Strictly Murder (22 page)

"Verity! You look wonderful."

He kissed me on the cheek.

"Thank you," I replied as he put a hand beneath my elbow and ushered me into the restaurant.

If Jacques was surprised to see me twice in four days and with two different escorts he was far too dignified to show it as he led us to our table.

I slid onto the chair Greg held out for me, shivering nervously as his hands brushed my bare shoulders. His presence had made us the centre of attention, heads had turned when we walked in, 'oohs' and 'ahs' of recognition had accompanied our progress through the restaurant. Jacques whisked my napkin off the table, flicking it out before laying it across my lap. There was the merest hint of a raised eyebrow when he handed me the menu before moving smoothly away.

"So, Verity. What do you like to eat? I hope you're not watching your weight."

"No. Do you think I need to?"

Greg laughed, a harsh bark.

"Not at all. It's just that so many women are."

I wondered how many women he went out with.

"What about you?" I asked. "As a dancer you can hardly pile on the pounds."

"Oh, I go to my gym and work out everyday. Dancing does help to keep the weight down and as long as I don't overdo it on the pasta or potatoes my weight is fairly constant."

"Chocolate is my downfall," I said, scanning the menu quickly to make sure Jacques' famous chocolate mousse still featured. It did. I decided to skip a starter. Unfortunately, Greg went for oysters which meant that, when they arrived a short time later, I had to either watch him lasciviously pouring them down his throat or stare at the occupants of the other tables. I chose the latter option.

"I love seafood," he wiped his lips and chin on his napkin. "it reminds me of my childhood in Naples."

"You were born in Naples?"

"Close to. A small town near there, Pozzuoli. We moved to Naples when I was three. I helped my father with his lobster pots and shellfish." His eyes took on a wistful, far-away look, very likely intended to make me think he was remembering the halcyon days of his Italian youth.

In a pig's ear, you did, I thought. For a start it's pronounced Pots - woe - lea, not Pass-you-oli as he'd said it, and if there were any shellfish still in existence in the pollution rich waters of the Bay of Naples, it wouldn't be long before his father had no customers left alive to eat them.

What an interesting evening this was turning out to be. Twenty minutes in and I'd already caught him out in his first lie. Let's see what else we could unearth of the (literally) fabulous back story of Greg Ferrari.

"So when did you move to England?"

I made my voice casual while turning what I hoped was a suitably rapt gaze upon him.

"I was nineteen. My father had died and my mother decided to start a new life here." He finished the last of Whitby's finest, for which I was inordinately grateful, and signalled to Jacques that he could take the plates away.

"That must have been hard for her."

And totally un-Italian, where families are important and stick together. Still, it tallied with the fact that I had been unable to find out anything about him before the age of twenty. The man seemed to have sprung into life fully formed - like Aphrodite out of Zeus's head, and just as beautiful.

"Yes, but we Ferrari's are nothing if not adventurous."

He smiled at that, wrapped up in the fairy tale he had created for himself.

"What other adventurous things have you done?"

I'd thought it an innocent enough question but, for a moment, a look of sheer panic had flitted across the chiselled features.

"Oh, this and that," he waved a dismissive hand, nearly knocking the empty plates that Jacques was carrying from the table behind us onto the floor. The mâitre d' executed a swerving side step manoeuvre equal to any that Ferrari had ever performed with his deceased co-star and sailed smoothly past.

"Do you ever get home to Italy, Greg?"

"Not as much as I would like. My place now is here. I must tell you, Verity," he leaned confidentially towards me, "I have great hopes for my future."

"I'm not surprised. A man of your talents."

Even to my own ears it sounded the worst kind of oily, insincere flattery but the man lapped it up as if it was no more than his due. Now was the time to use that self-absorption to my own advantage.

"Will you carry on with '
Star Steps'
?"

"Perhaps. If they find me a suitable replacement for the divine JayJay."

"I would imagine female presenters are
queuing
up to star with you, Greg, and there can't be a woman at Silverton unaffected by your looks and charm. You probably have to fight them off."

He appeared to give this outrageous fawning serious consideration for a moment, chin raised, fingers tapping one immaculate cheek bone, before bestowing on me the sort of 'come hither' look that had me crossing my legs and reminding myself that he was my chief suspect for JayJay's murder. Fortunately he shattered the moment with his next words.

"Let's just say I've been able to take my pick of bed-warmers since my arrival at the studios."

Stunned by this monumental piece of arrogance, I missed the moment to ask if this included his co-star when Jacques placed a plate of noisettes of lamb before me and a rare and bloody fillet steak in front of Ferrari and drifted off to fetch the accompaniments - a side salad for me and a plate of chips for my companion.

I ate in peace for a while, enjoying the perfectly cooked meat, so tender that my knife slid through it like butter. I sipped at my wine, Greg's choice - an Italian red too lightweight to properly complement the meat. Still, it was pleasant enough and its low strength meant I stood a better chance of keeping a clear head.

"This is good," Ferrari lifted a slab of steak on his fork.

"So's mine. Well up to the '
Chez Jacques
'
standard."

He nodded but appeared totally uninterested in my culinary opinion.

"I've signed up to do Panto this year, at the Royal Theatre," he suddenly announced, apropos of nothing.

"Oh really? Which one are they doing?"

"Cinderella. I'm playing Buttons." He gulped his wine.

"Have you considered hosting a chat show. You'd be so good at that."

I smiled at him, picking up my glass.

He winked at me. "Well, 's on the cards, Verity."

He slurred the words ever so slightly. Hell's teeth! Was the man pissed, already? On this stuff? I took another sip. Look on the bright side, Verity, I told myself. He might be too drunk to try his luck with me later and my mind was already working on the problem of how to beat a strategic exit. Of course, I might not need to if the man was exhausted after his efforts with Candida that afternoon but I was taking no chances.

"So really then, you could say that poor JayJay's death hasn't harmed your career at all."

"Well, I don't think I'd go so far as to say that."

Would you go so far as to kill her, though, I wondered, as he looked at me mournfully.

"I shall miss her. She was a great artiste."

"I wonder who killed her?"

He shrugged. "Not me," he said and sounded sincere, "though the police seemed to think so. They gave me a right old grilling. I can tell you."

Jacques removed the plates and handed out the dessert menu. I didn't bother looking. I knew what I'd have.

"I suppose they've interviewed everyone at the Studios?" I said.

"Several times. Our producer went and complained to the studio head, as if there was anything he could do about it. For all I know he was on the receiving end of the third degree from Crofterton's finest himself."

I bridled at this disparaging reference to Jerry Farish and his team notwithstanding our quarrel last night but the news that Candida Clark had complained (about what exactly?) was interesting. I wondered if I could make use of it. Probably not.

"What would you like now, Verity?" Ferrari asked on Jacques’ return.

I asked for the chocolate mousse, to which the Frenchman gave a brief, knowing, smile. My companion settled on coffee and an Armagnac. Only once these items had been placed in front of us did Greg consider an infinitely less fascinating topic of conversation than his own life and career - his date for the evening.

"So, Verity, what's it like working as a writer?"

"Very interesting." I kept my reply brief. My mouth was better occupied in enjoying the pure sensual indulgence of Jacques' chocolate creation.

"What are you working on at the moment?"

I think my companion leant towards me but I neither saw nor heard him. For an all too brief moment the world around me faded to insignificance as I gazed at the rich, airy, luscious morsel on the tip of my spoon. Anticipation can be as pleasurable as the fulfilment - but I didn't keep myself waiting long. I almost moaned with delight as the chocolate hit my tongue before filling my mouth and sliding, silkily, luxuriously down my throat. I took another spoonful, And another.

"Mmm?" Had Greg said something?

I placed the last teaspoonful of unalloyed velvety pleasure on my tongue.

"I asked what you were working on just at the moment?"

I licked every last trace of chocolate from the spoon before replacing it, regretfully, on the saucer. That's the problem with Jacques's dessert - it never lasts long enough. With a replete sigh, I finally answered Greg's question.

"Oh, a twenty year old case involving a schoolgirl called Charlotte Neal."

He coughed, spluttering slightly, as if his brandy had gone down the wrong way and the fiery spirit hurt his throat.

"Really?" He managed at last, sounding and looking totally bored by the subject. Discreetly he wiped his eyes and mouth then, with an abrupt change of subject that totally threw me, he said, "I shan't be able to see you home tonight, er, Verity, but I'll get the mâitre d' to order us two taxis, OK?"

I tried to sound disappointed when I answered but actually felt mightily relieved. Being pawed over by the sexually athletic Greg Ferrari would have ruined the memory of an excellent meal. Given the choice, I'd rather remember the chocolate.

Chapter 10

I awoke the next morning aware that I had made what could be a vital connection. While I had slept - my conscious mind and its obsession with the Jaynee Johnson murder put on hold - my subconscious had retrieved the missing fragment, the link, that I'd forgotten; the other Charlotte Neal. Over breakfast of coffee, a bowl of Greek yoghurt and a slice of toast, I read through my interview with Chief Superintendent Plover again. Towards the end I had written, 'two Charlotte Neals, hit and run, up north somewhere', and the word 'coincidence' followed by two question marks. In the case of the two girls it was certainly nothing more than a chance similarity in their names but if KD was right and the attack on me had nothing to do with my sudden curiosity about a dead celebrity, then my interest in a twenty year old case, spoken aloud in what I had assumed was an empty wine bar immediately followed by a near nose dive into traffic… well, that might well be no coincidence at all.