by Lynda Wilcox
“Did the reporter know where she was?”
“Oh, no. He’d have been camped outside the place if she’d told him”
“And the exclusive revelations?”
“Originally that was going to be Jaynee leaving Star Steps and presenting the chat show. I persuaded her to change it to an announcement of our …” his voice broke suddenly as he gulped back a sob. “ …our wedding plans,” he whispered.
“So when did you go up to the cottage?” I asked, trying to fix the timeline to the murder in my mind.
He rubbed a hand across his eyes and brow.
“We went up after she’d finished recording the show on the Monday.” His eyes lost their focus as he though back remembering, albeit sadly, the time he had spent with his lover. “We had a lovely week. The cottage is hidden in wooded hills above Matlock; it’s a beautiful spot, ideal as a place to unwind. On the Thursday we went down into the town and I bought her an engagement ring. Was she wearing it when you … when you saw her?”
I closed my eyes in an effort to remember, picturing again that still figure, the pale hands as they lay at her sides.
“Yes,” I said finally. “There was a ring on her left hand. A small diamond solitaire.”
He smiled for the first time, taking a crumb of solace from the knowledge that the dead woman still wore that token of their love.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you for that.”
“But weren’t you both scared that she would be recognised when you went into town?” I tried to focus on the practicalities.
“No. Jaynee took care of that with a brown wig and dark glasses. She was also very good at imitating accents so she didn’t sound at all like she did on television.”
Which at least showed forethought, if not actual cleverness, on JayJay’s part. Once again I found myself forced to re-evaluate my assessment of the dead woman.
“And when did you return from Matlock?”
“We returned on Saturday 5th. Jaynee had an appointment on that day.”
“Who with?”
“Hmm? I don’t know. Why?”
I bit back the retort that leapt to my lips. I had to make allowances for the state the man was in. As gently as I could, I pointed out the obvious.
“Because whoever she was due to meet could have been the person who killed her.”
“Oh! I suppose you’re right. Jaynee didn’t say and I didn’t press her. I wish now I had.”
“Did she say what the appointment was for?”
He screwed up his face in effort of remembrance.
“I think she said something about a friend moving, or something. I really can’t remember.”
“Have you told the police all this?”
“Yes, of course!” He had his feelings under control now, the handkerchief put away. “Miss Long, you still haven’t answered my first question and you seem to be asking rather too many of your own. Just what is your interest?”
I scratched my chin with a finger nail. Well, it had taken him long enough to wake up to that fact and I had got a lot of information out of him. I couldn’t grumble if he now clammed up.
“I’m sorry, Mr Cameron. The answer to your question is, that when I saw her, she looked composed and, yes, peaceful. I don’t know how much the police may have told you …”
“Nothing,” he spat. ”Well, nothing that I wanted to hear, anyway. All they did was ask me questions. Like whether she had low blood pressure …”
“Did she?”
“Yes.”
“Was it common knowledge? At the studios, I mean.”
“Some people knew, certainly. Her secretary, her producer, and one or two others, I think.”
He scowled and, aware that I risked alienating him, I went on quickly.
“Well, Jaynee was wearing a silvery-white dress and lay on her back on the bed. There were no signs of a struggle. As I said, she looked very calm, very …” I sought for the word I wanted but couldn’t find it. In the end I settled for, “She looked at rest.”
He gave a deep sigh.
“Oh, thank you. That’s eased my mind.”
Yours, maybe, but not mine, I thought.
“As for my interest …”
He looked up quickly. “Yes?”
“I want to know who killed her. I want to know who left her body in an empty house for some unsuspecting person, in this case me but it could equally well have been a young estate agent, to find. But above all, Mr Cameron, I want justice for Jaynee Johnson.”
Even to my own ears that had sounded dramatic and I expected Kenny Cameron to burst out laughing at any moment. Instead he gazed at me sombrely.
“You’re right,” he said softly. “I’m sorry for my harshness.”
I brushed aside his apology with a smile.
“Not at all.”
“Thank you for your time and patience, Miss Long.”
I sat on the bench and watched him walk away, then went home in thoughtful mood
Chapter 16
After dinner, I took out my pad and jotted down what I’d learned from Kenny Cameron. I felt sure he had given me the last link in the chain of this investigation, if only I could put those links together in the right order. I re-evaluated last night’s conclusions in the light of what he had told me, and realised that the pattern had shifted and now, someone else had been brought into the frame. Surprised, I once again paced the carpet while I thrashed out motive, means and opportunity.
When the last piece of the jigsaw finally fell into place the outcome was so obvious that I kicked myself. Well, I certainly had the answer now, didn’t I? I might have had it long since if I hadn’t been so fixated on that stupid diary, so hamstrung by my own prejudices and deceived by appearances instead of listening to what people actually said. I took a break to make myself another drink and then went over it all again, just to make doubly sure.
At ten o’clock, convinced and happy with my reasoning at last, I picked up the phone.
“Jerry? It’s Verity. I know who killed Greg and JayJay.”
“You do? Well done, Sherlock .”
I ignored both the incredulity and the mockery.
“I’m serious. Listen …”
I told him of my visit to Silverton Studios, I told him about my meeting with Cameron and, finally, I told him who had killed the stars and how. Then I told him why. At the end, he let out a long, low whistle.
“I see. Yes, I see.”
“I don’t have any evidence, though, Jerry …”
“Oh, we’ll find that — now we know where to look. Leave it with us.”
For once, I agreed.
“Yes, OK. You’ll let me know what happens, won’t you?”
“Of course. Good night, Verity. Sleep well.”
I put the phone down and headed for the wine rack. Back on the settee, I consoled myself with a glass of red and the thought that I had done the right thing although, Lord knows, it hadn’t been easy. I shook my head. Verity, I reminded myself, means truth.
I allowed myself a lie-in the next morning and it was nearly eleven o’clock before I’d showered, dressed and had breakfast. I was just about to go and fetch a paper when the phone rang.
“Hello. Is that you, Miss Long?” came a breathless, agitated voice.
I had been so sure that it would be Jerry Farish, I nearly dropped the phone.
“Hello, Holly. Are you all right?”
“Oh, Miss Long, please help me. I’m so scared.”
“Why? What’s the matter, Holly?
“Can you come round to my flat? It’s 42, Beaumont Mansions. I’ve just had a phone call from Ms Clark.”
I pricked up my ears at mention of the producer.
“Candida? What did she want?”
“She threatened me, Miss Long. She said I was an interfering do-gooder and it was about time she silenced me.”
“What?” That was a bit blatant - even for the likes of the outspoken Candida Clark.
“An
d she said she was coming round here and, I thought, if you were with me, then she wouldn’t be able to do anything, would she?”
“Go and stay with a neighbour, Holly,” I said, trying to be practical in the face of Holly’s rising panic.
“There’s nobody in, Miss. Two of the flats are empty on this floor and my neighbour’s out at work. Please come. I’m frightened.”
“Holly, why don’t you phone the police?”
“But what would I say?” she bleated. “They wouldn’t believe me and it would be my word against hers. Besides, she could come back when the police aren’t here.”
There was a sudden loud bang from the other end of the line and Holly squealed.
“What is it? Holly? Are you there? Holly?”
But the line had gone dead and I was talking to thin air and the dial tone.
Damn. Damn, blast and set fire to it. I really didn’t have any choice. A killer might strike at any minute. I fetched the toy gun from the drawer in my desk and dropped it in my pocket, picked up my bag and then called Jerry Farish.
“It’s Verity. I’ve just had an hysterical Holly Danvers on the phone claiming Candida Clark has threatened her and is on the way to Holly’s flat to silence her. I’m going round there.”
“No! Don’t you dare,” he screamed. “Stotty and I are on the way and there’s a patrol car already despatched. Leave it to the police, Ve …”
I pressed the button and ended the call. “Leave it to the police”? I had left it to them and now see what had happened. Besides, there was no way I was staying out of it. I’d been involved from the beginning; it was only right that I should be there at the death. Just as long as it wasn’t my death we were talking about.
I announced my arrival outside the block of flats with a squeal of tyres and a spray of gravel. There was no sign yet of the police and I listened in vain for the wail of a siren as I belted for the outside door.
My heart pounded as I ran up the stairs, fear clutching at my belly, breath catching in my throat, hoping I was in time to prevent another senseless death. At the top of the third flight I stopped, bent double, hands on hips, struggling to draw air into my aching lungs. I heard a thud from the floor above and forced myself upwards. At the top of the stairs the over-powering smell of Youth Dew stopped me as effectively as a brick wall. I took a moment to steady myself and tried not to inhale. I knew I was being stupid, that I ought to wait for the police, but when had being stupid ever stopped me? I walked down the corridor to meet Holly Danvers — the killer of Jaynee Johnson and Greg Ferrari.
Outside Flat 42 I put my hand to the door and felt no surprise when it opened at my touch.
“Come in, Miss Long, we’ve been expecting you,” said a cool voice.
In an ice-blue dress that showed off her hour-glass figure and matched her frosty manner, Holly Danvers slammed the door shut behind me.
“Do take a seat next to my other … guest. It’s quite a party we’re having.”
Candida Clark sat on the settee, trussed like a chicken, arms tied behind her back, legs roped around her shins above her red stiletto shoes. Across her mouth like a great grey gash was a strip of duct tape.
With a push to my back Holly propelled me forward. My mind raced. Time, you need time, said my brain Somehow I had to delay things until Jerry got here.
“Why did you kill Greg, Holly? Did you hate him so much?”
“No! I didn’t hate him. I loved him.”
“Nonsense. If you love a man, you don’t put a computer tie around his neck and pull it tight. She loved him.” I flung out an arm towards the woman on the sofa. “That’s how I knew she didn’t kill him. You did.”
Holly picked up a wicked looking carving knife off the table.
“He deceived me,” she spat, eyes narrowing. “He said he would marry me.”
I backed away as she took a step toward me.
“Is that why you slept with him?”
“I gave him my honour and he rejected me.”
“You were a virgin, weren’t you? And religious, too.”
Around her neck she was still wearing the crucifix on its slender gold chain.
“Yes. He broke his promise.”
So I’d been right about the motive, after all.
“But why kill JayJay?”
I inched further away, trying to put the settee between us.
“She tempted him. She lured him away. Just like that bitch, there.”
She pointed the knife at Candida who flinched and moaned behind the gag.
“Did you know Jaynee suffered from low blood pressure?”
“She used to send me to the chemists for her prescription so, yes, I knew.”
“So you got your friend to make you up as an old woman, put on a grey wig and went to view the house. Then you stole the key.”
“Oh, haven’t we been busy,” sneered Holly.
“You even called yourself Mrs Smith. Did you know it was Greg’s real name?”
“Of course. It would have been my name too.”
She seemed happy to answer questions, so I pressed on.
“How did you get Jaynee to the house?”
“Oh that was easy. I told her I’d moved and invited her to my house-warming.”
“But, but, she went missing. Weren’t you afraid she wouldn’t come?”
Holly shrugged. I hoped she wasn’t getting bored.
“No. I knew it was all a stunt and that she’d show up.”
“And the drug?”
“Ha! I offered her a cold glass of lemonade on a hot evening.”
And Midazolam was soluble, of course. She’d made the whole murder sound horrifyingly easy.
“And the Youth Dew? You said you didn’t wear perfume but you were wearing Lily of the Valley at the studios the other day. Do you only use Estée Lauder when you want to murder someone?”
Holly sneered and took another, menacing step towards me. I scanned the room frantically for anything I could use as a weapon before remembering the gun in my pocket. Pulling it out I waved it in front of her.
“Stop right there, Holly, I don’t want to have to use this,” I said, sounding like a character from some awful ‘B’ movie. Holly laughed.
“You won’t use it, and if I die I shall be re-united with Greg.”
Maybe that explained the calmness, her coolness and indifference. Still brandishing the knife she moved closer to Candida, putting herself between us. How long have I been here, I thought? Five minutes? Ten? Surely Jerry must get here soon. Just keep her talking.
“Let’s face it, Holly,” I said, attempting to distract her from the terrified producer, “you were hardly unique, were you? Greg Ferrari would sleep with anything in a skirt.”
As a distraction strategy it did have its drawbacks — my own imminent demise being one of them. Shrieking like a hell-cat, Holly ran towards me, knocking the gun out of my hand.
“You bitch. You interfering old hag.”
I bolted behind the settee and round the other side snatching a shoe from Candida’s foot as I did so. The producer raised her tied legs in time to catch Holly and trip her as we played cat and mouse around the furniture. Without thinking, I launched myself on Holly’s back, trying to stay clear of her right hand, and hammered the stiletto heel into her naked shoulder. On the settee Candida writhed and wriggled, her despairing eyes watching our every move, less concerned for my welfare, no doubt, than that of her £300 shoe. I jabbed the heel into my opponent’s neck.
“You hypocrite!” somebody yelled. It might have been me. “You lying, scheming little bitch.”
I grabbed for the wrist holding the knife while still trying to grind the stiletto through the flesh of her neck. Droplets of blood ran down onto the carpet. I tried to stay calm. I could win this battle if I could just keep on delaying her until the police showed up. I needed to stay one step ahead and out-think my opponent, not match her insult for insult. Perhaps it was the memory of how Holly had fooled me that had turn
ed me into a screaming virago now. She squirmed underneath me. I lifted and repeatedly banged her wrist and hand on the floor but she held tight to the weapon. Then she bucked, throwing me sideways.
“Arrgh.”
I rolled across the floor, desperate to stay out of her reach, and bumped into the occasional table bringing down a large pottery vase which landed within inches of my head. I twisted to the left, taking my eyes off the frenzied girl. When I looked back Holly was already getting to her feet, ready to attack me again. Banging my head on the table legs had caused my vision to blur and from somewhere I heard a pounding, my blood probably, sounding loud in my ears. Holly made a step backwards, the better to come at me again, as I lay, groggy and confused, at her feet.
“Mmfmph”
Candida moved on the sofa, at the periphery of my line of sight. I daren’t turn to look at her, Holly was too close. Suddenly, she grabbed at my hair lifting my head from the ground. I curled round, trying to kick at her legs. I couldn’t see the knife. Where was the knife? I screamed as a particularly vicious tug left my hair in her hands instead of my scalp. My head fell back with a thud. A black wave swept over me. I felt myself weakening, Holly had nearly twenty years advantage in the youth and fitness stakes. I still couldn’t locate the knife, the girl’s hands were a blur as she pulled at my hair again. I scrabbled to lever myself up as she let go and my head hit the side of the table with a crash.
“Verity! Are you all right? Don’t try to get up.”
Was it Jerry? Had I passed out? Died, perhaps, and gone to heaven?
“Mmm. S’OK.”
If that was my voice it sounded like the bleat of a new born lamb.
I opened my eyes. Through the blur, a uniformed female was untying the ropes from around Candy Clark’s legs while the producer rubbed at her bruised, but free, arms. I didn’t envy her removing the duct tape. It does so play havoc with one’s super-gloss lipstick. I giggled.
I tilted my head to the right, grimacing as a wave of nausea hit me. Holly Danvers, hands cuffed behind her back, a sullen, defeated slump to her shoulders, stood subdued now in the firm grasp of Sergeant Stott while Jerry intoned the words of the formal arrest over her bowed head. Two more police officers stood by the wrecked front door.