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I hung up my coat, poured myself a stiff vodka and lemonade and took a good gulp. It slid down like satin, the alcohol doing the trick and steadying my nerve after the day I’d had.
It helped me prepare for Jerry’s reaction when I told him that after only one investigation I was quitting the Cold Case Unit. Quite how I phrased my resignation, I hadn’t yet decided. Saying, ‘Hello, darling, I’ve gone over to the Dark Side’ wouldn’t exactly please him, but then, what would?
I worried over it while I checked the fridge and the kitchen cupboards wondering what to have for dinner. Whatever he said about my throwing in the towel, I was determined that he wouldn’t stop me going back to working full-time for KD.
Much to my surprise, he did not rant and rave when I broached the subject after dinner – but then he was full of oven-baked tuna with a Portuguese tomato salad.
“What’s brought this on?” He sat on the sofa and pulled me down onto his lap.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I just don’t think I can do this any more. I’m not cut out for working on cold cases. Besides, she was such a horrible person.”
“That doesn’t mean that her murderer should go unpunished.”
“Yet if they are—punished, I mean—it’s hardly justice, is it?”
“No, but it is the law.”
I gave the sort of smile that only a wife, married for two months to a man pledged to uphold that law, could give—tight-lipped and furious.
The law would take its course and justice could take care of itself. I thought I’d wanted the truth, now I wasn’t so sure.
“But, Jerry —”
“Look, beloved, we can’t always like, or have sympathy for, murder victims. I’ve known some right blackguards get topped and, believe me, I’ve cheered when they have been, but that doesn’t stop us from finding the culprit and bringing them before the law. Not all victims can be Marilyn Pearces or Jaynee Johnsons, you know.”
He was right, damn him. I’d started off thinking that Johnson, the glamorous presenter of a TV dance show who’d been stabbed to death in an empty house, was no more that a bimbo with no two brain cells that rubbed together. I’d been forced to revise that uncharitable opinion during the course of an investigation that had proved her to be rather clever indeed.
Hadn’t I done the same thing with Emily Rimmer, but in reverse — going from thinking her misunderstood and falsely maligned, to believing her as guilty as sin and as venomous as those that she’d worked with claimed her to be?
“I suppose you’re right.”
“You’ve not actually said too much about this case until now. Do you think you and Constable Bowles have made progress?”
If getting more than a monosyllable or a grunt out of my colleague was progress, then the answer was yes. Working together wasn’t easy for either one of us. In a sense Jerry connected us, but that connection also kept us apart.
Jerry knew nothing of this, of course. I hadn’t liked to discuss Becky’s mood with him in case he thought that I complained over nothing.
For the same reason, I’d said nothing about seeing her with Valentino or how stupidly upset I’d been when I had. As fond as I was of Val, I adored my husband, loving him to the depth of my being. I would never hurt him—and what man wouldn’t be hurt if he thought his wife had burst into tears after simply seeing a male friend of long standing in the amorous embrace of another woman.
I brushed a finger against the silvering hairs over his ears, wishing that regulations allowed him to grow it. Give me a Mr Darcy or a Ross Poldark over short back and sides, any day.
“I’m not sure that we are making progress. I’ve absolutely no idea who killed Emily Rimmer, and frankly could not care less.”
“So you’re giving up, are you?”
Hell’s teeth, but Jerry knew how to pull my strings. I leant against his chest and put my head on his shoulder.
“You think I’m letting you down, don’t you? I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be silly. Of course you’re not, and if you truly are unhappy working on the CCU, then we’ll have to have a rethink, that’s all.”
He said the right words, but couldn’t help sounding glum. Now I was the one stuck between a rock and a hard place. I turned my face and kissed his cheek.
“It’s all right. I’ll see this case through. It’s for the Assistant Chief Constable’s benefit, after all.”
“Bugger the ACC. If you’re not happy, beloved...”
I scrambled off his lap and knelt beside him. “Please don’t worry. I said I’ll finish what I’ve started, and I will. Yes, we can have a rethink when it’s over, because I realise that I’m not doing what you said I should when I was first offered the job.”
“I know.” He patted my hand. “You’re only supposed to do the research, Constable Bowles or some other member of the CID should be investigating.”
“Exactly.”
Jerry hated me getting involved in his cases and I could see why. Since I’d first met him, after stumbling across a corpse in a house I had hoped to rent, I’d been driven off the road by a lunatic in a 7-ton truck, become the intended recipient of a mad archer’s arrows, been shot at and part throttled. Despite that, in most cases, I’d uncovered the truth and revealed the killers long before the police.
I put that down to the researcher part of my brain asking the right questions, whereas KD reckoned it was simply because I was so damned nosy.
He put an arm around my shoulder and pulled me close.
“I hate the thought of putting you in harm’s way.”
“I know, and I know it’s no good telling you not to worry. Is the ACC chasing you for results, yet?”
“Oh, George is okay. He’s just a bit of an old windbag, and once he gets going on one of his stories, Heaven help you.”
I smiled to myself at the memory of the ACC talking to Jacques at our wedding reception. The conversation had been about cricket and the last—and deciding—match in that year’s County Championship. Having described the field placings — “Nelson was at Second Slip and Kershaw at Fine Leg” — it then occurred to him to ask if his listener played the game.
With considerable aplomb, and a wit so sharp it passed right through Mr Johnson and out the other side without him even noticing, Jacques replied, “No, sir. I am a Frenchman.”
“That’s right, so you are,” said the ACC, and sailed right on with the rest of his tale.
Dear Jacques. Always the quiet undemonstrative brother by comparison with Valentino. He never seemed to flap, even in an emergency.
I remembered when the local mayor, hearing good reports of the cuisine served up at Les Deux Frères, had decided to hold his annual banquet for the great and good of the town on the premises. It was quite a coup for Jacques, who was beginning to make a name for himself as a chef, and it meant the mayor’s party taking over the premises for the evening.
Unfortunately, on the Saturday in question, the sous-chef had gone down with a heavy cold and, at ten in the morning, I received a phone call.
“You will come, please? I am in need of your assistance.” Calmly he explained why.
“Me? But I’m no chef, Jacques.”
“D’accord, but you know your way around this kitchen, you work well and you do as you are told. So, you will come, yes?”
As invitations go, I’ve had better, but I went straight there, and worked my butt off, slicing, stirring, fetching and carrying, whatever Jacques asked or told me to do. At the end of the day, with his clients replete with delicious food, fine wine, and brandies, he took the plaudits — well, he had done most of the cooking — while I stayed behind the scenes and washed up.
I was dog tired by the end of it, but recall Valentino carrying me upstairs and putting me, still clothed, into the bed in the spare room. Both brothers had kissed me good night before tiptoeing out and leaving me to my slumbers.
That had been twelve years ago and I had been little more than a slip of a thing, several pounds lighter than my current weight. If Jerry tried it now, he’d end up with a hernia.
Later, I followed him up to bed and realised, with a heart-clutching wrench, how much my life had changed. I was no longer the callow girl who had gone to work in France. I was a grown woman with obligations and responsibilities — and the only way that I could fulfil those twin demands was by doing a job I was beginning to hate.
* * *
“I would like to go and feed the ducks.”
“Ah, yes. I haven’t built you that duck pond yet, have I? How very remiss of me.” Jerry spread marmalade on his toast and smiled fondly at me over the breakfast table.
Before my marriage I had lived in a flat overlooking the Crofterton arm of the Grand Union Canal. I would often walk along the towpath, a crust or two of dry bread in my pocket for the ducks, the moorhens, and a pair of particularly aggressive swans that had all made their home along the banks. Many a time I also took my problems and worries with me, hoping that the fresh air would help me, if not solve them, then at least see them more clearly.
When Jerry had proposed and asked me to move into Fernbank with him, I’d protested that I would no longer be able to feed the ducks and he’d made the offer of building a duck pond.
“Seriously. I’m going into town for a few things and might take a walk along the canal.”
“You could call at the ABC for lunch. I’ll meet you there if you like.”
“What are you going to be doing?”
He pulled a face. “I’m going in for a couple of hours to try and clear my desk of some of its mountain of paperwork. I promise I won’t be long. I should be clear by one o’clock, or thereabouts.”
“All right. I’ll take the bus in, then, and come home with you. No need for two cars.”
And if I didn’t have to drive, I could afford a larger glass of wine with my lunch. Now that’s what I called a plan!
“It will be just like old times for you, calling in at the wine bar.”
He threw me an odd look, and I wondered if he’d somehow divined my worries over Val. I couldn’t see how, unless I’d married a mind reader.
“Yes, it will be good to see them and find out how their plans for the new bistro are coming along. By the way, what about the Pink Pearl? You didn’t call or say anything yesterday.”
He held up his hands. “I forgot all about telling you, sorry. Vice reckon it’s fine. Just another bar and a quiet one at that.”
“Then I’ll call in there as well.”
“Don’t drink too much before I arrive.” He drained his coffee mug and stood up. “Or I’ll never catch up with you this evening.”
No fear of that, I thought, not when I had every intention of being caught.
I saw him off and half an hour later followed him out of the door.
The ducks seemed pleased to see me, though I didn’t fool myself into thinking that was for any other reason than the slices of stale bread in my pocket. I mooched along, killing time, dreading what I might learn when I did eventually speak to Valentino. With a sigh I threw the last crust on the surface of the water, and turned my steps towards town.
The Pink Pearl kept such a low profile on Crofterton’s streets that I seriously doubted it wanted to be found at all. It stretched out above a furniture store at the junction of Albemarle Street and Brook Court, one long room with windows on three sides and the bar along the fourth. My red hair clashed badly with the pink decor and I stuck out like a sore thumb—a total stranger to the regular clientele.
I swept the room with a penetrating gaze; easy to do as it was still early and only a handful of people sat around. A couple of lads held hands on a sofa, a man with a sketchpad on his knee drank from a martini glass and two women, their heads together, gossiped at a table in the far corner.
Remembering Jerry’s strictures, I refused the barman’s offer of a drink and came straight to the point.
“Hello, my name is Verity Long. I’m a civilian attached to Crofterton Police Cold Case Unit. I’m probably on a fool’s errand, but do you know Daryll Wilford? He’s a teacher at the Girls’ College.”
The barman narrowed his eyes, but nodded. “What of it?”
“A year last September a teacher was murdered there.”
“Well, he didn’t do it.”
“I’m inclined to agree with you, but I need proof.”
“Maybe I can help.” I jumped out of my skin as the man with the cocktail glass appeared at my elbow. “I’ll have another, please, Stu.”
He asked if I wanted anything, and when I refused, picked up his refilled glass and invited me to join him at his table.
“So, what’s this about?”
He sat back, crossing his legs, and appraised me. Unfazed, I did the same to him. Medium build, medium height, dark hair silvering at the temples, in his mid—forties, and wearing green socks. I glanced down at the pad on the table in front of him. The drawing was upside down, but I could clearly make out the individual buildings and the church with its spire making up a skyline. If I turned around now and looked out the window, I’d probably see the same thing.
“How good is your memory?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Try me.”
I explained what I was trying to do and he nodded. “Yeah, I remember that. Daryll was in here that afternoon.”
I leaned towards him. “How can you be so sure? It’s over a year ago.”
“I’m sure.”
“Then why did he say he’d been at the White Horse?”
His top lip curled. “Why do you think?” he snarled. “He’s a teacher. A teacher at a posh private school.”
“Oh, come on. What does that matter, these days? Twenty, thirty years ago, his predilection might have raised eyebrows, but now? Now, the pair of you could get married and no one would think anything of it.”
“Try telling that to your Board of Governors or your Police Chief.” He looked disgusted and picked up his drink.
I gave him the benefit of the doubt, given the prehistoric outlook of the Board, though it was hard to imagine in these days of same-sex marriages and Gay Pride marches, that anyone might want, or need, to be discreet about their sexuality. Nor was that a term I would have used to describe Wilford. I’d had no idea when we spoke that he was gay, but walking into the Staff Room at an all-girls college and calling the pupils bitches, did not qualify as discreet in my book.
“All right,” I said. “So Wilford was in the White Horse at lunchtime and then came in here. When did he leave?”
“He left with me, around six o’clock.”
Even given the pathologist’s uncertainty over Rimmer’s time of death, that should put Wilford in the clear.
“Thank you, Mr...?”
“English. Andrew English.”
Thank you, Mr English. I appreciate your time.”
I stood up to go, but he grasped my wrist as I went past. “Just in case you doubt me,” he said, softly, “the reason I remember is because that night we became lovers. You understand?”
I nodded. Yes, that would certainly fix it in your mind, especially when one’s lover became a suspect for a murder committed the same day.
I couldn't be sure that English wasn't protecting his lover, yet he'd appeared honest and my instincts told me I could trust him. So, Wilford was blameless and out of it, and another name I could strike off my list.
Dismissing him from my mind, I left the dreadful decor behind me and hurried down the stairs to the street. I still had time to buy what I needed before facing whatever awaited me — other than a large glass of Merlot and some lunch — at the ABC wine bar.
An army of organized women thronged the centre of town all intent on stripping it bare of anything that might be remotely connected to the festive season. In mittened hands held close to their chests, they clutched their lists as if they held winning lottery tickets to a jackpot of millions, whilst hunting down cards, baubles, and garish cardigans for great-aunt Susan. And Christmas was still seven weeks away.
As a firm adherent of the last minute panic brigade, when Christmas shopping began and ended on Christmas Eve, I dodged nimbly around these obstacles, seeking out a new pair of slacks for work and a top for when I bothered to dress up. I didn’t see Christine Thompson until I cannoned into her outside a department store.
“Oof!” She bounced back, recognised me, and smiled. “Oh, hello, Miss Long. I’m sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going. I’ve only one more thing to get and then I’m finished.” She raised hands full of carrier bags. “Christmas shopping is so exhausting, isn’t it? How are you?”
When it seemed that even exhaustion couldn’t stem the voluble flow of her words, I said I was fine, murmured some pleasantry and prepared to move on. She stopped me by putting a hand on my arm, her bags dangling from her wrist and banging my side.
“I’m glad I’ve seen you away from the college. I’ve remembered something.”
Now she had my attention. “About Emily?”
“Well, no, not really. It’s strange that she’s never said anything, and I don’t think she’s told anyone else about it. The relationship, I mean, and really, I think she only told me because I was talking about my own.” She nodded to herself. “Yes, yes, that’s how it came about, I’m sure of it.”
“What came about?” I prompted, wishing she’d get to the point. We were causing quite an obstruction and I was tired of being bumped by angry shoppers trying to get past.
“It was when you were talking about where everyone was, their alibis, if you like, and I thought that can't be right because...”
“Because?” Would she never spit it out?
“Well, you’ll never guess — oh!” She broke off.
“Guess what?”
Her gaze was fixed over my right shoulder. I spun round to see what she was looking at, but apart from the crowded pavements and a woman trying to coerce a screaming toddler to cross the road, saw nothing out of the ordinary.
“What is it?” I turned back, but Christine Thompson had vanished, either into the crowd or through the double doors into the store. Even now she was probably being accosted by a dolled up saleswoman trying to flog her cosmetics.
I looked behind me once more and then moved on towards the wine bar. Heaven knows who or what Miss Thompson had seen, but she’d scuttled off like a frightened rabbit, leaving me in the dark about what she’d been going to say.
* * *
It was time to screw my courage to the sticking place, wherever that may be—the pit of my stomach, possibly, which felt remarkably hollow. In the hope that this was hunger, not fear, I pulled the glass door towards me and, head up, marched boldly into the ABC.
A broad smile spread across Valentino’s face as he spotted me walk in. Taking this as a good sign, I felt the tension in my shoulders relax and grinned back at him as he came around the counter. He flung his arms about me and wrapped me in a hug so tight that all my sticking places came unstuck.
“Verity!” He kissed me on both cheeks. “You must not let this married life keep you away from the ABC, eh. Where have you been?”
I laughed. “Hello, Val. I was here earlier in the week, but you and Jacques had gone to Bellhurst.”
“Ah, oui. Of that we must speak. We need you.”
His eyes glittered with excitement. It would have to wait.
“I’m sure you don’t need me, but I do need something to drink.”
“And what can I get for milady? A glass of Merlot, yes?”
Oh, definitely Merlot, I thought, scrutinising him closely. He looked well and happy, like a man in love. I reached up to smooth a strand of black hair from his forehead, wondering why, if that were the case, Becky was so unhappy. I kissed his cheek and let him go.
“You know what I like.”
His eyes said not only that he knew, but would like to give it to me. I tapped his cheek and shook my head.
“Bien sûr.” He returned to his place behind the bar. “You eat here, yes?”
“I will do later when Jerry gets here.”
He poured my wine, pushed the glass toward me and vanished into the kitchen.
Saturday lunchtime always brought a different clientele to the ABC. Gone were the business men who occupied the tables and booths during the week. In their stead came shoppers and sightseers who were already filling the place with their bags and parcels. Gossip and chatter ebbed and flowed around me. John was kept busy at the espresso machine, though he did acknowledge me with a wave of his hand from that end of the bar.
“Madame Verity. Toujours un plaisir.”
Jacques accompanied his brother from the back room. He kissed my cheek.
In stark contrast to his younger brother, Jacques appeared neither well nor happy. The cheeks of his long face were sunken, dark smudges telling of sleepless nights lay under his eyes and when he smiled the corners of his mouth barely lifted. He looked far older than his thirty-eight years. Shocked at the change in him in the few weeks since Jerry and I had last dined there, I put my hand on his.
“Are you well, my friend?”
“Merci, yes. A little tired, perhaps.”
Before I could ask him why and what was wrong, he turned on his heel and glided away. Helplessly, I looked at Val, hoping for an explanation. All I got was a Gallic shrug.
I picked up my wine, wondering what in tarnation was going on. Something was very wrong and I worried over what it might be, but only for a nanosecond, before I put the glass down and followed Jacques.
I strode into the kitchen, determined not to be put off and to get to the bottom of things, but came to a sudden standstill in front of a total stranger.
“Sorry, love. Staff only.”
He was tall, well-muscled, and only in his mid-twenties, yet wore the chef’s white hat and apron with the air of one who knew what he was doing.
“I’m Verity. Who are you?”
“Matt Saunders, head chef. Are you that Ve—”
“Yes.” I cut him short. How many Veritys did he think there were around here? “Where’s Jacques?”
He jerked the wooden spoon he was holding over one shoulder. “In the office, trying to find me something to cook.”
Baffled, I glanced around Jacques’ immaculate stainless steel and white-tiled kitchen where nothing boiled, braised, fricasseed or sizzled. Six hours to opening and no sign of even a stockpot. What was the man playing at?
The office, little more than a cubby hole, was in the far corner. I flung open the door.
“Hell’s teeth, Jacques! What are you looking for?”
Papers littered the small table and lay scattered all over the floor. The Frenchman sat on his haunches, rifling through them and swearing for all he was worth.
“Jacques! Stop it!” I snapped at him in his own language. My tone seemed to work, as he got to his feet and sat back in the chair in front of the table. “What are you looking for?” I asked again.
“Bills...a cheque book, other things.”
At this point we were joined by Val and Matt. The office was already crowded with just me and Jacques, so I took him by the arm and, shooing the other two out, dragged him into the kitchen.
“Right. Now someone please tell me what is happening, and this had better be good. My patience is wearing very thin.”
They might have all been struck dumb for all the sound they made. I looked first at Val who raised his hands, palms upwards. Jacques opened his mouth, but closed it again and Matt stood there looking stunned that anyone else but he or Jacques would lay down the law in his kitchen.
“Matt? Do you know what this is all about?”
“It’s not my place to say.”
Suddenly Val broke into speech. “Jacques has had a...a...a bouleversement, and we have been busy with the new bistro. That’s all.”
He didn’t say what sort of upheaval his brother had undergone and I didn’t like to ask, but I was beginning to get an inkling of the problem.
“Let me get this straight. You’ve been so wrapped up with your new venture that you’ve let things slide here. You’ve forgotten to pay your suppliers and consequently they haven’t delivered. Am I right?”
Jacques let out a long sigh.
“Got it in one,” said Matt.
“Then, why on earth didn’t you call me? I could have helped out.”
Once again the older brother started to speak, only for Val to interrupt him. “She won’t like it, Jacques.”
“Quand même.” He shook his head at me. “Mam’selle Verity, oh! Pardon, madame, we do not like to ask. You are married now and also you work. It is not right to ask of you.”
“Honte à toi! Shame on you, Jacques! How long have we been friends, huh? And what are friends for? Merde, alors! I don’t believe this. C’est un blague, non?”
My fists clenched. I was so furious I nearly swiped him. Nor was my temper helped by Val muttering, “See! I told you she wouldn’t like it.”
I sent him to fetch my glass, still sitting three-parts full on the bar, while I calmed down.
“What are you short of?” I demanded of Matt.
“Fresh meat, mostly. For tonight that is.”
“Sufficient unto the day. How long have you been here?”
Matt, it transpired, had been sharing the culinary duties with Jacques for about a month while the regular chef was attending to a family crisis. The Frenchman made the sauces earlier in the day, and still did any flambé dishes that were prepared at table, but for several years had been primarily the maître d’, leaving the bulk of the cooking to his chef.
“So, you’re not permanent?”
“I shall be when the Bellhurst place is up and running.”
That was good to hear. If he was competent, and I couldn’t see Jacques hiring anyone who wasn’t, then that would take a load off my friend.
“Where is your sous-chef?” I asked.
“Overslept and on his way.”
“Voici, chérie.”
I took a swig of the wine Val held out to me, then pulled at my lower lip, working out a plan of campaign. Heaven only knew how Jacques had got into this mess, but recriminations could wait. It was Saturday, a busy night in the restaurant, and we needed to act fast. I continued to ignore the brothers as I threw my questions at Matt.
“Has the menu changed recently?”
“No.”
Which meant it still offered steak, venison, duck, and lamb shanks. Too much choice for the tight spot Chez Jacques was in.
“How many covers booked this evening?”
“Only a dozen, and whatever comes off the street.”
“That’s not a lot.”
Matt shrugged. “Maybe word’s got around.”
Behind me Jacques groaned. I didn’t bother asking how long they’d been in this situation.
“Well at least that’s something working in our favour. Could you do a steak, or steak frites night? Make it a special event.”
He laughed. “We could if we had the steak.”
“You leave that with me. Start prepping your sauces and whatever you’re going to serve with it. Jacques, do you still have that blackboard you used when you first opened?”
“Mais oui, but I cannot allow this.”
“Allow what? Look, I’m going round to Henderson’s the butchers. He carries large stocks in his chiller room out the back. I’ll buy your meat and you can refund me later, but you do need to think about getting someone to help with admin. You simply can’t go on like this.”
“Non, non, I absolutely forbid that you should spend your own money. Ah, Monsieur, you agree, yes, that your wife should not do this?”
“Good lord! You don’t think I have any control over her, do you?”
I hadn’t realised he’d joined us, but Jerry’s words were so palpably true that the brothers nodded wisely in agreement.
“Besides,” my husband continued, “in this instance, I happen to think she’s right. You should let us help.”
Goodness knew how long he’d been standing in the doorway listening, but I was delighted to see him and loved him for the way he’d slipped that ‘us’ in there.
Urged to accept our help by his brother and his chef, Jacques finally gave in and Jerry and I hiked to the butchers. While we waited for our large order to be fetched, weighed, and wrapped, I filled him in on what had been happening at Chez Jacques.
“Have the D’Aumbrays bitten off more than they can chew, do you think?”
I shook my head. “No, they’ve been in business long enough to know what they are doing. There is something else at the back of this.”
“And I suppose you’re going to find out what.”
“Would you expect anything less of me?”
Jerry let out a sigh. “No, beloved, I merely resign myself to the inevitable.”
I grinned at him as we took hold of the bags the butcher passed over. “Cheer up! We should at least get a decent meal out of all this.”
“I bloody well hope so,” he said. “Whatever happened to our lunch?”