In the Shadows (The Outsiders Book 1)

by Susan Finlay

  “I know. I got that. I’m sorry I dragged you into this. I’ll go it alone on this one. Enjoy your stay here in London.”

  “Hey, I didn’t say I wouldn’t help. But I don’t think Nigel will unless you open up.”

  “That’s not going to happen. You know me well enough. I don’t trust easily, not anymore.” He looked away.

  “But you expect everyone else to trust you,” Greg said, raising his hand. “That’s not exactly fair.”

  “I have my reasons.”

  “Let’s get some breakfast and talk, okay?”

  “I’m not really in the mood.”

  “Come on. You owe me a breakfast considering I flew all the way here because you asked me to.”

  “All right. We can go to the coffee shop next door.”

  Ten minutes later, after ordering coffee and pastries, they carried their purchases to a table and sat down.

  “Look, you know darn well that you wouldn’t stick your neck out for anyone without knowing what you were getting yourself into. That includes me. I trust you, buddy, but I need something. After all we’ve been through together, you know I trust you. But even I need to know why you’re so interested in this case.”

  Dave rolled his shoulders, looked around uncomfortably, then stared at the floor.

  “Back when we were partners, you did everything by the book—at least up until the end. You would have made anyone asking for help on a case outside your jurisdiction jump through hoops before you’d get involved.”

  “Okay, but I can’t tell Nigel,” Dave said. “He may be the one person who could help because of his connections, but he could as easily bring everything crumbling down.”

  “Oh, God,” Greg said. He looked at Dave in concern. “You know the suspect, don’t you?”

  Dave shrugged, shuffling his feet nervously.

  “Is she this ‘Simone’ that you told us about?”

  “No. I was seeing Simone before I met her.”

  “Oh, man! Please don’t tell me you’re involved with the suspect.”

  “I didn’t know about the case when I met her. I want to make that clear.”

  Greg looked at him as if he thought Dave had lost his mind, but he didn’t say anything.

  “Look,” Dave said, “I’m going to keep an open mind and look at all the evidence I can find before I make a judgment. I don’t know if she’s guilty or innocent, but I need to find out.”

  “So where is she?” Greg asked.

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “What if she’s using you? What if she’s guilty?”

  “Then I’ll find out and turn her over to the police. I’m not going to help her get away with murder if she is guilty. I already told her that.”

  Greg was silent for a few moments, obviously weighing what Dave had revealed to him. Dave hated putting his friend on the spot like this, but he seemed to have little choice except to come clean with Greg about Maurelle. Unfortunately, Greg was just too good a detective and saw through his apparently weak subterfuge.

  “Okay”, Greg said. “Although I’ll probably be sorry for this, I’m still willing to help. I see now why you didn’t wanna tell Nigel. Man, you really know how to get yourself into a mess.”

  Dave said, “Thank you for trusting in me.” Greg looked like he was going to say something, but Dave raised his hand to hold him off. “I know it’s a lot to ask of you. For now at least, it’s better for you if you do not know her whereabouts and we stick to my cover story about my doing research for a novel; plausible deniability and all that. I asked you here though because I’ve been out of touch with police work for too long. I need your expertise and your insights. I can’t confide in Nigel for obvious reasons, but I have been thinking about other potential help. I read some newspaper articles last week. Most were slanted against the accused, but there was one which commented on the presumption of guilt and the way that it was being assumed she had run away because of guilt. The writer showed how circumstantial was the evidence as known to the public, taking each point in turn.”

  “So, what are you thinking?”

  “Maybe we could start by talking to the journalist. He might consider working with us?”

  “That might work. Do you remember the journalist’s name?”

  “K. L. Hill. The article was an opinion piece and said that he was a freelance journalist.”

  “Have you looked up the guy online?”

  Dave said, “No, I haven’t tried yet.”

  “Okay, so what do you need me to do?”

  “I’m still concerned that I was wrong in asking you to come here. I didn’t think it through properly.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “With each bit of information I give you, you become more at risk. It’s bad enough that I could go to jail for protecting her. I certainly don’t want you in trouble, too.”

  “Look Dave, I’m a big boy and can make my own decisions. You were honest with me. While I don’t know if this woman is innocent or guilty, I’ll reserve judgment on that score once we get the facts. But I am curious now, too, and I want to help you find the answers you need—as long as you don’t let your feelings for her cloud your judgment.”

  Dave said nothing, but after a few moments nodded and lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender.

  “So, where do we start?”

  “Scene of the crime, if we can. Hampstead. I want to check out the neighborhood where the murder took place. I was planning to go this morning.”

  “Do you have the address?”

  “Yeah. She gave me the address as well as names and other details. We can snoop around the neighborhood and maybe talk to neighbors.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Greg said, smiling.

  BACK AT THE house, Maurelle and Fabienne sat in the kitchen, talking and worrying long into the night, neither of them hungry, both of them tired. They had rushed home from the quarrel, missing the dinner and regretfully embarrassing their hostess which, after the scene with Simone, had been unavoidable. Both women felt extremely uncomfortable about the incident and both were worried about what Simone would do.

  Finally, Fabienne said, “We should try to get some sleep. I’ll talk to Jeannette in the morning. I hope she and Coralie talked some sense into Simone.”

  Maurelle tried to fall asleep, but she tossed and turned, her mind fixating on one worry after another, trapping each one in a mind-web that grew ever wider. Finally, she managed to thrash it away long enough to catch a couple of hours of sleep before she awoke and began the whole process again. Hoping to surprise Fabienne by making the morning coffee, she hastened downstairs. But halfway down, the scent and hiss of coffee brewing greeted her.

  “Good morning,” Maurelle said, trying to sound cheery. “I wanted to make coffee and breakfast for you this morning.”

  Fabienne waved her hand. “That’s sweet of you, but I couldn’t sleep. I needed to do something useful.”

  “Same for me. I’m so sorry that I put you in this situation.”

  “Don’t you go blaming yourself for Simone’s actions. If you want, you can help me with the omelets. We should try to go about our usual business until a reasonable hour. When it’s time, I’ll call Jeannette and find out what happened after we left.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  “Here, you can chop up the ham into tiny pieces while I grate the cheese.”

  Half an hour later, the omelets made, they finished eating, and sat sipping coffee. Fabienne looked at the clock. “I suppose I should call Jeannette. She should be up by now.”

  Maurelle stood up. “While you do that, I’ll clean up in here.”

  A few minutes later, Fabienne hung up the telephone. The expression on her face sent chills through Maurelle.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Jeannette says she can’t talk to me right now. She’ll come by the house as soon as she can get away.”

  Maurelle bit her lower lip. “That doesn’t sound good, d
oes it?”

  “No. I guess we should try to keep busy until then.” Fabienne bustled around the kitchen, storing away the washed dishes while Maurelle swept the floor. Fabienne wasn’t whistling or humming her favorite songs the way she usually did, and Maurelle became increasingly concerned.

  The doorbell rang, making both women jump.

  Fabienne wiped her hands on her apron, and rushed into the living room with Maurelle trailing behind.

  “Bonjour,” Jeannette said. “I’m sorry it took me so long to get here.” She looked nervous.

  “What happened after we left last night?” Fabienne asked.

  “Simone calmed down, eventually, and we ate our dinner—cold. It was my worst dinner party, ever.”

  Maurelle moved closer. “I’m really sorry about messing up your party. If I hadn’t gone, everything would have been fine.”

  Fabienne wagged her hand. “Oh, non! It wouldn’t have made a difference.”

  “She’s right about that,” Jeannette said. “Simone would have shown up, anyway, and she was angry—not at you, in truth, but at Dave. He didn’t tell her he was leaving. He stood her up and she lashed out at the two of you.”

  “So, everything’s better now?” Fabienne asked.

  Jeannette bit her lip, her face reddening. “Well, no, I’m afraid not. This morning Coralie came over. She told me that she’d gone to Simone’s café for coffee and Paul was there.”

  Fabienne raised her eyebrows, her bifocals slipping precariously on the bridge of her nose. “What happened?”

  “Well, Paul got into an argument with Simone. Apparently, he told Simone that she should call the Gendarmerie Nationale, but she refused, saying that whether or not Dave loved her, he was still her friend and she would lose him for sure if she turned in Maurelle. Anyway, Paul stormed out, saying he would make the call as soon as he returned home. She took off after him, and begged him not to call but he ignored her.”

  Fabienne’s face went white, and Maurelle felt her heart race.

  “Why would he do that?” Fabienne asked.

  “He thinks Maurelle is hiding something. He also said that he, as the only male in the family, owes it to his cousin to look out for her.”

  Jeannette paused and took a deep breath before waddling over to the couch and sitting down. “Simone sent Coralie to my house. She asked me to call Paul and see if I could talk him out of it, but his phone was busy. When I finally reached him, the deed was done. He told me that the Gendarmerie Nationale will send gendarmes here to investigate. They are in Belvidere. They could arrive any time.”

  “Oh dear God! What are we supposed to do now?”

  “You must send her away,” Jeannette said. “I don’t know what she’s hiding, but if you’re caught harboring a criminal, you could be arrested.”

  Fabienne turned to face Maurelle. “Gather your things. We must get you out of here. I’ll pack a bag, too.”

  Maurelle started up the stairs, and was halfway up, when it suddenly dawned on her that Fabienne had said she would pack a bag, too. She paused and turned around, her hand on the railing, and listened to the two women in the living room.

  “Can you talk Coralie into loaning us her car so we can get away?”

  Jeannette looked flabbergasted. “Mon dieu! You can’t drive! Have you lost your mind?”

  Fabienne motioned toward the stairs. “She can.”

  “You don’t have to leave with her. Dear Fabienne, I never meant that you should go away. You can tell the gendarmes that you didn’t know about the girl’s problems until last night. You can tell them that she took off during the night and you don’t know where she went.”

  Fabienne shook her head hard. “I’m going with her. Dave wouldn’t forgive me if I didn’t. Besides, I trust her. Now, are you going to ask Coralie to loan me, us, the car?”

  Jeannette pouted. Her face looked red as a tomato even from Maurelle’s vantage point midway up the stairs.

  After a brief pause, Jeannette said, “All right. But on one condition: I’m going with you.”

  “Are you crazy? Why would you want to put yourself in the middle of our problem?”

  “Well, first of all, you’re my oldest and dearest friend, and second, no one has taken me on a road trip in years and I am not about to miss my chance, and third, who on earth will look after you if I don’t?”

  Fabienne suddenly burst out laughing and crying at the same time, and the two women hugged.

  Maurelle stared in disbelief. It was bad enough that Fabienne wanted to go, but Jeannette? Jeannette didn’t even like her.

  “I’ll pack my things,” Fabienne said to Jeannette. “I guess you better get busy, too. We don’t have much time.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Dave had already mapped out the tube route to Hampstead, but Greg had other ideas: he wanted to ride on one of London’s famous double-decker buses.

  “The tube will be faster,” Dave said.

  “Not necessarily. Nigel says the buses here are better than in Chicago.”

  After making inquiries, the men discovered they could catch the bus at Euston, which wasn’t far from their hotel. By the time they reached their destination, Dave had to admit he had enjoyed the ride. The top deck gave them a great view of the city along the way.

  They exited at Flask Walk, Hampstead’s pedestrian mall, a kind of an alley of specialty shops, chic boutiques, and the ubiquitous pubs. From there, they walked through the residential area.

  When they passed Hampstead tube station and the Finchley Road station, Greg said, “I guess we should have taken the subway after all. Would have saved us a lot of walking.”

  Dave chuckled. Greg had always been hardheaded. “Next time. Walking around the area was a great way to get ourselves oriented.”

  Ten minutes later, they reached Willoughby Crescent, the cul-de-sac where Maurelle had lived for several months. Number eleven, the Raybourne home, was a purplish brown brickwork house of average-size for the neighborhood, two-stories tall, square, with the middle one-third of the face pushed out about two feet to make a bay window. The five front windows, all mullioned, were trimmed in white.

  “Damn,” Dave said. “I wish we could get inside and look around.”

  “You thinking of breaking in?” Greg poked at his friend.

  “No, of course not. Just thinking.”

  He turned around and looked at the neighbor’s house across the street and the houses on either side of the Raybourne house. “What do you say we head over to Ian Waitley’s house and ask him a few questions?”

  “Who?”

  “A neighbor. I have a list of names, addresses, and phone numbers.”

  “Ah, okay.”

  Since no one was home, they went to Alice Rickards’ house. No one answered there either.

  “Now what?” Greg asked.

  “The house on the other side. Judy Winston.”

  Dave rang the doorbell and waited. After a few minutes, he turned to leave at the same moment the door opened. A gray-haired woman said, “May I help you?”

  “Sorry to bother you,” Dave said. “Are you Judy Winston?”

  “I am.”

  “Well, my friend here is a detective from the U.S. and I’m a writer. He’s helping me do research for a book I’m working on, a book set here in the U.K. and with a similar plot to the Jared Raybourne murder case. We hoped we might talk to neighbors and ask questions to get some insight.”

  She looked from one to the other. “What sort of questions?”

  “Just general background.”

  “Did she go to America, then?”

  Baffled by the leap she had taken, Dave opened his mouth but didn’t answer.

  Greg said, “No, although there may be an American connection.”

  “You’d better come in,” she said, looking past them into the street. She led them into her living room. “Would you like some tea?”

  Greg said, “That would be nice.”

  She smiled. “P
lease sit and make yourselves comfortable. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

  Five minutes later, barely long enough to boil water for tea, she returned carrying a silver tray with three cups and a plate of cookies. She handed them each a tea cup. Dave took a sip. It was coffee.

  “Please have some biscuits,” she said, holding out the tray of cookies for them.

  Dave realized then that ‘biscuit’ was the British word for cookie. He took one and nibbled it. Greg took two.

  She said, “I’ve always wanted to write a book. My daughter says she’ll help me write my memoirs when she has time. But I suspect I’ll be long gone before that happens.” She chuckled.

  Dave studied the woman. Her short gray hair looked as if she’d come straight from her hairdresser, and although her pale blue eyes looked tired, she seemed younger than sixty, remembering Maurelle having indicated her age.

  “What do you want to ask me?”

  Dave said, “Well, where were you the night of the murder? Did you see anything suspicious?”

  “Dear me, no. I was on a trip to see my daughter and her children in Edinburgh. I got home a week after the murder. I must say, when I heard about it, I was in shock. Murder right here in our quiet little neighborhood! I thought I’d moved away from the high crime areas. The estate agent assured me this was a safe area. But we’ve had one thing after another—and finally murder. I’m afraid to go to sleep at night.”

  “What other kinds of problems has the neighborhood had, Mrs. Winston?”

  “Graffiti, thefts, vandalism. That sort of thing. Some of us think it was that boy who was responsible for most of it.”

  “That boy? Do you mean Jared Raybourne?”

  She nodded. “We haven’t had any trouble since he was killed.”

  “Who do you think killed Jared?”

  “Me? Well, I wouldn’t know really. I mean . . . I wasn’t here, after all, and I didn’t know him. Gangs, I suppose.”

  “You haven’t heard anything?”

  “I’ve heard reports on the news, of course. Who hasn’t? And in the newspapers. The boy’s parents are certain it was Maura Barrington—she rented a room from Elizabeth Raybourne.”