14 #2
‘Oh?’ Lyssa said, becoming tense. ‘Did he know which band member was gone the longest?’
‘Oh aye – the drummer for one, and the one who played lead guitar.’
Lyssa nodded casually. ‘Ron Joiner – or Racey as he was popularly known, and Micky Ventriss. Did Derek question them, do you know?’
‘Oh aye – he or some of his men questioned everyone at the party. The drummer and guitarist said they were in the conservatory, getting pie-eyed on brandy and probably something less legal. My Derek said the place stank of weed and not the kind that your ordinary gardener might dig out of the lawns, if ye get mae drift.’
Lyssa grinned. ‘The 60s,’ she said.
‘Aye, the 60s,’ Alison said with a fond smile. ‘I hope I’ve been of help to ye?’
‘Yes, you’ve been wonderful. And is it all right to use any of the images you’ve sent me in the book? Photographs and diary entries if there are any – that type of thing?’
‘Oh aye, go right ahead,’ Alison said, waving a claw-like hand vaguely in the air around her.
‘You wouldn’t mind signing a waiver to say as much if I email it to your nephew? And send it back to me? It’s nothing to worry about – it’s just a standard document, giving your permission.’
‘Sure, just send it right on over. So long as I can get a copy of the book once it’s written, that’s all that I want to be sure of.’
‘I’ll send you some signed copies,’ Lyssa promised. ‘Will four do you?’
‘That’ll be nice – I can pass them round the family. To see my Derek’s name in print in a book – he’d ha’ been right chuffed about it.’
After the usual round of goodbyes, Lyssa ended the call and instantly downloaded the new information. Once she’d finished transcribing her notes, she would have to go through it meticulously.
The fact that the police officer on the scene and tasked with investigating the case wasn’t entirely happy with the official outcome was probably going to be the pivotal fact of the book, and she needed to make very sure of her ground before letting anyone know what a bombshell she had.
And that included her client.
But an hour later, Lyssa had barely started looking through the pages and pages of Derek Jameson’s handwritten notes before her phone pinged again, telling her she had a message on Facebook.
She almost ignored it, but habit made her check it anyway. And she was glad she did, as it was from the president of a farmers’ association about her request for information on Caroline, the orphaned niece of the band’s manager, Luke Raines.
The message was cautiously worded and asked for more information, and Lyssa was careful to be totally candid about who she was, and why she was seeking out Caroline. The woman said she would contact her again in a few minutes, and Lyssa promised to wait.
She knew what the other woman was doing, of course.
She was googling her to see if she existed – and if she did, that she was who she said she was.
Nowadays, people were beginning (perhaps a little late in the day) to seriously question the safety and security of online messages.
Especially given the reluctance of the giant corporations’ obscenely wealthy owners to stand up and actually take responsibility for the misuse on their platforms.
Ten minutes later though, the message icon lit up again, and a much warmer message appeared saying that Caroline was now a resident in a care home in Woodstock.
For a moment, Lyssa could only gape at the information in surprise, for Woodstock – the pretty market town that was the home of Blenheim Palace – was situated only about ten miles or so away from Oxford.
Thanking the woman farmer profusely for her help, Lyssa signed off, and googled the name of the care home mentioned – discovering photographs of a pleasant large country house, now divided into sets of ‘assisted living’ flatlets.
She immediately phoned the number given and asked about the protocol for visiting non-family members. The woman on the line promised to approach Caroline with her request for a visit and would let her know.
The whole conversation gave her a distinct sense of déjà vu!
And if her experience of trying to get to speak to Emily Bannister in her care home was anything to go by, Lyssa wouldn’t be holding her breath.
She still hadn’t heard back from them and strongly suspected that Emily had told them she didn’t want to be disturbed.
And if they still stonewalled her, she’d have to give serious consideration to just turning up.
She didn’t like doing things like that, but very often people were flattered if you went out of your way to speak to them, and Emily Bannister might well change her mind, if the carers told her she was actually on the premises.
But all that would have to wait for another day.
Right now, she had more to do than she could cope with.
She was hoping that Jack Flynn, Deborah Simmonds’ relative, would get back to her soon, plus she now had the Jameson papers to look through, as well as editing the Jonas Bannister interview for the choicest titbits.
And her interview with Jason’s Aunt Edna was scheduled for early next week.
Maybe it was her imagination, but she felt as if the whole project had just stepped up a massive gear, and that she might lose control of it.
Jonas Bannister had yet to send her any photographs of Glen Bannister and his brothers, so she’d have to keep on trying to find them from another source.
She was determined to see if any of them bore a strong family resemblance to the lead singer and then to email copies to Janet Connor.
If she could identify the man Deborah Simmonds had argued with at Monty’s funeral, she might stand a chance of finding out what that was all about.
With a sigh, she tried to get back to work, but she was feeling paradoxically both restless and lethargic.
Inevitably, her job consisted primarily of research, reading and writing – all of which were sedentary – and sometimes she felt as if she was in danger of becoming as dry and dusty as some of the tomes that lined her bookshelves.
Her eyes felt gritty with staring at a computer screen, and it was time to get out.
Once in her jogging togs, she loaded the audio file of her interview with Jonas to her device (so that she wouldn’t feel so guilty about taking time out from her work) and to the sound of their voices, headed out and on to the street.
Downstairs in his flat, Neville saw her leave and watched her pensively but resisted the urge to follow her.
Instead, he stuck to his seat by the front window, carefully watching the passing traffic and pedestrians for anyone or anything out of place.
When he saw Lyssa return less than an hour later, he felt his shoulders relax, and only then realised how tense he’d been.
After fifteen minutes or so of fruitless observation, he went to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of soda and lime but then returned immediately to his vantage point.
Within two minutes, he was picking up the camera that stood ready nearby and began to snap the likeness of a young man who was coming up the steps and then buzzed the intercom.
A young man who was carrying a rather heavy-looking and cumbersome tote bag over one shoulder.
Lyssa growled with annoyance as she was distracted from looking through Derek Jameson’s notes. She’d barely stepped out of the shower after her run and had just resigned herself to getting back down to her paperwork, and then this.
‘Now what?’ she said out loud, as the intercom by her door buzzed.
She went over to it and snapped, ‘Yes?’ into it, rather shortly.
‘Hello? Lyssa Moore?’
‘Yes,’ she admitted cautiously.
‘I’m Dominic Rattle – Nick. Jase’s friend?’
‘Who?’
‘Jase – Jason Howerd-Pitt. He said you’d been having a little, er, difficulty with some things. He said he told you he was going to call me so I could, er, check out some things in your flat for you?’
‘Oh yes, of course, his IT friend. I didn’t realise he’d contacted you already,’ Lyssa said. ‘Hold on a mo!’
She quickly slipped out of her flat and went and banged on Carter’s door, and after what felt like a long while, a hair-tousled, sleepy-eyed Jason opened up and stood looking at her blearily. He looked distinctly green around the gills.
‘Hangover?’ she asked with callous cheerfulness.
‘Have mercy! Whisper, will you?’ he whispered.
‘Nick Rattle’s here. Says he’s the friend you asked to come over and check out that I’m not being bugged and stuff?’
Even as she said it, she felt slightly ashamed – as if she was some clichéd character from a second-rate thriller novel.
‘Oh yeah – yeah, he said he was going to come over this morning. Did I not say?’
‘No, you didn’t,’ Lyssa said more or less affectionately. ‘Not to sound paranoid or anything,’ she continued wryly, ‘but what does he look like, exactly?’
‘Like an angry chipmunk,’ Jason said shortly. ‘Now leave me alone and let me perish in peace. I want freesias, by the way.’
‘Freesias?’ she echoed blankly.
‘For my funeral,’ he said morosely, and very carefully and quietly closed the door.
Lyssa nipped back to her flat and went to the intercom and buzzed her visitor in.
When the doorbell chimed a few minutes later she opened the door and immediately had to bite back a smile – for the man outside did indeed look uncannily like an angry chipmunk.
Small and very slightly built, but with bulging cheeks, he had spiky brown hair, with two blonde stripes in it, and an agitated, jerky manner.