9 #3
‘Oh, so you’re back from the wilds of Hayling Island then?’ Freida’s voice said perkily in her ear. ‘Weren’t you supposed to call me and let me know? Or did I just imagine that you’d agreed to keep us updated?’
Lyssa sighed theatrically. ‘Hello, Freida. Yes, I’m back and I’m fine – I just forget to check in. Happy now?’
‘Blissfully,’ Freida said, and hung up.
Lyssa grinned at her now dead phone. ‘Idiot,’ she said fondly.
Once her notes had been typed up, she paced a bit, feeling restless.
She knew why, of course. Justin Tillman was due to phone her to say whether he’d had any luck in finding the film footage of Monty’s last night alive, and the fact that he hadn’t yet done so was making her nervous.
And for all she kept telling herself that it was silly to feel as if something had gone wrong, another part of her insisted that it had.
She’d noticed on Justin’s Facebook page that he had posted a photograph of his daughter Chloe showing father and daughter celebrating what looked like her thirtieth birthday party.
Now Lyssa did a quick trawl of social media and discovered that Chloe Tillman hadn’t moved far from the family home – only a matter of ten or so miles to Banbury, another large market town nearby.
But if the news from Justin was bad, and the film lead turned out to be a dead end, there were other avenues open to her when it came to finding out more about the night of Amelia’s death.
She scrolled through her notes until she came to the name of Derek Jameson.
Jameson had been the investigating officer who’d handled Monty’s case.
He too was now deceased, her notes informed her, but his second wife, Alison, now his widow, had been much younger than himself and was still in the land of the living.
This might be a more hopeful and fruitful line of inquiry.
She knew that a lot of retired police officers kept notes and files on the unsolved crimes that niggled away at them, but also liked to keep souvenirs from their most important cases; and surely Amelia Montrose’s case must have been one of the highlights of his career?
It had almost certainly been his most famous.
The chances had to be good that he’d have kept some of the paperwork on it.
And that might well include photographs taken on the night of the party – maybe even some stills from the cine film as well.
It shouldn’t be too difficult to find Alison Jameson, and fingers crossed she’d be willing to check and see if her husband had kept anything relating to the Montrose case in his private papers. And wouldn’t object to letting Lyssa peruse them, if so.
Just then her doorbell chimed and she went to answer the door.
‘Hi,’ Carter said, holding out a Tupperware container in front of him. ‘I’ve made a pear tatin, and if I leave the leftovers in the fridge the gannet also known as Jason Howerd-Pitt will scoff the lot. I know pears are one of your favourites, so . . .’ He wiggled the container at her playfully.
Lyssa beamed at him. ‘You needn’t ask twice,’ she assured him, then, seeing a figure appear over Carter’s shoulder, made a show of snatching it off him and hugging it protectively to her breast. ‘And no shares-ies. It’s all mine! Mine, I tell you.’
‘What is?’ Freida asked, standing on tiptoe and peering over Carter’s shoulder. ‘Ooooo, is that cake?’
‘No, it’s not,’ Lyssa said, half turning around and pretending to mantle it under her arms.
‘Liar,’ Freida yelled. ‘I can smell cake at one hundred metres, you know that. Come on, give!’ She made to snatch it, and Lyssa ducked.
Downstairs in the hall, Neville Rickman paused outside his door, the key half in the lock. He heard Freida’s playful shout echoing down from upstairs and smiled.
‘No way,’ he heard Lyssa teasing her. ‘You wouldn’t like it anyway. It’s not cake, it’s a tatin.’
‘Who cares – just hand it over, girl, or I’ll pulverise you,’ Freida threatened.
‘Ladies, ladies,’ Carter’s laughing voice cut in. ‘There’s plenty for both of you.’
‘Good thing too,’ Freida’s grumbling voice responded. ‘Or there might be another murder done. Lyssa’s this time.’
Carter laughed. ‘I’ve been told I’m a good cook, but I don’t think my culinary efforts warrant homicide.’
‘Oh, don’t mind her,’ Lyssa said. ‘We’ve just got murder on the brain, I suppose. I tell you, I’m beginning to doubt more and more that Amelia’s death was an accident, or suicide either, for that matter. Things just keep getting murkier and murkier on that front.’
‘OK, that does it,’ Carter said firmly. ‘I’m not going anywhere now until you spill the beans.’
‘And I’m not going anywhere until I get a piece of that cake,’ Freida seconded.
Upstairs, Lyssa grinned, and threw open her door to let them in.
But down below, Neville Rickman stood frozen outside his own door. His face, which had at first looked startled at the turn of the conversation going on above him, began to slowly morph into one of anger.
And when he finally completed turning the key in his door and going inside, his expression was downright grim.