Strictly Murder (16 page)

"What?" I hadn't caught KD's reply.

"I said, 'do bears crap in the wood?' JB will sleep with anything in a skirt. Except his wife of course."

For one wild moment I pictured KD and JB together in the throes of passion. I shook my head quickly to dispel the frightful thought.

"What's the matter?" KD asked suspiciously.

"Oh, nothing." I gave her my sweetest, most innocent smile.

"Come on," said KD putting her glass back on the bar. "The dog show calls."

A large marquee had been erected for the show on the far side of the grandstand. So big you could have fitted the entire population of Wales—and half that of Belgium—comfortably inside, it now played host to every canine in Crofterton. Except the mongrels, of course. Nor did I expect to see Blackie, the Darrington labrador there, either. A young girl at the entrance handed KD a programme.

"God! What a racket," said KD, to the accompaniment of assorted yelps, growls, barks and whines. "Here, take this, will you? My bag's too small."

I snatched the programme from her and stuffed it in my bag. There are times I think KD only takes me to functions to act as her pack-horse.

We worked our way around the parade ring, where a selection of topiaried poodles and their similarly clipped owners attempted to catch the judge's eye, to a roped off area at the back. Inside this, seated at trestle tables, were the clerks, recording the results and filling in certificates.

"Kathleen Davenport," my employer announced herself to an elderly chap busy aligning rosettes. "Is Tom around?"

"He's at the back of the podium," the official told her, making it sound on a par with 'the back of the bike sheds'.

"Thank you."

KD sailed off in search of Tom, whoever he was, and I trailed in her wake.

"KD! So kind of you to come."

A large man with mutton chop whiskers stuck out a hand.

"Hello, Tom. May I introduce Verity, my assistant?"

"How do you do? Tom Cheeveley Hall."

"Pleased to meet you." Was this just his name or did it also include his residence? I shook the proffered hand.

With KD's permission, I left her to it and wandered around. Unsurprisingly the place was full of dogs. Short ones, tall ones, fat ones, thin ones, sleek dogs, hairy dogs, long tailed, short eared, long eared, short tailed. Brown ones, black ones, white ones, red ones, golden ones and beige ones. And all of them with absurd names. An Afghan, rejoicing in the ridiculously silly title of 'Plantagenet Cumbria the Third' won the hound class and an adorable little Cairn Terrier, who was probably called 'Bobby' at home but for today's purposes went under the alias of 'Vogel Bridie of Brunswick', took first prize in the terrier section.

I like dogs - but you can have too much of a good thing.

I watched KD graciously perform her duties and then returned to the back of the podium.

"Home time," announced KD as we left the marquee and made for the car park.

"Verity!"

An unmistakeable figure approached us.

"Hello, Greg. And …"

"And your mother. Hello Mrs Long."

I stifled a laugh. KD's glare would have frozen a coal fire at twenty paces.

Oblivious, Greg Ferrari raised her hand to his lips. "I can see now where your beautiful daughter gets her good looks from," he smarmed.

KD smiled - a rictus spreading from jaw to eyes. Really, I thought, it's like watching a man with a match trying to melt a glacier. Fortunately he turned his attention back to me.

"Still on for next week, Verity?"

"Yes, of course." I started to move away. "I'll see you there."

"Next week?" asked KD through still clenched teeth once we were out of earshot.

"Yes," I kept my voice casual, "he's taking me for dinner at
Chez Jacques
."

"Be careful, Verity," she urged. "That man is trouble. I can smell it."

All I'd detected was Calvin Klein. I should have heeded her warning.

"I've booked a table at
Chez Jacques
," said Jerry Farish, sitting next to me in the taxi that sped us towards Crofterton.

"Is that all right with you?"

"Yes, fine thanks," I replied, hoping I didn't sound as nervous as I felt.

Still unsure why he'd asked me out, I stole a glance across at him. Relaxed, he leant back in his seat, forearms along his thighs, hands loose on his knees, thick brown hair beginning to curl over the collar of his pale grey suit.

"So is tonight business or pleasure?" I asked.

He laughed, "Oh purely pleasure, I assure you," he said, turning his face towards me with eyes and lips smiling. "Even policemen are allowed a night off, you know, and a private life."

Was it my imagination or had the taxi driver lifted his foot from the accelerator on mention of the word 'policemen'?

Despite the honesty in his voice I remained unconvinced. Life has taught me that I possess neither the looks nor the intellect to appeal to the type of intelligent, good-looking man that I, in return, am attracted to. Like Jerry Farish for instance.

"Besides," he went on, as if reading my thoughts and anxious to give the lie to them, "why shouldn't I want to spend time with an attractive, clever woman?"

I smiled politely, robbed of words for once.

It's possible, I thought. Possible, that is, that he wanted a break from work, from murder and death and the inevitable pressure that must come from being in charge of such a high profile case as the Jaynee Johnson slaying - as one headline had put it. Desperately as I wanted to know what progress they had made, what clues they'd uncovered, and the list of suspects - while fervently hoping I wasn't on it - tonight was not the right time to demand my curiosity be satisfied. Give him a break, Verity, I thought, noticing for the first time that the light from the lowering sun illuminated lines of tiredness around his eyes. A tightness to his lips and jaw revealed him not to be as relaxed as I'd thought. I resolved to make the evening a pleasure for both of us.

Jacques was his usual urbane, welcoming self when we reached the restaurant.

"Mademoiselle Verity," he greeted me, bowing over my hand occasioning a raised eyebrow from my companion.

"I didn't realise you knew this place," he whispered as Jacques showed us to a table and helped us get seated.

"Oh yes, Jacques is an old friend. I've known him and his brother Val, next door, for years." I smiled across the glassware at him whilst taking the proffered menu from the mâitre d's hand.

"What's next door?"

"The ABC wine bar."

"Ah," he nodded, "yes, of course. It's always struck me as a funny name for a wine bar."

"It's Val's idea of a joke," I told him. "We were going to call it Valentino's and decorate it with photographs of silent movie stars from the 1920's. I still think it was a great idea."

"And the joke?" he reminded me.

"Oh, yes. Val says it stands for 'Anything But Chardonnay'.”

He chuckled, a rich, throaty sound. "Very good."

For the next few minutes we were silent, scanning through the menu. I made my choice fairly quickly and put the menu down.

"Have you decided, already? There's so much to choose from, I'm struggling."

He wasn't to know how familiar I was with the dishes in this restaurant and I saw no reason to enlighten him.

"Yes, I'm going for the wild chanterelles followed by the duck."

"Duck?" He looked back down at the menu. "Ah yes, the
Confit de Canard
. Hmm."

Jacques reappeared at the table.

"Are you ready to order, sir?" he murmured.

"Yes, I think so," said Farish, giving my choices and ordering smoked salmon followed by an individual beef wellington for himself.

Jacques gathered up our menus and then stood there, the wine list in his hand, looking at me as though undecided which one of us to give it to. A rare lapse. I nodded in my companion's direction - he was paying for the meal, or I hoped he was - and therefore had the right to choose. I'd soon put him right if he ordered a bottle of 'Blue Nun', though this was unlikely since it wasn't on offer.

Farish wasn't a detective for nothing, his sharp eyes had obviously noticed the unspoken interplay between Jacques and myself.

"What would you suggest?"

"Hmm, the Beaune, I think, or, if you are feeling flush, the Brunello di Montalcino."

He studied the list again for a moment.

"And which would you prefer?"

"The Beaune," I said, without hesitation.

"Then the Beaune it is."

He closed the wine list and handed it back. Jacques glided silently away.

The Inspector looked around, taking in the surroundings. The restaurant had twenty tables and a maximum of eighty covers, most of them full this evening—as on most Saturdays.

"It's the first time I've been here, though I've heard good reports about it."

"The food is excellent," I assured him.

"So I understand. It came highly recommended by the Assistant Chief Constable, no less."

I made a face to show that I was suitably impressed, before saying, "He's a man of taste, then, obviously."

"Oh! Obviously," he laughed back.

"And if you haven't been before, then you are in for a treat."

"Well, if the company's anything to go by then I'm sure I am."

His hazel eyes twinkled at me, as he tasted the small amount of wine Jacques had just poured into his glass. Then they widened as his eyebrows raised.

"That's fine, thank you," he said to Jacques before looking at me and adding, "Good choice, Verity."

Stupidly, I found myself basking in his praise. Stay on your guard, I told myself. You still don't know what he is after.