by Amy Myers
‘Come inside,’ she greeted Georgia, who followed her to the covered porch of the main house. ‘Josh had already told me you’d be on your way up here,’ she said, struggling out of her wellingtons.
Georgia laughed. Trust Josh. ‘I’m taking you away from work,’ she said, conscience-stricken.
‘That’s a pleasure, I can tell you. I’m short-handed at present, alas. So it’s tough going.’
She looked a tolerant woman, so perhaps Jake might get his job back, Georgia thought. Even so, putting herself in Jane’s position, his presence here would be a constant reminder even if he were innocent. Would this woman be able to face that? Georgia thought perhaps she might. Nevertheless, Jake might not want to return. He would have his own terrors to cope with. In the horrors of his arrest, he would have had no time to grieve for the loss of his sweetheart, and now that he had would receive little sympathy for it while the cloud of suspicion remained over him.
There were no photos of Alice in this comfortable large kitchen, and only one she could see of Bill – a photo that tore at the heartstrings. Just a good-looking face, laughing into the camera, dark hair and open-necked shirt. A holiday picture. How cruel to have lost him so early, so suddenly, and then to lose her daughter, but there was no safe way of saying so to Jane.
‘Just tell me to stop if I stray into bad areas.’ Georgia did her best. ‘I can’t even begin to imagine how many there are for you.’
Jane looked at her keenly as Georgia sat down at the table, and nodded. ‘I’m coping – just. Coping with the farm, that is. As for everything else . . .’ She shrugged. Georgia looked at the drawn look on her face and the tautness around the eyes. ‘Jake’s release was the last straw. Is that unfair of me?’
‘No.’ Georgia knew she would have felt just the same. ‘Did you ever doubt his guilt?’
‘No, not even when the music was played. That’s what’s so awful. I feel I should have done if he is innocent. But if he’s not . . .’ Her voice wobbled slightly. ‘If I offer him his job back, it’s tantamount to saying he’s innocent, and I don’t know if he is, except legally. Is that wrong?’
‘Not at this stage,’ Georgia said gently. ‘It will come. Don’t worry, though. That’s not what I want to talk about.’
‘So Josh said. Fanny Star again, I gather.’
‘Again?’ Georgia picked up.
‘Again and again.’ The words came out in a rush now. Perhaps speaking of something other than Alice helped her. ‘Bill and I were married seventeen years, and his father died four years ago, two years before Bill himself. Bill’s mother had died quite early, and so he and his dad were very close. I got very used to the name of Fanny Star. Brian had a thing about it; he was a fan of her music, collected it all, played it endlessly – luckily he didn’t live in the farmhouse with us – and he was always talking to people about her. I gather he was in the same gang as she was, which made it understandable, I suppose, though the others never seemed to mention her. When Brian died, Bill got engrossed too, because his father had talked so much about it and left some stuff behind. Bill didn’t have anyone to share his passion with, since I wasn’t interested, and so Alice got involved.’
Did she indeed? The link seemed to be tightening, and certainly tied in with what Jake had said.
‘Somehow,’ Jane continued, ‘Brian had got hold of Adam Jones’ guitar and Alice learned to play it. She was frightfully proud of having the guitar. Said it would pay her top-up fees at uni if she sold it. But she didn’t want to sell it, even though she was desperate for any cash she could get. Too valuable to sell, she said. I thought when Bill died, she’d forget all about this Fanny Star nonsense, but she didn’t. She went on playing her records and CDs and going through Bill’s collection. She even became pally with the Ludds, so that she could be near the scene of the . . .’ Jane broke off.
‘Is the collection still here?’ Georgia asked hastily. If Alice hadn’t been winding Jake up, the answer could well be in it. She thought she’d gone too far when Jane shrugged wearily.
‘I don’t know; I haven’t looked.’
For a moment Georgia thought Jane would break down, but she didn’t. She risked one more small push. ‘Perhaps if you do . . .’
‘If I get time.’ Jane glanced at her. ‘No. I’m being stupid, aren’t I? If it’s going to help you I’ll try to find it. It didn’t seem to be with her other papers.’
Obviously Josh hadn’t mentioned to Jane that there might be a link between the two deaths, and Georgia was grateful. There’d be too much hanging on it. The collection might be a treasure trove, or it could be nothing.
‘Josh told me that Brian gave Adam a lift to and from the village when he was released from prison in 1987. That’s when he gave him the guitar. Did Brian talk to you about that?’
‘I was pregnant with Alice that year, and then busy coping with a new baby, so I don’t remember. I do remember the guitar coming, because for ages I thought Brian had bought it as a particularly stupid present for the baby.’
When Georgia left the farm, she was still mulling over the possibility that Alice’s death stemmed from Brian Winters’ collection. She longed to be back in Haden Shaw hurling ideas around with Peter. Not quite yet; she still had one more mission.
Picking up the car, she drove down to End Cottage. Inside the undrawn curtains she could see Dana moving around. It looked homely, it was the Gibb home, and it seemed entirely sensible that she should move in here for a few days. Even if Luke was attracted to Dana.
Chapter Nine
‘Georgia,’ came a roar as soon as she arrived in Peter’s office. ‘Luke’s here.’
Immediately her stomach churned, partly in pleasure, partly in recollection of how they had parted two days ago, and partly in the knowledge that she had just left Dana. And here was Luke, peacefully sitting in the early-evening sun. She could see him there, still unaware of her return, despite Peter’s shout. A rush of love for him grappled with her guilt at her suspicions of his duplicity. Seeing his face in profile, the grey hairs beginning to sprinkle his hair, and the way his long legs were stretched out before him on the lounger, she had a comforting sense of surety that this could go on and on. And what’s more, that she wanted it to. It was only a small part of her that was mucking things up. She had only to say no more, and the ghosts of the past would vanish, leaving her with Luke. She would do so, she vowed – as soon as Friday Street had ceased to haunt them.
‘Lucky for some,’ she called out.
Luke looked up from the file he was studying and grinned. ‘Mine’s a G and T.’
‘Tough. Mine’s a five-minute cooling-off period.’
He put the file aside and stood up to kiss her. A long kiss that deserved response, within the limits of their situation. Peter’s wheelchair was already hurtling down the ramp to join them.
‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘Tell me about this link. All I’ve had is one text message saying you thought there was a chance.’
‘Lo, it is found, and is being examined,’ Georgia said triumphantly.
‘This does call for a G and T,’ Luke murmured plaintively.
‘It calls for an explanation now,’ Peter contradicted him. ‘Every detail, please.’
‘In that case, I shall make a strategic, if temporary, withdrawal,’ Luke announced, ‘in the interests of alcohol.’
‘Now tell me,’ Peter said eagerly, as Luke disappeared inside, and Georgia obliged. It took longer than Luke did to fix the sundowners, and in any case he was back in a surprisingly short time. He seemed to be taking an increasing interest in this case, Georgia thought with pleasure. Then a tiny niggle reminded her that it involved Dana Tucker on its perimeters. The niggle was squashed.
‘And there,’ she conceded, as she reached the end of her report, ‘we’re stuck until Jane Winters comes back to me about Alice’s collection. If she does.’
‘Not stuck,’ Peter said. ‘We’ve other lines to explore. Toby Beamish interests me. Why should he b
e so firmly set against Alice’s proposal to include a ghost of Fanny Star?’
‘Perhaps,’ Luke said, ‘because Fanny’s ghost hasn’t materialized.’
‘Or,’ Georgia pointed out, with a fairness she was reluctant to concede to Toby, ‘because Fanny is part of his real life, and his ghosts are comfortably escapist.’
‘Or because he has uncomfortable memories of her death?’ Peter suggested.
‘No,’ Georgia said firmly. ‘Jonathan Powell is still the right direction to look. Toby’s a creep, but he lives in Friday Street, and Adam Jones believed the murderer did not.’
‘Powell wasn’t in Friday Street when Alice Winters died,’ Peter retorted. ‘It’s the link or Powell. You can’t have both.’
‘We can’t take the link angle any further until we know what’s in Alice’s collection.’
‘You mean, it might give a clue as to whom she might have arranged to meet in the tower?’
‘If there was such a meeting. We’ve only Baines’ word for it. The problem is . . .’ Georgia frowned. The gin wasn’t doing her concentration any favours. ‘The implication is that the meeting was with someone in Friday Street.’
‘So what’s wrong with that?’ Peter shot at her.
‘Only that Adam told Brian Winters that Fanny’s killer didn’t live there.’ Back to square one. That meant no link.
Peter pounced. ‘How could Adam have known who it was?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘We’re assuming Adam arrived at the crime scene shortly after Fanny was killed. Then he was arrested, and so he wouldn’t have had time to gather evidence.’
‘Unless,’ Georgia whipped back, ‘he saw her murderer leave, or saw the murder committed.’
‘Then why not tell the police? That,’ Peter said crossly, ‘is the sticking point.’
A pause while Luke, Georgia noticed, quietly sipped on with a slight smile on his lips. Grand publisher watches authors making prize fools of themselves, she thought. A blackbird having a late supper on Peter’s lawn eyed them speculatively, decided they were going round in circles, and continued his worm-tug.
‘Of course,’ Georgia said carefully, ‘we don’t know that he didn’t tell them.’
‘I do,’ Peter said. ‘Not only was it not in the statement he made to the police at the time, but Mike’s been ferreting around. The DI’s sergeant only retired a few years back. He disappeared to Spain, but Mike got hold of him. He was quite clear that there was no one else remotely in the frame at the time, either through allegations from Jones or from independent evidence.’
‘He could have been protecting someone,’ Luke put in.
‘He must have loved whoever it was a lot to do fifteen years inside for them. Anyway, Adam was new to Friday Street. He didn’t know anyone there to protect.’
Georgia saw the answer. Why on earth hadn’t she realized before? It was so obvious. ‘He was protecting Jonathan Powell.’
‘He knew Powell was guilty?’ Peter stared at her.
‘It’s a possibility.’ Georgia tried to keep the lid on her imagination, in case this was the G and T talking. It sounded so ludicrous. Adam taking the rap for someone else.
‘Why? For the sake of his career?’
Georgia shook her head vigorously. ‘Don’t be daft, Peter. If he took the rap for murder, his career would go nowhere. He could hardly top the charts from inside.’
Luke coughed politely and she turned to him, startled. She was so used to these rallies with Peter that the outside world disappeared as they locked horns with each other.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘but I think you should look at these pictures.’ He picked up the file he had been looking at and brought it over. It was full of photocopies of newspaper articles and pictures. Georgia peered over Peter’s shoulder while he was looking at it. ‘It’s hard to tell from the poor reproduction, but don’t you think there’s a sporting chance that Powell is gay? I know you were uncertain, Georgia, but look at his body language in this photo when he’s standing between Adam and Fanny.’
‘Yes,’ she said doubtfully, ‘but so what? Adam wasn’t gay, so far as we know. Most people, including Powell, said he loved Fanny.’
‘Suppose Adam was both ways. Wouldn’t that produce a nice triangle?’ Luke suggested complacently.
Georgia raced this through her mind. He was right. It would. Hadn’t Toby written in his statement that Fanny had said, ‘This triangle’s bloody impossible’? That could apply sexually, as well as to his close involvement as manager. ‘Jonathan loves Adam, who loves Fanny, who loves Adam,’ she said. ‘Jonathan therefore concludes that if he gets rid of Fanny, Adam might turn to him, or indeed had already turned to him.’
‘No dice on that one,’ Peter said promptly. ‘He could get rid of Fanny by encouraging her to go solo. Why murder her? Nor, if he did have reason to want her dead, would he choose her home patch, at a very public venue, and then let his beloved Adam take the rap. No, this doesn’t fly for me.’
‘It does for me.’ Of course, of course. ‘It would give Adam a motivation for keeping quiet in prison, if he knew Jonathan had killed Fanny because of his love for him. Adam might have even returned it, and so could well have felt guilt. Fanny was fed up with the threesome, and she was insisting they got rid of Powell as their manager. He overheard that as he arrived. Fanny left and Adam and Jonathan had a battle royal.’ She looked expectantly at them. ‘It had to be that. Powell was so beside himself because she was intent on taking his beloved Adam away that he killed her. Adam knew – and blamed himself.’
She saw no similar realization on her father’s face. ‘I don’t go along with it,’ he said after a moment or two. ‘Too much hanging on too little. A few words overheard in the garden – and why, if Powell loved Adam, would he sit by and let him take the blame?’
‘I don’t know, but Adam said,’ she repeated as patiently as she could, ‘that the murderer didn’t live in Friday Street. Who else but Jonathan Powell?’
‘Oliver Ludd,’ Peter whipped back at her. ‘He was in the States by then.’
‘How would Adam know that?’ Georgia countered. Surely, surely, Peter was being particularly obtuse over this.
‘Brian Winters told him while in prison or on the drive.’
‘United we don’t stand,’ Luke observed happily.
Georgia rounded on him. ‘Divided we don’t fall, Luke. If Peter and I agreed over everything, we’d get nowhere.’
Luke held up his hands in surrender. ‘Apologies, apologies. I’ll go back to my newspaper files.’
Georgia took the offered opportunity to switch tack, before she blew her top with her father. ‘Where did you get this material from, Peter?’
‘A lady by the name of Petra Gossington-Harvey.’
‘Who,’ Georgia breathed slowly, ‘is she?’
‘Former reporter on the Musical Recorder, former reporter on the Ashford Courier, currently freelance journalist and, even more to the point, the webmaster and chair of the Sweet Fanny Adams United Kay fan club. Knows Dana Tucker.’
That woman’s name, Georgia thought unfairly, comes up far too often.
‘She copied all this stuff,’ Peter explained, ‘and sent it in return for a donation to her funds. Willingly given. She was there at Downey Hall in the afternoon. She was a junior reporter on the local rag at the time and took some remarkable pictures on her little Kodak. Also, she still has the notes of the interview she had with Fanny that afternoon. Never used, since the newspaper was naturally more concerned with the murder than Fanny’s thoughts. The interview was along the lines of what it was like to be back in the dear old place, all old quarrels forgotten, and how the world must learn forgiveness, as she had. She said she felt at peace for the first time for many years. The newspaper made great play with that.’
‘And shortly before or afterwards, depending on what time she gave the interview, she was shouting the odds with Adam,’ Georgia pointed out.
‘Yet forg
iveness seems to be the theme. Could you fetch the red file on my desk?’
Georgia flew in to the house to fetch the file and bore it back.
‘A photo of Fanny with her parents,’ Peter said, opening it at the page. Even in black and white, the eye immediately went to Fanny, she thought. A smiling Fanny had one arm round someone she could just recognize as Doreen Gibb, and the other round – according to the caption – her father. The father she hated, probably the father of her own child. Forgiveness indeed.
*
Should she spoil a happy evening by mentioning Dana and her arrangement to lodge with her? No. After a session with Suspects Anonymous, they had all dined at the White Horse in the village and Luke requested permission to stay over. It was granted with great pleasure.
‘There’s a concert in Otford on Thursday that you might like. Care to come over?’ he asked.
‘Ah.’
‘Oh. Friday Street beckons?’
‘It demands.’ Should she explain about Dana? No, she couldn’t bear it. Reason joined hands with emotion. Why couldn’t she bear it if there was nothing to worry about? ‘I need to prise Oliver Ludd’s address out of Josh,’ she continued. ‘Peter will never go with the Powell theory while Oliver remains a loose string.’
‘Good luck.’
She continued, trying to sound casual, ‘I’m going to stay a night or two with Dana.’ She succeeded only in sounding aggressive.
‘Good of her.’
‘Yes.’
And on this unsatisfactory note, they went to bed.
*
Being a resident in Friday Street, albeit a temporary one, gave a different slant to Georgia’s thinking. It would put the case in perspective, giving the village an air of normality that it lacked when she visited only for a day. Then her mind was concentrated on the case, but now it would have to be diverted to consider the necessities of life, such as eating, walking, exchanging small talk.