by Amy Cross
“Check for missing women in the mid-twenties to mid-thirties age range,” she added. “Try London first, but check other areas too. Deborah Dean, or whatever her name was, had to have come from somewhere. And wherever she was before she was here, someone must have missed her.”
“No problem,” he replied. “While I'm at it, should I just download the entire PNC and send it over to you on a thumb drive?”
“That would be nice.”
“Someone's coming!” he hissed, and suddenly the call was cut.
Slipping her phone into her pocket, Jo made her way across the parking lot and over to the side of the street, where she stopped and took a moment to look around. At the same time, she reached into her pocket and took out a small white bottle, unscrewing the lid and tipping a couple of white and blue lozenges into the palm of her hand. After chasing them down with a swig from a water bottle, she began to make her way along the street until finally she spotted the local off-license on the next corner along.
Stepping closer, she stopped again as she saw a pub on the opposite side of the road. She hesitated, glancing at each of them in turn, before choosing the off-license.
***
“I do remember her, as it happens,” the man behind the counter said, as he continued to tear open another crate of wine. “What made you come in here and ask, though?”
“She was a writer living alone in the middle of nowhere,” Jo replied. “Call it a lucky guess. I get the feeling she wasn't the pub type.”
“She was a pretty regular customer in here for a while,” he continued, taking two bottles and setting them on the shelf. “She was on a dozen bottles a week. I've got to admit, I was a little surprised when I found out she was living alone, but it's not my place to lecture people on what they do with their time.”
“Did she come in alone?”
“Always.”
“And what exactly did she buy?”
“Red wine. Never anything else. Not the cheap stuff, either. She knew her wine, or at least she knew what she liked. Spanish and South American, mainly. She had good taste.”
“Was she an alcoholic?”
He turned to her.
“Did you see any signs that she had a problem?” she continued, rephrasing the question. “A dozen bottles a week is almost two a day.”
“I'm not allowed to serve anyone who's clearly already drunk,” he replied a little defensively. “Beyond that, I'm not anyone's bloody nanny, okay? But let's just say that she never bought a bottle of old Chesleford's alcohol-free red.”
He pointed at a set of bottles on a nearby shelf, and Jo saw that the labels showed a picture of Chesleford Manor.
“He has his own wine?” she asked.
“Imports the grapes himself. He says he only produces alcohol-free 'cause he wants to be responsible, but if you ask me, he's just too broke to arrange the proper licenses to make actual booze.” He chucked to himself. “He won't remake his fortune with that foul stuff, and that's a promise. It tastes like diluted yak's piss with a few grapes tossed in.”
“How did Deborah Dean pay for her wine?”
“Cash.” He hesitated for a moment. “Yeah, always cash. Rare thing, these days.”
“Did she ever make small-talk?”
“Are you kidding?” He grabbed two more bottles and set them on the shelf. “Some people like to natter away when they come in here. Others know what they want, bring it to the counter, and get out as fast as possible. She was one of the latter. Kept herself to herself, and it was pretty bloody obvious that she wasn't up for much of a chat. No skin off my nose either way. I remember she was a little jumpy a couple of times, though, like she thought she was being followed. She was in a few days before she was killed, and there was another guy here too, and she seemed really worried about him.”
“Do you have footage?” Jo asked, glancing up at the security camera behind the counter.
“Sorry,” he replied, “that's just for show. And the one outside only stores pictures for forty-eight hours, then it gets recorded over. Fat lot of good, eh?”
“And this guy... Did you recognize him?”
“Nope. Never seen him before or after. I don't think he was from around here. But she was acting strange that night, like she was scared. In fact, I know it might be bad to say something like this, but she seemed almost...”
His voice trailed off.
“Almost what?” Jo asked.
“Almost ill,” he continued, tapping the side of his head. “Like maybe something wasn't right in her head, if you know what I mean. And then... Yeah, I remember now. And then she bought some wine. Red and white. It was always red until that night, and then she bought some bottles of white for the first time. And the last time, too, as it turned out. Almost like she was panicking and she just wanted to get out as fast as possible, without attracting attention.”
Jo added a few scribbled lines to her notebook.
“One last thing,” she said finally. “Did the police ever come and ask you about her?”
He shook his head. “No. Why?”
“Then maybe they didn't know she was scared someone was following her,” she pointed out. “Or that she was just paranoid. Either way, it sounds like she was definitely running from someone.”
“From the guy who was in here that night?”
“Maybe,” she replied. “I'm going to need you to give me a description of him. Anything you remember might be important, even if it seems like a small thing.”
“You don't think he's the one who killed her, do you?”
She paused for a moment. “I think I need to find out who he is. Maybe Deborah was just paranoid, but there's a chance he was someone from her past. Someone she really didn't want to bump into.”
Chapter Four
Six months ago
Pushing the off-license's door open, Deborah headed straight for the shelf with the red wine. Grabbing a basket along the way, she immediately crouched down to take a look at the Chianti selection.
A moment later, the bell above the door rang again as a second customer entered the shop.
Glancing over her shoulder, Deborah watched as a man headed toward the spirits shelf. She waited for a moment, only able to see the back of his head, and then she turned to look at the bottles of red. This time, however, she seemed unable to concentrate on the Rioja, and instead she was almost frozen, as if she wanted to wait for the man to leave.
Over at the counter, the shopkeeper was barely paying attention to either of them. Instead, he was flicking through a newspaper.
For the next few minutes, Deborah remained in place, still waiting for the other customer to leave. Finally, however, the man made his way around the central display and stopped right next to Deborah, towering over her as he took a bottle from the shelf and examined the label. After a moment he set the bottle back on the shelf and began to examine another.
Suddenly Deborah got to her feet and headed away, stopping at the white wine shelf and quickly putting two bottles into her basket. As she did so, she glanced over her shoulder and looked at the man, and they briefly made eye contact before Deborah turned away again. Grabbing the nearest two bottles, she carried them to the counter and set them down, quickly adding the bottles from her basket and then taking a wad of cash from her pocket. Her hands were trembling and she kept telling herself that she was wrong, that the other man couldn't possibly be who she thought he was. At the same time, she knew that the resemblance was too close, too uncanny.
“Fancy a change, eh?” the shopkeeper asked as he started scanning the bottles.
Without answering, Deborah turned and looked at the other customer again.
“That'll be twenty-nine pounds and eighty pence, please,” the shopkeeper continued with a smile, “and -”
“Keep the change,” Deborah replied, tossing three £10 notes onto the counter and then grabbing the bottles, clutching them to her chest before turning and hurrying to the door.
“I'll put it
in the tin!” the shopkeeper called after her, but she was already outside.
Heading along the dark street, Deborah finally stopped outside the shuttered butcher's shop. Turning, she looked back toward the off-license and waited, and a moment later the man stepped out and stopped to look both ways along the street, as if he was searching for someone. Deborah pulled back for a moment, making sure to stay in the shadows, and then she watched as the man headed over toward the parking lot. As he walked, it became obvious that he'd emerged from the off-license without buying anything.
Still clutching her bottles of wine, Deborah crouched down in the darkness and kept her eyes fixed on the man. A moment later, hearing her phone starting to buzz in her pocket, she muttered a few curses under her breath and re-balanced the wine bottles before taking the phone out and seeing that Harry was trying to get in touch. Rejecting the call, she set her phone to silent and slipped it away, before looking out at the parking lot and seeing that there was now no sign of the man from the off-license. Instead, all she saw were the lights from the Chelmsbury Royal Hotel, and a few random drunks who'd obviously spilled out from one of the nearby pubs.
She waited, but the man was definitely gone. Finally, cautiously, she got to her feet and took one more look around, before turning and darting off through the darkness, heading toward the spot where she'd parked her car. With each step, she told herself the same thing over and over again.
It wasn't him.
It can't have been him.
How could it have been him?
***
Taking another sip of white wine, Deborah stood in the dark kitchen and stared out the window, watching the yard. Her own car was parked over by the gate, but apart from that there was no sign of life at all. A strong wind was starting to blow, however, and swaying thorn bushes cast their moonlit shadows against the glass.
She took another sip of wine, before heading over to the other counter and pulling open a drawer. Taking out some long candles, she wedged them into the necks of a few old wine bottles and then lit them with a match, finally daring to allow herself a little light. After taking the bottles and placing them on the coffee table in the front room, she made her way to the window and looked out again at the yard, eyeing the shadows carefully as if she expected one of them to move at any moment, to perhaps briefly take human form and slither a little closer to the house.
Nothing moved, however, so finally she pulled the curtains shut and headed over to the sofa.
For the next couple of hours, she worked on her book, typing steadily with just a few pauses to think. She drank as she worked, getting through a large glass of wine every twenty minutes or so, until she was finished with one bottle and had to set the laptop aside so she could go and fetch some more wine from the kitchen. On her way, she grabbed another candle from the drawer and forced it into the neck of the now-empty bottle, although this time she was a little more forceful and muttered a few curses under her breath. She wasn't drunk, but the glasses of wine had certainly set her a little more on edge. As she headed back to the coffee table and set the next bottle down, she began humming to herself.
Suddenly something bumped against one of the windows, and Deborah's head snapped around to look over at the curtains on the far side of the room. Frozen, her eyes wide with fear, she remained completely still now as the candlelight flickered against the side of her face, and a moment later she heard a series of heavy trudging steps, as if someone was walking through the flowerbed that ran between the garden path and the wall of the house.
Stepping around the sofa, she quickly blew out the candles, leaving herself once more in darkness.
She waited, and sure enough the trudging footsteps returned, this time making their way around toward the house's rear. Slipping through into the hallway and then along to the old dining room that she used for storing boxes, Deborah reached the next door just in time to spot a shadow against the curtains, slipping around toward the back door.
“Shit,” she muttered under her breath, turning and heading back through to the kitchen, where she grabbed a carving knife from one of the drawers.
A moment later, she heard the familiar creak of the back door's handle being turned, along with a bump as someone found that the door was locked.
Making her way to the hallway, she peered through just in time to spot a figure stepping away from the back door. With the knife in her right hand, she stayed completely still and listened, waiting for the footsteps to return. Looking over at the kitchen window, she saw thorn bush shadows still dancing in the late-night wind, but there was no sign of movement. And then, after a few seconds, she heard a faint bumping sound coming from the back door, and she turned to see that the figure had returned.
With a key.
Pulling back out of the way, Deborah heard the back door creaking open. The sound of the storm outside was much louder now, although a few seconds later the door clicked shut again and the house returned to darkness.
She waited, listening to the silence, ready for footsteps. Sure enough, she finally heard the loose floorboards creak at the bottom of the stairs, which meant the intruder was making his way slowly toward the kitchen. Taking care to remain completely silent as she moved away from the door, Deborah backed into the corner and then crouched down in the shadows, while keeping her eyes fixed on the doorway. A moment later she heard soft padding bumps running down the stairs, followed by Merriwig's familiar meow, and the cat eventually slunk into the kitchen and headed over to the bowl by the fridge.
And then, as Deborah watched, the shadow of a human figure began to move slowly across the far wall as the intruder edged closer to the kitchen.
Adjusting her grip on the knife's handle, Deborah saw the figure entering the room. Tall and shrouded in darkness, the intruder stopped for a moment and looked around, before heading over to Merriwig and reaching down, giving the cat a pat on the back, then turning and looking toward the lounge area. Still holding the knife tight, Deborah remained crouched in the corner as the figure took a couple of steps away and stopped next to the sofa. She could see the figure's hands now, and to her relief there was no sign of a weapon. At the same time, glancing down at the knife in her own hands, she felt her heart pounding as she tried to imagine defending herself.
Suddenly hearing soft padding steps coming closer, she turned and saw Merriwig wandering over.
Deborah shook her head, but it was too late and the cat meowed as it brushed against her arm. She tried pushing it away, but then she looked up and saw that the dark figure had already come back over from the sofa and was now standing in the middle of the kitchen, staring straight at her.
Filled with panic, Deborah got to her feet and held the knife up, while reaching with a trembling hand for the switch on the wall. Finally finding it, she pressed to bring the lights flickering to life, and then she stared in horror as she finally saw the intruder's face. Too shocked to react, she watched him for several seconds before slowly lowering the knife and setting it on the counter. She wasn't sure whether to be relieved or annoyed.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she asked.
Chapter Five
Today
After setting the sleeping bag on the bed, Jo took a moment to wipe away some crumbs and stains, and then she grabbed the old blankets she'd found in the wardrobe and began to lay them out ready for the night. As she did so, she could see her own breath in the cold air, and she was starting to realize that Lord Martin Chesleford hadn't been kidding when he'd warned her about the cottage being cold.
Unfolding the last blanket, she was briefly startled as a couple of moths fluttered toward her face.
Grabbing her laptop from the bedside table, she sat on the end of the bed and opened the lid, bringing up the webpages she'd been checking out earlier. She'd been trying to find any mention of missing women who might match the description of Deborah Dean, but so far nothing had shown up. She'd also been trying to dig up a little more about Deborah's supposed writ
ing career, and again she'd had no success whatsoever. Nobody by the name of Deborah Dean had published anything that could remotely have been written by the woman who'd been staying at Skellin Cottage, and Jo was starting to feel as if the identity of this Deborah Dean woman had been completely fabricated. All of which left the questions of who she really was, and where her money had come from, and what she'd been working on when she'd claimed to be writing a novel.
And where Deborah's laptop had gone.
Even as she checked some more things on her own laptop, Jo couldn't help but wonder why Deborah's machine had vanished after the murder. The obvious explanation was that it had been taken by the killer, which in turn meant that some of the files would have exposed Deborah's true identity. In that case, Jo was starting to think that maybe Deborah's book hadn't entirely been a work of fiction.
Finally, closing her laptop, Jo sat in silence for a moment before getting to her feet, grabbing a towel, and heading through to the cottage's cramped little bathroom. With midnight fast approaching, she figured it might be wise to get some sleep and then start early the following morning, but first she had a little late-night routine to complete. Even though there was no chance whatsoever of hot water, and even though she was already on the verge of shivering, she switched the shower on and began to get undressed. She never went to bed without washing first, and she was already trying to focus on the thought that a cold shower might actually be healthy.
That was the theory, anyway.
Suddenly spotting a section of loose tiles on the floor, she crouched down and took a closer look. She had to dig her fingernails into the crumbling plaster between the tiles, but slowly she managed to ease them up, revealing a hollowed section under the floor with a dirty old cloth bag wedged between two boards. Reaching down, she wiggled the bag free and pulled it out, untying the top and peering inside, only to find bundles of cash divided into scores of smaller chunks, each held together using black hairpins. Further down in the back, there were tons of prepaid debit cards. Spotting a piece of notepaper, she pulled it out and saw some kind of handwritten ledger, marked with various differently colored pens, as if Deborah had been keeping track of her spending over a considerable period of time.
