Strictly Murder (17 page)

"So how come you know so much about wine?

I swallowed the forkful of chanterelle I'd just put in my mouth and wiped a trace of cream sauce from my lips before replying.

"I worked for a wine exporter in the Burgundy region once - a long time ago - and then later, when I'd moved back to England, I worked for a wine importer."

"Did you enjoy the job?"

"I certainly enjoyed their products," I laughed. "And learned a fair bit about wine in the process."

"Is that where you met Jacques and," he paused, searching for the name.

"Valentino," I supplied, "usually shortened to Val and no, it's not his real name. I don't know what that is. Anyway, I met them in 1999 when I took a French holiday. They ran a small bar cum bistro. Look, it's a long story. Are you sure you want to hear this?"

He finished the last of his salmon and pushed the plate away. "Yes, please." He looked genuinely interested. "Frankly, I'm fascinated."

"By what?" I asked sharply, aware of his eyes on me.

"You," he said, simply. "Besides, I've never met a wine importer before."

"You haven't met one now," I pointed out. "I only worked for one."

"Whatever. Go on."

Encouraged by his smile, I gave him the bare bones of the story.

"For various reasons the boys were thinking of moving to England. When they mentioned this to me I said that a wine bar and bistro was just what Crofterton needed. So they looked into it from their end, I did the same over here and
voila
! as they say, here they are."

"Just like that?"

"Well no, hardly," I laughed, leaning back in my chair as a large plate of duck on top of sauteed potatoes was placed in front of me.

We ate in silence for a while. Was he really that interested in the life and works of Verity Long, I wondered, or was it a ploy to keep off the subject that had thrown us together? Pleasure, Verity, I reminded myself. Tonight is about enjoying yourself, remember. Besides, the JayJay case was hardly a suitable topic for discussion over an excellent meal and damned fine wine. Maybe there would be an opportunity later to raise the subject.

"So, are you into old films or do you just like quoting lines from
Casablanca
?" he asked.

He put down his knife and fork and raised his glass, looking at me over the rim.

"Yes, I like old films," I told him. "They're less violent, less overtly sexual and in your face than modern ones." I sounded remarkably prim.

"You don't approve of sex and violence?"

"In the right place. I certainly don't want to watch it in a cinema with hundreds of others." Fearing that this made me sound like a secret voyeur I hurried on, "or on television in my own living room."

Goodness! I'd made a right hash of explaining that.

"What I mean is …"

"I know what you mean." He smiled to put me at ease. "So what is your favourite film?"

I speared a piece of potato while I considered this.

"Do I have to choose just one?"

"Well," he glanced at his watch, "the night is young. I don't mind a long list."

If he was laughing at me, I didn't care. I laughed back.

"I think I could narrow it down to three."

"And they are?"

"Apart from
Casablanca
I would also include
Singin' in the Rain
and
Some Like It Hot
on my list."

"Yes, they'd probably be on mine too. What about,
It's a Wonderful Life
,?"

"It's OK. A bit too sentimental and schmaltzy, though, for my liking."

He nodded as if this list of films had revealed some hidden aspect of my personality. He put the last piece of fillet into his mouth.

"And what about you? Do you prefer more modern movies?"

"I hardly get the chance to watch them."

Jacques removed our plates and offered us dessert. We settled on coffee and liqueurs.

"Thank you, Verity," he said later, savouring his Calvados. "Your taste in restaurants is as excellent as your taste in films."

"Don't thank me. It was your ACC's recommendation," I pointed out, "I merely approved of it."

I finished my
Tia Maria
and went to the ladies while he settled the bill. I re-applied my lipstick and brushed my hair, chiding myself for my vanity whilst admitting that Jerry Farish was a damned attractive man—especially when he set out to be as charming and entertaining as he had been that evening. I stared at my face in the mirror, inwardly laughing at myself. I'd no idea where I was heading. I just hoped I could control the ride.

"You've been very good," he said. We sat side by side on my settee drinking the coffee I'd made, the taxi driver that had brought us home agreeing to come back for him in an hour.

"Good?" my eyes flashed. "I do know how to behave in public, you know. Did you expect me to strip off and dance on the tables?"

"Hardly, though I would have been interested in watching the performance." He caught the warning glint and hurried on, "I meant that you hadn't mentioned the Jaynee Johnson case all night."

"Oh well, I decided you deserved a break."

He smiled, relaxing, putting his arm along the back of the settee

"Thank you. You'll never know how much I appreciate that."

A wicked voice inside my head said 'show me'. I leaned towards him.

The arm came down around my shoulder pulling me closer still. My head was almost on his chest.

"Jerry," I began, looking up at him.

His lips were on mine. I felt their warmth, their softness as I responded. Eventually I pulled away. Thank goodness he had a taxi coming.

"Jerry, I'm sorry but I must talk to you. How did JayJay die?"

"She was stabbed. Obviously."

I waved a hand to dismiss the obvious.

"Yes, but there would have been blood all over the place if she'd just been stabbed. Was she drugged first?"

"Possibly. We're still waiting for the coroner's report."

"Oh. Now, about JayJay's diary."

He sighed.

"I just wanted to tell you that I think I've worked out one of the names."

"Which one?"

He sat up, retrieving his arm which had slipped to my waist. Stupidly, I felt bereft.

"I think Xmas Wreath refers to Holly Danvers, JayJay's secretary. There's only one entry in the diary with that name, January 7th, when Holly had an interview with her at Silverton Studios. So Holly, Christmas, it all fits."

He nodded.

"Yes, I think you're right. I'll pass that on to Emma."

"Emma?" Why did I suddenly sound jealous?

"Sergeant Emma Harrison. I've given the diary to her on the assumption that it takes a woman to get inside another woman's mind."

I laughed at his logic.

"I'm still going to work on it and the rest of the names," I informed him.

"I wish you'd stay out of it."

"I can't, Jerry. I have to be honest with you. I'm intrigued, curious, involved."

"Curiosity killed the cat," he warned me. "I can see that I'll have to keep a close eye on you."

He smiled as he said it. If he meant what I hoped he meant, then I would raise no objections.

A ring at the doorbell announced his imminent departure. So soon? I reluctantly walked him through to the kitchen and opened the door to the driver.

"Right you are, guv, I'll wait in the car."

"Verity, thank you for a lovely evening. Can we do it again?" His arms slid round my waist holding me close.

"Yes, please. I'd like that."

This time, I offered my lips up for his kiss, yielding to him, to his gentleness and the warm firm pressure of his mouth on mine.

"Good night, Verity." His voice sounded husky in my ear.

Then he was gone, into the night.

Chapter 8

As usual on a Sunday, I allowed myself the luxury of a lie-in. Curled up in bed, warm and drowsy with the last vestiges of sleep still clinging to my mind, I thought about my date the previous night and wriggled my toes in pleasure at the memory. My earlier dislike of the Inspector had gone, replaced by a growing sense of attraction, a sexual pull that I found hard to resist. For a while I daydreamed, imagining what it would be like to surrender myself to him, to give in to my desires. Then I took a cold shower.

After breakfast of bacon and scrambled eggs I fetched my notes, eager to get my thoughts on the JayJay case into some kind of order. I'd no sooner started when the doorbell rang. My heart leapt in the hope that it might be Jerry again and I gave myself a mental slap for such girlish enthusiasm - then hid my disappointment.

"Oh, hello, Barbara. Come in."

I stood back to let my neighbour into the kitchen. A trim 70 year old, she and her husband John lived in the flat above mine and although friendly, it was unusual for either of them to call. I wondered what was wrong.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Verity."

"That's all right. Would you like coffee?"

"No, I won't, thanks. I've only popped in to tell you we are moving."

"Oh! I'm sorry to hear that."

I was. The Lawsons were good neighbours. Quiet and unobtrusive, keeping themselves to themselves yet willing to offer help when needed. They had no children - at least not young ones - no pets and didn't hold rowdy parties. An ideal couple to have living in the flat upstairs.