Authors: Lynda Wilcox
"It's just that, well," he paused, searching for the right words, the silvery hairs at his temple evident in the light from the table lamp. "This is, as I'm sure you're aware, a high profile case."
"Press giving you a bad time, are they?" I asked nastily.
The public too, no doubt. Detective Inspector Farish and his team must be under considerable pressure to find JayJay's killer. After all, the Crofterton Gazette had apparently lost all sense of proportion and gone so far as to call her a National Treasure. The police didn't need allegations of callous treatment of vital witnesses on top of everything else.
Surprisingly, Farish relaxed, leaning back in the chair, crossing one corduroy clad leg over the other. I didn't want him relaxed, not in my lounge anyway. What I wanted was for him to grovel. I took another mouthful of wine - which I nearly sprayed all over him at his next words.
"We can offer you counselling, of course."
Counselling? Bloody counselling? Oh, don't get me started. I swallowed my wine, clenched my jaw and uttered a firm, "No."
"You don't want counselling?"
"No thank you, I don't. Shit happens. That's life. I deal with it."
He raised an eyebrow.
"You don't mince your words, do you, Miss Long?"
I shrugged.
"And secondly?"
"Your statement. Would you read and sign it, please? That is if you agree with what my sergeant has typed up from the notes he took at our interview."
I ignored the sarcasm in his voice as I took the proffered sheets, though I made sure I took my time in going through them. He said nothing while he waited. Finally I appended my name to the bottom and handed them back.
"Anything else?"
"Umm? Oh, yes, this question of the smell in the bathroom." He bent towards me, forearms on his thighs. "You are sure about it?"
"Oh, yes."
"And it was definitely, 'Youth Dew'?"
I eased myself back on the sofa, elbow resting on the arm, my legs curled to the side.
"Yes. It's an unmistakeable fragrance, very heavy and pervasive. I had a friend who used to wear it."
"So the smell would hang around for a while?"
"Oh, easily. She spilt some in my car, once. It was like driving around in a Persian brothel for months afterwards."
His lips quirked with the beginnings of a smile. I went on as casually as I could.
"Of course, what makes it really interesting, is that JayJay wasn't wearing it?"
He became serious again.
"Ah! You noticed that, did you?"
I nodded without saying anything, reaching for the glass on the table between us.
"And what did your perfumier's nose detect on the vic… Jaynee Johnson?"
I caught the sarcasm again, and the hurried correction, but replied honestly.
"Nothing at all."
I'd been within a few feet of the dead woman; if she'd worn 'Youth Dew' I would have known it. She might have used a different fragrance, of course, but my ability to smell it would depend on when she'd applied it - and how long she'd been dead.
"OK, thank you. Well, I think that's all."
"There is one other thing," I said, uncurling myself from the settee and padding across to the desk.
"You've thought of something else?" His tone was eager.
"No, I've been given something else."
I dropped JayJay's diary into his hand resumed my seat, watching him closely. If he was surprised he hid it very well.
"Where did you get this?"
"As I said, I was given it. By Holly Danvers."
"Johnson's secretary? But …"
"It was in her desk drawer and she'd forgotten she had it when Sergeant Stott called," I explained hurriedly. I didn't want him blaming either Holly or his underling for what had been merely an oversight.
"How long have you had it?"
Dark eyes bored accusingly into mine as he undid the clasp.
"Only twenty four hours. You'll need to get your cryptographers to work on it."
"Hmm?" He glanced down at the book on his lap, long fingers turning the pages.
"There's not a lot in it and what there is, is written in code."
He closed it quickly.
"And neither you nor Miss Danvers thought to bring it to us?"
Unmoved by the anger in his tone, I shrugged.
"Holly was too scared to and I was going to drop it in tomorrow. I haven't had time today. I'm a working girl."
"Yes, you are. You work as a PA not a detective."
I controlled myself with some difficulty. This man was making a habit of rubbing me up the wrong way. In an attempt to mollify him, I said,
"I'm not trying to be a detective …" which wasn't true but I hoped sounded suitably apologetic.
"But you've looked at it." He lifted the diary.
"Of course. I was intrigued. Wouldn't you be curious about a dead woman's diary?"
"Yes, but then I'm paid to be."
The retort came quickly, hitting me like a slap in the face. Well, I thought sourly, I walked straight into that one. I lowered my gaze.
"I'm sorry."
My voice sounded suitably contrite.
"Miss Long. Please."
I looked up quickly at the pleading note in his voice.
"You didn't mince your words earlier, so I won't do so now. Stay out of this. You must have realised that there's a very clever killer responsible for JayJay's death."
I nodded. That was becoming clear. Getting JayJay to a downmarket, empty house, the business with the keys; it all indicated a carefully thought out crime.
"I don't want …" he turned his head away briefly, his profile revealing the strong line of his jaw. "I don't want to investigate your death at the same time as Jaynee Johnson's."
"I'll do my best," was my only answer but I did take his concern seriously. He was right and I would have to watch my back if I was to take my interest in the case any further.
"Good."
He got up to leave and I walked him to the door.
"Erm.. there is one other thing," he smiled rather sheepishly, turning to face me, one foot already out of the door.
What now, I wondered, suddenly wary.
"Ye-es?"
"Will you have dinner with me on Saturday night?"
Stap me! Whatever I'd been expecting, it wasn't that.
"Erm … erm," I stammered like a schoolgirl asked out on her first date. "Yes. OK. Thank you," I finally got out.
"Great. I'll pick you up about seven thirty?"
I nodded, too dumbstruck to speak, wondering what on earth I was getting myself into.
"I'll see you then. Good night, Miss Long."
And he was gone, pulling the door shut behind him.
Chapter 6
The suburb of Darrington runs like a ribbon along the eastern edge of town. Although on the opposite side of Crofterton from my flat in Sutton, the opening of the northern bypass would make the journey easier. Even so I didn't set off until after nine, when the morning rush hour had passed, determined to get a good look at the area where, on a bright summer's evening twenty years ago, a young girl had simply vanished. The sun hung high in a cloudless blue sky, offering the promise of another perfect June day and I made good time to Conway Drive on the edge of the estate. I parked up in a lay-by in front of a parade of shops and took my notebook and digital camera from the glove box. KD liked to have photographs as a visual aid to her work; a few pictures of the two houses and a some shots of the surrounding area should do it.
I checked my notes and the street map I had brought with me. Kimberley Hughes and her family had lived at number 122 while Charlotte Neal had been just round the corner at 17 Rhyl Close. On the map the two streets were very close, but it gave no indication of house numbers so one of my tasks this morning was to check out the distance on foot between the two, then time how long it took to walk between them.
Once out of the car I slung the camera strap over my shoulder and headed for the small row of shops. Facing me from left to right stood a newsagents, a chemist, Patel's Mini Supermarket, a hair salon called Curl Up and Dye - I nearly did - and Chan's Cottage Chinese Take-away. For the moment I resisted the temptation to go in and buy a newspaper, bottle of pills, bar of chocolate or have my hair done and Chan's was closed, so I passed them all and carried on along Conway Drive. Before the houses began, a strip of unmown grass, waving in knee-high drifts, fronted a belt of undergrowth and trees. A couple of paths, beaten down by the constant passage of feet, ran across this mini meadow towards the trees. A large black labrador, old and fat, waddled through it in my direction. His owner, equally old but thin and wiry, walked behind.
“
Sit, Blackie! Sit.”
What an imaginative piece of naming, I thought before, to my surprise, the dog did just that. It sat down on its haunches a foot or so from where I stood and gazed solemnly up at me.
“
Good boy, Blackie.” His master's approval followed instantly.
“
Hello, Blackie.”
I put forward an open palm for inspection before scratching the top of its head.
“
Good morning, Miss,” the man touched he front of his cap in an old-fashioned gesture. “He won't hurt you.”
“
I'm sure he won't,” I replied. Apart from a ripple of pleasure running down its flanks as I stroked the silky head, the dog hadn't moved an inch. “He's too well trained for that.”
Having thus earned the approval of both man and beast, I attempted to make best use of it while I could.
“
Have the shops been there long?”
“
About ten years or so, I guess. They took away some of your playground, didn't they, boy?” He looked down at the dog, scratching it lazily behind the ears. As if in answer, the dog put its head against the man's leg and gazed up with big, sorrowful eyes.