Read Online Strictly Murder by Lynda Wilcox - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lynda Wilcox
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like heaven with the gates thrown open." I breathed in deeply, taking in the scents all around me. I waved a hand in the direction of the circular bed. "I'm glad to see you grow the old roses too. Ena Harkness, Josephine Bruce, Peace.”
“ Yes, they're not much grown nowadays,” Plover remarked as we ambled towards the bed. “I'm impressed that you know them.”
Well, impressing an ex-police Superintendent was no bad thing, I thought, as I buried my nose in a particularly fine specimen, inhaling memories as well as the fragrance.
“ My father grew them when I was a little girl. We had a bed similar to this in the front lawn.”
I hastily brushed a speck of pollen from the end of my nose.
“ My wife wants me to grow more modern varieties,” Plover commented somewhat sadly. “I might try a few next year.”
“ I wish I had space and time to grow anything,” I remarked. “Even a window-box would be a luxury at the moment.”
I thought of the four slabs that made up my patio, the only outside area I had. Intending that spring to plant up some tubs so that I had something other than a brick wall to look at from my kitchen window I had, as usual, never got round to it.
“ Coffee's ready.”
As if on cue, Mrs Plover's shout from the French window ended the gardening talk and I followed the ex-Super back across the lawn and into the house.
“ So what did you want to talk to me about?” asked Plover when we were settled either side of the stone fireplace, a small tray with a pot of coffee and a plate of biscuits between us. “You mentioned something about being a writer.”
I explained that I worked for Kathleen Davenport and we were interested in an old case of his.
He nibbled on a chocolate digestive, waving his hand to show I should help myself. I reached for a garibaldi.
“ My wife reads her books. Personally, I'm more into biographies.” He made it sound like a secret vice, like sharing porn magazines behind the bike sheds. “I don't know that I'd be too happy at you writing up one of my cases. Which one is it?”
Briefly, I described how we worked and how the sex, ages and locations would all be changed in the writing.
“ You probably wouldn't recognise it as the same case. If you were to read it, that is.”
“ Hmm, so you do all the researching and leg work, the hard work in other words, and she just does the writing?” He smiled.
I warmed to this man.
“ Something like that,” I admitted.
“ You still haven't told me which case.”
I took a sip of coffee. Now came the hard part. How would this man react to the mention of a case that remained unsolved?
“ It was twenty years ago. The disappearance of a schoolgirl. Charlotte Neal.”
He glanced at me sharply, finishing his coffee and putting the cup back down on the tray before he replied.
“ Not one of our successes. She was never found, you know?”
I nodded.
“ So how much do you know about the case?”
I filled him in with what I had learnt from the Crofterton Gazette, referring now and again to my notebook.
“ It seems incredible that a child could just disappear in broad daylight.” I said when I had finished my recital.
“ Not really. It happens more often than you think. Charlotte left her friend's house between eight o'clock and half past eight at night and you forget the date.”
“ The date? How was that relevant?”
“ July 4 th , 1990. It was during the World Cup and England were playing West Germany in the semi-finals. Every bloke in the country was glued to the damned television. The score was 1-1 and it went to penalties. We lost.”
I wondered if he'd watched the match himself.
“ The only chap we found who didn't claim to have watched the entire match was the other girl's father. What was his name?” He frowned in thought.
“ Hughes,” I supplied. “Roger Hughes.”
“ That was him.”
“ Did you suspect him?”
“ Of what? This wasn't a murder case, Verity." He pulled at his lip as he
“ Yes, they're not much grown nowadays,” Plover remarked as we ambled towards the bed. “I'm impressed that you know them.”
Well, impressing an ex-police Superintendent was no bad thing, I thought, as I buried my nose in a particularly fine specimen, inhaling memories as well as the fragrance.
“ My father grew them when I was a little girl. We had a bed similar to this in the front lawn.”
I hastily brushed a speck of pollen from the end of my nose.
“ My wife wants me to grow more modern varieties,” Plover commented somewhat sadly. “I might try a few next year.”
“ I wish I had space and time to grow anything,” I remarked. “Even a window-box would be a luxury at the moment.”
I thought of the four slabs that made up my patio, the only outside area I had. Intending that spring to plant up some tubs so that I had something other than a brick wall to look at from my kitchen window I had, as usual, never got round to it.
“ Coffee's ready.”
As if on cue, Mrs Plover's shout from the French window ended the gardening talk and I followed the ex-Super back across the lawn and into the house.
“ So what did you want to talk to me about?” asked Plover when we were settled either side of the stone fireplace, a small tray with a pot of coffee and a plate of biscuits between us. “You mentioned something about being a writer.”
I explained that I worked for Kathleen Davenport and we were interested in an old case of his.
He nibbled on a chocolate digestive, waving his hand to show I should help myself. I reached for a garibaldi.
“ My wife reads her books. Personally, I'm more into biographies.” He made it sound like a secret vice, like sharing porn magazines behind the bike sheds. “I don't know that I'd be too happy at you writing up one of my cases. Which one is it?”
Briefly, I described how we worked and how the sex, ages and locations would all be changed in the writing.
“ You probably wouldn't recognise it as the same case. If you were to read it, that is.”
“ Hmm, so you do all the researching and leg work, the hard work in other words, and she just does the writing?” He smiled.
I warmed to this man.
“ Something like that,” I admitted.
“ You still haven't told me which case.”
I took a sip of coffee. Now came the hard part. How would this man react to the mention of a case that remained unsolved?
“ It was twenty years ago. The disappearance of a schoolgirl. Charlotte Neal.”
He glanced at me sharply, finishing his coffee and putting the cup back down on the tray before he replied.
“ Not one of our successes. She was never found, you know?”
I nodded.
“ So how much do you know about the case?”
I filled him in with what I had learnt from the Crofterton Gazette, referring now and again to my notebook.
“ It seems incredible that a child could just disappear in broad daylight.” I said when I had finished my recital.
“ Not really. It happens more often than you think. Charlotte left her friend's house between eight o'clock and half past eight at night and you forget the date.”
“ The date? How was that relevant?”
“ July 4 th , 1990. It was during the World Cup and England were playing West Germany in the semi-finals. Every bloke in the country was glued to the damned television. The score was 1-1 and it went to penalties. We lost.”
I wondered if he'd watched the match himself.
“ The only chap we found who didn't claim to have watched the entire match was the other girl's father. What was his name?” He frowned in thought.
“ Hughes,” I supplied. “Roger Hughes.”
“ That was him.”
“ Did you suspect him?”
“ Of what? This wasn't a murder case, Verity." He pulled at his lip as he
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