Strictly Murder (19 page)

"Umm?" Jim looked puzzled, his top lip covered with a foam of ale, as he sipped his pint and stared at me over the rim of the glass.

"They weren't in the house when I discovered the body," I went on, "so I wonder where they were. Did the police say anything about them in their press release?"

"No. It didn't mention them."

According to Jim, the statement had said nothing more than what I'd just read in the
Observer.
The police were playing this one very tight to their chests, I thought.

"But you say the handbag and phone are missing?"

"Well, they certainly weren't with her." I played with a strand of hair. "Which is odd, don't you think?"

Jim grinned.

"It's more than odd. It's a lead! Thanks, Ver."

"You're welcome. Are you going to ask your friend Inspector Farish about it?"

I made my voice sound as innocent as possible to hide the malicious intent behind the question. If I could make things hot for that two-faced Lothario, so much the better.

"He's not exactly my friend but, yes, I think I might. I'll also have a word with our Women's Editor. There could be a feature in it as well as a news item. Well! This has been a very profitable meeting."

I smiled, more at his eager tone that in agreement. Personally, I had the horrible feeling that I had lost far more than I'd gained.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I demanded, storming into the office the next morning.

"Hmm?" KD looked up from her keyboard.

"Why didn't you warn me?" I snapped.

"Do I detect a note of asperity in your tone this morning, Verity, dear?"

She peered at me over the top of the glasses perched on the end of her nose.

"No. Not at all."

I threw my bag onto the desk where it fell sideways, spilling the contents over the carpet. "Oh, bugger!"

"I see I do," I heard KD murmur as I scrabbled about on the floor.

"Well, good morning, Verity. About what, exactly, have I omitted to tell or warn you?"

Hell's teeth, but she could be very particular in her speech at times.

"You never told me that I would be the police's prime suspect for the murder of Jaynee Johnson." I sat back on my haunches, picking up a lipstick and comb and dropping them into my bag.

"Nonsense! Of course you're not."

"The person who finds the body is more likely to have killed them, statistically speaking, than …"

"Statistics, pfui!" KD put a hand in the air and snapped her fingers. "Statistically speaking, I could make a very good case for you becoming the next Archbishop of Canterbury. You are forgetting motive, means and opportunity. None of which you have."

"Oh."

"Yes. 'Oh', indeed. Who on earth has been filling your head with this rubbish?"

"Jim Hamilton. You remember, my friend the crime reporter."

"He's hardly a friend, Verity, to upset and worry you like this." KD pointed out, softly.

I shrugged. I had rather taken Jim's word for things. It had all sounded so very plausible yesterday morning. So, maybe no ulterior motive existed behind Jerry taking me out for dinner, after all. I would still be on my guard, though, when next I heard from Inspector Farish.

"Besides, it's nearly a week since the discovery of JayJay," KD added. "The police would have questioned you far more often and more closely than they have done in that time if you were their chief suspect."

"Really?" My voice was eager.

"Yes, really. So relax. In half an hour I have to leave for an appointment at Mariner Productions."

"Who?"

"They are a TV production company. I'm opening negotiations with them to bring Agnes Merryweather to the small screen and have a meeting scheduled with their CEO, Kenny Cameron, this afternoon. You might also learn something that helps your investigation into JayJay's murder. So, you're coming with me."

Mariner Productions occupied an imposing suite of modern, prestige offices in Middleton Street on the eastern side of Crofterton. By the time we arrived I had left several fingernails embedded in the roof of KD's large saloon car. Her driving, erratic at best and made worse by her nervousness of the forthcoming interview, had left me in dire need of a ladies’ room.

I attended to this need while she announced her arrival to the receptionist.

The waiting area at the top of the dog-legged open tread stairs was deeply carpeted in soft shades of blue, the colour enhanced by the darker azure upholstery of the chairs. A huge painted mural on the facing wall depicted a lively, underwater scene where bright hued fish darted and flittered through pale green fronds, while orange sea anemones clung to jagged coral fingers rising from the sea bed beneath. The potted ferns in gravel filled tubs standing like sentinels either side of Kenny Cameron's door all added to the watery effect giving me the overwhelming sense of having stepped inside an aquarium. Even Cameron's PA had entered into the spirit of things. Dressed in diaphanous folds of aquamarine with a self-coloured scarf fluttering around her neck and shoulders, she looked for all the world like some modern day water nymph.

"I'm sorry to keep you, Mrs Davenport. Mr Cameron's got Mr Nafti with him at the moment. He arrived from Athens this morning."

"That's quite all right." KD graciously inclined her head.

"May I get you some coffee whilst you are waiting?"

We declined her offer and she drifted effortlessly away.

"Who's Mr Nafti?" I asked when she had gone.

"He owns the company. Greek. Has his own island somewhere in the Aegean."

I made the connection. Of course! Nafti is Greek for sailor - hence Mariner Productions and the watery theme of its rooms.

Kenneth Cameron's door opened.

"Mrs Davenport." He advanced, hand outstretched, as KD rose. "May I introduce Vasos Nafti?" He moved aside to reveal a swarthy faced man with dark curly hair and a big nose.

"Yassou. Yassou." The man from Athens shook both our hands.

"Please, come in," Cameron indicated the open door.

"It's a real pleasure to meet you, Mrs Davenport. Mrs Nafti reads all your books."

Why was it always the wives, I wondered. I've never yet met a man who admitted that he read any detective stories, let alone KD's contribution to the genre. And what must it be like to read tales set in the supposedly quiet, leafy greenness of the English countryside from a dry, sun kissed island in the eastern Mediterranean? Maybe it seemed as exotic to them as their location was to us.

"We are very excited about our collaboration, is that not so, Kenny?"

Nafti turned to the younger man who smiled in response.

"Indeed. It will be a new horizon for us whilst still retaining the core values of Mariner Productions."

My heart sank. I loathe marketing speak with its abuse and distortion of the language. Verbose and platitudinous, in my opinion all practitioners of this art of stating the blindingly obvious should be lined up against a wall and shot. KD clearly felt the same; disappointment flickered in her eyes at his words.

"And what might those be?"

"A commitment to quality," he began.

Yes, well, he would hardly say the company was committed to producing shoddy work now, would he? Any minute now he would use the word synergy.

"Using viable opportunities for synergy with our collaborators, stakeholders and facilitators."

"Stop right there!" KD held up a hand. "I am not a marketing symposium for you to address, Mr Cameron. I would much prefer it if we continued this conversation in English. I am sure you will agree."

A smile flitted across Nafti's dark features, watching while his employee struggled for a moment - perhaps with the concept of English - before replying.

"As you wish, Mrs Davenport. I think your concept …erm, idea of adapting the Agnes Merryweather books is an excellent one. We would envisa …" he caught the look KD threw him and corrected himself. Changing tack, he went on. "How many books have you written? In the Merryweather series, that is?"

"Twelve," said KD. "Were you thinking of using them all?"

I could hear the sound of cash registers ringing in KD's head.

"Not initially, no. I thought six to start with, to whet the viewer's appetite as it were, and then, going forward, the er …" he gave an apologetic smile, "the remainder after that."

KD nodded.

"I see. Well, you know your business best, I'm sure. The Agnes Merryweather books are massively popular—they sell in their millions, you know—we must hope that translates into viewing figures."

She smiled sweetly. Now I could see pound signs reflecting through Kenny Cameron's eyes pale, almost colourless eyes.

"Who will you get to adapt them?"

He mentioned a name I'd never heard of though KD appeared to recognise it.

"Good. I must insist on seeing the scripts first though. Some of the more recent adaptions of the great AC's work have been appalling, an absolute travesty." She chopped the air with an emphatic hand. Cameron merely looked blank at this mention of the doyenne of crime writing.

"Agatha Christie," I supplied, speaking for the first time.

"Quite so," said KD.

She had been particularly incensed by two episodes in the last Miss Marple TV series where a pair of lovers had lost a gender and become lesbians and a troupe of players, that featured not at all in the original book, had been invented and shoe horned into the plot for the sole purpose of giving a so-called comedienne a leading role.

"What about casting?" demanded KD. "Will I get a say in that?"

"I'm sure our casting director would take your suggestions on board."

"Good," she ignored his momentary relapse. "Only, I quite fancy Barbara Flynn in the lead role."

"Hmm."

The sandy haired Cameron considered this for a moment. If he says I can see where you're coming from, she'll hit him, I thought, relishing the prospect. Unfortunately, my pugilistic hopes were not to be realised.

"Well, we shall certainly consider that."

"Do you have any idea of when the project is likely to start?"