by Amy Cross
“So who did it, then?” Sam asked, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. “Come on, Einstein, who was the murderer? Give me a name.”
“I've been here less than twenty-four hours.”
“You don't have a bloody clue.”
“Sam -”
“You don't have any resources,” he added, jabbing his finger against the tabletop. “You're all alone, flailing around and pretending you can do this, but you can't and you've got nothing!”
“I'm talking to people.”
“You hate talking to people.”
“I'm learning.”
“It's one thing to keep yourself entertained and busy during the treatment,” he continued with a sigh, “but this is real life you're messing around with here. I assume Lord Chesleford is paying you?”
“I'm not going to discuss the arrangement.”
“You can't do this, Jo. You're running around like a blue-arsed fly, trying to convince yourself that nothing's wrong, when we both know that you're way too sick to be doing this. Is the cancer even -”
“Whatever Deborah was hiding from, she seems to have hidden pretty well until her death.”
“What kind of person hires a private detective, anyway?”
“I think there are two possibilities. One, she was running from someone dangerous. An abusive partner, maybe. It'd be useful to know if her body showed sign of earlier injuries, but for that I'd need to see the autopsy report.”
“Seriously. Why would someone hire a private detective?”
“The other possibility is that she'd done something. Something bad. Perhaps even something that involved the police. After all, she got that money from somewhere.”
“Are you not even going to acknowledge my questions?”
“You're right,” she replied, slipping her notebook back into her jacket, “I should get going.”
“You've lost your mind, Jo. Is it the drugs? Are they making you go all weird? Is the chemo -”
“It was nice to catch up,” she said firmly, getting to her feet. “We should make this a regular thing. Same time next year?”
“Sit down, Jo. I didn't only come to talk about the case.”
“I -”
“I haven't heard from you in months!”
“You're right about one thing,” she replied. “I'm not with the police anymore. And since there's nothing to stop me doing what I'm doing, I'm going to have to leave you to finish that pint on your own. I'm doing nothing wrong, I'm breaking no laws, I'm interfering in no active investigations or -”
“It's still an active investigation.”
“In name only. I'm not causing any trouble, and frankly I don't know why you even bothered coming all the way out here this morning just to lecture me on something that's none of your business. If I had -”
“I'm worried about you.”
She opened her mouth to continue, but those four simple words caused her to hesitate for a moment.
“Lecture over,” he continued. “Sit down, Jo. Please. You haven't been returning my calls, you haven't been answering my emails, you didn't even reply when I invited you to Sarah's birthday party. Believe it or not, that invitation wasn't some kind of provocation. It was a genuine attempt to reach out and remind you that we're still friends. But apparently you're too spiky and angry with the world to consider something like that, so instead you're running around trying to take up some ludicrous new job, all in a desperate attempt to avoid facing the things you don't want to face.”
“I just -”
“You don't look well.”
She paused for a moment.
“Please let me help you,” he continued. “Sit down. Let's talk.”
“I have to go and speak to someone.”
“Who?”
Stepping around the table, she began to make her way toward the door, only for Sam to reach out and try to grab her arm. Slipping free, she threaded her way quickly between the other patrons before emerging at the front of the pub. Before she could even begin to walk away, however, Sam hurried out after her and tapped her arm again.
“Promise me you'll go home and get some rest,” he said with a sigh. “Promise me you'll take it easy!”
“I am taking it easy,” she replied, before turning and walking away, leaving him to sigh on the pavement outside the hotel as he realized that there was no way in hell he could get through to her.
“You're also dying,” he muttered, before stuffing his hands into his pockets and heading over to his car. “That's what you're doing.”
Chapter Eight
Six months ago
“These are the first three chapters of the book that's killing me,” Deborah explained, as she set a set of carefully stapled print-outs onto Susannah's desk at the hotel. “Something's wrong, and it's wrong in these chapters.”
“Is this all you've written so far?”
“No, I'm much further along, but the whole thing has ground to a halt. I'm convinced that the root of the problem is somewhere at the start of the book. The foundations aren't there, so the later sections are falling flat.”
“Well, I'm honored,” Susannah replied, picking up the print-outs and flicking through them. “I know Harry's been begging you to let him read some of your stuff for a while, and I'm sure that old fart Chesleford'd cream his pants to get a glimpse.”
“You won't show them to anyone else, will you?”
“Like who?”
“I just don't like sharing my work until it's ready.”
Grinning, Susannah put on her reading glasses and peered at the first page.
“Annie Pelt thought the rain would never stop,” she read out loud. “As she waited for her boyfriend to come home from medical school, a threatening evening sky -”
“Stop!” Deborah said firmly. “Please, I don't want to hear it like that.”
“A threatening evening sky seemed to chime with the fear in her heart and promise something terrible to come. No matter how -”
“That's enough!” Deborah added. “Please, don't do that.”
Susannah's grin grew broader. “You're cute when you're embarrassed. Did anyone ever tell you that?”
“I hate hearing my own work,” Deborah replied, clearly flustered now. She hesitated, before reaching out to take the print-outs back from Susannah's hands. “Forget it. This was a mistake and I -”
“I'm sorry!” Susannah replied, moving the papers away. “I won't do it again, I promise. I'd really like to read these chapters, though. Can I get back to you tomorrow with all my terribly important opinions? I'm sure I'll make a wonderful literary critic.”
“I've never, ever shared my work with anyone I know before,” Deborah muttered, starting to blush slightly. “It just feels weird, that's all.”
“Well, I can only thank you for this opportunity,” Susannah replied, before her phone began making a beeping noise. Checking the screen, she tapped to stop the alarm and then she got to her feet. “And now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get to a meeting with a bunch of frightfully boring people from an advertising company. The only light at the end of that particular tunnel is the thought of a nice cool G&T waiting for me at the bar when I'm done.”
Smiling, she led Deborah across the office and pulled the door open. In the reception area, several guests were at the main desk, while a man was making his way down the stairs.
“Oh, and Debs,” Susannah continued, “I also -”
Before she could finish, she was shocked to see that Deborah had stepped back behind the door, as if she was hiding from someone.
“Debs?”
Deborah peered through the crack in the door's hinges, her face filled with fear as she watched the guests.
“Debs?” Susannah said again. “Are you alright?”
Deborah still didn't reply, instead watching the reception area as one man in particular reached the bottom of the stairs and headed toward the main door. The man stopped for a moment to fix his scarf, before stepping out into
the morning sunshine.
“It was him,” Deborah whispered, stepping back and leaning against the wall.
“Someone you know?” Susannah asked.
Deborah hesitated for a moment, before turning to her.
“You look like you've seen a ghost, Debs!”
“Can I see your guest list?”
“I beg your -”
“You must have a list of every guest staying in the hotel!”
“Of course, but -”
“I need to see it!”
“Why?”
“I need to see it!”
“I'm not sure we're allowed to just dish it out willy-nilly,” Susannah replied. “I'm sure there are some laws about that kind of thing. Data protection and all that rubbish.”
“Please!” Deborah said firmly. “I need to see your guest list! It's important!”
“Wait here,” Susannah muttered, clearly a little taken aback by the fear in her friend's voice. Nevertheless, she headed out to the reception desk and returned a moment later with a clipboard and a printed list of names and room numbers. “Okay, so who are -”
Snatching the list, Deborah checked the names and then flipped through to the second page, before staring in horror at one name in particular.
“So are you going to tell me what this is all about?” Susannah asked. “No offense, old thing, but you're acting more than a little weird. Even weirder than usual, in fact.”
“Lucas Evans,” Deborah whispered.
“You mean the rather hot doctor who checked in two days ago?”
Deborah turned to her.
“Don't think I hadn't got my eye on him,” Susannah continued with a faint smile. “I always check out the more interesting and eligible male guests. I believe Doctor Evans is in town for a couple of days, just to visit a colleague. I certainly didn't eavesdrop on him talking to someone on the phone in the lobby, if that's what you're suggesting. Shame he's not sticking around, really. We could use an attractive doctor in Chelmsbury.” She paused for a moment, seeing that Deborah still seemed extremely uncomfortable. “Why? Do you know him? Can you introduce us?”
“He's here to see a colleague?”
“I told you, he -”
“Have you seen him with the colleague?”
“I haven't been actively stalking the man,” Susannah replied. “Unfortunately, I've been too busy for that.”
“Then maybe it's just a coincidence,” Deborah continued, as if she was desperately trying to reassure herself. “Coincidences happen. The whole thing...”
Her voice trailed off, and she seemed oblivious of the fact that Susannah was watching her with an increasingly suspicious frown.
“Okay, Debs. Spill.”
“What?”
“The beans. Spill them. How do you know this guy?”
“I don't.”
“You can't bullshit a bullshitter!”
“I don't know him!”
“So you won't mind if I talk to him later? If I -”
“Don't do that!” Deborah said firmly, clearly panic-stricken by the idea. “Just let him do whatever he's doing here and leave. When's he due to check out?”
“In a couple of days.”
“Then maybe it's all okay. But if you hear him asking about me, you have to let me know.”
“So what's the deal? Old boyfriend?”
“Something like that.”
“And is -”
“I can't see him again!” Deborah continued. “Please don't make me explain, Suzie. You know what it's like. Some things are just better left in the past, and this is one of them. It's something I don't ever want to think about again, so I just need to wait until he's gone and then everything'll be okay again. Just promise me you won't mention it to anyone. I've told you before, there are things... people... Look, I just I came here to get a fresh start, okay?”
“Sure,” Susannah replied. “Whatever. I'm not in the business of screwing up my friends' lives. Your wish is my command.” She mimed zipping her lips shut. “But you're okay, aren't you? Is he... He's not the chap you're secretly pining for, are you? The one you're trying to get over by rolling around in the hay with Harry Morgan?”
“I don't want to talk about it,” Deborah muttered, before peering back out at the reception area and then stepping out from behind the door. “I might use the back exit. I think I'll go through the kitchen. You don't mind, do you?”
“Knock yourself out.”
Deborah began to head out of the office, but Susannah grabbed her arm at the last moment.
“Hey, do you wanna meet up later and get wasted? You know I don't mind drinking alone, but company's a bonus. And if you're worried about the mysterious Doctor Lucas Evans spotting us, we can go incognito to the Cock and Sparrow on the edge of town.”
“I can't meet you tonight,” Deborah muttered, adding a mumbled apology before hurrying out across the reception area and quickly slipping through the door that led into the kitchen.
“Huh,” Susannah said with a faint smile, leaning against the door-frame for a moment before looking down at the guest-list in her hands. “Who are you, Doctor Lucas Evans, and why have you put the willies up my friend?”
Chapter Nine
Today
“No, that's her,” a voice muttered as Jo made her way past the restaurant's beer garden. “It is!”
Glancing over her shoulder, she slowed as she saw that two women were watching her with keen interest. Stopping next to the gate, she briefly considered going over to the women and asking if she could help them with something, but finally she decided to try a slightly different approach. Pushing the gate open, she made her way into the garden and over to the bar's back door, and then she went inside and ordered a coffee. Emerging a few minutes later, she took a seat not too far from the women, and she immediately realized they were whispering about her.
After a few more minutes, one of the women got to her feet and headed over to Jo's table.
“Are you the private detective?” she asked.
“I'm a private detective,” Jo replied. “Can I help you with something?”
The woman glanced around for a moment, as if she was worried about being overheard, and then she took a seat.
“My name's Vivian. Vivian Nettles. I'm gonna guess you've probably either spoken to my ex-husband Harry Morgan, or you're gonna pay him a visit soon. You're looking into the murder of that Deborah Dean bitch, aren't you? The stuck-up cow who was living out at Skellin Cottage?”
“Did you know her?” Jo asked cautiously.
Vivian sniffed derisively, as if the idea was preposterous.
“I didn't mix with her sort,” she muttered. “Posh whore, coming here and thinking she was better than anyone else.”
“What exactly did you have against her?”
“Just her way, you know? Her way of going about things.” She sighed. “The bitch was having a thing with my ex.”
Jo nodded. “How long have you and Harry been separated?”
“Divorced, love. And it'll be five years next month since the papers went through.”
“Are you and he on good terms?”
At this, Vivian let out a brief, amused chuckle.
“You didn't approve of him seeing Deborah?” Jo asked.
“I suppose in some ways they were perfect for each other. Both whores. Both full of themselves. They probably had more in common than they ever realized. They still didn't need to flaunt what they were up to.”
“How did they flaunt it?”
“Well, I used to see his van parked up there outside the cottage,” she explained. “Almost every time I drove past, I'd see it sat there.”
“Did you drive past a lot?”
“It's on the way to the train station?”
Jo furrowed her brow. “Which -”
“The point is, the police were all over Harry six months ago. They had him in for questioning, but they never made anything stick.”
“You sound as if you
think he got away with something,” Jo suggested.
Again, Vivian looked around, as if she was worried someone might be listening to their conversation. After a moment, she shifted a little closer to Jo and leaned in conspiratorially.
“Harry's not a good man,” she said finally. “He's friendly enough, and he's all pally when you first meet him, but I was married to the man and there are things about him that nobody else knows. He's got a dark side.”
“You think he could hurt someone?”
“Well, he hurt me, so there's that.”
Jo hesitated for a moment, aware that she was potentially wading into difficult territory. Tactful questions had never really been her strong point, but she knew she had to figure out what Vivian meant.
“Do you mind if I ask what he did to you?”
“It's the reason I left him in the end,” Vivian explained. “We'd had our rows, of course, and we'd been miserable for a few years, but then one night he...”
She paused, before tilting her head and tapping at a small scar just above her left eyebrow.
“Harry hit you?” Jo asked cautiously.
“He threw a pot at me. Hit me right here. There was so much blood, I damn near passed out, but I managed to get away. The point is, he's got a hell of a temper, but he can also manipulate people. I reported him to the police when he did this to me, but he persuaded them it was an accident. I had him charged, but he got away without doing time. Harry Morgan's got a silver tongue, you'd think butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. It's only those of us that are close to him, those who've been around him a while, who get to see the truth about him.”
“I'm sorry you went through that,” Jo replied, “and I'd never try to excuse the fact that he struck you, but throwing a pot isn't quite the same thing as murdering a woman.”
“But it's his temper, see?” She tapped her scar again. “It comes out in short, brief flashes. It's not easy to wind him up, but when it happens, it comes out real sudden. Like lightning. And it's over just as fast. That's what makes it so nasty.” She hesitated, before getting to her feet. “I've said too much already,” she added finally. “All I'm trying to tell you is that there are sides to Harry you might not see at first. He can charm you. He can get under your skin and make you feel like he's a good person. It takes a long time to see the real Harry Morgan, and people like you and the cops don't stick around enough. I'm not saying he killed that bitch, but I am saying he's capable of it. Just don't write him off too soon, okay?”