Strictly Murder (18 page)

"Well, we felt it was about time we moved to a bungalow. John finds the stairs increasingly difficult, with his arthritis you know, and we've decided to move closer to our daughter and the grandchildren."

"So, you are moving out of Sutton Harcourt altogether?"

She nodded. "Yes, at the end of the month. We just wanted to let you know."

"Thank you, Barbara. I shall be sorry to see you and John go but I wish you all the best."

"Thanks, dear. Now I must go. I've left John packing my best china."

I appreciated her sense of urgency as she smiled and said goodbye. Never leave a man in charge of packing. You'll end up on your week's holiday with enough dresses to clad a hen party and no shoes or underwear. As for delicate crockery, Barbara might as well go out now and stock up on paper plates. I laughed at the thought but felt depressed after she had gone, my earlier pleasurable mood dispelled. Knowing my luck, my landlord would house a young couple with a screaming baby or a constantly barking Doberman over my head. Yet another reason to get out of this place. Still, there was nothing I could do about it for the moment so, as a consolation, I decided to treat myself to Sunday lunch at the Fox Inn. Then, as an added distraction, I returned to worrying over Jaynee Johnson's murder. I fetched a new pad from the front room and compiled yet another list.

1. The keys

2. Who was 'Mrs Smith'?

3. Why had Jaynee gone there?

4. Where was her handbag? And her mobile phone?

5. The diary

I made fresh coffee while I mulled over these questions. Given the type of keyring used by Knight's, it would be easy enough to slip the key from the ring and substitute one of your own. There would be an element of risk involved but nevertheless I was convinced this was how it had been done, so I wrote 'Easy. Substitution' next to item one.

Mrs Smith might well be a harder problem to solve. An old woman, according to Tom Powell, and the name was likely to be an alias.

I left this for the time being and moved on to question three. Jaynee must have gone willingly to the house; there would have been signs of a struggle otherwise and the chance that somebody—a neighbour or a passerby—might have seen or heard something. And why? The answer stared me in the face. She went to view it! Her killer invited her there on the pretext that they were thinking of renting it and moving in. Well, that let out John Brackett and I couldn't see Candy Clark or Greg Ferrari in a Victorian villa so I could strike them off my list of suspects as well. Or could I? There might be other reasons, besides the obvious one, for JayJay to have gone to Willow Close, so that still left the producer and the co-star in the picture. Damn.

I walked around the kitchen while I pondered what I'd got so far - unlike KD I don't fiddle while I'm thinking, I walk - and wished I'd pumped Jerry Farish for more information last night. How much of this did the police already know? How much brain work could the man have saved me? Maybe, as our relationship developed—relationship? What relationship? Did one dinner together constitute an affair?—he might be prepared to discuss his work with me. For one wild moment I wondered if he talked in his sleep and then laughed uproariously at my own lascivious folly.

Calming down, I realised Jerry and his team would have the answer to my next point. They'd be able to trace the mobile and I could understand the killer taking it.

I plodded and pondered on then, at twenty past twelve, I threw my notebook and pen in my bag, combed my hair and set off on the short walk to the Fox, my local pub. I bought an Observer and a Sunday redtop from the newsagents on the way intending to read them over lunch. If I couldn't winkle any information out of the police then I'd just have to get it from the press.

The Fox Inn was a traditional English pub selling real ales, good food - including an excellent steak pie and a tasty beef stew with dumplings - and with a halfway decent wine list. It boasted no jukebox, piped music, widescreen TV, fruit machines, pool tables, karaoke nights, ridiculously named cocktails or children's play areas. Unpretentious, it refused to call itself The Fox at Sutton Harcourt - as if this made it sound classier or more up-market—and remained the plain Fox Inn. The staff were friendly and well trained to observe, as well as pass, the time of day. You'd get no, "Hiya" here but a warm "Good afternoon" or "Good evening", as the case may be.

I ordered a plate of thickly cut home-cured ham with chips and a glass of red wine.

"I've got some nice roast beef with Yorkshire pudding on today, Verity," the landlord offered.

"Thanks, Bob, but I've had a good breakfast. I'll stick with what I've ordered, I think."

I took my glass and the papers to an empty table, spreading the tabloid out in front of me. They reported no further news on the demise of Jaynee Johnson but a centre page spread by a features writer proclaimed, 'Stars Mourn Death of Showbiz Icon'. I read through the lurid prose with distaste and a growing sense of unease. If this article by the, no doubt pseudonymous, Dolly Dawkins was anything to go by, the beatification of JayJay had already started. I learned nothing that I didn't know earlier and the piece concluded with the usual predictable quotes from her colleagues in the TV industry. They praised her character, her talent and, even, her work ethic yet nothing of the woman's personality, no insight into the real Jaynee Johnson came out in their words. To me, she remained as artificial in real life as she had appeared on the screen. I grabbed the paper off the table and threw it on the bench beside me in disgust.

I read the letters page in the
Observer
while I enjoyed my ham and chips then fetched another glass of wine from the bar. I returned to my seat and searched for an account of the JayJay case in the news section. It took up a mere two paragraphs on page 4. The staid nature of the writing came as a welcome relief from the hysterical style of the
Sunday Scream
, reporting only the facts.

The body of Jaynee Johnson, presenter of the popular Saturday night TV show, Star Steps, was found last Monday by an estate agent and his client viewing an empty property in Crofterton, home of Silverton Studios where the programme is recorded. The star, who had been missing for nearly a week prior to the discovery, had been stabbed with a thin-bladed dagger. Why and how Miss Johnson went to the neat Victorian villa in the centre of the town is currently unknown.

I read on but there was no mention of what she had been wearing or the missing handbag and phone. However, the next sentence held a surprise.

The police team, under the leadership of Chief Superintendent John Ward, head of Crofterton CID, are asking anyone who saw or heard anything in the area on the night of Sunday 6th or morning of Monday 7th June to come forward. The number for the incident room is …

Chief Superintendent John Ward, eh? Well, he was a new one on me. Presumably this was the guy cracking the whip over Jerry Farish and his sergeants' heads. Which could explain why my dinner date from yesterday had been like a cat on hot bricks on Thursday and needed to relax last night.

"Ah, there you are, Verity. I thought I'd find you here."

I looked up in surprise as Jim Hamilton slid into the chair opposite me and raised his glass.

"
Hobgoblin
on draught," he told me. "I'm impressed."

"Hello, Jim. What are you doing here? We don't often see you round these parts."

"I came to see you."

He smiled but then my heart sank as he reached across the table and put his hand on mine. This looked like a complication I could well do without. Still, maybe I could turn it to my advantage.

"Have you come to pump me about last Monday?" I asked as I folded up the paper and put it on top of its down-market companion.

"No, not at all but seeing you on Wednesday reminded me we hadn't been out for a drink together in ages. I called at your flat first and then came on here."

"I treated myself to Sunday lunch here." I told him

"Any good?"

"Yes, it is. They buy all their fresh produce from a local farm, including the home cured ham I had with my chips, and it's first-rate quality."

"You're quite the gourmet, aren't you, Verity?"

"Hardly." I laughed. "I just enjoy my food. I shall probably pay for it in later life like my mother did. You know, spreading sideways like a ripe brie."

"I can't see that. You'll probably stay svelte until well into your seventies. So, have the police hauled you in for questioning, yet?"

"Me? No. Why should they?"

He gave a short laugh

"You have to be their chief suspect. Statistically, the person who committed the murder is far more likely to supposedly 'discover' the body."

I stared at him in horror. Surely, he couldn't be serious?

"I'm surprised you don't know that. Working for a crime writer and all."

"I'm a researcher not a writer," I answered automatically, my mind churning.

"Well, I'm sure that wily beggar, Inspector Jeremy Farish, will be around soon. Knowing him, he'd probably dated JayJay at some point himself."

"Knowing him?" I asked with a dry mouth. I felt totally stunned.

"Oh, yes. He's quite a man for the ladies, is Fabulous Farish."

He smiled and I felt like smashing my glass into his face. My stupid daydreams of the morning lay shattered, their ruins more extensive than the hill of Troy. I said nothing because I couldn't trust myself to speak.

"Cheer up, Verity." Blithely unaware of the devastation he had caused, Jim rabbited inanely on. "We all know you didn't do it."

He grinned and I picked up my glass, fully intending to satisfy my inner rage by carrying out my unspoken threat. He took it from my hand.

"Get you another drink? What would you like?"

"I'll have a bottle of Merlot, please. No! Wait! Make that a case," I replied through gritted teeth.

He laughed again.

"Good idea. Drown your sorrows before they lock you up."

He strolled off towards the now busy bar. I sat with my head in my hands. God! What a fool I had been. Would I always fall for unsuitable men? Men who merely wanted to use me? Thank goodness I hadn't mentioned my dinner date with the Inspector to anybody. How they would laugh at me now. Not, I thought bitterly, that my relationship with Farish was ever going to be on a share-and-share-alike basis - not on the JayJay case, anyway. Well, I would deal with the Inspector when - if - I next saw him.

"You all right, Verity?"

My companion placed the refilled glasses on the table. Poor Jim, it was hardly his fault that Jerry Farish was a cad or that I'd been stupid enough to start falling for him, yet there I'd been mentally offering him physical violence. I must try and make it up to him.

"Yes, thanks. I was just thinking about Jaynee Johnson's murder and what happened to her handbag and phone.”