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I awoke in darkness, unsure of what had disturbed my rest. I listened for any sound that might explain this sudden rousing from my dreams, but heard nothing, not even the sound of traffic.
Still partly in my dream, the room and the bed seemed unfamiliar. Where was I and what was I doing here? I tilted my head on the pillow. The backlit alarm clock said six-thirty. That's when I froze. I was not alone.
“So, you're awake are you?” The man's voice was gruff and very close.
I said nothing, letting my eyes roam the room trying to see who was there. Not a sliver of light pierced the heavy brocade curtains. No breath of air fluttered them against the ledge. The windows must still be closed, so how had the man got in?
I tried to control my fear, lying as still as possible in the pitch blackness.
“I know you're awake, Mrs Farish. Don't try to pretend otherwise.”
His lips were close to my ear. I flinched as his hand touched my naked body, stroking, caressing, getting perilously close to where it shouldn't go. I batted the hand away.
“Stop that!”
I struggled to sit up, but he put a hand on my shoulder and forced me back.
“Or what?”
What indeed? I was helpless, unable to stop this man from doing what he wanted. And I knew what he wanted.
“Look,” I began.
His mouth came down on mine, silencing my protests. I put my hands to his chest to push him away, then relaxed, parted my lips, and let my husband of a week make love to me.
An hour later, he joined me in the kitchen.
“You're a wonderful sight to wake up to.” He slipped his arms around my waist.
“What sight, Jerry? I couldn't see a thing.” I waved the spatula I was using to push mushrooms around the frying pan at him. “You scared me to start with.”
“Oh? Why's that? Who else did you expect to be in bed with you?”
“Silly! I'm just not used to sleeping with you yet.”
“We can soon remedy that.” He put a hand around my wrist as though to drag me back to bed.
“I mean, I'm not used to sleeping with you here at Fernbank, especially since I put up the new curtains which make the room so dark.”
“They were your choice,” he pointed out, not unreasonably. “I'm truly sorry if I scared you, Verity. I promise I won't do it again.”
“Not make love to me in the morning, you mean?” I smiled at him.
“Now who's being silly?”
He made the toast and laid the table and we sat down to a hearty breakfast, which he polished off in no time.
Jerry had inherited the house from an aunt and decided to keep it only after I'd accepted his proposal of marriage, made here outside in the overgrown garden just over a month ago. Renovations were desperately needed and we were working our way through the old vicarage's many rooms as and when we had the money to do so. The first of the improvements had been the bathroom, and we'd brought in professionals to install a new suite and shower cabinet. It had also been completely re-tiled, and cushion flooring laid to replace the old lino.
Last night, though, was only the third time I'd slept with Jerry at Fernbank, and that after returning from our all-too-brief honeymoon.
Today, though, we were both back at work. Jerry to his his job as a newly-promoted Detective Chief Inspector in the local police force, and I to my work as personal assistant and researcher to bestselling crime author, Kathleen Davenport, or KD as she preferred to be called.
Jerry sighed as he moved his plate to the draining board.
“I really don't feel like working. I'd much rather stay at home with you.”
I finished the last of my toast before agreeing with him. “Unfortunately, your aunt only left you this house and not a lifetime legacy to go with it.”
“Well, let's hope it's a quiet day.”
“Indeed. Now that you're a Chief Inspector, will it involve more paperwork and admin?”
He pulled a face. “Yes, but not purely so. I'll still be out there catching the bad guys.”
I nodded briefly, shying away from thinking of the difficult job he did. Crofterton was a medium-sized town, and had its fair share of crime, which meant that Jerry faced danger every day as all policemen do. Whereas I went looking for it with a ruddy great magnifying glass and in the optimistic and misguided belief that I was indestructible and could succeed where my husband and the police team had failed.
“Be careful, my love.” I cleared the rest of the pots from the table and started to wash up.
“I always am, you know that. Besides, I've got the added incentive of you to come home to now.”
He gave me the fond smile that always filled me with contentment.
“I shall be here,” I told him, as he picked up the tea towel.
“Of course, you're starting your new job today. Looking forward to it?”
“Yes, very much, depending on what you've got for me.”
With the collusion of KD, who had readily agreed and given me a glowing reference, Jerry had offered me the opportunity to use my research skills working on police cold cases. For all that he had dropped this news on me at our wedding reception, I had jumped at the chance. I still did mornings at Bishop Lea, but every afternoon I would become part of Jerry's team and work from home here at Fernbank.
“I've got the case file we'd like you to look into in my briefcase. I dropped into the office yesterday on one of my ferrying trips and picked it up. I'll leave it on the desk in the study.”
“Aren't you going to tell me what it's about?”
“I'd rather not, if you don't mind. It would be better if you came to it fresh, without any preconceived notions. We'll talk about it tonight.”
“All right. What would you like for dinner this evening?”
He grinned. “You. On toast.”
I flicked the tea-towel at his bottom.
“Get out of here, Jerry. I'll see you tonight.”
He bent and kissed me. “Have a good day.”
“You, too.”
I waved him off, then flew upstairs, applied a lick of mascara and brushed my short bob of auburn hair, trying to make myself presentable. A quick study in the mirror showed my normally trim figure to have filled out since my marriage. I hoped I wouldn't need to diet.
Just before leaving, I went into the study and got my notebook and pen from the table. I dropped them into my bag and, taking my coat from the hook by the front door, let myself out of the house.
***
If I had expected a warm welcome back to work after my short honeymoon, I would have been disappointed. My boss was already at her desk when I walked into the office at her home, and barely looked up at my entrance.
“Good morning, KD. Oh!” I stopped in my tracks. “You've had a change around.”
Which was putting it mildly. Long before I had come to work for her, KD had added a large conservatory to a ground floor room of the mock-Palladian house that she called home, and turned it into an office. There were two large desks, two computers, a coffee table with four low-slung easy chairs, a bookcase, and a table to the side of the door on which the coffee percolator and a tray of mugs resided.
Now, instead of facing each other, our desks were side by side with a large gap between them. Hers stood in the conservatory, so she could look out at the garden, mine entirely within the room, so I could look at the wall. Great.
“Hmm? Oh, that. Yes, I thought it was time for a revamp.”
“You've also bought new furniture.” I surveyed the new leather affair that had replaced the comfy typist's chair behind my desk. “I hope you didn't do all this yourself.”
“No, of course I didn't,” she snapped. “I hired a man and van.”
That made sense. I could get a hernia just thinking of my dumpy-figured employer shifting heavy desks and chairs.
I put my bag on my desk and hung up my jacket. “So what brought this on?”
“I wanted a change. Things have changed for you now that you are married, so why not here? After all, if we don't change, we don't grow, and you being away on honeymoon gave me the perfect opportunity for it.”
Yeah, well, some things don't change, I thought, looking at the mug she held out for a refill. I took it from her, replenished it and replaced it on her desk, before pouring my own.
“What would you like me to do, today?” I asked, sinking onto my new chair. It squeaked, perhaps in protest at the extra pounds I'd put on since my wedding day.
She gave me a list of chores, including making appointments with her hairdresser and garage —the car was due for a service— then asked me to speak to her agent about a book signing, and to call the gardener and tell him to plant some bare-rooted roses when he came.
“Tell him I've put them in the greenhouse for now.”
“Very well.” I picked up the pile of mail I'd brought in with me. “Any research you want me to do?”
Despite appearances to the contrary, she actually employed me as her researcher, so I thought it as well to ask.
In the past I had provided her with information not only on poisons, forensics and other aspects of the basic crime novel, but on a plethora of other subjects as well. In the last month alone, she had asked me for the mileage between London and Falkirk, the price of a particular model of car in the 1970s, the ratio of ingredients in pastry—it's half fat to flour in flaky pastry, for example—whether snow fell anywhere in the UK in December 1980, and many more, all designed to give her tales greater depth and verisimilitude.
“Harrumph!” She sat back in her chair and swivelled to face me. “Well, yes. I need to know how many standard soccer pitches would fit on the Ark Royal.”
I goggled at her.
“What on earth are you working on now?”
“Don't worry,” she said, catching my look. “It's something a character says in Have Travel, Will Murder. I'd also like you to look into angina and let me have a list of medications for it, please.”
This was more like it. “All right,” I said.
She returned to her keyboard and I set about opening the post and sorting it into piles before starting on the tasks she'd set me. I'd completed them by eleven o'clock and went to the kitchen to make a fresh pot of coffee.
When I returned, KD sat on one of the easy chairs and motioned for me to join her. For the first time I noticed the flared green skirt she wore under her sunshine yellow top — a combination that make her look like a dumpy daffodil.
“I'm sorry. I forgot to say 'welcome back' earlier. I was working on a particularly tricky passage that took all of my concentration. Anyway, how are you? How was the honeymoon?” She gave me a smile full of genuine warmth, and took the mug I offered.
I doubted she wanted the personal details, so told her about the few happy days that Jerry and I had spent in London.
“We had a great time, thanks. We saw the sights, visited the Tower and the British Museum and went to a West End show. It was only a short break unfortunately, and we were back by Thursday lunchtime.”
“Well, if you and the Inspect—sorry, Chief Inspector, feel you want a longer honeymoon, you have lots of holiday still due to you this year, you know. I'd be grateful, though, if it wasn't the first week in November.”
“Why, what happens then? Book launch?”
She nodded and pulled a face. My boss hates what she calls the razzmatazz of publishing and gets out of book signings if she can, convinced that if her public actually saw what she looked like, she'd never sell another book.
Where this ridiculous idea came from, I never did find out, nor could I dissuade her of the notion. She was a world-famous author of crime books featuring amateur sleuth Agnes Merryweather, a Church of England vicar, in a rural and, frankly, murderous parish. They were massively popular, generating fan mail from all over the globe and, at a conservative estimate, she earned millions.
Still, there were times when she succumbed to her publisher's pressure and appeared in public because, she said, “I need to let people know I'm still alive.”
“Thanks for reminding me about taking my holidays. I'll probably spend it at Fernbank. There's such a lot to do there, and I've only just moved my stuff out of the flat. I'll be handing the keys back to the landlord later this week.”
“Ah,” she said. “The end of an era.”
I hadn't thought of it like that but supposed she was right. I had been on my own for so long, self-reliant and thinking only of and for myself, that my married status would take some adjusting to. I hoped I was up to the task, for Jerry's sake.
She moved her head from side to side, surveying me critically. “Well, married life is clearly suiting you, my dear.”
I smiled grimly at her none too subtle hint that I was putting on weight.
“Thank you, though I'm having a bit of trouble adjusting to my new name. I've been Verity Long all my life, and I still find myself saying it when asked my name.”
“You could always add them together.”
I threw her a doubtful look. “Don't be ridiculous, KD. Long Farish sounds like a village in Leicestershire.”
“Ha, ha! So it does.”
“And Farish Long could be a character from one of your books.”
“Ooh! So it could.” Her eyes widened at the suggestion.
“Don't even think of it,” I said.
“Oh, well. There's nothing to stop you carrying on calling yourself Long if you want to. I'm sure you'll adjust, especially as you've got this new job as well. Are you looking forward to it?”
I shrugged and stared into my coffee, trying to formulate an honest answer.
“Well?” she prompted.
“Yes, but frankly, I'm terrified. I don't want to let Jerry down and, thanks to your glowing reference, he and his Assistant Chief Constable seem to think I'm the bee's knees.”
“Oh, nonsense! I merely told them the truth. You are the best researcher I've ever had, and are very good at what you do.”
“Yes, but if they think I'm going to solve all these old cold cases single-handed where the police at the time failed, that's an awfully high bar for me to clear.”
“I shouldn't worry that they expect that much of you. From what Detective Chief Inspector Farish said to me when he asked for the reference, they think you might uncover something that they missed, that's all.”
Having thus damned me with faint praise, she sat back and gave me a reassuring smile.
“And what if I don't?”
“What if the sky should fall? Que sera, sera, Verity. You can only do your best, and I have no doubt that you will.”
I nodded my agreement, but still worried about the damage that might be done, not just to my reputation but to Jerry's, if I should really foul up. He'd only recently been promoted and was justifiably pleased, especially as it made him one of the youngest Detective Chief Inspectors in the country.
“Honestly, Verity, I don't think you have anything to worry about. Wife or no wife, I can't see the Chief Inspector offering you the job if he didn't think you were capable of doing it. Do you know which cases you'll be working on?”
“Not yet, not until I get home. Jerry's left the case folder on my desk, but I haven't looked at it.”
She drained her mug and stood up. “You realise that it may be a case you've already looked into or researched for me, don't you?”
“Oh!”
The thought had not occurred to me. KD is interested in old cases and has me delving into newspaper archives and the internet to find any that she might be able to adapt for her own crime novels.
However, the information that I cull from these researches is mainly local rather than national, and most of the crimes happened twenty years or more in the past, so it was very possible I'd be given something I had already come across in my work for KD.
“It may even be a case I remember,” said KD. She walked past me to put her mug next to the coffee pot. “I hope you're allowed to let me know. I'd be happy to help if I can.”
“Thanks. I don't think I'll need permission to talk to you about it. They want these cases cleared up.”
“Yes, they do.” She resumed her seat behind her desk. “Just remember that you are only researching them, you're not supposed to be solving them on your own.”
I laughed. “You sound like Jerry.”
“And why not? I've always thought the Chief Inspector a very sensible man. I hope he knows what he's doing.”
Her tone implied that there was some doubt about this.
I kept my mouth shut. KD is as aware of my nosiness as Jerry is — and the trouble it has often led me into. What neither seemed to realise was that there was nothing that I could do about my curiosity gene, and I had yet to hear of a way to have it surgically removed. So, while it remained intact, I wasn't going to say, 'I promise I'll stay out of it'. I hated making promises I knew I couldn't keep.
“I suppose there might be some cases that you could use,” I offered as a distraction.
“Well, you know the sort of thing I like. If you do find something suitable that would be a bonus, but I don't want to tread on the Chief Inspector's toes.”
“I'll be careful,” I said.
“And I wouldn't need to know anything about the police investigation.”
“Just the facts, ma'am?” I grinned at her.
“Exactly.”
It had been a light-hearted comment, but I was soon to discover that the police's idea of facts was very different from my own.
***
I debated calling in to the ABC wine bar for my lunch and to see my friends Val and Jacques who owned and ran both the wine bar and the restaurant next door, but knew I'd be tempted to have a glass of Merlot with my ham baguette. I drove straight home, cursing the fact that Fernbank lay so far from the town centre and that the sandwich I planned on having would be a poor substitute.
I turned off the main road, went through the large stone gateposts in the house's perimeter wall and onto the tarmac drive. The front door and my office window lay to the left, shielded by the wall from anyone with prying eyes walking along the pavement. At either side of the house lay wide gravel borders providing access to the rear and extra parking space should it ever be needed.
Like all the rooms in the old vicarage, my office in what had once been the study was large enough to accommodate a Victorian family. The high-ceilinged space held three bookcases, one on each side of the wide fireplace and one on the wall behind the door, an old-fashioned bureau, and a heavy table with curvaceously-turned legs. Two red leather winged-back armchairs stood in front of the hearth, and I always expected to see a bearded Victorian gentleman and his muslin-clad lady seated within their depths whenever I entered.
Sash windows looked out over the front and side of the house, the latter having a view of an overgrown herbaceous border in urgent need of renovation beyond the strip of gravel. I sighed at the thought of all the work we had to do and fondly recalled my modern flat with its central heating, gas cooker, and beautifully tiled bathroom, which had been my pride and joy.
I shook my head to dispel the memories and walked to the table that served as my desk, eager to start work on whatever Jerry had left for me. Pulling the typist's chair I had bought over the weekend closer to the table, I sat down and opened the brown folder I'd seen that morning. On top of a sheaf of papers lay a note in Jerry's neat flowing script.
This one is a toughie to start, beloved. See what you make of it and we'll discuss it over dinner.
Yours forever.
J.
Smiling to myself, I leafed through the contents and started to read. Ten minutes later I switched on the laptop and brought up the Crofterton Gazette's website. Their report on the case neatly summarised the basic facts before I started wading through those gathered by the police. Which, as I'd suspected, weren't many.
Late on November 5th, Bonfire Night 1991, at approximately eleven o'clock, a young couple had heard the sound of an explosion. Assuming it came from a bonfire and firework display being held on Hapstone recreation ground, they had hurried towards it and come upon a fiercely burning car. When the police and fire service arrived, a body had been seen, lying across the length of the rear seat. To this day, the victim had never been identified — there wasn't much left, by all accounts — and neither had the person who set the car on fire.
I sat back and reached for my notebook and pen — a new one I'd bought that weekend, specifically for this case — then rifled through the folder for the pathologist's report. He had identified the remains as a white male with good dentition, but, in a dry and terse style, refused to speculate much beyond that. However, he had detected the beginnings of arthritis in the left hip and, if pressed, would venture the opinion that the man had been middle-aged, possibly in his fifties. It was impossible to tell whether the fire had killed him or whether he'd been dead before that. A small amount of DNA had been found and sent off for analysis. This had confirmed the European origin of the victim, but hadn't added a great deal else, the sample was simply too small.
According to a later item in the Gazette, the police had issued an appeal for anyone knowing of a missing person who fitted that profile to come forward.
I slipped the pathologist's findings back in the folder and went to make a cup of tea. While the kettle boiled, I wondered where to start. There were two aspects to the case. Who was the man in the car, and who put him there? As always, knowing the answer to the first would go some way to answering the second, but, it seemed, the only option here was to work the other way around.
Jerry was right. This was going to be a tough one.
When the tea was ready, I carried it down the passage to the office and clutched it to my chest while I read through the police reports from that night. A tarmacked road fronting a patch of waste ground and a small industrial estate ran along one side of Hapstone rec, and it was here the car had been found.
Statements taken from the young couple confirmed that they had not noticed the body. The heat of the blaze made it impossible for them to approach too closely. They had seen no one else in the area.
Forensics had determined that the fire had been started in the driver's seat, which had been liberally doused with petrol.
The car had been an ageing Ford belonging to Lionel Jackson. He lived on Brunswick Drive in Claydon, a suburb to the east of Crofterton and about five miles or so from Hapstone. Police Constable Murray had interviewed Jackson, who claimed that the car had been stolen from outside the house earlier in the evening whilst he'd been having a row with his mother-in-law.
As alibis go, I thought that rather a good one and PC Murray, having spoken to the lady in question, obviously agreed. Not only had she confirmed his whereabouts between nine o'clock and half past ten that night, she had called her son-in-law a foul-mouthed bully after he had escorted her off the premises and exclaimed, “Where the bloody hell is my car?” when they got outside. Hmm. So even if he drove the car to Hapstone earlier, he could not have set it alight at a quarter to eleven.
The folder included several reports of missing persons that had come in after the police appeal. All of them had been written in the same crabbed hand that made it hard to decipher. Did the Force not have computers in those days, I wondered, rubbing my tired squinting eyes, and jotting notes onto my pad.
I worried away at the many questions raised and, despite what KD had said that morning, worried even more that I wouldn't be able to get any further on this case than the police of twenty years ago had done. They had been well and truly stumped and, for the moment, so was I.
I called it quits at half-past four and started to make a cottage pie for dinner.
A couple of hours later, Jerry's nose wrinkled as he walked into the kitchen. “Smells good.” He slid his arms around my waist.
“Thank you. You're home early.”
“That's because I've got you to come home to.” He spun me round and kissed me. I let him.
“What sort of a day have you had?” He reached for the bottle of red on the table and poured two glasses.
“So-so. What about yours?”
“Fairly quiet, for which I was grateful, and full of the ribaldry the force doles out to newly-weds, for which I was not.”
I grinned. “Oh, dear. At least I was spared that.”
“I think my new rank kept a lot of it in check. I dread to think what it must be like for a young constable.”
I served up and we sat down to eat, something that didn't seem to take Jerry long. I pushed the food around on my plate.
“What's up?” he asked. “Lost your appetite?” A deep crease appeared on his forehead.
“A bit.”
I dropped my fork and picked up my glass, twirling it around by the stem.
“Come on, eat up, or do I have to feed you?”
I grinned. “That won't be necessary, thank you.”
“Good. I know you well enough by now to know that the only time you're off your food, it's because you're fretting about something. We'll talk about it after dinner.”
“Thanks.” I picked up my fork and finished my meal.
We'd seen to the pots and were curled up together on the sofa drinking the remains of the wine before Jerry broached the subject again. I snuggled close—for warmth as much as anything. A small two-bar electric heater glowed on the hearth, but the September evening was cool and the heater barely took the chill off the large room.
“So,” he said. “What's worrying you?”
“The Hapstone Car case.”
“Ah.”
“Ah? Is that all you've got to say? You might have given me something easier to cut my teeth on.”
“I thought you'd relish the challenge.”
He grinned, but there was too much riding on this for me to feel amused. I turned my face away.
“To be honest, beloved, there are no easy cases. If there were they would have been solved by now.”
Great! So now it was my fault for not realising what I'd let myself in for.
“Yes, but really, Jerry. Unidentified victim, unknown killer, where am I supposed to start? Unless...” I stopped, struck by a sudden thought.
“Yes?” He leaned forward, staring at me intently.
“Well, I haven't found a list of missing persons in the folder. You know, anyone who might have come forward after the police appeal.”
He sat back, looking remarkably pleased with himself. I wondered what was coming.
“You shall have that tomorrow, along with your new assistant.”
I gaped at him. I didn't want an assistant and said so.
“Nevertheless, you need one. The information you require is stored on the police national computer. As a civilian you can't access it, so I've seconded Constable Bowles to assist you.”
“Can't you just copy it out and let me have it?” I asked.
“Sorry, my love. That's against regulations.”
Damn his bloody regulations. I could feel my jaw tightening.
“Are they coming here, or do I —”
“No, I've arranged for someone to come here and work with you in the office. You can work together.”
Oh, he'd got it all worked out, hadn't he? I drank some wine, too angry to speak. Then, as if what he'd said already wasn't bad enough, he dropped his second bombshell.
“I've also told them to keep an eye on you. Just in case you're tempted to start investigating on your own.”