Strictly Murder (2 page)

I took it from her and put it in my bag.

"How's the house hunting going?" KD asked, leaning back in her chair at the computer, the subject of the disappearing JayJay closed for now.

"OK. I spotted a likely place at the weekend and I'm hoping to go and view it this afternoon when I've finished here."

"I've told you, you're more than welcome to move in here with me. There's oodles of space, Bishop Lea is a huge house with five bedrooms and even I don't need that many."

"Yes, I know, KD. It's a kind offer and I am grateful, but the reason for moving out of Sutton Harcourt, apart from my dreadful landlord and the poor state of repair, is to be closer to the centre of Crofterton."

"Closer to the action eh? To the night life?"

I smiled at her.

"Hardly. Not at my age."

"Nonsense, you're a spring chicken just like me."

I was thirty two and, at a guess, KD was about twenty five years older. Neither of us bore any resemblance to spring chickens. Broilers, maybe. I changed the subject.

"I was thinking of going to the library tomorrow or the day after, KD, to have a rummage through the old newspaper archives there. I might find some local crime reports of cases we could use."

"Good idea," she swung round to face me. "Are you going to call that friend of yours?"

She meant Jim Hamilton, chief crime reporter on the Crofterton Gazette.

"Yes, I'll need to use his library card"

"Go ahead. Give him a call now if you like."

She swung back to the keyboard while I picked up the 'phone.

By the time I quit work for the day—I work hours and times to suit both KD and myself—and arrived in Crofterton the warm, early June sunshine made me glad of my light summer clothes. I was still in time for a late lunch in Valentino's and strolled along the High Street looking forward to a baguette and a glass of wine. The promise of summer had brought out the shoppers who, unusually for a Monday, crammed the pedestrian High Street wearing too few clothes and showing far too much flesh. I popped into the stationer’s for a new writer's notebook having left my old, nearly full one in the office. It would come in useful this afternoon and I would certainly need it at the library. Jim had been delighted to oblige when I'd phoned with my request and agreed to meet me on Wednesday morning.

"Lovely day," observed the girl in the stationery shop, sliding my purchase into a paper bag.

"Indeed," I smiled my agreement. They were always friendly in here which is why I gave it my custom rather than the larger Smith's down the street.

Once back outside, my stomach rumbled like some active volcano about to erupt. It was nearly two o'clock and hours since I'd had breakfast. I opened the plate glass doors of Val's place with relief. Inside cooler air greeted me and the wine bar was virtually empty apart from a couple, dawdling over coffee, at one of the small, circular tables. I made my way to the 'L' shaped counter and perched on a bar stool.

"Bonjour, Verity, tu veux manger?"

Yes I did want to eat and soon. I settled on a ham baguette and a small glass of wine. While Val disappeared to order the baguette from the kitchens, I sipped gratefully at the cool, fruity wine and pondered KD's decision to write an Agnes Merryweather story entirely out of thin air. That she was capable of it I didn't doubt and most of her work had been written that way but, about five years ago, she had been struck down—in her words—with a bad case of writer's block. She had worked her way through it, though maybe round it would be a better description, by hitting on the idea of using genuine crimes from the past, whether solved or unsolved, as the basis for her stories. That's why I spent more time researching than I did answering the phone, typing letters, dealing with autograph requests and the mounting fan mail as well as making salon and other appointments. My duties could undergo a dramatic change if she no longer required any research and wrote everything from thin air again and I wasn't altogether sure that I liked the idea. I didn't relish being only a secretary and I might find myself looking for a new job as well as a new place to live. I didn't want that. I enjoyed the job I currently had, the work was both interesting and varied, and I needed the sort of money KD was prepared to pay me.

"Your baguette, cherie."

"Thanks, Val," I said before almost snatching it from the plate and falling on it like some underfed mongrel who'd found an unattended butcher's shop.

"You were hungry, yes?"

Val smiled as I brushed away the last of the crumbs from around my mouth.

"Oh, yes. Boy, I needed that."

I had been friends with Val and his brother Jacques for over ten years, ever since I'd met them on holiday in France. I wouldn't have minded him making some pointed comment about the piggish speed with which I'd disposed of the delicious, thickly cut ham and soft bread, I knew many an English person who would have done so, but Valentino had always shown me typical Gallic courtesy.

"Are you going so soon?" He asked as I reached for my bag on the bar stool beside me. "It is bad for the digestion, that."

I glanced at my watch. It was barely three o'clock and there was plenty of time before I needed to be at the estate agents, I didn't have any appointment, but I knew that if I stayed I would be tempted to have more wine and I needed a clear head.

"Yes, sorry Val. I'm house hunting this afternoon." I got down from the stool.

"You are buying a house? That is good."

"Oh no, I can't afford that. I'm just looking for a new one to rent, that's all. I want to move out of Sutton Harcourt and closer to Crofterton."

"Ah yes, I see. Well, bonne chance mon amie." He blew me a kiss as I went out the door.

Knight's estate agents had boasted a discreet presence on the High Street for as long as I could remember. It offered its upwardly mobile dreams, to those who could afford them, from behind freshly painted dark green woodwork and an expanse of plate-glass that was only ever filled with the most select of properties. And why not? After all, the Knights themselves lived in the largest, most opulent house in the area although the founding Knight, as it were, had long since departed for a more bijou residence in the sky. His grandson now carried on the business without ever setting foot in the premises that bore his name, content behind the walls that surrounded his home and the layer of managers that protected him from doing a day's work. I didn't bother to read the current crop of beautifully typed and illustrated cards intended to entice the wealthy into parting with more in monthly mortgage payments than I earned in a year. I just kept my head down and walked past. Then I took a deep breath before putting my hand to the door and going in.

None of the heads lifted as the jangling of the door bell announced my arrival, not a single pair of eyes raised themselves to meet mine, no lips curved in a welcoming, albeit insincere, smile. The five occupants of the outer office had obviously sussed me out as a waste of their precious, busy, time when I'd passed the window. I glanced around, looking for any indication of a lettings department or any desk with such a sign on but could see nothing. Nearly a minute passed with me standing in the middle of the plush carpet like some unwanted piece of lost property. Either that or I had put on my superhero's cloak of invisibility that morning without realising it. If I'd been in a better mood I would simply have turned round and walked back out of the door. Instead I spoke loudly and clearly, in the kind of voice I normally reserve for naughty children.

“
I
apologise
for interrupting you at a busy time but would it be too much to ask if you have a lettings department, please?”

For a moment I thought even this simple request would be too much. Then, just when I had decided to throw in the towel and go elsewhere, a tall, dark haired man in a sharp suit appeared from an office at the rear.

He weaved his way towards me through the desks, a task made easier by the sheer oiliness of his manner. He aimed a condescending smile loosely in my direction.

“
Good morning. John Adams, office manager. How may we help you today?”

“
I'm interested in a house you have to let.”

“
House lets. Ah, that would be Tom. If you'd just come this way.”

He oozed his way back between the desks towards a partition at the far end of the room. Here, behind the screen, shoved in a corner and hidden from sight like an ageing and incontinent relative one nurses but doesn't quite like admitting to, lay what constituted Knight's Estate Agents Lettings Department. A boy, a table and a filing cabinet.

“
Tom, this lady is interested in a house let,” Mister Oily introduced me to his colleague. “I'll leave you in Tom's hands.”

His departure back into the inner sanctum he had sprung from left a moment of silence. The shrill note of a telephone from the main office finally roused the youth looking curiously up at me.

“
Take a seat Mrs…?”

“
Miss. Miss Long.”

“
Ah, right. I'm Tom Powell, Miss Long. Did you have a particular property in mind?”

"Yes, 27 Willow Drive."

“
Um, Willow Drive, Willow Drive,” he muttered, finally standing up and taking a step to the filing cabinet, his part of the office being so small that a step was all that was needed.

“
Yes, it's in that maze of streets off the Bellhurst Road. Down Old Church Street and turn left.”

“
Ah, yes.” He nodded as though my directions had filled in some gap in his mental road map. “Just give me a moment.”

While he flicked through the files in one of the drawers I gave him a closer look. To my more advanced years and, admittedly jaundiced, eyes he appeared about twelve years old but was probably nearer to twenty five. He would have left school with a media studies A-level and become a car salesman before trying tele-sales and finally settling on a career in estate agency because he got to wear a smart suit - though the one he wore today probably cost him less than a hundred quid and came from Next.

“
Here we are. 27 Willow Drive.” He brandished a pile of papers in his left hand as he
manoeuvred
himself back round the desk to his seat.

“
Well now, the property is an attractive period building with some interesting original features,” he began chirpily and my heart sank. Knowing how estate agents love to manipulate and mangle the language, that meant it was a late Victorian villa that had had no renovation since it was built in 1900.

I couldn't resist the temptation of asking, “is it deceptively spacious?” which is estate agent speak for the size of a rabbit hutch, but the irony was lost on young Tom.

“
It's ideal for city living,” he enthused.

So, a rabbit hutch with no parking, then. I gave a mental sigh. Oh well.

“
What is the monthly rental?”

He flicked through the papers.

“
Hmm...the landlord is seeking a figure of 650 pounds per calendar month.”