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Authors: James R. Vance
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work against her mother's wishes at the fashion boutique in Winsford, where she became involved with a young assistant manager, Andy Davenport. Diana also confirmed that she was unaware of her daughter's pregnancy and her intended abortion. During their informal chat, Massey became aware of Mrs. Crawford's intense dislike and mistrust of Lara's young man, but despite guiding the discussion in that direction, he was unable to fathom why.
By the end of the journey, Massey, though having a clearer picture of Lara as a person and her recent lifestyle, was no nearer to a motive for her murder. In his mind, the enquiry so far was yielding very little. Neither the interview with Fiona nor the dialogue with Lara's mother cast any light on the possible source of the caustic smell or the metal fragments. Their original thoughts that they could perhaps be attributed to the workplace had most certainly been scotched. Most importantly they were no nearer to the identity of a possible suspect. Was her death merely a random attack on a young defenceless girl?
Before dropping Diana Crawford at her cottage in Moulton, their final duty was to visit the mortuary, where she could formally identify her daughter. Once again, Massey was surprised by the lack of emotion displayed by Lara's mother. Her calm acceptance played on his mind and would continue to occupy his thoughts until an explanation could resolve his dilemma.
*****
A single place setting for breakfast had been laid up on a small table in a side room off the main bar area of the Barleycorn. Jimmy Moran entered from the door marked PRIVATE. There was an eerie stillness in contrast to the noise and disturbance of the previous day's final bank holiday festivities.
A cleaner appeared, resolutely ploughing her furrow through the debris of a busy night's trading. Her downbeat expression conveyed her feelings towards the unenviable task that lay ahead of her. The sight of the smartly dressed, handsome stranger stopped her in her tracks.
“You'd better sit yerself down in there,” she said coughing through the haze of smoke from her well-chewed roll-up. She indicated the small dining area. “I'll give ‘im a shout.”
Moran found the ‘table for one’ and sat alongside the window, giving him a view of the main road and the main area of the pub through the open doorway. It was no deliberate action to choose that position at the table but merely an instinctive impulse through years of self-preservation as a belligerent Republican. After a couple of minutes, Sean, the licensee, appeared in the doorway.
“Sleep well? Sorry about the noise. I forgot about the live music when I checked you in.”
“Not to worry. It was entertaining and I had some reading to be catching up on.”
“Cooked breakfast? Tea or coffee?”
“I'm famished. Give me the works with a pot of strong tea.”
Sean tossed him a morning paper. “Something more to read while you're waiting.” He disappeared to cook his guest's breakfast.
Moran picked up the copy of the Sun newspaper, which carried the headline ‘ TV STAR'S 3 IN A BED ROMP’. However, his eyes were drawn towards a more insignificant headline ‘ MYSTERY BLONDE DUMPED’. He read the article and flicked through the other pages until Sean returned with his cooked breakfast.
“See you've got a local murder hunt in full swing,” he remarked. “That should keep the coppers tied up for some time. It'll make it easier for our little operation to go un-noticed.”
Sean nodded in the realisation that Jimmy Moran had already made up his mind. He accepted the inevitable. “When do you want the rooms?” he asked after placing the ‘full English’ in front of him.
“Jesus, that looks good,” said Moran, admiring the mountain of fried food. He cut open a sausage, stabbed a piece of bacon, dipped both in the yolk of an egg and shovelled the greasy forkful into his mouth. “Start next week,” he muttered through the food. “Keep all eight
By the end of the journey, Massey, though having a clearer picture of Lara as a person and her recent lifestyle, was no nearer to a motive for her murder. In his mind, the enquiry so far was yielding very little. Neither the interview with Fiona nor the dialogue with Lara's mother cast any light on the possible source of the caustic smell or the metal fragments. Their original thoughts that they could perhaps be attributed to the workplace had most certainly been scotched. Most importantly they were no nearer to the identity of a possible suspect. Was her death merely a random attack on a young defenceless girl?
Before dropping Diana Crawford at her cottage in Moulton, their final duty was to visit the mortuary, where she could formally identify her daughter. Once again, Massey was surprised by the lack of emotion displayed by Lara's mother. Her calm acceptance played on his mind and would continue to occupy his thoughts until an explanation could resolve his dilemma.
*****
A single place setting for breakfast had been laid up on a small table in a side room off the main bar area of the Barleycorn. Jimmy Moran entered from the door marked PRIVATE. There was an eerie stillness in contrast to the noise and disturbance of the previous day's final bank holiday festivities.
A cleaner appeared, resolutely ploughing her furrow through the debris of a busy night's trading. Her downbeat expression conveyed her feelings towards the unenviable task that lay ahead of her. The sight of the smartly dressed, handsome stranger stopped her in her tracks.
“You'd better sit yerself down in there,” she said coughing through the haze of smoke from her well-chewed roll-up. She indicated the small dining area. “I'll give ‘im a shout.”
Moran found the ‘table for one’ and sat alongside the window, giving him a view of the main road and the main area of the pub through the open doorway. It was no deliberate action to choose that position at the table but merely an instinctive impulse through years of self-preservation as a belligerent Republican. After a couple of minutes, Sean, the licensee, appeared in the doorway.
“Sleep well? Sorry about the noise. I forgot about the live music when I checked you in.”
“Not to worry. It was entertaining and I had some reading to be catching up on.”
“Cooked breakfast? Tea or coffee?”
“I'm famished. Give me the works with a pot of strong tea.”
Sean tossed him a morning paper. “Something more to read while you're waiting.” He disappeared to cook his guest's breakfast.
Moran picked up the copy of the Sun newspaper, which carried the headline ‘ TV STAR'S 3 IN A BED ROMP’. However, his eyes were drawn towards a more insignificant headline ‘ MYSTERY BLONDE DUMPED’. He read the article and flicked through the other pages until Sean returned with his cooked breakfast.
“See you've got a local murder hunt in full swing,” he remarked. “That should keep the coppers tied up for some time. It'll make it easier for our little operation to go un-noticed.”
Sean nodded in the realisation that Jimmy Moran had already made up his mind. He accepted the inevitable. “When do you want the rooms?” he asked after placing the ‘full English’ in front of him.
“Jesus, that looks good,” said Moran, admiring the mountain of fried food. He cut open a sausage, stabbed a piece of bacon, dipped both in the yolk of an egg and shovelled the greasy forkful into his mouth. “Start next week,” he muttered through the food. “Keep all eight
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