An Appetite For Murder: The Verity Long Mysteries, #9

Chapter 1

Lunchtime! My boss rose from the chair behind her desk. I’ve murdered two people this morning, and that always gives me an appetite.

I was employed not by a homicidal maniac — though sometimes she made me feel like one — but by the world-famous crime-writer, Kathleen Davenport. Her millions of fans, readers and royalties had bought her Bishop Lea, the mock Palladian mansion that was her home and also her office, where I worked as her personal assistant and researcher. My job also involved everything from making appointments and booking hotels, to thrashing out plot points — and she had kept me hard at it that morning.

I was glad of the break, and remembered, just in time, that another part of my job was stroking the writerly ego. I made sure to do the last of these tasks on a regular basis. She paid me an exceedingly good salary.

Nice going, boss.

KD, as she prefers to be called, beamed at me. My editor will be pleased, anyway. She says my readers love the way the bodies pile up. Come on, Verity, there’s smoked salmon and scrambled eggs for lunch and I’ve a half bottle of cava you can help me with.

A sip, no more. Don’t forget that I still have to drive home.

Well, you can at least have something to eat before you go, unless you are in a rush to get off to your other job.

No, that’s okay, I’m in no hurry, and thank you.

As well as working part time for the short, matronly writer, I also worked for my husband, Detective Chief Inspector Jeremy Farish of the Crofterton Police. They, too, employed me as a researcher of sorts, using my skills to take a fresh look at old, unsolved crimes as part of the Cold Case Unit.

I worked from home under my maiden name of Verity Long. Some people might find that odd, but I was very attached to the name I’d borne for thirty-two years before marriage and, besides, Farish is such an unusual name that anyone who knew Jerry would know I was related to him. That might put us both at risk from someone with a criminal mind.

I found my second job fascinating and challenging at the same time and enjoyed it immensely, but I would never willingly give up the interesting and varied work that I did for KD.

Now that the question of lunch was settled, she swished past my desk in a swirl of Indian cotton skirt, and I followed her through to the kitchen, a cavernous place filled with every modern gadget, and cupboards and worktops that seemed to stretch for miles. It would have been ideal for a large and hungry family, and although KD enjoyed her food, it was wasted on her. She didn’t cook very often, and even on the few occasions she entertained, she brought in outside caterers.

As if to prove my point, she said, Will you cook the eggs please, dear, while I get out the salmon and set the table.

I was happy to do so. It didn’t take long; we were soon seated at the large dining table and tucking in. The salmon was first rate and the eggs perfectly cooked, if I do say so myself.

So, which cold case are you going to be working on? she asked.

Well, I haven’t opened the file yet, but it concerns the murder of a restaurant critic, Crompton Carmichael.

Oh, him. KD topped up her glass.

You knew him?

I met him once, several years ago. He also emailed me, until I stopped answering.

Oh? What about?

She dabbed at her lips with a napkin. It wasn’t all that long before you came to work for me. I attended a local literary ‘do’, a wretched affair as I recall, but you know me.

I did indeed. Nobody shunned the limelight as much, or as well, as my boss. Count Dracula was an ardent sun seeker by comparison.

Go on.

He approached me, to give him an introduction to my publisher. It turned out he was a wannabe novelist, but from the piece he later sent me, was better at writing acerbic comments than lyrical prose.

Was he acerbic?

Naturally. All critics are. The clue is in the name.

I ignored the sarcasm and the tetchiness in her voice. KD had received bad reviews in her time.

Well, somebody obviously didn’t like him if he ended up murdered.

That may have had nothing to do with his writing. Just because someone puts pen to paper shouldn’t get them killed. A quick shiver ran through her solid frame. Anyway, this is hardly your usual line, is it? It’s only about three years or so since he was murdered.

I topped up her wine glass. Yes, you could say it’s not so much a cold case as one that has gone off the boil.

She frowned at me, probably considering the levity misplaced. I could, but I won’t. Still, this is right up your street, isn’t it, Verity? Food and restaurants, you’ll be in your element.

Nonsense.

Besides, you have an appetite for murder. Just don’t bite off more than you can chew. You might end up with indigestion.

I changed the subject rapidly. KD is already my boss. I didn’t need her to mother me as well.

"Have you ever read the magazine he wrote for? The Midshires Gourmet?"

I’ve read the occasional copy, she said. It’s not for me. I don’t consider myself a gourmet. I appreciate good food, but that’s not the same thing.

Isn’t it?

She shook her head and pointed her fork at me. I don’t think so. Take a good stew, for example. It is filling and nutritious, even though it may use the cheaper cuts of meat, yet no one would call it gourmet food.

Unless you also called it cassoulet.

Bah! You know as well as I do, that that’s just food snobbery. Anyway, what about those friends of yours? The French brothers who own a bar and restaurant. They’d be the best people to speak to. They might even have known your victim.

Val and Jacques D’Aumbray? Yes, I shall go and see them. I might even persuade Jerry to take me for dinner there.

It could get rather expensive if you decide to eat in every restaurant Crompton Carmichael ever reviewed.

I grinned at her. I’ll have to make sure I solve the case quickly, then.

I have no doubt that you will — and do it in your usual way, by sticking your long nose into other people’s business, asking awkward questions.

"Of course. Isn’t that what Agnes does?

Agnes Merryweather, a Church of England vicar, was KD’s famous and ever-popular sleuth. Her methods were not that dissimilar to my own, although she spent more time praying and baking than I ever did. She’d also solved more cases than I’d had smoked salmon and scrambled egg lunches.

I finished off the remains on my plate, put my cutlery neatly together in the middle, then sat back, replete.

Yes, but Agnes is fiction, said KD, and she doesn’t do half the stupid things that you do. She sighed. At least you have the resources of the police behind you now, and I know the Chief Inspector will protect you, but do take care of yourself while I’m gone.

She had delivered these little homilies so often that I’d almost switched off and nearly missed it.

Eh? Gone where?

KD finished her own lunch, moved the plate to one side and rested her elbows on the table.

I’ve decided to take a holiday.

You have?

This was unusual in itself. Buried in the English countryside, KD was a homebody. Even a trip to London to visit her publisher or agent was something to be borne rather than enjoyed, and her next words took my breath away.

Yes. I’m going to Australia.

Wow, KD. How exciting. It’s a long flight. Are you going to have a stopover and stay somewhere like Singapore en-route?

She looked horrified and her dark fringe swayed as she shook her head. Heavens, no! I’m cruising from Southampton to Fremantle in a little over two week’s time.

Really? How long does it take? How long will you be gone?

About three months in total. A month each way and a month in and around the continent. I’m heading to Perth first, then Melbourne, and Sydney.

Wonderful. My mind filled with pictures of the Sydney Harbour Bridge and Opera House, the outback, and Uluru/Ayers Rock. I thought of Bondi Beach, the Great Barrier Reef, and forests filled with colourful birds, and strange, and probably deadly, creatures.

I am looking forward to it, I think.

"You think? KD, you’ll have a marvellous time. Why haven’t you said anything about it before now?"

She got to her feet, gathering the plates together and moving them to the sink. To be honest, it has been a spur of the moment decision. I’ve had a long-standing invitation to visit friends, as well as fellow writers over there, and I’ve always put it off. It’s a long way to go and I hate flying, but when two of those friends wrote to say they were getting married, I knew I wanted to be there.

So, you’re sailing.

Yes, I don’t mind ships and boats. There’ll be lots to see and do on the voyage, and I’ll have plenty of time to write.

Trust my boss to make it a working holiday, but where did that leave me?

If you’d like to take me with you, I can be packed in minutes.

Ha! And leave that lovely husband of yours behind? You’ve barely been married six months. The Chief Inspector would never forgive me. I shall send you regular postcards — just to make sure you’re staying out of trouble.

Ah, but trouble would find me before she’d even set sail.

* * *

After lunch I went home to Fernbank, a five-bedroomed former rectory that Jerry had inherited from his aunt. Situated on the London Road some two miles from the centre of Crofterton, it is largely hidden from view behind a high stone wall that encircled both house and garden. The frontage could accommodate two cars and there was room for two more along the tarmacked drive at the right-hand side of the house.

Since our marriage six months ago, I had fallen in love with the old house. It badly needed modernising, and we were attacking it piece by piece as finances permitted. Our first priority had been the central heating and the installation of a shower in the otherwise Victorian bathroom. A few rooms had received a lick of paint, and with the help of Josh, a young garden designer, I’d made a start outdoors.

I hung up my coat on the hall-stand, dropped my bag in the dining room that doubles as my office, then walked the length of the hall to the kitchen at the rear. This shabby room with its old oven was top of my list for the next place to be renovated.

I made myself a mug of tea, thinking about KD’s trip, and how much I was going to miss her. It was typical of her ungrudging spirit to continue to pay me in her absence because, as she’d put it, it was no fault of mine that I’d be one job and one income short for three months. It wouldn’t have mattered if we were. Jerry earned a good salary, we had no mortgage to pay, and thanks in large part to her previous generosity, I had more than enough in my savings to see us through the three months she’d be gone.

However, I was jumping the gun. KD hadn’t left yet, and I still had a job to do for Jerry.

Taking my mug of tea with me, I went into the office and sat down. The brown folder that he had left for me that morning stared back at me from the polished table top. I opened it up and began to read.

Crompton Carmichael, aged fifty-four at the time of his death, had been in good health, according to the pathology report.

He had been dead for six or seven hours by the time the doctor saw him, putting the time of death between eleven o’clock and midnight on the previous evening.

Cause of death was a single stab wound to the chest, delivered by a large kitchen knife which was still in situ when he was found. To add insult to the injury, a pork pie had been crammed into his mouth. If that hadn’t been bad enough — and it doesn’t get much worse than murder, I’ll admit — the man who could dine out in the best restaurants in five counties, had been dumped next to an old kebab van in a car park at the back of Shepherd Street.

I made a note on my pad. It was a rundown area of town and not one that I knew well. Although the murder had happened some time ago, it wouldn’t harm to go visit and get an idea of the lie of the land.

Putting the pathology report to one side — I don’t relish the gory details, all I needed to know was how, and if possible when, the victim died — I flicked through the other papers in the folder, pulling out a photograph of the dead man.

Carmichael had been a handsome specimen, with dark crinkly hair that brushed his collar. His nose had been long and straight above fleshy lips that smiled, with the merest hint of a sneer, at the camera. I wondered where the shot had been taken, though it might well have been a publicity photo used with his byline and on social media.

Beneath the photo, on a single sheet of paper, a few biographical details gave me nothing I didn’t already know except for the address of The Midshires Gourmet, the prestigious, expensive, and very glossy publication Carmichael had worked for.

Another note on my pad. Another place to visit.

I sat back with a sigh.

If I had been hoping for details of the original investigation, the suspects and witnesses interviewed, the forensics details, or any clues uncovered, I would have been disappointed. All that information was kept on HOLMES, the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System, which is just a cute acronym for the national police database.

Unfortunately for me, as a civilian I was not allowed direct access to HOLMES, and had to rely on a police liaison officer. I groaned at the thought.

Of all the people to be saddled with in an investigation into the world of restaurant critics and fine dining, I could think of no one worse than the querulous Constable Lansdowne, forever grumbling about his indigestion. Overweight, dieting, and a pie and chips man at heart, Lansdowne was not my idea of the perfect assistant.

Sadly, I had no choice in the matter. Jerry was responsible for the deployment of his staff, including whoever worked with me. Personally, I thought he picked my helpers on the basis of who was most likely to keep me out of trouble. Lansdowne’s dour outlook and unwillingness to actually interview possible suspects certainly squelched my normally gung ho attitude.

Oh, well. He’d be around tomorrow afternoon with the laptop that let him access HOLMES, and until then I could do some basic research and make appointments for forthcoming interviews.

But first, I picked up the photo again and stared at it for the longest time. What sort of person had Crompton Carmichael been? Had he been happy or sad, kind or cruel, fun to be with or a crashing bore? Did he have family, a wife or partner? What had this attractive man done to be the victim of such a murderous assault? And why the pork pie stuffed into his mouth?

By the end of my time on the case I hoped to know the answers to at least some of these questions. For now, though, Carmichael remained an intriguing stranger.

I switched on my laptop and went looking for reports of the murder in the local press. The Crofterton Gazette was, as always, my first port of call.

The edition of 30th August 2009 had really gone to town on its coverage of the murder. Understandable as Carmichael was one of their own, a fellow scribe who’d started in local journalism working for the now defunct Crofterton Clarion. However, apart from a potted biography mentioning his current role for the Midshires Gourmet, the article