by Lynda Wilcox
Oh good, I thought, as darkness swept over me. The cavalry has arrived.
I can’t have been out for more than a couple of minutes. When I came to I was on the sofa, a paramedic dabbing something that stung on to my forehead, Holly Danvers was being led off to a waiting police car and Candida Clark was nowhere to be seen.
“Candy …?”
“Hush, hush. She’s already in the ambulance. Do you think you can stand?”
I nodded, struggling to my feet, one arm held by the medic, the other by Jerry.
The medic crossed to the door.
“Two minutes, Inspector. The ambulance is waiting.”
Jerry surveyed me critically then grabbed me, roughly, by the shoulders.
“You bloody little fool! What on earth did you think you were playing at, putting us both at risk like that?”
Both of us? I was the one who’d just gone ten rounds with a rabid Holly Danvers.
“And how, exactly, am I supposed to have endangered you, Inspector?”
“Just how clear headed and effective, how good at my job, do you think I am when I’m worried sick about you?”
“Oh,” was all I could think of to say.
“I told you to leave it to us. When will you ever listen, Verity? I want you to stay out of my affairs.”
“And out of your life, I suppose.”
I said it bitterly, aware that I’d blown my chances with him, but his reply took me completely by surprise. He pulled me to him, almost crushing me in his grasp.
“Oh, God, no. Anything but that, you little fool. I want you in my life, part of my life. But out of danger.” He stroked my hair then pushed it pack, taking my face in his hands. “I want to love you, make love to you and, when I’ve done that, I want to do it all over again. What do you think to that?”
Actually I thought I quite liked it. His voice had been harsh but the hands that held me were gentle.
“Hmm? What have you got to say to that?”
What indeed? I couldn’t do any better than finish the way I’d started. I hazarded another line from Casablanca.
“Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
He laughed, liquid amber eyes locked on my own.
“Oh, Verity. You and your movie quotes. Come on.”
Gently, a protective arm around my shoulder, he helped me downstairs to the ambulance waiting below.
I was sitting at my desk, idly musing on the outcome of the Jaynee Johnson case and wondering whether I would hear from Chief Inspector Jerry Farish again when the telephone rang.
“Good morning, Kathleen Davenport’s office.”
“Hello,” an unknown woman’s voice. “May I speak to Verity Long, please?”
“This is Verity.”
“Oh, hello. I’m calling about the advert. The one in the Crofterton Gazette.”
“Ye..es?”
For a moment my mind was blank.
“The one where you asked anyone with information about Charlotte Neal to contact you.”
I snapped to attention, pulling my pad and pen towards me, thoughts of romance forgotten.
“Oh yes. Who is this?”
“My name is or, rather, was Kimberley Hughes.”
I nearly fell off my chair. The friend whose house Charlotte had just left on the night she disappeared.
“I’m now Mrs Atkins and don’t get over to Crofterton to visit my mum very often. She saved the advert out of the paper to show me.”
Fascinating, no doubt, but I wasn’t interested in her long winded explanation. I wanted to know what she could tell me about Charlotte and the night she vanished.
“Yes, Mrs Atkins. Do you have information about your friend?”
“Yes, yes I do.” She sounded eager. Maybe she had something to get off her chest after twenty years.
“Look,” she went on. “Could we meet? I’d really rather not discuss this over the phone.
“Of course. Where and when would suit you?”
“Could you come over to my mum’s place. Say, in about an hour?”
I confirmed that her mum was still living on Conway Drive and assured her I’d be there.
“I’ll be waiting outside for you,” she said, and put the phone down.
KD was just sliding an omelette out of a pan, folding it over on the plate with an expert flick of the pan’s edge. A crisp green salad lay ready on a side plate on the table.
“Cheese omelette?” she asked putting the plate down and picking up a bottle of Montepulciano.
“It’s tempting but no thanks. I’ve got to go out.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve just had Kimberley Hughes on the phone. The friend in the missing schoolgirl case.”
“Ah.” She sipped her wine. “Will she know anything, do you suppose?”
“Only one way to find out. I’ll be a couple of hours.”
“That’s fine. I’ll see you when you get back. Oh, and Verity …?”
I turned in the doorway.
“Be careful. Drive safely.” She waved a forkful of egg in my direction.
“Sure thing, boss.”
I left her to enjoy her lunch.
A tall, brown haired woman wearing a green, summer dress and a white cardigan waited for me as I parked the car outside 122 Conway Drive. We shook hands but instead of turning towards the house she began to walk in the direction of the shops.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she began, “but I didn’t want to discuss this in front of my mum. She’s not well and …”
“That’s all right.”
She led me across the road and through the waving sea of parched, sun browned grass towards the trees.
“I’m taking you to where the plot was hatched.”
She smiled at me. Then, seeing my baffled look, said, “Don’t worry, that’s not as sinister as it sounds.”
“Well, I’ll admit to being intrigued,” I said.
I followed her along the path. Somehow I knew that our destination would be the old bomb crater. On the far side of the rim a large log had been placed on the stumps of two long-felled trees. Only when we were seated on this makeshift bench did Kimberley Hughes tell her story.
“First of all, as far as I know, Charlotte is alive and well, though I haven’t had any contact with her for over a year.”
“You’ve been in touch all this time?”
“Oh yes. I’ve always known, roughly, where she was. You have to understand that Charlotte had a very unhappy home life, her father was abusive, her mother too drunk to interfere or put a stop to it. She was desperate to get away.”
“Really? From what I read they seemed like an ideal family.”
She pondered this for a moment before she went on.
“They certainly convinced the police that they were doting parents and, with hindsight, they probably were very shocked at Charlotte vanishing like that. They convinced the press too,” she added, scathingly. “But that year,1990, in the May I think it was, Charlotte met a lad and fell in love. Well,” she laughed, “it’s what you do when you’re fourteen isn’t it?”
She stopped for a moment, her eyes unfocused and far away as she remembered her youth. I waited for her to resume.
“Anyway, this boy lived with his family on a canal boat.”
Of course! That’s how she got away unseen by anyone. I kicked myself for not having thought of it, especially given my recent too-close encounter with the canal’s watery depths.
“How old was the boy? Did his family …”
“He was sixteen,” she interrupted, “and, yes his family knew of Charlotte’s situation and were happy to take her and hide her if necessary. She asked for my help and swore me to secrecy.”
I nodded.
“On the day she supposedly disappeared, we arranged for Charlotte to come for tea. Afterwards, I said we were going for a walk, but we actually got the bus to Crofterton. There’s a stop close to a canal bridge about two miles from here and that’s
where Charlotte joined Adam. When I got home, about six thirty …”
“Six thirty? I thought she went at eight.”
“Yes, it was all part of the plan. I called out to Mum that we were back, made a lot of noise and pretended to talk to Charlotte as if she was with me. Then, at eight o’clock, I opened the door and closed it again and told my Mum that Charlotte had just gone. That way the police and her parents would think she had disappeared much later and be looking in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“So, you took most of the risk.”
She shrugged.
“I didn’t mind. She was my friend and I wanted to help.”
I mulled all this over. How wrong I had been about the case and how prescient of KD. I must remember to tell her.
“And Charlotte? Did she get a happy ending?” I asked.
Her face softened as she smiled and looked away from me, down into the crater.
“Yes, she stayed with Adam, married him two years later and had two kids a few years after that. They bought their own boat with help from his parents and are still together, as far as I know, still cruising the canals of England Wales.”
“I’m glad,” I said. “And I’m glad you’ve told me.”
“What will you do now that I have?”
She licked at her lips, holding her breath, a tiny flicker of fear in her eyes for the first time.
“Nothing,” I assured her, suddenly realising she’d never asked why I had placed the ad. Why I wanted to know and was asking questions about the affair now, after twenty years had passed. Maybe the need to unburden herself had overridden such considerations.
“Nothing? You’re sure?”
“Well, there’s a retired policeman I know who’d appreciate the truth but he won’t lose any sleep if he remains in ignorance. He told me his sergeant always said you knew far more than you were telling.”
“The woman?”
I nodded.
“Yes, I suspected as much. In the end I just played dumb. I knew they’d never find her without my help.”
I rose from the log.
“Thanks again for telling me. It will go as far as my boss, the writer, but no further. I promise.”
“Thank you.”
She smiled as we shook hands.
“I’m pleased I’ve told you. Twenty years is a long time to keep a secret.”
I thought of the other Charlotte in Northworthy and silently agreed with her. Both Charlottes and Jaynee Johnson had been granted a form of justice, I reckoned. In the end that may be the most that any of us can ever hope for.
The End
Thank you for reading Strictly Murder and I hope you have enjoyed it.
Coming Soon:
Organized Murder. The second in the Verity Long series, coming late 2012
Scouting for Murder. The third Verity Long outing, due Summer 2013
Also Available:
Chamaeleon: The Secret Spy - fantasy adventure for children aged 9 to 90. Out now on Amazon.
Amazon.co.uk — http://amzn.to/sbi2Xf
Amazon.com — http://amzn.to/uvdTAV
Chamaeleon 2: The Dragon Key - due Autumn 2012
Contact me:
If you have any questions or comments about my work, I’d love to hear from you. You can email me at: [email protected] or contact me via my blog: http://writeanglesbylynda.blogspot.com