by Lynda Wilcox
She swivelled from side to side on her chair, balancing a pencil between her fingertips, as she considered this.
“Well, I can think of quite a few reasons.”
“You can?” I was aghast. I prided myself on being friendly to everyone, though I’ll admit I don’t suffer fools gladly and have a waspish tongue at times but that was no reason to kill me. Was it?
“Maybe you’re getting too close on the Jaynee Johnson case.”
“Close, Pfuii!” I dismissed this with a wave of my hand. “KD, I’m not close. I’m miles away from the truth. I’ve no idea who killed the wretched woman.”
“No, but you’d like to find out,” she responded sharply, “and you’ve been asking an awful lot of questions.”
I shook my head at this.
“Come on, Verity, whoever murdered JayJay is a pretty dangerous person. They’re not going to take kindly to you waltzing in, in your size nines, poking your big nose in where it’s not wanted.”
“Seven” I muttered.
“What?”
“I only take size seven,” I snapped, resenting the suggestion that I had big feet. Or a big nose, for that matter. I ran a thumb and forefinger down the front of my face, just to confirm my mirror wasn’t lying to me.
“Whatever. The point is, you should leave it to the police.”
I shrugged again.
“That’s not going to be easy. I feel involved now. I especially feel involved since some bastard tipped me into the Crofterton arm of the Grand Union Canal.”
“And you’ve no idea who it was?” KD stopped swivelling and leaned forward over the desk.
“No.” I shook my head again, trying to remember if I’d seen anyone around as I’d walked towards the bridge and the car park.
KD pushed back her chair and started to pace up and down behind the desk. I recognised the signs. She was in what she referred to as ‘noveling mode’. Any minute she would say, “What would Agnes Merryweather do?”
She steepled the well manicured fingers, nails painted orange this morning, under her chin.
“What would Agnes Merryweather do?”
I smiled to myself at this demonstration of my psychic powers.
“OK, so let’s go back.”
She continued to pace and to ponder and I knew better than to interrupt. Her books were always plotted out this way, for her it was a necessary part of the process, but I wasn’t best pleased to be considered as merely a character in one of her stories. What had happened to me was real. Somebody had intended me to take a dive - whether headlong into traffic or head first into the canal was immaterial. Somebody wanted me dead.
KD nodded to herself a couple of times and turned to face me.
Before she could say anything, I burst out,
“This is for real, you know. I’m not sure I like you turning it into a story with me as the victim.”
She gave a grin.
“‘Agnes Merryweather and the PA in the Canal’? Sorry, Verity,” for a moment she looked shamefaced. “You’re right, of course, but fiction can be a useful tool in helping us find the truth, you know.”
Great! Kathleen Davenport as philosopher I could well do without. I held my tongue. All I said was, “And what has Agnes told you?”
“Well, as I said, let’s go back.” She sat down again at the desk. “When did these attacks on you start?”
“Saturday. No, it can’t have been. It must have been Friday. I was heading for the car to come back here after my trip to Darrington.”
“So you were in Darrington immediately before?”
“No, I was at Val’s place. I’d popped into the ABC for a late lunch.”
“OK. Who did you see in Val’s? What did you talk about?”
I could see where she was heading and I gave the questions some thought before I answered.
“I got to the ABC at about half past one. There were still plenty of customers finishing lunch in the front section but the only one I recognised was that bloke from Knight’s. The oily manager chappie, I mean, not Tom Powell. Tom Powell probably can’t afford Val’s.”
“Did you speak to him?”
“No. He didn’t even notice me and if he had he wouldn’t have remembered me. The only person I spoke to was Val.”
She raised an eyebrow and then shook her head.
“I can’t see Val involved. Can you?”
“No. Val’s my friend and besides he was on the phone when I left. Although …”
“Yes?”
“Well, it’s only just occurred to me that both attacks happened after leaving the ABC. The first on Friday lunchtime and the second one last night.”
“Hmm. Well, leaving aside the fact that you seem to spend an awful lot of time in that wine bar, let’s concentrate on the first attempt. What did you talk about with Val?”
”Whether I should go for the rillettes or the ham. Whether I could risk a glass of wine before I drove here,” I could sense KD’s growing impatience as I counted these riveting conversational points off on my fingers. “How the job was going.”
“Ah,” she pounced, “what did you tell him?”
“I was getting to that,” I rebuked her as I tried to recall what I’d actually said to Val. It wasn’t easy - I’d had several drinks and a couple of sleeps since then.
“Sorry. Go on.”
“Well, after I’d eaten my baguette, I chose the rillettes by the way and had a glass of mineral water …”
“Verity”
I ignored the interruption - I was deliberately winding her up after that jibe about me spending too long at Val’s.
“… I told him that I was enjoying the job and that it involved a lot of research. Then I said I’d just been out to Darrington …”
“Did anyone overhear this?”
“I don’t think so. The place was just about empty by then. I was on a bar stool, chatting to Valentino at the counter. I said we were looking at using a case from twenty years ago.”
“How much detail did you give Val?”
“Not a lot. We don’t have much information ourselves on this one, do we? I said it was about a missing schoolgirl and that the police had never found out what happened to her or where she went.”
“Did you mention her name?”
“I think I might have done. So what? It would mean nothing to Val. He and Jacques have only been in this country for ten years.”
“Hmm,” she pulled at her lower lip, then reached for a tissue to wipe lipstick off her fingers. ”Well now, I don’t spend as much time in the ABC wine bar as you obviously do. Didn’t you tell me there were booths at the back?”
Really! She was beginning to sound like my mother. I glowered at her.
“Yes, there are four. Two on each side.”
“So somebody could have been in there and overheard you.”
“It’s possible,” I admitted, “But they must have been in there for a long time. Since before I got there anyway and I didn’t hear anyone moving about.”
“And you didn’t mention anything about JayJay or finding the body when you and Val were talking?”
No, we hadn’t. Val had sensed that it wasn’t something I was keen to discuss. I wanted to find the woman’s killer, yes, but I would sooner forget the memory of that slim, young figure on the bed. I shook my head
“I’m probably barking up the wrong tree anyway,” KD went on. “It’s far more likely that the attacks on you are connected with the killing of JayJay, not Charlotte Neal’s disappearance all that time ago.”
“Agreed.” Although I quite liked the idea of Roger Hughes lurking unseen in a wine bar. When I suggested this, though, KD didn’t seem convinced.
“You’re really sold on the idea that he had something to do with it, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know, it just seems likely to me but I do think he’s the ideal villain for your story.”
“We’ll see. I’m thinking of calling her Emily Howard, by the way.”
I nodded, glad to have got off the subject of real-life crime but KD wasn’t finished yet.
“Do me a favour, Verity. Go back and ask Val if anyone followed you out of the wine bar on Friday afternoon or last night, for that matter. No, please,” she continued, seeing the sceptical look on my face, “ I’m concerned for your safety. Why should the attempts stop at two? Whoever it is could, possibly, try again.”
“Thanks, KD. That’s a comforting thought.”
“I’m serious.”
She looked it.
“OK, I’ll ask Val.”
“Good.”
The further north I drove the darker it became, as the weather rapidly deteriorated. Storm clouds boiling up in the west rampaged towards a similar dark mass coming from the east. They met over my head, with all the fury they could muster, like some celestial clash of titans. The wind howled in frustration as it proved incapable of deflecting the torrential rain which fell straight down, a string of shining drops in the car’s headlights. The windscreen wipers were set to overdrive but it was still almost impossible to see. I cursed myself for a fool for coming off the motorway when I did. It was madness to try and find the short cut through to Northworthy in this weather. Had I missed the turning? I strained my eyes through the sodden gloom, convinced I was driving towards the middle of nowhere. I slowed down and dipped my headlights as another car came towards me and, as I did so, saw the turning to the left. A drunken, wooden signpost, pointing more towards the ground than the road, said Upton and Northworthy. I breathed a sigh of relief. Not far now, a mere five miles if the distance could be trusted.
The rain had passed and the skies held the promise of a clear evening by the time I pulled into the hotel car park. The storm had taken with it the excessive heat of the last few days and I felt glad of my jacket as I approached the front door. The Georgian had once been an elegant town house, its smooth, cream-coloured face to the street, proudly announcing its owner to be a man of taste and wealth. Instead of ripping the building’s heart out in a frenzy of glass and chrome, whoever had modernised it had done so with style and sympathy. Polished wood, plain walls and soft-hued patterned carpets greeted the guest with the offer of warmth and comfort. The welcome from the receptionist was equally cordial as I checked in, without any “Howdy, my name is Lisa and I’m your receptionist this evening. How may I serve you at this time?” The Georgian approach was far more discreet.
“Good evening, madam, do you have a reservation?”
I gave my name and credit card details then, the niceties sorted to our mutual satisfaction, she pushed a key across the desk to me.
“Can you recommend a restaurant for this evening, please?” I asked, glancing at my watch which showed seven o’clock.
“Do you know the town, madam?”
When I admitted I didn’t and that I would be on foot, she reached for a pocket-sized map spreading it out across the counter between us.
“There’s a very nice French restaurant on Monk’s Gate and a Thai restaurant a little further along on the opposite side.”
She marked the locations on the map with neat crosses.
“After that the road becomes the Wardrow which is almost in the centre. You’ll find plenty to choose from there, Mexican, Chinese, whatever you fancy.”
I smiled my thanks taking the carefully refolded map from her outstretched hand.
“The front door is locked at 11 o’clock. If you are likely to be late back I can give you the key.”
How very trusting, I thought, as she reached into a drawer beneath the desk.
“No, that’s all right. I promise to be home by half past ten.”
She smiled at that, closing the drawer. “Well, if you change your mind, you can pick one up on your way out. Room 12 is on the first floor. Turn left at the top of the stairs.”
It was easy to find and just as easy to feel at home as soon as I opened the door. It had the usual items to remind you that you were in a hotel and not the home of a rich friend, the mini bar, the tea and coffee making equipment, the chocolate on the pillow but the furniture, mainly rosewood and mahogany, reflected the period when the place was built. The mattress was firm as I sat on the bed and slipped off my shoes. Impressed by the facilities that it did provide, I was equally pleased by those it didn’t. There were no tent-cards written in text-speak, exhorting the guest to ‘try our two-4-one deals’ - what’s wrong with writing the word for, for heaven’s sake? Not bad for eighty pounds a night, I reflected. I could have done a lot worse. I switched on the kettle before I headed into the bathroom. Wow! Here was the gleaming chrome and glass, the arctic white tiles, the mixer taps, the press-flush loo. It was like stepping forward in time. Soft white towels lay draped over heated rails and colourful toiletries spilled out of a steel wire basket.
I drank my tea then stripped and showered. The hot water sloughed off my tiredness from the drive though the shower gel -‘apple and camomile’ - left me smelling like a herb garden. Invigorated, I slipped into a royal blue skirt and jacket that brought out the auburn colour of my hair, a lighter blue roll neck jumper completing the ensemble. Thus prepared I sallied forth, map in hand, to find some dinner amidst the culinary delights of Northworthy.
I studied the menu with some care in the French Revolution restaurant then, having made my choices, I studied the other diners. of which there were few. Out of a possible forty covers only about a quarter of that number were taken. Framed caricatures of Napoleon dotted the plain white walls, the only reference I could see to the Bistro’s name. Hopefully that meant the emphasis was on the food not the surroundings or, dreaded word, the ambiance. The smiling waitress who had shown me to my seat at a table against the right hand wall returned to take my order. I asked for a plate of charcuterie followed by a medium rare steak frites. As KD was paying, I also ordered a half bottle of house red.
“It’s Cabernet Sauvignan, miss. Is that all right?”
I assured her that it was and returned to my perusal of my fellow customers. A table of four twenty-somethings got up to leave, off on a night’s clubbing or so I gathered from their conversation, which left a middle aged couple, an older man on his own, and love’s young dream. This pair, close to the door, had gazed rapturously into each other’s eyes, fingers entwined, for the entire time I’d been in there. Every now and again one or the other of them would heave a sigh. Two cups of coffee in front of them remained untouched. They were either empty or the contents stone cold by now. Aware, suddenly, that I too, was being stared at, I looked away. The single man, a fork full of mushrooms close to his mouth gave me a conspiratorial smile. I nodded in reply and took my notebook from my bag.
The memory of Greg Ferrari and the fabrication and lies he had concocted to conceal his past, occupied me for most of the first course, while still allowing me to enjoy the selection of sausage and salami on the plate in front of me. I ate with satisfaction and pleasure, helping myself frequently to slices of soft white loaf on which I spread generous amounts of creamy pale yellow butter. The simplicity of the meal and the wine made a fine counterpoint to my dinner the previous night. Not that the food at Chez Jacques is elaborate but the history invented by my companion certainly had been. That he was a liar and a fantasist I did not doubt. Whether he was a murderer as well, I would leave until tomorrow. ‘Sufficient unto the day’ and all that.
The waitress cleared my plate and came back promptly with the main course. I topped up my wine glass and poured a half glass of water from the carafe she had placed on the table earlier. The lovers, arms entwined, had left and, apart from the gentleman sitting on his own across the narrow room and to whom the waitress paid particular attention, I was alone in the place. They must, I thought, eat early in Northworthy and the restaurant probably did not attract much custom mid week - which was a shame for the food was very good. My steak, cooked just as I like it, melted in the mouth and the frites were crisp and golden, still soft on the inside. The house wine proved perfectly drinkable although its la
bel provided me with the usual laugh going on, as it did, about ‘sun-ripened fruit’ - what other way is there to ripen fruit? - and ‘luscious hints of vanilla and pomegranate’, neither of which I detected.
I declined the waitress’s offer of dessert and asked for a white coffee.
“You permit, ma’m’selle?”
The old man stood at my table indicating one of the empty chairs.
Surprised, I nodded.
“Of course.”
“If you do not mind, I should like to join you for coffee and, perhaps a liqueur, a digestif?”
He smiled, seating himself with precision, pulling at his trouser legs so that they did not crease at the knees. He carried a pair of leather gloves and rested his hands on the top of a cane. He reminded me so much of Maurice Chevalier I expected him to break into ‘Thank ‘Eavens for Leetle Girls’ at any moment. Instead he offered an aged hand.
“Henri Broissard.”
“Verity Long. You are the owner?”
I indicated the restaurant with a sweep of my hand. It was, I felt, a reasonable assumption after the deference paid him by the waitress.
He bowed his head in acknowledgement.
“Once I was chef patron, now I am only patron.”
A regretful tone sounded in his voice to match the sad grey eyes.
“Time passes,” I agreed.
The waitress, he called her Jenny, brought my coffee and an espresso for M. Broissard, then scurried behind the small bar to pour a cognac and a Benedictine for me.
“I have not seen you in here before, Ma’m’selle Long.”
Did he come in every night, I wondered, with nothing better to do than recognise and observe his customers. Maybe. There had been few enough of them that evening, certainly.
“I am a visitor,” I told him. “I’ve not been to the town before.”
“Ah,” he nodded, as if this explained everything. “What brings you, may I ask, to Northworthy?”
“My research. I work for a writer and help her find the background to her novels.”
“Ah, bon. That is interesting.”
