by K. C. Wells
“She saw you together,” Mike concluded. “And then she put two and two together.”
“Yeah.” Grant wrapped his hands around the glass, his shoulders hunched over.
Mike went quiet for a moment, before shaking his head. “Nah. I don’t buy it. The chances of her happening to be in the exact same spot as you two—and in London too—have to be astronomical. I mean, I know she said she was a jammy sod, but even so….”
“Well, how else do you account for her being there?” Jonathon demanded.
Mike rubbed his beard. “I think it’s more likely that she’d already observed something in the village. Maybe you two weren’t as discreet as you thought, and she caught a glimpse. Maybe it happened more than once, and it piqued her interest.”
Grant jerked his head up. “Oh my God,” he said softly.
“You think she followed them, don’t you?” Jonathon stared at Mike.
Mike nodded. He addressed Grant. “Did you drive or go by train?”
“Train. I couldn’t take my car, and it was too risky both of us going in his.” His eyes widened. “The station. The bloody station! I thought I saw her there as I was getting on the train, but it was only a fleeting glance. And then I forgot all about her. I was too busy thinking about meeting Brian.” His face was a picture of misery.
“So Brian goes to see her, and she demands money,” Mike stated, getting the conversation back on track.
Grant nodded. “What we didn’t expect was that she’d demand money from me too. Except I was paying so she wouldn’t tell my wife about the affair. Bloody witch,” he said bitterly. “Getting money out of both of us. I suppose I should have been relieved she didn’t soak me for all that much. There was no way I could have afforded a huge sum anyway. But Brian? He got off worse than me.”
“So when she was found dead, it must have been a huge relief. No more blackmail.” Jonathon frowned. “Then what were you and Brian discussing on Friday night? Because it was obvious you weren’t happy.”
A sigh shuddered out of Grant. “As soon as we learned she was dead, Brian decided to go ahead with the second development. I felt it was too soon after the first one, that people would start talking again, but no, he said he was going for it. Now there was no one in our way.” Grant swallowed hard. “About that—”
With a burst of clarity, Mike saw what lay at the root of Grant’s unhappiness and desperation. “Does Brian have an alibi for that morning?” he asked quietly. “Do you know where he was? Because that’s what you’re afraid of, isn’t it? You don’t know for certain that he didn’t kill her.”
Grant stared at him with wide eyes, nodding sluggishly. “He said… he said he was at home. Only, I know he wasn’t. I went for a jog that morning, except it was an excuse. I often ran past his place in the hopes I’d see him. Pathetic, isn’t it?”
“Not really,” Jonathon murmured. “I’ve been known to do the same thing myself. Love makes you do funny things.”
“So you ran past Brian’s place. And?”
“His car wasn’t there. And he was nowhere to be seen. So I came home.”
“This might sound like a funny question, but what car does Brian drive?” Jonathon asked.
“A Mercedes. He loves that car.”
Mike gave an internal sigh. So maybe Ben did miss someone after all. “Did you tell Brian you’d been to his house?”
Grant swallowed. “I couldn’t. All I kept thinking was, what if he did kill her?”
“Of course, the police might think you’ve got a pretty good motive for killing her too,” Mike suggested. “And that you’re merely shifting the blame onto Brian.”
Grant froze. “God, no! I was home, with my wife… apart from that forty-five minutes when I went jogging.”
“Did you see anyone while you were out who could corroborate that?”
Grant frowned, but then he nodded violently. “I saw Paul Drake. He was driving along the lane in that truck of his. He’d been to pick up pig feed. He asked if I wanted a lift. I laughed and said that rather defeated the purpose. Then he drove off.”
“You haven’t come right out and asked Brian if he killed her, have you?” Jonathon said quietly.
Grant gaped at him. “But… I mean… I love him, but… you never know what a person is capable of, do you? And besides, if I don’t ask him, he doesn’t have to deny it.” He sighed. “Which made perfect sense to me at one time, but now? Not so much.” He met Mike’s gaze. “Should I tell the police?”
Mike considered the question. “Right now, the only evidence against him is the fact that she was blackmailing him. There’s no evidence to put him at the crime scene….”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Jonathon muttered.
Mike knew he was referring to the leather treatment. It was a possibility. “Tell Graham Billings,” he said at last. “Tell him everything. And you’d better come clean about the dodgy dealings too.” He gave Grant a frank stare. “You do realize your wife is going to find out at some point?”
“Yeah. I’ll deal with that when it happens.” Grant got to his feet and held out his hand. Mike rose and shook it. “Thanks, Mike. You too, Jonathon. I knew I had to say something. And now I’ve told someone, it’ll get easier the second time.” He drew in a deep breath. “I’ll leave you to your lunch.” And with that, he left the room.
“Lunch?” Mike groaned. “I didn’t turn on the bloody microwave.” He hit the buttons and the whirring started. Mike sank into his chair. “Well. At least that’s one person we can cross off the list.”
“You think he’s telling the truth?”
Mike nodded. “Mind you, that’s the ex-copper in me talking.” Then he let out a wry chuckle. “The inhabitants of Merrychurch are going to have a field day with this. Another gay affair. Makes you wonder just how many people in this village are hiding their sexuality.”
“Which is why I’m never going to hide,” Jonathon announced quietly. “And why my father is not going to get his own way. Take me or leave me—this is me.”
Which is why I love him.
Mike gazed at the kitchen table and sighed. “I wish Abi would tidy up after herself. I left this clear on Friday before we left.” He picked up the empty toast rack and the butter knife, and placed them next to the sink. “Put the butter and jam in the fridge, would you?”
“That’s it!”
Mike turned to find Jonathon staring at the jar of mango-and-peach jam. “Yes, that’s jam,” he said in amusement.
Jonathon let out an exasperated sigh. “You don’t understand. I’ve been racking my brains for days now, trying to work out what has been puzzling me. And here it is.” He held aloft the jar. “I know who was in that cottage,” he announced triumphantly.
Mike arched his eyebrows. “And? Don’t stop there. Who was it?”
“George Tyrell. Remember that ginger jam he said he bought from the table outside? Well, he couldn’t have.”
“Why not?”
“Because that variety was never outside, that’s why. She’d only recently made it. In fact, it was so new, she hadn’t even made up a fancy label to print out, like the others.” Jonathon grinned. “The only way he could have taken a jar of that jam was if he was inside the cottage.”
“She might have brought one out for him.”
Jonathon arched his eyebrows. “Then why did he say he never saw her? He lied. And something else. He tied Max up outside so he could go in. I’ve just realized what those scratches were on the table legs. They were caused by that heavy chain leash of his, rubbing against them. I’ll bet you anything you like that the police could find traces of that white paint in among the links.” His eyes widened. “Oh. And another thing. He comes from the same city as Naomi. They both lived in Nottingham.”
“Sure, but not at the same time. She had to have been immigrating to Australia by the time he was born.”
“It’s still something, right?” Jonathon pulled out his phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling Graham. Because there’s one thing he can do to clear all this up, and that’s take George down to the police station and take his fingerprints. If they match—bingo. And if I tell Graham everything I’ve come up with, he’s got enough evidence to warrant taking George in.” Jonathon scrolled through and dialed.
Mike’s hunger was forgotten as he listened to Jonathon’s animated conversation. It all made sense—except for one thing. When Jonathon finished and disconnected the call, Mike sighed.
“You do know it’s only a theory, right?”
“Graham seemed happy with it.”
“There’s one thing you haven’t considered.” When Jonathon frowned, Mike rolled his eyes. “Motive? What’s his motive? Why on earth should he want to kill her?”
Jonathon tucked his phone into his jacket pocket. “Let’s go find out.”
“What?” Mike gaped at him.
“I’m serious. We know he was inside that cottage. Let’s go ask him why.” Jonathon waved his hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll tell him we’ve informed the police, so he’ll know it’s only a matter of time before someone turns up to ask a few questions. That way, we won’t be in any danger. That is, if he is the killer.” He pulled on his jacket, then stared at Mike. “Well? What are you waiting for? Are you coming with me or not?”
Mike chuckled. “Oh, I’m coming with you, if only to stop you from doing anything stupid. But when we get there, why don’t you let me ask the questions? I’ve had more experience than you, trying to get the truth out of people. It’s not as if he’s going to hold his hands up and say, ‘It’s a fair cop, guv. I done it. Bring on the handcuffs.’”
Jonathon huffed. “Fine.” As they headed for the door, he muttered, “You always have to play the experience card, don’t you?”
Mike laughed. “Trust me. If we’re ever in a situation where a knowledge of photography, cameras, depth of field, et cetera, is required, then you can take the lead.”
Jonathon snorted. “I can see it now. We’re about to be battered to death by someone wielding a tripod.”
Mike was still laughing as they left the pub.
JONATHON RANG the doorbell and stepped back. From within came a deep bark. “Well, Max is home.”
Seconds later the door opened, and George stood there, holding a tea towel. He gave them a warm smile. “Well, hello again. Is it time for more cocktails?”
“Not exactly. Can we come in? There’s something we’d like to talk to you about.” Jonathon gestured to Mike. “You know Mike from the pub?”
“Our ex-policeman. Only by reputation.” George frowned. “You both seem rather serious.”
“That’s because we’re freezing,” Mike offered.
George’s eyes widened and he stood aside. “Of course. Come on in.” Once inside, he closed the door behind them and led them into the cozy living room, where a fire was roaring in the hearth. Max lay on the rug, his paws crossed under his chin. He lifted his head and let out a soft woof when they entered.
“Sit down, please.” George waited until they were on the couch before sitting in the armchair. “Now, what’s this all about?”
Before Mike could say a word, Jonathon surged ahead. “I felt it only fair to give you a heads-up. The police will probably want to take your fingerprints.”
George stilled. “My…. Why should they want to do that?”
“To eliminate you from their inquiries,” Mike said calmly. “Now that they have reason to believe you were in Naomi Teedle’s cottage the morning she died.”
Jonathon watched George’s face, noting the pallor that stole across his features, making his blue eyes appear all the more startling.
“But… I told you. I never went inside.”
“Yes, I know,” Jonathon said patiently, “but that jar of ginger jam says otherwise.”
George frowned. “I bought it. From the table outside.”
Jonathon let out a sigh of disappointment. “It was never outside. It wasn’t even on the list on that clipboard. That was a new variety she’d only recently come up with. You took a jar in case you were seen near the cottage. There was no way you could have known that it would only serve to prove you went inside. And that’s not the only evidence the police have.”
George’s face was like ash, and Jonathon’s heart sank. I hate being right. What made his stomach clench was that he liked George.
“Didn’t you think to wipe the doorknob as you left? The police have a couple of very good prints.” Mike regarded him carefully. “Or maybe you weren’t thinking clearly by that point. Not that it matters now. Once they can place you at the scene, it will all come out. Including… why.”
George stared at them in silence, before nodding. “Oh, well, that’s it, isn’t it? How can I ever have thought for one second that I’d get away with it?” He put his head in his hands. “These last two weeks, I felt like I was going to explode. The effort it took to act normal that night you came here. When you’d gone, I had the worst migraine ever.” He shuddered. “Thank God. Now I can breathe.”
Jonathon couldn’t believe how quickly George had caved. Then he reasoned that the pressure had to have been enormous.
George straightened and looked Mike in the eye. “You’re right, of course. I never thought about prints. I mean, it’s not as if I went there to kill her. I never meant for this to happen. And when it was all over, all I could think about was getting out of there.” He bowed his head. “All I wanted from her was the truth,” he said softly.
“About what?” Mike’s tone was almost gentle.
George jerked his head up. “I just wanted to know why she killed my twin brother!”
Chapter Twenty-Six
JONATHON STARED at George, his mind still trying to process that statement.
Mike appeared to recover more quickly. “Okay,” he said dazedly. “I think you’d better start at the beginning.”
George barked out a nervous laugh. “I still can’t believe she was right here, in Merrychurch. I mean, of all the places to end up…. And I wouldn’t have known it was her for certain if it hadn’t been for your bonfire party.” His gaze flickered to the drinks cabinet. “Do you think…?”
Jonathon got up and went over to it. “In the circumstances? Yes, I think we could all do with a drink.” He pulled down the flap, chose three glasses, and poured a small measure of brandy into each. Jonathon handed the glasses to Mike and George, then retook his seat.
George took a sip and shivered.
Jonathon regarded him thoughtfully. “When I asked you the other day if you were an only child, your answer puzzled me at the time. You said, ‘Yeah, there’s just me now.’ Is that what you meant? That you had a twin?”
“Not exactly.” George took another sip and sighed. “I really do need to start at the beginning, which for the purposes of this story, is when I was twenty-eight. Back then, I was working for the council and living in a flat in Nottingham, not that far from my parents. I had a sister, Marie, but… I’d grown up hardly ever seeing her. She’d been diagnosed with a severe mental disorder years before, and when it got too much to take care of her, Mum and Dad found this great place. She was well looked after, honestly, and it really was the best place for her.”
Jonathon waited, sipping his brandy.
“Anyway, some of the guys from work decided to go on holiday to Spain and asked if I’d like to join them. I loved the idea because I’d never been abroad. Of course, I needed a passport, so I went to see my parents for my birth certificate. Funny thing, that. I’d had no need of it until then. Except when I asked them, they weren’t happy. I soon found out why.” George took another drink before continuing. “They weren’t my parents at all. They were my grandparents, and my sister in that home? She was my mother. It turned out her mental health issues were related to drugs she’d used in her teens and early twenties. Then I got the whole story. How she’d run away from home when she was fourteen, when she discovered she was pregnant. How she’d move
d into what they called ‘student accommodation’ but what sounded more like a squat. How she gave birth to me. That was when my grandparents stepped in. No way would they let her bring up a child, of course. But they couldn’t bear the thought of giving me up for adoption, so they decided to bring me up themselves and tell me Marie was my sister.”
“That sounds like a very traumatic discovery,” Mike said quietly. “Basically, your whole life was turned upside down.”
George nodded. “Of course, once I knew the truth, I had to see her. It was so weird, sitting with this forty-two-year-old… stranger I’d always thought of as my sister, and suddenly everything had changed.”
“Was she pleased you knew the truth?”
George studied his glass. “It was hard to tell. Most of the time, what she said didn’t make much sense. But there were a few things that kept recurring. She talked about the young midwife, Jane, who turned up to deliver me. Kept talking about being Mr. Spock’s understudy, and of course, that sounded like sheer nonsense. Something else about fireworks. But then there was this one day when she looked me in the eye and said in a voice that turned my blood to ice, ‘Look at me. That nurse ruined my life. I’ve never been the same since she killed my baby.’”
Jonathon leaned forward. “Could that have been her illness talking, do you think? Could she have imagined it?”
“That’s what I thought, to be honest,” George admitted, “but it was a story she kept repeating. What it boiled down to was this. Mum wasn’t exactly in a good place the night I was born. She’d… taken something. To put it bluntly, I think she was off her head. My grandparents think she didn’t even know she was going into labor, which sounds amazing, but you hear similar stories all the time, don’t you? But… she swore she heard two babies crying. Definitely two. Then there was just one. This Jane hands her a baby all wrapped up. One baby.” He shivered, then looked at Jonathon. “And before you ask, the first time I heard that? Yeah, I thought she’d imagined the whole thing.”