by Amy Cross
“Thank you,” she replied, placing a hand on the door, ready to swing it shut again. “Well, good -”
“It can be very lonely for us out at the manor house,” the old man continued. “It's such a big place, and Phillip isn't exactly very good company. If you could ever see yourself taking pity on us and dropping by, at any time of the day or night, there would be a very warm welcome waiting for you. Very warm indeed.”
“That's very kind, but -”
“We even have spare rooms,” he added. “Skellin Cottage can be rather cold and lonely. If you were ever to need somewhere with a few modern conveniences, you mustn't hesitate to ask. In fact, you'd be doing both Phillip and myself a great kindness. I know a man with a van in town. He could come out tomorrow and move all your things to the manor house, and there'd be very little inconvenience. You could write through the day, there'd be no need to pay rent I'd even -”
“Thank you again,” she said, interrupting him, “but Skellin Cottage is perfect right now. It's all I need.”
“But -”
“I'll consider your very kind offer, though. It's very generous. Too generous.”
He opened his mouth to try again, before taking a step back and offering a faint, sad smile.
“I shall bid you good night,” he told her, “but I hope we shall meet again soon. Very soon.”
“I'm sure we will. But please, Lord Chesleford, I'd be so grateful if you could persuade Phillip to not show up again the way he did tonight. I've tried to be subtle about it, but he doesn't seem to realize that I need peace and quiet. He's a nice boy, I get that, but I really, really need to get on with my work.”
Once the door was finally shut after a few more pleasantries, Deborah poured herself another glass of wine and watched as Lord Chesleford drove his son away. She waited at the window until the car's lights were out of sight in the distance, and then she took a big gulp of wine before leaning back against the wall and letting out a sigh.
“This place,” she muttered under her breath, “is going to drive me out of my goddamn mind.”
***
“This place is full of boring bloody Middle Englanders,” Susannah said with a scowl as she took another drag on her cigarette the following lunchtime. “I'm telling you, if it wasn't for the fact that the hotel has finally taken off, I'd have been out of here by now.”
“At least the hotel is doing well,” Deborah pointed out, as a waitress emerged from the pub and set their food down on the table. She waited until the waitress had gone back inside, before turning and looking across the sunny beer garden. “Anyway, it's not that bad here. A lot of people'd kill to move out to the English countryside.”
“You could leave,” Susannah pointed out, taking off her sunglasses and setting them on the table. “I envy you, Debs. With your lack of ties, you could just up and leave at any moment. You could even go and live abroad. The south of France, or the wine-growing regions of Italy, or the cobbled streets and long, sandy beaches of Croatia. God, it makes me sick just to think about it. The whole world's waiting out there, but you insist on sitting around in this dump.”
“I happen to quite like Chelmsbury.”
“At least you keep me sane,” Susannah continued, as she slipped the burger bun aside and examined the meat. “Before you showed up earlier in the year, Debs, I swear I was the only normal person in the entire place. All these bloody country people drive me insane. And the mud, and the vast empty fields where nothing ever happens, and the piddling little restaurants with their crappy food. I include my own establishment in that critique, by the way. Look, they can't even get the bacon nice and crispy. I'm going to have to tell that chef to perk his ideas up. I can't stand this town.”
“You've lived here all your life,” Deborah pointed out.
“And I always swore I'd get the hell out by the time I was eighteen,” Susannah added, holding her knife up and jabbing the air as if to prove a point. “Then I swore I'd be gone by the time I turned twenty-one. Then twenty-five. Thirty. Thirty-five. And now look at me. I'll be forty in a few years' time, and what have I got to show for it?”
“A successful hotel business?”
“Apart from that? What have I got to show for my life? At least you're writing books. That's something.”
“I'm completely stuck,” Jo muttered.
“Writer's block?”
“Something like that.” She hesitated. “I've never actually asked anyone to do this before,” she continued cautiously, “but Suzie... If I gave you a couple of chapters, would you mind taking a look some time? I just feel like maybe I'm at a point where a fresh pair of eyes could actually help.”
“I thought you'd never ask,” Susannah replied with a grin. “Just print them out, or email them and -”
She stopped suddenly, as something caught her eye in the distance.
Turning, Deborah shielded her eyes from the sun as she saw several locals milling about near the shops. Just as she was about to ask Susannah what was wrong, however, she spotted a familiar figure half-shuffling, half-running along the side of the road, his lips twitching as he mumbled to himself. For a few more seconds, she watched as Phillip scurried past the Post Office, and then she turned to see a hint of tears in Susannah's eyes.
“I'm so sorry,” Deborah said. “Suzie...”
“It's nothing,” Susannah replied, looking down at her plate but clearly no longer hungry.
“It doesn't get any easier, does it?” Deborah continued, as she heard Phillip nearby. Turning, she watched him mumbling to himself as he jogged past, and then she waited until he was out of sight.
“It is what it is,” Susannah said, her voice tense with the effort of holding back tears.
“But if -”
“There's no point talking about it,” she added, swallowing hard. “He's not the same person he was. The Phillip I knew is long gone. He doesn't recognize me. He doesn't remember me.”
“You can't be sure of that.”
“Of course I can,” she spat back. “He's a bloody retard!”
“That's not -”
“Oh, you know what I mean,” she continued, raising her burger to her mouth but then lowering it again after a moment. “He still looks like Phillip Chesleford, but he's not Phillip Chesleford. He's certainly not the Phillip Chesleford I was going to...”
Taking a deep breath, she paused to compose herself, and then finally she forced a smile that struggled to belie the glistening tears in her eyes. For a moment, the force of keeping those tears from trickling down her cheek seemed almost too much.
“I know you don't mean that,” Deborah said finally. “I think I know why you say things like that about him, though.”
“Shall we talk about something a little more pleasant?” Susannah asked, although she couldn't help glancing over her shoulder to check that Phillip was well and truly gone. “Are you still shagging Harry the pig farmer?”
“It's not like that.”
“Well, he is a pig farmer,” Susannah replied with a faint smile, “and I know for a fact that his van was parked outside Skellin Cottage when I drove past earlier yesterday morning, so I'm guessing some shagging has taken place. My shagging radar has been going off twenty-to-the-dozen.”
Clearly feeling uncomfortable, Deborah looked down at her food.
“It's nothing,” she explained.
“Just a fling?”
“I can't get involved with anyone. Not seriously.”
“Because you don't know how long you'll be in town? Or because there's someone else?”
Deborah glanced at her.
“I know that look,” Susannah continued. “I've seen it before. Sometimes even in the mirror when I'm going through another rotten break-up. Harry might be a bit of fun, but he's not the one, is he? You're in love with someone, someone you can't have for some reason. You might as well tell me, 'cause I'll figure it out eventually. Who's the brave knight who captured your heart, Debs?”
“You don't know w
hat you're talking about.”
“You'll tell me some day.”
“It's not important. It's over.”
“You'd rather I butt out, huh?”
“Exactly,” Deborah replied, and now it was her turn to force a smile in an attempt to look untroubled. “There's no point getting tangled up in someone else's life.”
“Oh, I think it's a little late for that,” Susannah pointed out. “We're only human. We're tangled up in one another's lives already, whether we like it or not.”
Deborah hesitated for a moment.
“You might be right,” she muttered finally. “Do you think maybe -”
“There she is,” another voice sneered suddenly nearby. “God knows what anyone sees in her.”
Turning, Deborah saw that Harry's ex-wife Vivian Nettles was wandering past with a friend, wrinkling her nose as if she was filled with disgust.
“Bloody whore,” Vivian continued.
Deborah looked away, feeling intensely embarrassed. After a moment, she began to double-check that there were no familiar faces among the beer garden's other customers.
“Sod off, Vivian!” Susannah called out. “Harry divorced you years ago. He might be a pig farmer, but he's got some standards!” She turned back to Deborah as the other women walked away. “Ignore her. Bitter bitch.”
“I should go,” Deborah muttered, getting to her feet.
“Don't let idiots like Vivian bloody Nettles chase you away, Debs. The woman's known all over town as a complete... Well, I won't say the word, but you know what I mean.” She paused. “Sit down. Come on, we haven't even touched our food.”
Deborah hesitated, before slowly retaking her seat.
“You don't like attracting attention much, do you?” Susannah asked.
“Not much, no,” Deborah replied, glancing over her shoulder to check that Vivian was well and truly gone, before turning back to find that Susannah was eyeing her with a hint of amused suspicion. “I guess I just don't like confrontations.”
“It's more than that, though, isn't it?” Susannah continued. “Never mind. You'll tell me eventually. I'll get you drunk one night and all your secrets'll come spilling out. You'll feel better for it, too.”
“I'm not so sure about that,” Deborah whispered, as she glanced over her shoulder yet again and double-checked that no-one else in the beer garden was looking her way.
Chapter Seven
Today
“I'm sorry,” the hotel receptionist replied, “but Susannah Marriott is out of the office at the moment. If you'd like me to take a message, I can ask her to call you when she gets back.”
“I'd like to speak to her in person,” Jo replied. “Do you know when she might be available?”
“I'm afraid she's very busy,” the receptionist continued with a calm, flat tone that suggested she had no intention of being helpful, “but if you'd like me to take a message, I can -”
“I get the picture,” Jo replied, taking a simple cream business card from her pocket and sliding it across the desk. “Can you please tell her it's urgent? I've tried calling her, I've tried emailing her, but I can't seem to get hold of her at all. Tell her I need to speak to her about Deborah Dean.”
“I'll certainly pass that on.”
“And ask her to call me at her earliest convenience.”
“I'll certainly pass that on.”
Jo hesitated, before turning and heading toward the exit. She felt certain that Susannah Marriott was avoiding her, but she figured she'd track her down eventually. As she held the door open for an elderly couple, she happened to glance back toward the area behind the desk, and she saw that one of the office doors had opened a little. A middle-aged woman was staring out at her, although the door quickly swung shut and Jo couldn't help turning to look at the receptionist, who offered a forced and very false-seeming smile.
Suspicion confirmed.
Once she was outside, Jo made her way down the steps and slipped her phone from her pocket, bringing up another number.
“Joanna Mason,” a voice said suddenly. “What a surprise.”
Startled, she turned and saw a familiar figure standing just a few feet away, leaning against the wall as if he'd been waiting for her to come out from the hotel.
“We need to talk,” Detective Inspector Sam Bartleby said firmly, with a hint of great irritation in his voice. “Now!”
***
“You can't run around pretending to be a private detective six -”
“Deboran Dean was living under an alias.”
“Six months after leaving the police and -”
“She was hiding something.”
“Six months after being deemed medically unfit for duty.”
“She paid for everything by cash, of which she seemed to have a fair amount. I discovered her stash at the cottage, which also underlines the fact that robbery probably wasn't the motivation for the murder. I'm still looking for her laptop. As far as I can tell, the police didn't find it either. I know she had one, so it has to be somewhere. Obviously there's a chance that whatever's on that laptop, she was killed by someone who wanted to get their hands on it.”
Sam raised a skeptical eyebrow, before taking his pint from the pub table and sipping the foam from the top.
“What was Deborah Dean's real name?” Jo asked.
“You should be taking it easy.”
“I know you know.” Reaching into her pocket, she took out her notebook and opened it to a fresh page. “Tell me.”
“I can't share operational information with you,” he pointed out. “You're a civilian now. And believe me, Kevin has had this pointed out to him very firmly and very clearly.” He sighed. “And Jack Byron would have me strung up by the gizzards if I told you a goddamn thing.”
“I'll find out eventually.”
“I know you will.”
“So you might as well tell me now,” she continued. “Shouldn't it have been made public by now? I've been through news reports from the time of the murder, but none of them mention the possibility that Deborah Dean had another name. Surely it'd be standard procedure to -”
“That was a decision taken by the leads on the case,” Sam said, interrupting her. “They chose to hold certain information back due to some sensitivities.”
“What sensitivities?”
“I can't tell you.”
“Why not?”
“Because they're sensitive.”
“I need to know.”
“The investigation into the murder at Skellin Cottage is still very much open,” he replied, “and as such, I need to ask you to back off. Right now, right this minute.”
“Are you actively looking into Deborah Dean's death?”
“We have to prioritize -”
“What was her real name?”
“We have to prioritize -”
“You've given up on it,” she continued, glaring at him with barely-disguised frustration. “Sure, it's still technically an open case, but I know what happens to cases that are still open six months later. If someone comes and drops some information in your lap, you'll get involved, but other than that the Deborah Dean case is going to be left moldering at the bottom of a stack of files.” She paused for a moment, watching his face and spotting several subtle tics that let her know she was right. “You know there's not some homicidal maniac out there. Deborah was killed because of who she was or what she did or what she knew, or something else that was very specific to her. And you've already moved on to another -”
“How's your health, Jo?”
“I was hired to look into this.”
“Oh yeah, right,” he added with a chuckle, “I forgot. You're a private detective now. Jesus Christ, Jo...”
“I'm being paid by Lord Chesleford to -”
“That old duffer?”
“To look into a murder that occurred on his property.”
Sam sighed.
“Did you know,” Jo continued, “that Deborah Dean – or whate
ver her name really was – had a sexual relationship with a local farmer named -”
“Harry Morgan. Yes. I did know that.”
“Did you know that she was possibly being followed by someone?”
“I assume someone had to follow her in order to murder her.”
“But before that. She was being tailed by someone. Someone who caught up to her in the local off-license.”
“Come again?”
“Or at least she believed someone had caught up to her. Her suitcase was packed, so I have a theory she was considering getting out of here. She was jumpy, she had very few possessions. She was acting like someone who might have to leave at any moment.”
“That's -”
“She also spent a lot of time with Lord Chesleford's son Phillip.”
“The kid with the head injury?”
“I know you weren't the investigating officer on this case,” she continued. “It was Byron, and you and I are both aware that Byron is not the world's sharpest detective. Sorry, he might be your brother-in-law, but facts are facts.”
“He gets the job done.”
“Not in this case, because Deborah Dean's murderer is still out there somewhere. Plus, evidently his team didn't find Deborah's stash of money, because -”
“What stash of money?”
“Because I found it in the bathroom last night, under the boards. It was well hidden, I'll give him that, but still... Byron's men can't have exactly turned the cottage inside out, can they? What else do you think they missed?”
“Alright, so -”
“And her two best friends, Harry Morgan and Susannah Marriott, didn't show for her funeral.”
He opened his mouth to reply, before hesitating for a moment.
“And Phillip Chesleford seemed to have had a habit of using a spare key to get into the cottage without knocking first.”
