-star and sailed smoothly past.
“Do you ever get home to Italy, Greg?”
“Not as much as I would like. My place now is here. I must tell you, Verity,” he leaned confidentially towards me, “I have great hopes for my future.”
“I’m not surprised. A man of your talents.”
Even to my own ears it sounded the worst kind of oily, insincere flattery but the man lapped it up as if it was no more than his due. Now was the time to use that self-absorption to my own advantage.
“Will you carry on with ‘Star Steps’?”
“Perhaps. If they find me a suitable replacement for the divine JayJay.”
“I would imagine female presenters are queuing up to star with you, Greg, and there can’t be a woman at Silverton unaffected by your looks and charm. You probably have to fight them off.”
He appeared to give this outrageous fawning serious consideration for a moment, chin raised, fingers tapping one immaculate cheek bone, before bestowing on me the sort of ‘come hither’ look that had me crossing my legs and reminding myself that he was my chief suspect for JayJay’s murder. Fortunately he shattered the moment with his next words.
“Let’s just say I’ve been able to take my pick of bed-warmers since my arrival at the studios.”
Stunned by this monumental piece of arrogance, I missed the moment to ask if this included his co-star when Jacques placed a plate of noisettes of lamb before me and a rare and bloody fillet steak in front of Ferrari and drifted off to fetch the accompaniments - a side salad for me and a plate of chips for my companion.
I ate in peace for a while, enjoying the perfectly cooked meat, so tender that my knife slid through it like butter. I sipped at my wine, Greg’s choice - an Italian red too lightweight to properly complement the meat. Still, it was pleasant enough and its low strength meant I stood a better chance of keeping a clear head.
“This is good,” Ferrari lifted a slab of steak on his fork.
“So’s mine. Well up to the ‘Chez Jacques’ standard.”
He nodded but appeared totally uninterested in my culinary opinion.
“I’ve signed up to do Panto this year, at the Royal Theatre,” he suddenly announced, apropos of nothing.
“Oh really? Which one are they doing?”
“Cinderella. I’m playing Buttons.” He gulped his wine.
“Have you considered hosting a chat show. You’d be so good at that.”
I smiled at him, picking up my glass.
He winked at me.
“‘S on the cards, Verity.”
He slurred the words ever so slightly. Hell’s teeth! Was the man pissed, already? On this stuff? I took another sip. Look on the bright side, Verity, I told myself. He might be too drunk to try his luck with me later and my mind was already working on the problem of how to beat a strategic exit. Of course, I might not need to if the man was exhausted after his efforts with Candida that afternoon but I was taking no chances.
“So really then, you could say that poor JayJay’s death hasn’t harmed your career at all.”
“Well, I don’t think I’d go so far as to say that.”
Would you go so far as to kill her, though, I wondered, as he looked at me mournfully.
“I shall miss her. She was a great artiste.”
“I wonder who killed her?”
He shrugged. “Not me,” he said and sounded sincere, “though the police seemed to think so. They gave me a right old grilling. I can tell you.”
Jacques removed the plates and handed out the dessert menu. I didn’t bother looking. I knew what I’d have.
“I suppose they’ve interviewed everyone at the Studios?” I said.
“Several times. Our producer went and complained to the studio head, as if there was anything he could do about it. For all I know he was on the receiving end of the third degree from Crofterton’s finest himself.”
I bridled at this disparaging reference to Jerry Farish and his team notwithstanding our quarrel last night but the news that Candida Clark had complained (about what exactly?) was interesting. I wondered if I could make use of it. Probably not.
“What would you like now, Verity?” Ferrari asked on Jaques return.
I asked for the chocolate mousse, to which the Frenchman gave a brief, knowing, smile. My companion settled on coffee and an Armagnac. Only once these items had been placed in front of us did Greg consider an infinitely less fascinating topic of conversation than his own life and career - his date for the evening.
“So, Verity, what’s it like working as a writer?”
“Very interesting,”
I kept my reply brief. My mouth was better occupied in enjoying the pure sensual indulgence of Jacques’s chocolate creation.
“What are you working on at the moment?”
I think my companion leant towards me but I neither saw nor heard him. For an all too brief moment the world around me faded to insignificance as I gazed at the rich, airy, luscious morsel on the tip of my spoon. Anticipation can be as pleasurable as the fulfilment - but I didn’t keep myself waiting long. I almost moaned with delight as the chocolate hit my tongue before filling my mouth and sliding, silkily, luxuriously down my throat. I took another spoonful, And another.
“Mmm?” Had Greg said something?
I placed the last teaspoonful of unalloyed velvety pleasure on my tongue.
“I asked what you were working on just at the moment?”
I licked every last trace of chocolate from the spoon before replacing it, regretfully, on the saucer. That’s the problem with Jacques’s dessert - it never lasts long enough. With a replete sigh, I finally answered Greg’s question.
“Oh, a twenty year old case involving a schoolgirl called Charlotte Neal.�
�
He coughed, spluttering slightly, as if his brandy had gone down the wrong way and the fiery spirit hurt his throat.
“Really?” he managed at last, sounding and looking totally bored by the subject. Discreetly he wiped his eyes and mouth then, with an abrupt change of subject that totally threw me, he said,
“I shan’t be able to see you home tonight, er, Verity, but I’ll get the mâitre d’ to order us two taxis, OK?”
I tried to sound disappointed when I answered but actually felt mightily relieved. Being pawed over by the sexually athletic Greg Ferrari would have ruined the memory of an excellent meal. Given the choice, I’d rather remember the chocolate.
Chapter 10
I awoke the next morning aware that I had made what could be a vital connection. While I had slept - my conscious mind and its obsession with the Jaynee Johnson murder put on hold - my subconscious had retrieved the missing fragment, the link, that I’d forgotten; the other Charlotte Neal. Over breakfast of coffee, a bowl of Greek yoghurt and a slice of toast, I read through my interview with Chief Superintendent Plover again. Towards the end I had written, ‘two Charlotte Neals, hit and run, up north somewhere’, and the word ‘coincidence’ followed by two question marks. In the case of the two girls it was certainly nothing more than a chance similarity in their names but if KD was right and the attack on me had nothing to do with my sudden curiosity about a dead celebrity, then my interest in a twenty year old case, spoken aloud in what I had assumed was an empty wine bar immediately followed by a near nose dive into traffic … well, that might well be no coincidence at all.
“I’ve got a hair appointment in half an hour,” said KD as I walked into the office. “So I’ll catch up with you and any reports later, if that’s OK?”
“Yes, fine.”
“I really must find a new hairdresser. This one cuts beautifully but I can’t stand her. She’s such a dreadful topper.”
“A topper?” Was this a new term for a hairdresser that I’d not come across before?
“Yes, you know the sort. Whatever you’ve done she can top it. You’ve had a ten pound win on the lottery but she won thousands. Spent your holiday in Fuengirola? She went to Fiji and, of course, your minor op was nothing compared to her surviving terminal cancer.”
“She did?
“Did what?”
“Survive terminal cancer?” I asked stupidly.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Verity. You can’t survive something that’s terminal.”
She looked at me crossly.
“Oh, of course not, sorry.”
“Are you all right? Only you don’t seem quite ‘with it’, this morning?”
“I’m sorry, my mind’s elsewhere. I was thinking about two Charlotte Neals”
“Two of them? Isn’t one enough?”
“Well, if you remember, Superintendent Plover said that another girl had died at the same time.”
“Ah, yes. I do remember you saying something about that. My mind had latched on to the local one and forgotten the other. What about her?”
“Well, I think I’d like to look into that case a bit more. It might come in useful, if not now, then sometime in the future.”
“Yes, why not? I quite like the idea of having a stockpile of cases to choose from. Right, I must dash. See you when I get back.”
I waved a hand as she passed and then reached for the phone.
“Miss Long? Yes of course I remember you.” said George Plover in answer to my question. “I’ve been meaning to call you.”
“Have you remembered something about the Charlotte Neal case?”
“Not exactly. It was something that happened later.”
“Oh?”
“Her parents had moved away to the coast by then and her father came to the attention of the local force when he was reported for following and harassing a young girl down there. He claimed he’d only been walking behind her. Nothing could be proved and no further action was taken. I thought it might interest you, for your story, I mean.”
I laughed.
“It’s Kathleen Davenport’s story, not mine. I’m just the leg man but thank you. I’ve made a note and will pass it on. I actually called about the other case. The Charlotte Neal that was killed in a hit and run accident.”
“Oh, yes?”
“You said it happened up north somewhere. Can you remember where?”
“Well now, let me think.”
The line went quiet for a moment before I heard him muttering to himself.
“Up north or north somewhere? North, north … oh! Of course! You still there, Miss Long?”
“Yes.”
“It was Northworthy. Can’t remember who was in charge, though he might still be on the force if he was young enough at the time. Is that any help to you.”
“Loads! Thanks, Mr Plover.”
“You’re welcome.”
Northworthy. I did KD’s trick of swivelling on my chair while I thought about things. Coming to a decision, I fetched the road atlas from the bookshelf. Northworthy, nestling on the edges of the Peak District, appeared to be a sizeable town about a hundred miles from Crofterton. I put the atlas away and Googled it. The search engine reckoned it was 102.4 miles from centre to centre and the route looked fairly simple; drive across country to the M1 motorway and then turn left. I could get there in a couple of hours, but what I really needed was a contact in the local police force and I could think of only one way to get it. With a trembling hand I dialled the number of Crofterton police station.
“May I speak to Detective Sergeant Stott, please?”
I gave my name as requested then waited while the connection was made, praying that the sergeant would answer.
“Verity! What a lovely surprise.”
Damn! And damn my heart for leaping so when I heard the sound of his voice. Get a grip Verity, I told myself, and stop acting like a fool.
“Good morning, Inspector Farish. I was hoping to speak to your sergeant.”
“Won’t I do? And why so formal?”
I ignored the second question
“Very well. I wonder if I might ask a favour, please?”
“Yes, of course I’ll take you for dinner again. Unless you’d prefer the cinema, only these days they don’t turn the lights down low enough for me to snuggle up and kiss you. I could book seats on the back row, though.”
What was the man wittering on about? After my words on Monday, I’d expected him never to want to speak to me again. Now he was burbling away, sounding a bigger fool than I felt.
“I’m thinking of going away.”
“Oh.”
Suddenly, he was serious.
“Yes, I’m going to Northworthy.”
There was no need to tell him it was only for one night.
“And what delights does Northworthy hold that I can’t provide you with here?”
He was definitely in a silly mood this morning. Maybe they were making progress or had a breakthrough on the case.
“It’s work. I’m researching a case for KD.”
“So you will be coming back?”
Did he sound eager or was I just hearing what I wanted to hear in his voice?
“Yes.”
“And this is where you need the favour is it?”
“Yes, I need the name of an Inspector or even a Superintendent at the police station there.”
“Do you, indeed? Well give me a moment.”
I waited impatiently, tapping my fingers on the desk while he found the information I’d requested.
“Right, I’ve got your names. Chief Inspector John Rock and Chief Superintendent Darryl Andrews. I met John Rock on a residential training weekend a few years back. I’ll give him a ring and let him know to expect you.”
“That is very kind. I hope to call in some time on Friday.”
“I’ll let him know. Take care of yourself, Verity, and stay out of trouble.”
“I will do my best, Inspector,” I promised.
/> He gave a sigh.
“Well, make sure you do. Bye.”
I made several more phone calls and wrote a whole pile of notes, both for myself and my employer, before KD got back to the office.
“Hi. How are you getting on?”
“Fine,” I said. “I’ve put all the notes I’ve made and all the information I have on the other Charlotte Neal on your desk.”
She nodded as she helped herself to coffee. With her newly dyed, feather cut hair and black Chanel-style suit she looked like a giant crow.
“And I’ve spoken to that nice retired policeman, who remembered that the hit and run happened in Northworthy.”
“Ah ha.”
KD sat at her desk.
“So, if it’s all right with you, I thought I’d drive up there tomorrow night and spend Friday researching.
“I did a book signing in Northworthy once.”
She wrinkled her nose. KD hates book signings.
“Stayed at a lovely hotel not far from the centre. The Georgian. Friendly and comfortable and reasonably priced. Save your receipts and put it on expenses.”
“Thanks, KD.”
“When will you be back?”
“Oh, Friday night, all being well. I’ll be in for work as usual Monday morning.”
I didn’t want her thinking I was spending the whole weekend on her expense account.
“Have you told the police yet about that attack on you?”
Her abrupt change of subject threw me.
“Nnn … no,” I stammered. “I haven’t had the time.”
Or the right opening. It was difficult to say ‘By the way, I think someone’s trying to kill me’ when your mouth is covered by a kiss or you’re having a flaming row.
“Nonsense. You seem to be spending enough time with that Inspector. Is he sweet on you?”
I blushed.
“I very much doubt it. I’m just his chief suspect for the JayJay murder.”
I turned away, pounding at my keyboard, entering ‘Georgian Hotel, Northworthy,’ into Google.
“Are you sweet on him?”
I have to admit she was nothing if not persistent,
