by Lynda Wilcox
“I came to see you.”
He smiled but then my heart sank as he reached across the table and put his hand on mine. This looked like a complication I could well do without. Still, maybe I could turn it to my advantage.
“Have you come to pump me about last Monday?” I asked as I folded up the paper and put it on top of its downmarket companion.
“No, not at all but seeing you on Wednesday reminded me we hadn’t been out for a drink together in ages. I called at your flat first and then came on here.”
“I treated myself to Sunday lunch here.” I told him
“Any good?”
“Yes, it is. They buy all their fresh produce from a local farm, including the home cured ham I had with my chips, and it’s first-rate quality.”
“You’re quite the gourmet, aren’t you, Verity?”
“Hardly.” I laughed. “I just enjoy my food. I shall probably pay for it in later life like my mother did. You know, spreading sideways like a ripe brie.”
“I can’t see that.” He contradicted me. “You’ll probably stay svelte until well into your seventies. So, have the police hauled you in for questioning, yet?”
“Me? No. Why should they?”
He gave a short laugh
“You have to be their chief suspect. Statistically, the person who committed the murder is far more likely to supposedly ‘discover’ the body.”
I stared at him in horror. Surely, he couldn’t be serious?
“I’m surprised you don’t know that. Working for a crime writer and all.”
“I’m a researcher not a writer,” I answered automatically, my mind churning.
“Well, I’m sure that wily beggar, Inspector Jeremy Farish, will be around soon. Knowing him, he’d probably dated JayJay at some point himself.”
“Knowing him?” I asked with a dry mouth. I felt totally stunned.
“Oh, yes. He’s quite a man for the ladies, is Fabulous Farish.”
He smiled and I felt like smashing my glass into his face. My stupid daydreams of the morning lay shattered, their ruins more extensive than the hill of Troy. I said nothing because I couldn’t trust myself to speak.
“Cheer up, Verity.” Blithely unaware of the devastation he had caused, Jim rabbited inanely on. “We all know you didn’t do it.”
He grinned and I picked up my glass, fully intending to satisfy my inner rage by carrying out my unspoken threat. He took it from my hand.
“Get you another drink? What would you like?”
“I’ll have a bottle of Merlot, please. No! Wait! Make that a case.” I replied through gritted teeth.
He laughed again.
“Good idea. Drown your sorrows before they lock you up.”
He strolled off towards the now busy bar. I sat with my head in my hands. God! What a fool I had been. Would I always fall for unsuitable men? Men who merely wanted to use me? Thank goodness I hadn’t mentioned my dinner date with the Inspector to anybody. How they would laugh at me now. Not, I thought bitterly, that my relationship with Farish was ever going to be on a share-and-share-alike basis - not on the JayJay case, anyway. Well, I would deal with the Inspector when - if - I next saw him.
“You all right, Verity?”
My companion placed the refilled glasses on the table. Poor Jim, it was hardly his fault that Jerry Farish was a cad or that I’d been stupid enough to start falling for him, yet there I’d been mentally offering him physical violence. I must try and make it up to him.
“Yes, thanks. I was just thinking about Jaynee Johnson’s murder and what happened to her handbag and phone?
“Umm?” Jim looked puzzled, his top lip covered with a foam of ale, as he sipped his pint and stared at me over the rim of the glass.
“They weren’t in the house when I discovered the body,” I went on, “so I wonder where they were. Did the police say anything about them in their press release?”
“No. It didn’t mention them.”
According to Jim, the statement had said nothing more than what I’d just read in the Observer. The police were playing this one very tight to their chests, I thought.
“But you say the handbag and phone are missing?”
“Well, they certainly weren’t with her.” I played with a strand of hair. “Which is odd, don’t you think?”
Jim grinned.
“It’s more than odd. It’s a lead! Thanks, Ver.”
“You’re welcome. Are you going to ask your friend Inspector Farish about it?”
I made my voice sound as innocent as possible to hide the malicious intent behind the question. If I could make things hot for that two-faced Lothario, so much the better.
“He’s not exactly my friend but, yes, I think I might. I’ll also have a word with our Women’s Editor. There could be a feature in it as well as a news item. Well! This has been a very profitable meeting.”
I smiled, more at his eager tone that in agreement. Personally, I had the horrible feeling that I had lost far more than I’d gained.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I demanded, storming into the office the next morning.
“Hmm?” KD looked up from her keyboard.
“Why didn’t you warn me?” I snapped.
“Do I detect a note of asperity in your tone this morning, Verity, dear?”
She peered at me over the top of the glasses perched on the end of her nose.
“No. Not at all.”
I threw my bag onto the desk where it fell sideways, spilling the contents over the carpet. “Oh, bugger!”
“I see I do,” I heard KD murmur as I scrabbled about on the floor.
“Well, good morning, Verity. About what, exactly, have I omitted to tell or warn you?”
Hell’s teeth, but she could be very particular in her speech at times.
“You never told me that I would be the police’s prime suspect for the murder of Jaynee Johnson.” I sat back on my haunches, picking up a lipstick and comb and dropping them into my bag.
“Nonsense! Of course you’re not.”
“The person who finds the body is more likely to have killed them, statistically speaking, than …”
“Statistics, pfui!” KD put a hand in the air and snapped her fingers. “Statistically speaking, I could make a very good case for you becoming the next Archbishop of Canterbury. You are forgetting motive, means and opportunity. None of which you have.”
“Oh.”
“Yes. ‘Oh’, indeed. Who on earth has been filling your head with this rubbish?”
“Jim Hamilton. You remember, my friend the crime reporter.”
“He’s hardly a friend, Verity, to upset and worry you like this.” KD pointed out, softly.
I shrugged. I had rather taken Jim’s word for things. It had all sounded so very plausible yesterday morning. So, maybe no ulterior motive existed behind Jerry taking me out for dinner, after all. I would still be on my guard, though, when next I heard from Inspector Farish.
“Besides, it’s nearly a week since the discovery of JayJay,” KD added. “The police would have questioned you far more often and more closely than they have done in that time if you were their chief suspect.”
“Really?” My voice was eager.
“Yes, really. So relax. In half an hour I have to leave for an appointment at Mariner Productions.”
“Who?”
“They are a TV production company. I’m opening negotiations with them to bring Agnes Merryweather to the small screen and have a meeting scheduled with their CEO, Kenny Cameron, this afternoon. You might also learn something that helps your investigation into JayJay’s murder. So, you’re coming with me.”
Mariner Productions occupied an imposing suite of modern, prestige offices in Middleton Street on the eastern side of Crofterton. By the time we arrived I had left several fingernails embedded in the roof of KD’s large saloon car. Her driving, erratic at best and made worse by her nervousness of the forthcoming interview, had left me in dire need of a ladies room.<
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I attended to this need while she announced her arrival to the receptionist.
The waiting area at the top of the dog-legged open tread stairs was deeply carpeted in soft shades of blue, the colour enhanced by the darker azure upholstery of the chairs. A huge painted mural on the facing wall depicted a lively, underwater scene where bright hued fish darted and flittered through pale green fronds, while orange sea anemones clung to jagged coral fingers rising from the sea bed beneath. The potted ferns in gravel filled tubs standing like sentinels either side of Kenny Cameron’s door all added to the watery effect giving me the overwhelming sense of having stepped inside an aquarium. Even Cameron’s PA had entered into the spirit of things. Dressed in diaphanous folds of aquamarine with a self-coloured scarf fluttering around her neck and shoulders, she looked for all the world like some modern day water nymph.
“I’m sorry to keep you, Mrs Davenport. Mr Cameron’s got Mr Nafti with him at the moment. He arrived from Athens this morning.”
“That’s quite all right.” KD graciously inclined her head.
“May I get you some coffee whilst you are waiting?”
We declined her offer and she drifted effortlessly away.
“Who’s Mr Nafti?” I asked when she had gone.
“He owns the company. Greek. Has his own island somewhere in the Aegean.”
I made the connection. Of course! Nafti is Greek for sailor - hence Mariner Productions and the watery theme of its rooms.
Kenneth Cameron’s door opened.
“Mrs Davenport.”
He advanced, hand outstretched, as KD rose.
“May I introduce Vasos Nafti?”
He moved aside to reveal a swarthy faced man with dark curly hair and a big nose.
“Yassou. Yassou.” The man from Athens shook both our hands.
“Please, come in,” Cameron indicated the open door.
“It’s a real pleasure to meet you, Mrs Davenport. Mrs Nafti reads all your books.”
Why was it always the wives, I wondered. I’ve never yet met a man who admitted that he read any detective stories, let alone KD’s contribution to the genre. And what must it be like to read tales set in the supposedly quiet, leafy greenness of the English countryside from a dry, sun kissed island in the eastern Mediterranean? Maybe it seemed as exotic to them as their location was to us.
“We are very excited about our collaboration, is that not so, Kenny?”
Nafti turned to the younger man who smiled in response.
“Indeed. It will be a new horizon for us whilst still retaining the core values of Mariner Productions.”
My heart sank. I loathe marketing speak with its abuse and distortion of the language. Verbose and platitudinous, in my opinion all practitioners of this art of stating the blindingly obvious should be lined up against a wall and shot. KD clearly felt the same; disappointment flickered in her eyes at his words.
“And what might those be?”
“A commitment to quality,” he began.
Yes, well, he would hardly say the company was committed to producing shoddy work now, would he? Any minute now he would use the word synergy.
“Using viable opportunities for synergy with our collaborators, stakeholders and facilitators.”
“Stop right there!” KD held up a hand. “I am not a marketing symposium for you to address, Mr Cameron. I would much prefer it if we continued this conversation in English. I am sure you will agree.”
A smile flitted across Nafti’s dark features, watching while his employee struggled for a moment - perhaps with the concept of English - before replying.
“As you wish, Mrs Davenport. I think your concept …erm, idea of adapting the Agnes Merryweather books is an excellent one. We would envisa …” he caught the look KD threw him and corrected himself. Changing tack, he went on. “How many books have you written? In the Merryweather series, that is?”
“Twelve,” said KD. “Were you thinking of using them all?”
I could hear the sound of cash registers ringing in KD’s head.
“Not initially, no. I thought six to start with, to whet the viewer’s appetite as it were, and then, going forward, the er …” he gave an apologetic smile, “the remainder after that.”
KD nodded.
“I see. Well, you know your business best, I’m sure. The Agnes Merryweather books are massively popular — they sell in their millions, you know — we must hope that translates into viewing figures.”
She smiled sweetly. Now I could see pound signs reflecting through Kenny Cameron’s eyes pale, almost colourless eyes.
“Who will you get to adapt them?”
He mentioned a name I’d never heard of though KD appeared to recognise it.
“Good. I must insist on seeing the scripts first though. Some of the more recent adaptions of the great AC’s work have been appalling, an absolute travesty.” She chopped the air with an emphatic hand. Cameron merely looked blank at this mention of the doyenne of crime writing.
“Agatha Christie,” I supplied, speaking for the first time.
“Quite so,” said KD.
She had been particularly incensed by two episodes in the last Miss Marple TV series where a pair of lovers had lost a gender and become lesbians and a troupe of players, that featured not at all in the original book, had been invented and shoe horned into the plot for the sole purpose of giving a so-called comedienne a leading role.
“What about casting?” demanded KD. “Will I get a say in that?”
“I’m sure our casting director would take your suggestions on board.”
“Good,” she ignored his momentary relapse. “Only, I quite fancy Barbara Flynn in the lead role.”
“Hmm.”
The sandy haired Cameron considered this for a moment. If he says I can see where you’re coming from, she’ll hit him, I thought, relishing the prospect. Unfortunately, my pugilistic hopes were not to be realised.
“Well, we shall certainly consider that.”
“Do you have any idea of when the project is likely to start?”
“I was thinking of early in the new year. Obviously there are financial and legal aspects to be worked on first though, with your approval, I’ll approach the screenwriter this week to make sure he is available. Once that is sorted to our mutual satisfaction, it will be full steam ahead.”
He beamed, presumably on having uttered the entire sentence with only the merest of clichés and without recourse to a single instance of his habitual weasel words.
“I’ll have my agent contact you to discuss finances and contracts.” KD informed him, rising to leave.
“One other thing before you go.”
She sat down again.
Cameron indicated Vasos, who had sat silently since his claim to be excited, watching his production director dig his own holes and attempt to climb out of them again.
“We are planning a series of chat shows with a female host interviewing women of distinction. Would you consider being a guest on the show?”
If KD was disappointed that Nafti hadn’t asked her to present it she gave no sign.
“Of course, who will be hosting the programme?”
It was Cameron who answered, blinking his gingery eyelashes for a moment before chosing his words with care.
“Sadly, our hoped-for presenter is no longer available.”
I made an intuitive leap.
“Jaynee Johnson?” I suggested.
His wariness remained but there was a flicker of some other emotion in his eyes. Fear, perhaps?
“Yes. Jaynee would have been perfect..”
A genuine sadness replaced the fear, if fear it had been. He looked about ready to burst into tears. His voice actually trembled as he added. “She will be sadly missed.”
KD and I exchanged a glance.
“Do you have an alternative lined up?” she asked.
“We are working on that. For the moment it is enough to know that you are interested and we are
glad to have you on board.”
He had himself under control again and smiled broadly at my employer
We left Mariner Productions shortly after. I knew KD well enough by now to realise that she had been boiling up throughout most of the interview but, fortunately, we were in the car park before she finally blew a head gasket.
“What a dreadful little man. I’ll make sure Crispy Bacon-Sandwich screws him and his wretched company for every penny!”
I struggled to keep up with her furious stride towards the car. Frankly, I didn’t much care for Kenny Cameron either but his reactions to the mention of JayJay intrigued me. There were a lot of questions I would like to ask Mr Cameron, though how to engineer this for the moment defeated me. And what of Jaynee? Had she been intending this as another string to her bow or had she been thinking of leaving ‘Star Steps’ altogether? And was this sufficient motive to kill her?
“And I was really disappointed in Yassou Nafti. I’d hoped he’d look more like Tom Conti in ‘Shirley Valentine’. What on earth is the matter, Verity.?”
Gripped by a sudden fit of the giggles and doubled over with laughter, I vainly tried to fasten my seat belt.
“Stop it!” she glared at me. “Control yourself.”
I reached into my pocket for a tissue with which to wipe my streaming eyes.
“Please, KD. Don’t call him Yassou Nafti to his face,” I managed to gasp when my voice was back under control.
“Why not? It’s his name!”
“No it isn’t. His name is Vasos Nafti. Vasos. Don’t call him Yassou Nafti whatever you do. It’s Greek for ‘hello sailor’.”
I was still laughing when KD stamped on the accelerator and we shot out of the car park.
Dinner over and done with, I was slumped on the settee, totally out of sorts with the world and everyone in it - especially me - when Jerry Farish called. Still trying to come to terms with Jim’s revelations, KD’s comments and my own feelings, I felt ill-prepared for his visit, nervous and fidgety, scared of losing my temper.
“These are for you.”
I took the proffered roses from his outstretched hand - and put them straight in the bin.
“Oh! Don’t you like flowers?”
“Not when they’re used as a bribe I don’t, no.”