by K. C. Wells
“You obviously changed your mind,” Mike remarked.
George sighed heavily. “Yeah, well, when she kept saying the same thing, over and over—that I’d had a twin, and that this midwife had… killed it somehow, whether by accident or on purpose…. Then yes, you start to wonder.”
“You said your twin brother,” Jonathon interjected. “How could you know it was a boy?”
“Just a feeling,” George said with a shrug. Then he gave a nervous laugh. “My grandma told me when I was little, I used to have an imaginary friend. I called him my brother. Kinda spooky, right? Who knows? Maybe I did.” He took another sip of brandy. “Anyway, after a few years of hearing this tale, I decided to see if there was any truth in it. I used my birth certificate to try to locate the cottage hospital in Nottingham where Jane would have worked, but it no longer existed. There was no one of Jane’s description working as a nurse or a midwife in Nottingham—”
“Description?” Jonathon frowned. “How could you know what she looked like?”
George gave him a sheepish glance. “All I had to go on was that story Jane had told my mum, the one about the firework accident that had burnt her ear, and the bit about looking like Mr. Spock’s understudy. It was a long shot, but I reasoned, if I was going to believe her story, I had to believe all of it. Then one day, I found someone who’d known Jane.” A long breath shuddered out of him. “You can imagine how I felt. It was true. Jane was a real person. Only, that meant there was the possibility that the rest of Mum’s story was true too. This lady was a former nurse who’d worked with Jane in the sixties. Then she told me Jane had gone to live in Australia.”
“What did you do?” Jonathon asked.
“Do?” George stared at him incredulously. “There was nothing I could do. That was it, the end of the trail. And a dead end at that.” He paused to draw a breath. “You know the rest. When I took early retirement, I came to live here. That was five years ago.”
“When did you first realize who Naomi was?” Jonathon didn’t doubt his story. He recalled the things Naomi had said at the bonfire party. Only now he was hearing them from George’s point of view. The emotions he must have gone through.
“She didn’t even come on my radar until a couple of years ago. She was just this old lady who lived out in the forest and made all kinds of remedies. But then….” George finished his brandy and placed the glass on the floor. “I’m not sure where I was at the time. I only remember overhearing the story of how she’d delivered a baby like it was nothing. So she delivered a baby. So what? But when I got to hear the story from different points of view, I heard that she’d told Mrs. Barton it wasn’t the first baby she’d delivered.”
Mike regarded him closely. “That wasn’t enough to connect her to Jane, was it?”
George shook his head. “No. I thought it was a coincidence. I mean, as far as I knew, Jane was living in Australia. No, this was just a story—until the night of the bonfire party.”
“You said you’d been trying to talk to me, but there was always a crowd,” Jonathon said. “And that you were there when the mayor was with me. That meant you heard everything Naomi said.”
“Yeah.” The word came out like a sigh. “You want to know the first thing I noticed? Her speech. It was like being a kid again, back in Nottingham. I hadn’t heard anyone say ay-up mi-duck in years. And jammy sod. My grandma used to say that to me. But Naomi didn’t sound like she was from Nottingham. Then I learned why. Thirty years of living in Australia.” He shivered. “I tell you, I went cold all over. It couldn’t be her—could it? The name was different, for one thing. That meant nothing, of course. Anyone can change their name, right? And then she put all my doubts to bed.”
Jonathon nodded. “When she showed us her ear, told us how it happened—and about how she used to tell people she was Mr. Spock’s understudy.”
“I watched her walk away, and all I could think of was that I’d come to Merrychurch for a reason—to be an instrument of justice.”
“What do you mean—that you were going to kill her for killing your twin?” Mike’s voice hardened. “Something you had no proof that she’d even done?”
“No!” George’s eyes were wild. “Like I said, I never meant to kill her. I only wanted her to admit the truth—and then I’d see her brought to justice.”
“Tell us what happened,” Jonathon said gently.
George leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “I went out that morning with the intention of confronting her and finally finding out what happened. When I got near the cottage, there was no one around, so I tied up Max to the table leg and knocked on the door. After a minute, she answered. I told her I needed to speak to her about something really important, and then I said, ‘Of course, I really need to be saying all this to Jane.’ She stared at me for a minute, but then let me in.” George sat up. “I didn’t bother wasting time. I told her who I was. How I knew who she was. She didn’t say anything—like she could deny it—but then I just blurted it out. ‘Why did you kill my twin?’ She gaped at me like I’d gone mad. I told her not to bother denying that there were two babies born that night. That my mum had heard them.”
“How did she react?” Mike asked in a calm voice.
“She stood there in front of the fire and told me that Mum was mistaken. There had only been me. But there was something about her that told me she was lying. This look of panic in her eyes. I told her that I didn’t believe her and that I was going to the authorities to tell them everything. I was going to get her charged with manslaughter or murder. Then she changed her tune. She said okay, okay, so yeah, there was another baby, my twin—and then she looked me in the eye and said, ‘But your twin is out there somewhere.’ That was when I lost it.” George covered his face with his hands.
Max got up from his place by the fire, wandered over to where George sat, and pushed his nose against George’s knee with a soft woof.
“George? What did you do?” Jonathon had never felt so torn. He hadn’t wanted George to be the killer, but now that he knew the truth….
Gently, George lowered his hands. “I saw red, that’s what. I saw this person who’d destroyed my mum’s life, who’d lied to me, who was still lying to save her own scrawny neck. I called her a lying bitch and I pushed her, hard.” He gazed at his hands. “I always thought I had small hands for a bloke. I never thought they’d be strong enough to exert that much force. She went flying backward like she was nothing, and smashed her head into the fireplace. I stood over her as she lay there, not moving, and… that was when I panicked. I grabbed a jar of jam from the table and ran out of there. I didn’t see a soul. By the time I got home, I went straight to the bathroom and threw up.” He looked down at Max and smiled. “You trying to help me? It’s a bit late for that, fella.”
“What makes you think she was lying when she said your twin is still out there?” Jonathon wanted to know.
“It was just so obvious. If that were true, then why lie in the first place and say there was no baby? No, she thought if she convinced me I had a twin, I wouldn’t take it any further. That panic I saw in her? That told me the truth.”
The doorbell rang, and Mike held up his hands. “I’ll get that. It’s probably Constable Billings.”
George sighed. “Yeah. That’s okay.” He gave Mike a shaky smile. “It’s not like I’m gonna run off, am I? I’ve already told you two everything. Now I get to make it official.”
Mike patted his shoulder and left the room. Seconds later came the low murmur of voices.
Jonathon couldn’t stay quiet a moment longer. “Okay, I understand why you did it. I really do. I don’t know how I would have reacted in your shoes. What I don’t get is the whole ginger roots business.”
George frowned. “What ginger roots? What are you talking about?” The door opened and Graham entered, with Mike following behind. George got to his feet. “Constable Billings. It’s okay. I know why you’re here. Ready when you are.” He held out his arms, the wri
sts together.
Graham blinked. “Er… I don’t think there’s any need for cuffs. If you’d just get your coat, I’ll take you down to the station.”
“Okay.” George turned to Jonathon. “Can I ask you a favor? Can you take care of Max for me? I’d ask Melinda, but Max would have Jinx for breakfast.”
“Sure, I’ll find someone to look after him.” Jonathon’s mind was in a whirl. Something didn’t add up here. He followed them into the tiny hallway.
Graham waited while George put on a jacket. “I owe you, mate,” he said quietly to Mike. “You too,” he added, with a nod to Jonathon. “I’ll be in the pub later.” And with that, he escorted George out of the house to where a police car waited at the edge of the village green.
Mike heaved a sigh of relief. “Well, I didn’t expect any of that when we arrived here.” He peered at Jonathon. “You’ve gone very quiet. Was that something of an anticlimax?”
“Just a feeling I can’t seem to shake.” And a growing suspicion that Jonathon didn’t like one bit.
“What kind of feeling?”
Jonathon met his concerned gaze. “I don’t think George did it.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
MIKE STARED at him. “But… he just told you he did it. You heard him admit it.”
Jonathon shook his head haltingly. “We heard him admit to pushing her so she fell and smashed her head against the fireplace. But that wasn’t what killed her, was it? He said nothing of strangling her. And a moment ago I mentioned the ginger roots. Mike, I swear he didn’t have a clue what I was talking about.”
Mike chuckled. “Listen to us.”
“What?” Jonathon didn’t think they’d said anything that strange.
“Anyone hearing this conversation would find it hard to believe that I’m the ex-cop, and you’re the amateur,” he said, air-quoting.
“You’re obviously a good example to follow. And what if I’m right? What if he didn’t do it?” Only, Jonathon thought there was no what-if about it.
“Well, you can’t go charging down to the police station and tell DI Mablethorpe they’ve got the wrong man. Let them come to that conclusion for themselves.”
Jonathon’s stomach clenched. “But… we can’t leave him there.” When Mike gazed at him levelly, he sighed. “You’re right, of course. Once they talk to him, they’ve got to see he didn’t do it.”
A soft whine reached his ears, and Max walked into the hallway, peering about him.
Mike reached down and stroked him behind the ears. “He’s not here, boy,” he said softly. Then he straightened and looked at Jonathon. “What are you going to do with Max?”
“He can’t come to the manor. Janet would kill me.” A lightbulb went on in his head. “But I know who might take him. Sue. She’s got Sherlock, right? So she’s used to big dogs. And they might get along. It would be a solution until they let George go.”
Mike smiled. “You’re certain that’s going to happen, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Once they realize he didn’t strangle her, they’ll know they’ve got the wrong man.” The more Jonathon thought about it, the more convinced he became.
“A man who has admitted to causing her harm. They’ll charge him, y’know.” Mike sighed again. “You do know what we’re suggesting, don’t you? That after George left, someone else turned up and finished the job? What are the odds on that? And what will the police make of that theory?”
Jonathon walked back into the living room, Max at his side. “I know how it sounds, but think about it. The residue on her neck. Why would George have leather treatment in his house? He doesn’t drive, for one thing. Not if he’s a narcoleptic. And it’s not as if he’d use it around the home.” He flung out his arm. “I mean, do you see any leather in here?” The couches and chairs were covered in a worn brown fabric. “Plus there’s the bit about the knife. No mention of her going for him with a chopping knife, was there?”
“Okay. Let’s say you’re right. And I admit, it’s looking that way. So who did it? Who stopped by and took advantage of the fact that she was in a bad way? Maybe George knocked her unconscious. He thinks she’s dead and runs. But she comes round. She’s groggy, with a head wound. And then someone else walks in and—”
“And strangles her, before stuffing her mouth full of ginger roots. Only, our killer wore gloves.” Max whined, and Jonathon gave him a sympathetic glance. “Go on. Call Sue and see if she’ll take him. Then we can go back to the pub and get something to eat. I’m starving.”
Mike chuckled. “I did promise you macaroni and cheese, didn’t I? Sure.” He paused. “You know, word will get around about this.”
Jonathon nodded. “And the only people who know George isn’t the killer will be us, the police—and the murderer.”
And now he was more determined than ever to get to the bottom of it.
LUNCH WAS over, and the pub was closed until six. Jonathon was glad of the respite. A little peace and quiet was exactly what they needed after the day they’d had so far. First Grant, then George….
Mike brought coffee into the bar where they were sitting, and Jonathon beamed. “Just what I need. I’ve had enough drama for one day.” Then his phone warbled, and one glance at the screen told him he’d spoken too soon. “Oh hell.”
“That can only mean one thing. It’s your father.”
It wasn’t a question.
Jonathon sighed heavily before connecting the call. “Good afternoon, Father. To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”
“I thought I’d made myself clear,” his father began in his usual abrupt manner, “but apparently I need to repeat myself. All this running around the village, questioning people… it has got to stop. For the last time, Jonathon, you are not a detective. Leave it to the professionals, is that clear? Although I suppose my admonishment is akin to closing the barn door after the horse has bolted, seeing as they now have a suspect in custody. At least that puts paid to any future ‘investigations.’ And as a former detective, Mike should know better than to let you get involved like this.”
For a moment Jonathon was too stunned to reply. Then he found his voice. “Father, how did you find out that I’ve been asking questions? And about the suspect?”
“Brent called me, if you must know.”
A suspicion began to form. “When, exactly, did he call?”
“About an hour ago.” There was a pause. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh, I just find it interesting that he should be the one to call you, when the evidence against him is looking more and more damning.”
“Brent? A murderer?” A loud, explosive snort filled his ears. “The man’s an MP, for Christ’s sake. He has the ear of the prime minister.”
“An MP whose initials are on a list of people who were being blackmailed by the deceased. Who was seen near the crime scene that morning. Who wears gloves. Who drives a car that had been recently valeted using a leather treatment of which traces were found on the victim.”
Another pause. “All circumstantial.” But the fire had died in his father’s voice. “Doesn’t prove anything.”
“Maybe, maybe not. But let me put it another way. The police have got the wrong man, but that’s not common knowledge. And then a prominent MP calls a High Court judge, basically to get him to warn his son off, an hour after the police arrest someone. Does that suggest to you that the MP might be afraid of something?”
This time the silence was deafening. After a moment, his father cleared his throat. “I think, in those circumstances, you have enough evidence to present to the proper authorities. And I advise you to do just that. Let the police handle it.”
“I think that’s a good idea. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have things to do. Enjoy the rest of your day.” Jonathon disconnected before his father could move on to other subjects.
Mike folded his arms. “Seriously? He tried to get your father to tell you to back off?”
Jonathon picked up his mug. “You know what? I thi
nk it’s time we paid Mr. Brent a visit.”
Mike laughed. “Okay, so George admitted everything, I’ll give you that. But don’t think for one minute that you’re going to confront Brent with our evidence and he’s going to confess too. Especially if he knows the police have someone for this. The man’s a politician.”
“Which means what?”
Mike grinned. “Which means, he’s a slippery customer.”
“I just want to rattle him,” Jonathon admitted. “Plus, I don’t want him to think that all he has to do is go running to my father and I’ll back down like a good little boy.” He set his jaw. That really pissed him off.
“Finish your coffee, then, and we’ll go see him.” Mike drained his own mug. “This is going to be interesting.”
“In what way?”
Mike grinned again. “In a David-versus-Goliath kind of way. The skinny, five-feet-six amateur detective meets the dashing, rising-star politician who, up until a few days ago, made him speechless with lust.”
Jonathon gaped at him. “I was not speechless.”
“Mm-hmm. Well, just check your chin for drool before we go in there.” Mike smirked before taking his mug into the kitchen.
“So what if he’s gorgeous?” Jonathon called out after him. “That doesn’t mean he can get away with murder.” Except he knew his father was right. All their evidence was circumstantial.
They needed something more.
MIKE PARKED the 4x4 in front of Brent’s house. “Very pretty.”
Jonathon agreed. The thatch on the roof had recently been redone, and the gardens in front were immaculate. In spite of the weather, however, the windows were open. “It must be freezing in there.”
They got out, strolled up the tidy little path that led to the front door, and knocked. From inside came raised voices.
“I don’t care what it isn’t, just find out what’s causing it.” The door was flung open and Josh Brent stood there, his hair slightly unkempt, his red tie loosened from around the neck of his white shirt, his dark blue suit elegant and expensive-looking. He blinked. “Something I can do for you? Only, now is not the best time. I’ve returned home to find my brand-new boiler has gone on the fritz and every radiator in the house is scalding hot. We can’t seem to bring the temperature down.”