by Lynda Wilcox
“Oh.”
‘The Complete Encyclopedia of Crime’, I read. ‘Solved and Unsolved Cases From the Middle Ages to the Present Day’.
“It’s my latest idea,” explained KD from the end of the sofa. “There must be dozens of interesting cases in there for you to check out over the next few months.”
Months? It could take years, judging by the thickness and size of it. I flicked through the pages. Arranged alphabetically, it covered everything from the A6 murder to somebody called John Young.
“According to the reviews it contains all the details we need for my stories. And, if we want more information, there’s still the internet.”
She’s determined to keep me out of trouble, I thought, looking at her beaming face.
“Thanks, KD. Do you want me to get started straight away?” I grinned at her. “Seriously, this is going to prove a great help. Where did you find it?”
“Kristy Baker-Sanders mentioned it to me sometime last week, and after our conversation at the hospital …” She meant when I’d cried like a baby about losing my job, “… I thought you might find it useful .”
“Oh, I’m sure I shall, thank you,”
“I said that I don’t want to lose you, Verity, and I meant it. You’re too good at your job for me not to take your concerns seriously.”
She disappeared in the direction of the kitchen and, easier in my mind, I returned to my self-imposed task of finding JayJay’s and Greg’s killer.
“We are taking the rest of the day off,” announced KD, coming back into the living room an hour later carrying a wicker basket covered with a cloth.
“We are?
“Yes, you could do with a change of scene and some fresh air. I’ve made an executive decision.”
“Well, OK, though I’m hardly dressed for it. Still, if you insist.”
“I do. Bring your notebook and mobile, just in case.”
That was more like it. Despite outward appearances and protests to the contrary, KD never switched off. Never stopped being a writer. Ideas came to her in the most unlikely places and at the most inconvenient times; it was up to me to keep pace with her, to get everything down for later retrieval. Where she led I would follow. Mind you, I would draw the line at the bathroom door.
“Where are we going?” I asked, when we were in the car.
“You’ll see.”
KD turned the nose of the Range Rover towards Bellhurst and waited for a break in the traffic, peering to her right to make sure the road was clear before pulling out.
“We are going for a picnic,” she said as she accelerated away from Bishop Lea. Behind us the automatic gates swung, silently, closed.
I checked my watch. Half past eleven, which meant an early lunch or a long drive. Just short of the outskirts of Bellhurst she turned right onto a minor road. With no idea of her ultimate destination, I relaxed and enjoyed the drive. The height of the Range Rover allowed me to see over the tops of the hedgerows to the patchwork quilt of the English countryside stretching away on either side. Green and brown squares were dotted here and there by the bright yellow flash of rape fields, like a Mondrian painting. A tall row of poplars shot past on the left, sheep ambled on a distant hillside, fields of torpid, cud chewing cows gathered around the single sentinel left standing guard in their midst. I breathed a contented sigh.
“Nearly there,” said KD a few miles further on, taking a left hand fork down a country lane. The road was rising, carrying us up an escarpment towards woods of beech and oak. We hadn’t passed another vehicle in miles, which was just as well given the width of the Rover and the narrowness of the roads. Almost at the brow of the hill KD stopped just past a gate on the left.
“Shan’t be a second.”
I waited till she got out of the car and opened the padlocked gate as wide as it would go.
“Here, hold that, will you?”
She dropped a combination lock into my hand before reversing the Range Rover, rather expertly I had to admit, between the gate posts.
“Here we are.” She switched off the engine. “Can you close and lock the gate, please, Verity. I’ll make a start unloading the car.”
I’ll say this for my boss, when she plans a picnic she does it in style. None of this sitting on the ground getting grass stains on your clothes whilst sipping lukewarm fizz and nibbling a curled up sandwich. Oh no. The back of the car was packed with folding chairs, a collapsible table, blankets, rugs, a food hamper, two cool boxes, the wicker basket and table cloth she’d been carrying earlier and a wine cooler.
“You’ve forgotten something,” I told her, surveying this baggage train of goodies.
“Oh?”
“Yes, the old fashioned wind up gramophone with trumpet.”
She laughed.
“Damn! So I have. And I specifically told old Besom, the butler, to put it in the car. Never mind. We’ll have to make do without.”
She handed me two of the chairs.
“Just through there. Follow that path and turn right.”
I did as I was told, catching my breath in delight at the view that unfolded beyond the thin screen of trees.
“Do you like it?” This is one of my favourite places.” KD came up behind me with the folding table and a holdall, the rug tucked under her arm.
I nodded. “I can see why. What a view.”
We stood on a grassy ledge on top of the escarpment looking out over the ‘green and pleasant land’ below.
“Thankfully, I know the man who owns it and he’s more than happy to let me come here.”
Which explains the padlock, I thought, as we battled with the furniture.
“I’ll leave the food in the car for the moment.”
KD shook out the rug before laying it on the grass and placing the table on the top of it. From the voluminous black holdall she removed a plastic bowl, a paper bag with salted peanuts in it and two tubes of potato based snacks.
“There”.
She sat on one of the chairs and poured the peanuts into the bowl.
“How civilized. Damn, I’ve left the booze in the car.”
“I’ll go back for it,” I volunteered.
She threw the car keys at me.
“It’s in the blue cool box and the glasses are in the white cutlery bag. Bring the wine cooler, as well, will you.”
I wandered off, leaving her to apply the sun cream she’d also thought to bring with her. Honestly, travelling with KD is like a planned military operation. She was wasted as a writer. She was a natural born logistics expert.
Seated at last, I poured two glasses of chilled mineral water before re-capping the bottle.
“Water, Verity? There’s white wine in there as well.”
“No, it’s only just gone twelve. The sun isn’t over the yard arm, yet.”
She laughed, squinting upwards from behind dark glasses. The sun was almost directly overhead, well capable of shaking off the few, thin white clouds that streamed across the sky like strands of uncoloured candy floss. I munched on the snacks and washed the salt away with frequent sips of water. This was better than sitting in an office and I thanked my lucky stars for finding the job as KD’s PA. I glanced across at her lying in the chair, eyes closed, wafting a Chinese fan in front of her face. The world seemed a long way away with the only sounds the buzz of insects and trilling, melodic bird song. All it needed was a babbling brook. Or maybe not. The sound of running water always makes me want to go to the loo.
“I think,” KD muttered lazily, “Agnes Merryweather needs a place like this. Perhaps our missing schoolgirl,” she turned her face towards me, “you know, the Charlotte Neal/Emily Whatshername, character, disappears on a geology field trip up here.”
“No. You can’t” I said. “That would spoil it. Don’t bring death, murder and crime into this perfect place.”
“Hmm. Maybe, you’re right. I could make it a special, thinking place for Agnes to muse in, though, couldn’t I?”
“Ye … es,�
�� I agreed. “That would work.”
“Get your pad a moment,” she indicated the bag at my feet.
Reluctantly — I knew it had been too good to last — I did so.
For the next ten minutes, while I wrote it all down, KD described the surroundings, the trees, the fields, the view, in glorious words and phrases that brought it all to life for the poor future reader who couldn’t sit here and see it for real as we did. Or, rather, as I did, KD managed the feat with her eyes closed in concentration.
“That will do,” she said, sitting up and reaching for a peanut. “Lunch time.”
I helped her carry the food hamper and wicker basket from the car. Hardly a starvation diet, I thought, pushing back the hamper’s lid, and pulling plates from the holdall. Chicken legs, mini quiches, a film wrapped bowl of salad, ham, cheese, olives, slices of ready buttered baguette. We could have fed the five thousand on top of that cliff. I poured more water for KD and a glass of chilled Chenin Blanc for myself, while she unloaded sauces, pickles and condiments from the bottom of the basket.
“Are we expecting guests?” I asked looking at the still half full hamper.
She giggled.
“Do you think I might have over done it?”
My reply was merely a raised eyebrow. Nothing if not thorough, my boss. We ate in silence for a while. I took occasional sips of the fresh, flowery wine, its bouquet reminding me of honey and clover.
“There’s a bowl of raspberry trifle under that plate of ham, for when you’ve got room for it.” KD rose to her feet, shaking crumbs from her skirt. “I need the loo.”
She glanced around.
“You mean you’ve got a Portaloo in the back of the car?”
I wouldn’t have put it past her, but KD grinned.
“Nope, sorry. It will have to be the back of a tree.”
She wandered off, leaving me to savour the wine and enjoy the rural peace and tranquility. I must ask her where we are, I thought, having got thoroughly lost on the drive.
“I think,” she said, reappearing through the trees, “that we should make a habit of this. We could make it a summer of picnics.”
“Sounds good to me.”
I spooned trifle into bowls.
“There’s a sweet wine, a Sauternes, I think, to go with that if you want it.”
“No thanks.”
I shook my head. The wine I’d drunk already was making me feel tiddly. No point in overdoing it and making myself sick.
An hour later, we packed everything carefully away, stowed them in the Range Rover and drove back to Bishop Lea. It had been a lovely afternoon but tomorrow I was determined I was going home.
Chapter 14
After a detour to a showroom for me to choose a new car, KD dropped me back at my flat the following morning. I unpacked my few things, opened the windows for an hour to air the place after nearly a week shut up, and then caught a bus into town. I knew my absence from the ABC would not have gone unnoticed and I wanted to reassure my friends of my continued existence as well as my continued need for a glass of Merlot.
“Verity! Ah, cherie! At last you are returned.”
Only one table was still occupied when I entered the ABC wine bar and Valentino had no compunction in telling the young couple who sat there, lingering over empty glasses, that he was closing. He turned the sign round on the door and gave me a big hug before racing off into the kitchens. I heard him call out to his brother and the rapid, excited words that followed before he reappeared carrying a tray with three glasses and a venerable bottle of the family’s own marc. I hid a smile at this demonstration of the esteem and affection that the D’Ambreys still held for me. It wasn’t everyone who was offered a glass of the precious grappa, made by their late father and cherished by all the family and the few others lucky enough to taste it.
“Come. Come and sit down.”
Val carried the tray to one of the booths and had barely poured a small amount of the fiery liquid into each glass before Jacques slid on to the seat opposite me. He leaned across and kissed me warmly on both cheeks.
“Salut!” Valentino said.
We clinked glasses.
“I am so glad to see you, Verity.” Jacques’ dark, sardonic features surveyed me closely. “You are better now, yes?”
“Yes, thank you. The hospital released me into KD’s care on Monday. How did you know? How did you find out about it?”
I couldn’t imagine my boss coming into the wine bar to tell them. It isn’t her sort of place.
“It was your friend the policeman. The one who is in love with you.”
I coughed, pretending the strong spirit had caught my throat, but failed to hide my surprise.
“Oh, but yes. Did you not know?” said Val.
“I hardly think so, Val.”
“Trust me. We Frenchmen can tell these things,” he replied while, across the table, his brother nodded in agreement.
Not for the first time I wondered why the French are so convinced they are the only ones to understand love. I hurried to change the subject.
“What else did he want?”
“To ask questions, naturally. He said you had been in an accident. That somebody had been trying to kill you.”
Jacques raised an interrogatory eyebrow. I nodded and let him continue.
“He wanted to know about your meal with Greg Ferrari.”
“And who had been in the wine bar recently at the same time as you,” put in Valentino beside me.
In other words, the same enquiries that KD had told me to make of Val. I took another sip from my glass.
“What did you tell Inspector Farish about my dinner with Ferrari?” I asked Jacques.
He rubbed a finger down the side of his thin nose for a moment before replying.
“Not very much. I could have told him what you’d eaten …”
I grinned, not only at Jacques’ phenomenal powers of recall where food is concerned but also at my own memory of his chocolate mousse.
“…but I did not think that the Inspector desired to know your menu choices. He asked if you had left together. I told him that you had left first …”
“That’s right.” I interrupted. “Greg said he’d order two taxis.”
“Non.” Jacques shook his head. “While you were using the Ladies room, Ferrari asked me to call a taxi for you but then I see him making a call on his mobile and telling someone to come and pick him up.”
“Oh. Do you know who?”
Jacques gave a shrug.
“It was a woman.” Valentino supplied. “After he left the restaurant he came in here for a night hat …”
“A night cap.” I corrected.
“Exactement. Then this woman arrived and he left with her.”
“Can you describe her?”
“Tall, perhaps late thirty or forty, yellow blonde hair. You know her?”
Val turned at my inarticulate sound.
“Yes. She works at the studios.”
So Greg Ferrari had called his producer after I’d left, had he? Which led me to the obvious question.
“Was he drunk, do you think?”
Val gave a shrug while he considered this.
“Perhaps.”
“He had not drunk much wine,” Jacques pointed out.
And a thin Italian red, as I recalled but I’d noticed him slurring his speech during the meal. Perhaps he’d been drinking before he’d arrived at the restaurant.
“Hmm.” I ran a finger over my lower lip.
The boys remained silent waiting for me to continue. Busy wondering if Greg always called his producer when he needed a lift home or whether he had again been in need of the same service she had rendered to him once that day, I sipped at my glass of marc. There remained the possibility of another as yet unknown explanation, of course but Candida Clark’s name had just shot to the top of my list of subjects. I really needed to talk to her again.
“You are safe now, Verity? Now this Ferrari is dead? Yes?”
Valentino had asked the question but both the brothers looked at me keenly.
“Oh, yes. I’ll be fine now.”
I smiled brightly, confidently, in an effort of reassurance but a killer still lurked out there somewhere.
“The good Inspector Farish,” Jacques pronounced it Faireesh,” he will protect you, Verity.”
Val didn’t look convinced but I’d caught the laughter in his brother’s eyes and didn’t quibble. I just hoped he was right.
My hands were full of wet rocket leaves when the door bell rang.
“Jerry! What a nice surprise, Come in.”
“I’m not disturbing you, am I?”
He looked tired, hag-ridden and care worn and definitely in need of some TLC. I wondered if that was why he had come or whether he had more sinister motives for arriving, unannounced, on my doorstep.
“No, not at all. I was just making myself some supper. Please say you’ll stay and join me.”
Was it just my imagination or did he look relieved, less tense, less tight in the shoulders, at my invitation?
“I’d love to, thank you. What are we having?”
“Only omelettes and salad,” I told him, putting the now dried rocket into a bowl. “With a selection of cheese, Cheddar, Stilton, Brie, for after.”
“Great. What can I do to help?”
“You can open the wine to start with.”
I pointed to the wine rack under the work surface.
“Any preference?” he asked, sitting on his haunches for a closer look at the half dozen bottles that constituted my wine cellar.
“Mmm. There’s a Montepulciano, left hand side, top row, that should do nicely.”
I cracked eggs into a bowl, whisking them with a fork until frothy.
“You’ll find cutlery, plates and glasses on the dresser thing, behind you.”
“The dresser thing?”
His glance travelled round the kitchen till he found it. I watched him as he laid the table placings with military precision.
“You weren’t in the army, were you, Jerry?”
“Me? Good heavens, no!” He caught my glance and grinned. “That’s what comes from growing up in a large family with only a small dining table.”
