Strictly Murder

by Lynda Wilcox

He swirled the brandy in his glass. I wondered how long he had lived in England. The Gallic accent was still pronounced and he retained the speech patterns of his mother tongue - far more so that Val or Jacques. Being the inquisitive sort, I asked him.

  “A long time. Thirty years or more. I still miss Paree.”

  “Me too.”

  The long buried memory of Laurent, my flamboyant Parisian lover, resurfaced from the silt-covered depths where I had left it, along with that of the bastard’s undisclosed wife. I hate Paris in the Springtime.

  “You worked in Paree?”

  I dragged my mind back to my current companion and his question.

  “No. Just a holiday.”

  It hadn’t been - I’d had a job of sorts - but it was too involved and too complicated to talk about, so I left it at that. It was still, I discovered, a painful subject.

  We sat in silence for a while, both wrapped in our own reminiscences, sipping the drinks.

  “Where is it that you stay?”

  M. Broissard finally broke the hiatus in in our conversation. I couldn’t see any harm in telling him.

  “I’m at the Geogian Hotel, just up the road.”

  “Ah, yes. I know it. It is a very comfortable, very friendly place, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Yes, As long as they don’t lock me out.”

  I looked at my watch, nearly an hour yet before that happened.

  “I remember. It is like ‘Cendrillon’, yes?” He used the French name for Cinderella. “If you do not return from the ball before midnight …

  “I turn into a pumpkin.”

  He laughed.

  “But no, ma’m’selle. You are the wrong shape for a citrouille.”

  I joined in his laughter.

  “For the moment.”

  Give me twenty years of good food like tonight’s and I might well come to resemble a pumpkin.

  The mention of Cinderella brought to mind my conversation with Greg Ferrari on Tuesday evening. Mentally I shook my head, trying to clear away the vision of a red suited Buttons dancing about the stage of the Royal Theatre in Crofterton around some necessarily static and wooden C-list celebrity with big boobs.

  Jenny flitted to the table to ask if we wanted more coffee or brandies.

  “No, thank you. It’s about time I was going. I’d like the bill, please.”

  I paid the modest amount — KD would be pleased — with my card and then pushed back my chair.

  “Jenny, my coat, s’il vous plait.” The old man rose. “You permit that I walk you to your hotel, ma’m’selle?”

  I paused. The waitress, returning with a camel coloured coat, gave me a reassuring nod as she helped him into it to let me know that my companion was unlikely to attack me on the way. Well, why not, I thought. It wasn’t far.

  Wrapping a white woollen scarf around his neck Mr Broissard looked remarkably dapper with his gloves and cane. He opened the door for me and muttered his goodbyes to the waitress before offering me his arm. I felt as if I’d been transported back to the turn of the century as we ambled along the Old Upchester road.

  “I am pleased to have met you, Ma’m’selle Long and I have enjoyed your company this evening. Will your stay in Northworthy be a long one?”

  “No. All being well, if I can find what I need, I shall go home tomorrow night.”

  “Tchah! C’est domage.”

  A pity? Well, perhaps. I really hadn’t seen enough of the town to be able to agree, or disagree, with that.

  “Who knows,” I said, smiling at him in the glow of the street lights, “I may come back another time.”

  “And if you do, you will return to my restaurant, yes?”

  “Yes, of course. I enjoyed my meal very much.”

  I had too. The price hadn’t been bad either, at under twenty five quid for two courses, a half bottle of wine, coffee and a Benedictine.

  “Good. I am glad.”

  He watched me go in, standing at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the front door, before raising his hand in an elegant ‘adieu’. I said goodnight and closed the door.

  Once again, I found myself in the house on Willow Drive. Inexorably, my footsteps led down the landing towards the bedroom door.

  “It’s behind that door,” I said to some unseen companion. I faltered, afraid of what lay ahead.

  “You must go on. You must open it and enter.” A voice urged me onwards.

  I reached out with a white, lifeless hand.

  “Push it. Push it. Don’t be scared. Discover the truth,” came the insistent voice. I looked around trying to find the speaker, but I was alone in the dark and dingy corridor. A heavy, cloying fragrance filled the air as the door in front of me shimmered and shook. A face appeared through the panelling and I opened my mouth to scream.

  The shrill ring of the telephone on my bedside table roused me from the nightmare. Covered in perspiration I shook myself awake. I hadn’t been asleep long — my alarm clock showed 12.10 as I picked up the phone.

  “Hello?” I mumbled. “Verity Long.”

  “Good evening, Verity. Sorry to call so late.”

  Jerry Farish? For a moment I thought I must still be dreaming. Struggling to wipe the last whispers of sleep from my brain, I eased myself into a more comfortable position in the unfamiliar bed.

  “Verity? Are you still there? I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

  “Hmm? Yes, sorry. How did you find me?”

  “Don’t sound so suspicious,” his voice sounded relaxed, friendly, even. “Mrs Davenport told me where you were.”

  “Oh? And why did you call my employer?” I was fully awake now and prepared to be difficult. “To check up on me?”

  I heard an exasperated sigh from the other end of the phone.

  “Actually, she phoned me.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes. She’s concerned about you, Verity. So am I since she’s spoken to me. Why didn’t you tell me about the attacks on you?”

  “Oh,” I said again.

  “Is that all you have to say? ‘Oh’? If someone is trying to kill you, don’t you think the police ought to know about it?”

  “I can take care of myself,” was all I could think of to say. I was still busy wondering why he’d called and what else KD might have told him.

  “What, by learning to swim, perhaps? Taking diving lessons, are we?”

  I laughed, despite myself, then wished I hadn’t. I could love a man who makes me laugh.

  “It’s no laughing matter, Verity.”

  “I know. Jerry, I’m sorry.”

  “That’s all well and good …”

  “No. I meant, I’m sorry about what I said on Monday. The way I spoke to you. It was unforgivable.”

  I gulped, though it came out more like a sob, after offering this olive branch. The line went very quiet and for a dreadful moment I thought I’d lost him again. After what seemed like an age I heard him say:

  “Well, you’re forgiven on the condition that you let me take you out to dinner again.”

  And breathe, I told myself, exhaling the air I’d been holding as I’d waited for his reply.

  “I’d like that very much. Thank you,” I said, relieved at this second chance.

  “Good, then that’s settled. Now, tell me about these attacks.”

  I kept my account of the assaults as brief and undramatic as I could, trying not to make more of them than they warranted.

  “So, both attacks happened after leaving the ABC?”

  Jerry’s voice was matter-of-fact but I hurried to Valentino’s defence.

  “No, no. I don’t think your friend Val is involved but we can’t honestly say the same for his clientele, can we?”

  “No … o, I suppose not,” I agreed.

  “Well, I’ll have a word with him. Just to see if he can remember who was in the bar on those days. He might recall something useful.”

  “OK. Jerry, I haven’t told Val about what happened. I’ve hardly had the chance.”

&
nbsp; “No, understood. Hopefully, you’ll be safe enough in Northworthy … as long as you behave yourself.”

  I played with the telephone wire, running it through my fingers, watching the glimmer of light that filtered under my bedroom door from the hotel corridor. Outside, a lorry rumbled past along the Upchester Road.

  “Oh, but Jerry, I don’t ‘do’ behaving.” I laughed. “Behaving’s boring.”

  “Wretched girl.” He sounded light hearted. “Do I have to come up there and look after you myself?”

  “Yes, please,” I whispered, low enough for him not to hear.

  “Seriously, Verity, just be careful.”

  “I will be,” I promised. “Have you made any headway on the JayJay case? Do you know how she died?”

  I held my breath, waiting for his reply. The subject could well be off-limits.

  “Yes, we’ve had the report on the PM. She was drugged with Midazolam before she was stabbed.”

  “Midazolam?”

  “Yes, its a sedative and one of its side-effects can be lowered blood pressure. Jaynee already suffered from a low BP.”

  “Does that explain the lack of blood?”

  “Yes, partly. The weapon, a fruit-paring knife wasn’t very long — it punctured the heart but didn’t skewer her to the bed.”

  I shuddered silently in the darkness.

  ” When are you coming home?”

  He changed the subject quickly.

  “Tomorrow evening, sometime, all being well. I’m researching for KD in the morning and seeing your contact at the police station tomorrow afternoon.”

  “OK. Drive safely. I’ll call you when you’re back. Good night.”

  “Good night, Jerry.”

  “Sleep well.” He put the phone down.

  I lay in the dark for quite a while after the call ended, making no attempt to sleep. Knowing that JayJay had been drugged only raised a lot more questions. How had it been administered? Was she lying down when she was stabbed? And I still didn’t know who. I dismissed the problem of JayJay’s death and thought instead of my roller-coaster relationship with Jerry. I pulled the light quilt around my shoulders and drifted into sleep.

  Chapter 12

  Like so many great northern cities that had first fuelled and then fed upon the Industrial Revolution, Northworthy appeared unsure of its role, or even if it had one any longer, in the modern age. The Victorian buildings at its heart might have been scrubbed and scoured to present a cleaner, more youthful face to the 21st century but far greater damage had been inflicted upon the area immediately outside the centre. Gone were the old terraced houses and the football ground where once on a Saturday workmen trudged through the streets - freed for a while of the daily grind and the need to earn a living - to stand and shout on freezing terraces, roaring on their pride and joy to victory or defeat. All that had been replaced by a modern all-seater stadium that was as likely to host bankers, businessmen and sponsors with fat wallets as it was men in cloth caps. Gone too were the old railway sidings and marshalling yards, swept away to make room for the new inner ring-road and a one-way system designed by some sadistic town planner with a cunning equal to that of Machiavelli. I had driven four times around the same industrial estate before I found my objective.

  The offices of the Northworthy Evening Telegraph had once occupied Bycliffe House situated on a bustling corner right in the heart, and therefore the action, of the town centre and not stuck out in the middle of nowhere as it was now.

  This information, supplied by the friendly chap on the front desk, was small consolation for the time, and petrol, I had wasted trying to find it.

  “Ah. It’s a bugger of a one-way system,” was his laconic comment when I voiced my opinion of the current location of the building he worked in and the ease, or otherwise, of getting there.

  When I explained what I needed he eagerly handed me over to ‘our Miss Cunningham from the archive department’, a prim looking individual who could have passed for the twin sister of the librarian in Crofterton. However, for all the rigidity of her posture and the tightness of the grey bun on the back of her head, she was knowledgeable and efficient, taking me swiftly downstairs - archives are always in some concrete bunker of a basement as if fearing destruction of their precious historical contents by an alien invasion fleet - and placing the relevant enormous ledger in front of me.

  “We’ve only managed to get the last ten years on computer. These are the original editions for 1990.”

  “That’s fine, thank you. Does it include all the pages?”

  “Yes, but not any inserts.”

  “Inserts?”

  “Yes, special advertising features, or editions to mark particular events. Like a Royal Visit or a major sporting event, the World Cup or the Olympics, for example.”

  “Oh, I see. Fortunately, it’s not that I want, just the news.”

  She pointed to the heavy tome she’d placed in front of me.

  “Then it’s in there.”

  I thanked her again.

  “I’ll be at the computer terminal when you’re done.” she said, and wandered off.

  I turned my attention to the pile of papers. They were new, probably unread, slipped into the bindings on the day of printing and never looked at since. The smell of newsprint lifted from the page when I turned it. The paper crackled and felt crisp and fresh. I turned each complete edition from the start of the year until the first of May over and out of the way, then began my search of each, individual page.

  I found what I wanted right at the end of June, the thirtieth to be precise. It was a small paragraph of no more than two hundred and fifty words under the heading ‘Girl Dies in Hit and Run’. The reporter had listed the bare facts, that Charlotte Neill aged 14, of Cotdene Park Road, Cotdene, had been knocked down and killed the previous evening by a driver who did not stop. If anyone was in the vicinity at the time - though the report did not spell out exactly when it had happened - and had witnessed the accident, then they were asked to contact the police, either at Northworthy Central Police Office or their local police station.

  This had to be it, despite the discrepancy in the spelling. After all, Neal and Neill sound alike and Chief Inspector Plover might never have seen the name of the girl in Northworthy written down. I made a note of the details to give to Inspector Rock later that afternoon and carried on with my trawl. I went through another month’s worth of editions without finding anything more substantial than the original report except for a slim column under the heading ‘Police Updates’, dated the 14th July. This repeated the request for information on various outstanding crimes including the case that interested me but, other than that, Charlotte Neill’s name made no further appearance in the pages of the ‘Evening Telegraph’.

  Sadly, I closed the ledger suddenly aware of how the time had flown past and that Miss Cunningham now sat eating her lunch. I thanked her for her help, made my way up to ground level and prepared myself to battle once more with the monstrous entity that rejoiced in the name of the Northworthy Inner Ring Road.

  The brick built police station hovered on the western side of the town market place. What had once been an elegant, open space with a Victorian Guildhall on the south aspect facing a central fountain and cenotaph had been developed into an eyesore by the addition of a hideous modernistic arts centre, made from black glass and steel, on the northern side.

  I gave my name to the desk sergeant and took a seat while I waited to see Detective Chief Inspector John Rock - who had obviously been promoted since Jerry Farish had met him. A young constable escorted me through a labyrinth of corridors before opening a door on the top floor and ushering me inside.

  “Come in, Miss Long. Take a seat. My colleague, Detective Inspector Farish has asked me to give you every assistance on an old case you are writing about.”

  Taking the offered seat, I judged this example of Northworthy’s finest to be in his late fifties though his hair and the military moustache on his upper lip were
still startlingly black. I suspected Grecian 2000.

  Notepad and pen ready on my knee, I once again went through the rigmarole of what I did, who I worked for and the method we used. Chief Inspector Rock listened, hands steepled in front of his face, index fingers pushing at his lower lip. He made a note on the jotter in front of him when I mentioned the case that interested KD then picked up the phone and gave these particulars to a minion.

  “It will take a while to locate the relevant file, Miss Long. It wasn’t a case I was personally involved in so I can’t give you any first hand information.”

  His face assumed a sorrowful look, as though he’d admitted to some failing on his part.

  “Are you enjoying your visit to Northworthy, Miss Long?”

  I assured him that I was - what else could I say? - whilst regretting that my visit would be a brief one. I’ve never had any talent for small talk but, fortunately, the pretty policewoman who had shown me to the Inspector’s office reappeared within a few minutes with a slim brown folder clutched to her chest. She laid it on his desk.

  “The case file you requested, Sir.”

  She gave me a friendly smile as she left.

  “Now then, let’s have a look.”

  Rock’s short, stubby fingers opened the folder, sliding the papers around inside.

  “Hmm. Your Inspector Farish has a good memory.”

  My Inspector Farish? I liked that!

  “Oh, Inspector Farish wasn’t involved in this. It was Chief Superintendent George Plover who was in charge of the local case, a disappearing schoolgirl called Charlotte Neal. He remembered the coincidence of the girl’s names.”

  He nodded.

  “Well, Charlotte Neill, N, E, I, double L,” he spelled it out, “was knocked down and killed by a hit and run driver on the 29th of June 1990. We never found who did it.”

  He shook his head. Once again that sense of personal failure pervaded his words.

  “What else can you tell me?” I didn’t like to tell him that I’d already gleaned all this from the report in the local paper.

  “The car, a Ford Mondeo, had been abandoned about five miles from the scene of the accident. We traced it back to a Mrs Francesca Smith in Cotdene.”