‘Hi! Is it safe to come in?’ He chuckled, viewing Beazy cautiously from across the room. ‘You’re two of a kind, Viviane. You’re both incurably nosy, you go on the defensive when you’re rattled and you’re even alike in colouring.’ He grinned. ‘Except your eyes are a shade darker honey gold than his,’ he said staring at her till she blushed. A man hadn’t paid her a compliment in a long while or so it seemed to her at that moment. ‘Are you sure you don’t turn into a cat at night?’
She sighed. ‘What are you after Jonathan Kent?’
‘There you’ve proved me right. Who gave the cat that weird name?’
‘My great-aunt, Ida. It’s her cat. And she acquired a bit of a reputation for her herbal cures around here and Joseph Carey showed his disapproval often as her neighbour, because she offered Gwynith Ludlam some Feverfew; a herb for her headaches, and included Esmeralda Corrie the clairvoyant amongst her best friends. So Aunt Ida went a stage further and bought Beazlebub. He’s a Maine Coon cat. Do sit down and push Beazy out. Have you had a hard day? I heard you leave early.’
‘Yeah - you could say that. Hasn’t the bush telegraph told you what I’ve been working on?’ he said easing himself into the chair which the cat vacated quickly in a huff.
‘Let’s forget work. Have you had anything solid to eat?’ She hesitated. ‘I cooked too much chicken supreme and Simon’s in London this weekend with his sister. If you can face anything hot? I can rustle up some salad and ham though if you’d prefer it?’
He smiled. ‘Don’t worry, Viviane. I shan’t make a habit of turning up to mess up your routine. Mine kinda got mucked up today.’ He yawned and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I’m bushed. But I could do with something to eat. I’m starving.’
She laughed. ‘Come on then. I’ll put it in the microwave.’
He followed her out into the kitchen and sat up at the table where Beazy viewed him suspiciously from the fridge top. ‘The chicken smells good. I suppose you have heard something about the girl’s death that we’re dealing with right now?’
‘I did, this morning in the library. The Wilberforce sisters brought in the news. They live at the White Rock Hoteel and they were told by Fred Hill, the hotel porter.’ Jon’s high forehead creased at this. ‘It was Nathan, his nephew, who found the body this morning.’ She chuckled. ‘You’ll soon discover that nothing gets by the locals here. Gossip spreads like a forest fire. Was she a local girl?’
Viviane figured if she got her questions in while his mouth was drooling for the food that was sending out a mouth-watering smell, he might be a shade less cautious.
He grinned. ‘Who are you kidding, Viviane? You know just as much as me. She was a local girl, as it happens, and it wasn’t an accidental death. I don’t suppose you’ve had that many murders here.’
‘Not that I can remember.’ She filled up the kettle automatically. And had to force herself not to sound too inquisitive. ‘So-o - how was she killed? Or can’t you say? Is it too early to tell?’
His hazel eyes were giving nothing away except amusement so far. The microwave pinged and she served up the meal.
‘Was she sexually assaulted, Jon?’ she asked exasperated by his silence. ‘What was the motive? Do you know?’
‘Hard to tell so far,’ he said, drawing the chair in closer to the table. ‘We shall have the news hounds making themselves heard outside the station tomorrow. We’ve managed to contain it so far and it couldn’t have happened at the worst possible time,’ he groaned picking up his knife and fork. ‘High summer with the carnival week starting on Monday and everything geared up for the celebrations. Sounds like fun.’
‘It usually fills the place with covered floats, great features, fancy dress and fireworks.’ She nodded sympathetically. ‘You know who she is though - I heard from my last reader to come in that it was believed to be Maureen Carey. Is that correct?’
‘Yeah, it was. Just a kid, Maureen Carey, the fifteen year old daughter of the local undertaker, Joseph Carey. You’ve just mentioned him?’
‘Yes, I know him,’ she said, holding the kettle over the teapot with a shaking hand. ‘My God! It must be terrible for them!’
She made the pot of tea automatically, bringing it over to the table with her thoughts whirling around in her head like a snowstorm in a glass bauble. ‘The Carey’s are neighbours of mine. They own that big mausoleum of a place, with the Gothic towers, down on the corner.’ He obviously knew this already. ‘How was she killed? You said it wasn’t accidental.’
‘She was choked to death. And the time of death was sometime between eleven and midnight last night.’
‘Choked!’ She poured out the tea. ‘What was a young girl doing on the cliff top at that time of night? Her father was so strict with Maureen and Gordon, her twelve-year old brother. They’re chapel goers and live under curfew rules in that household but Maureen might have felt like flouting them occasionally.’
As she sipped her tea, she pictured the girl as she had last seen her. Maureen had distinctive silvery blonde hair like her mother, fair lashes, deep cornflower blue eyes, dimpled pink cheeks, pouting cherry lips. And practiced a vapid bored expression when speaking to adults.
Her maternal grandmother was Danish, she’d been told by Paula Carey when Viviane commented once on her fair colouring. She’d reminded Viviane of a white mouse when she came into the library, usually accompanied by her friend, Susan Flitch who were as different from each other as chalk and cheese. Perhaps her father’s almost puritanical strictness had made her break out unwisely?
Kent studied her closely. He sighed and shook his head. ‘I suppose you must know most of these people. You come in contact with them at work, don’t you?’
She shrugged. ‘Some of them. I don’t know Mr. Carey that well.’
He drank a mouthful of tea. Grimaced and added another spoonful of sugar and stirred it in with a frown. ‘This is not a case that is open and shut. It’s not easy to put it into so many words. It’s a feeling I’ve got. I think we’re looking for someone who is mentally sick.’
Her spoon clattered in the saucer. ‘Really?’
He was holding her attention deliberately. But would he tell her more?
‘This is not for public hearing, Viviane. What I’m about to tell you now I don’t want to see reported in the papers.’ She nodded. ‘She was throttled and then the poor kid was choked to death on her panties. Literally. They were stuffed down her throat cutting off the poor kid’s air supply.’
Viviane closed her eyes, and sucked in her breath. It was much worse than she’d imagined it could be.
‘I’m telling you this, Viviane, because you were married to a copper. And I hope I can trust you not to say anything of this outside these four walls. Not even to your children.’
‘It has to be a local man, Jon. Someone she knew. Not a stranger - someone she liked and trusted even. She wouldn’t have been out so late unless she’d arranged to meet that person.’
He nodded, picked up his cup and finished his tea. ‘I thought that too. I’m glad you agree. This investigation is not going to be easy, that girl was adept at keeping her assignations secret from everyone including her best friend Susan Flitch and her previous boyfriend Raymond Perkins.’
‘So the killer could do the same to another girl, couldn’t he? Couldn’t he, Jon? Unless you find him soon.’
9
In the living room, a can of beer in his hand, Kent relaxed back into the chair. Memories were hitting him once again, bad memories he had tried to bury for so long in the dark recesses of his mind. Today had brought back the terrible time he’d lived through with his own family. The long night hours waiting for news when his sister had gone missing after a visit to a friend’s house. It was thirty two years now since the police had come to their house early one summer morning to tell his mum that her pretty, loving fifteen year old daughter, Briony, had been found lying under the swings in the local playground, her clothes and her young life taken from her. Toda
y he had seen his sister, Briony, again when he looked down at Maureen Carey’s lifeless body lying on the cliff top.
‘A penny for them, Jon?’
He grimaced. ‘You wouldn’t want to know.’
He was twelve years old like Maureen’s young brother, when Margaret Kent, his mum, a staff nurse working on night shifts in the local hospital, had to identify her daughter. The year before, his dad had had an unexpected yet fatal heart attack, like Bill Sherlborne, that left Margaret Kent the sole provider for her young family.
He took a long drink of the fridge cold beer as he recalled that they had nailed his sister’s murderer after he was caught in the attempt of attacking another young girl. Terry Bolton, a nineteen-year-old youth of diminished responsibility, was a middle-aged man now who would be most likely out of prison. He would need to check up on him. Essex was not so far away.
‘Sorry, Viviane, I’m not good company tonight. And you’ve had a long day too. Thanks for being so understanding and the meal.’ His smile was tired but genuine.
‘My pleasure.’
Upstairs, he looked at his family photographs distributed around the flat. His mother had remarried fifteen years ago, and was content and happy with Don Palmer, his stepfather but the anniversary of Briony’s death still hurt and upset her even now. And he knew he could never forget his sister. Today’s experience had proved that so emotionally for him.
How much his sister Briony’s death had affected his decision to take on a police career, he wasn’t sure. But he was determined that he would get Maureen’s killer sooner than later. This past crime, he was reluctant to discuss with Viviane or anyone else, in case it was thought that it might affect his police work. It wasn’t likely then, that anyone would be curious when he looked up Terry Bolton’s release date and living area.
Raymond Perkins could possibly become a suspect. He would have to proceed carefully there must be no preconceived suspicion of the youth because Perkins was of an age and similarity in appearance to Terry Bolton. It mustn’t influence him in any way.
He found it difficult to sleep; he usually did once working on a case and this promised to be worse than ever. He made a mental note not to drink too much, it wouldn’t help. He tried counting and picturing his colourful collection of Toby jugs on the shelves instead of sheep but it didn’t work. He hoped he didn’t keep Viviane awake moving about in the bedroom and kitchen, when he decided to cook an omelette for an early breakfast at 5.am.
10
Gwynith Ludlam came into the library with her two small daughters. A quiet mannered, young woman, in her early thirties, she was simply dressed that morning in a dark blue sleeveless linen dress. Viviane guessed it was in deference to the Carey’s sad loss. Gwynith fussed to excess over her children’s clothes. But she could have done with some good advice on her own account.
For a wealthy woman Gwynith had little fashion sense and wore the wrong styles for her too thin figure and hard parlours which drained the parlour from her pale skin. With her high cheekbones and large expressive brown eyes; she was a doppelganger for Audrey Hepburn. Viviane longed at times to take her in hand and felt angry that Aiden didn’t advise her when he chose his own expensive suits and handmade shoes with style and flair.
‘Good morning, Mrs Sherlborne.’ Gwynith wanted to speak about the tragedy. ‘You’ve heard, haven’t you about the dreadful murder? The Carey girl, I still can’t believe it.’ She shook her head and sighed deeply. ‘We have just visited the Carey’s and my heart bleeds for them. Paula is in bed. I don’t know how we could ever recover from such a tragedy if it was one of our children, Tamsin or Adele,’ she said with her hand tenderly smoothing Tamsin’s fair cherub like curls.
‘Yes. It must be terrible for anyone to lose a young daughter,’ Viviane agreed smiling at the two little girls.
It wasn’t like Mrs Ludlam to express herself so readily, she was usually silenced by Aiden`s eloquent, charismatic presence when he accompanied her anywhere. This morning though, she was on her own. Aiden must be staying over to give Mr. Carey his support and making plans for the funeral service to be held in the chapel. How could Carey possibly hold things together having to deal with his child’s funeral arrangements? It must be a sad, sombre occasion for all the family. No one is prepared for the loss of a child especially in such terrible circumstances.
‘Thank you, I just had to get out of the house,’ Gwynith said taking the library card from Viviane. ‘It wasn’t fair to the children, to stay in and as the weather is so beautiful; I thought I would take the children into the park later. They like feeding the ducks and swans, don’t you, dears?’
‘Yes, Mummy.’ Adele the eight year old, a pretty little girl with soft brown curls and brown eyes like her mother, held up the basket filled with stale bread and a bag of bird seed. ‘We’re going to feed some of the budgies and love birds in the aviary too, Mrs Sherlborne. Aren’t we, Mummy?’
‘Yes, dear, hold onto Tamsin’s hand and take her into the children’s library. See if you can find a nice picture book for her to read.’
‘Yes, Mummy.’
‘They’re doing well with their reading, Mrs Ludlam. You must be pleased that they have taken to it so well.’
‘I am - oh-dear, Mrs Sherlborne. I can’t get that poor girl out of my mind, you know. I saw Maureen in the chapel only on Monday.’
‘You did?’
She sighed. ‘Yes - I was looking through the hymnbooks for Aiden. Some are very tatty now and we need to order some more. It was Aiden’s birthday, and Maureen came in with some flowers and a birthday card for Aiden. He told me that she seemed a bit upset about something. She was at a funny age and Tom Berkley’s son, Michael was with Aiden in his office. A nice looking boy and very polite. Michael was a bit too old for her, I think. She was obviously attracted to him but he wasn’t keen.’
‘Sometimes they’re only interested in sports at that age. Michael’s like Simon my eighteen-year-old. They play cricket together occasionally.’
‘And as it was Aiden’s birthday, he’d come over with a dinner invitation from his father. The Berkley’s want us to meet their prospective son-in-law Hugh Manderville. His parents are wealthy landowners, his father is the Lord of the Pealinghurst Manor, and it promises well for a very happy marriage, I think. The Berkleys are pleased with the match. Brenda Berkley, I know, is pulling out all the stops to make the wedding a success and the marriage is to take place in the old Norman church at Pealinghurst.’
‘They must be highly delighted then if Debbie’s happy with her choice of husband. I hope you and the children enjoy your day out in the Park.’
Afterwards, during her coffee break, Viviane wondered why Mrs Ludlam was telling her so much about Maureen and the Berkleys. Was it perhaps because she was worried about them for some reason? Or was it something that she knew about Maureen. She couldn’t have made a play for Aiden Ludlam surely. Gwynith obviously knew that her husband was the main attraction for the women in the chapel even if he never gave her any cause for jealousy. And a teenager like Maureen was looking for someone like Michael. He was an especially pleasant boy and Simon had brought him home for a meal several times.
She wondered how the investigation was going. Were things moving on well in the incident room? She’d heard Jon Kent leave again just after eight that morning. Another early start for him. And during her lunch break spent on the sea front shelter she recalled once again how she had first met up with him in the pier ballroom three weeks previously - at the Antique Fair. He collected Toby Jugs and she collected Vintage underwear
Viviane happened to be holding up a pair of split cambric panties that a Jane Austen heroine might have worn, in one hand and a silk corset in the other, when Jonathan Kent passed by with his latest acquisition, a china Toby jug under his arm.
His sly chuckle and comment; ‘They won’t do you justice,’ invited a sharp reply from her and they exchanged more words and conversation afterwards over a cream tea in the pier cafe
. And he’d mentioned that he was new to the Harcombe Police Force from the London Met and had met Bill when he was attached to Homicide. Bill had died shortly afterwards.
And she had no idea that she would acquire a tenant for her flat after she made an innocent inquiry, ‘Are you staying in police accommodation?’
‘Sort of.’ He grinned. I’m staying with one of my Sergeant’s; Stan Turner. A nice bloke. A good family man. But it’s only temporary, like I said, I must have a rented place of my own. Till I can find a suitable property to buy, I suppose. I guess I’ll be here for quite some time.’
She swallowed and thought for a moment. She could be making the biggest gaffe of her life by suggesting this. After all, this man had been a colleague of Bill’s but she didn’t want him to take her offer the wrong way.
She put down her cup, and said cautiously, ‘This is only a suggestion. Look, I have a self-contained unfurnished top apartment in my house and it’s large, it has two bedrooms. Has a lovely view of the park and it’s practically sound proof. My schoolteacher aunt had it adapted for a colleague of hers. I hadn’t thought of letting it out, up to now that is.’ She paused delicately. ‘I don’t like the thought of having the wrong kind of tenant I can’t get out.’ She smiled nervously. ‘My children are independent now and leaving the nest but I’m working and I don’t want any complications.’
He studied her quietly for a moment or so. By now he knew quite a bit about her. Knew that she’d been widowed for six years now. He could be thinking that there was a man friend here somewhere in her background.
He smiled warmly. ‘Right. I’ll be pleased to accept. Tell me your terms. And we’ll make it so that I can respect your wishes and your family’s.’
And so it had been settled amicably between them and within the week he had moved in his things and as he’d said there was a lot more when his furniture and books and his collection of Toby jugs, came down out of storage from London. He had lived like a bachelor for the past four years and he could feel the need for some feminine company occasionally.
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