Murder Takes the Stage (2 page)

Georgia could hear her heart beating as they waited for the door to open, and she had a sudden impulse to turn and run, in the hope of returning to the grey no-man's-land they had lived in for so many years. Surely that would be better than reaching yet another dead end and facing that inevitable blow of disappointment? Suppose – but Peter thankfully cut short her train of thought.

‘
Que sera, sera,
' he muttered as she heard footsteps approaching the door from inside. He had been a Doris Day fan in his youth, and his singing of her hit song ‘Whatever Will Be, Will Be' had driven both Elena, his now divorced wife, and Georgia crazy over the years. The platitude had irritated her then, but now it seemed a relief.

The door opened, and the die was cast. No turning back now. Christine Reynolds looked about thirty-five – the same age as Rick would have been now. She was fair-haired dulling to brown, looked somewhat harassed and was very obviously pregnant. Practical loose trousers were offset by a jaunty tank top and an overblouse with penguins on it. Georgia rather liked the look of Christine, and her hopes rose.

‘My first baby,' Christine announced with pride. ‘Due in August.' She had explained on the phone that she was a teacher but would be at home that day, where it was easier to talk than at the school.

‘I hope you're not expecting too much,' she continued worriedly as she led them through the house to the rear. Peter's wheelchair only just made it along the passageway, which had obstacles in the form of a table and two chairs. More concern, more reassurance from them.

‘Expecting no, hoping yes,' Georgia replied. ‘It's good of you to see us. We wanted to meet you rather than just talk on the phone. We've waited a long time for any news at all, and it will seem more real this way.'

Last year her mother, Elena, had come over from her home in France and thrown a bombshell at them – or lifeline, whichever way one looked at it. She had learned that a year or so after Rick had disappeared a girl had called at the farm where he had been staying in Brittany to ask if anyone knew where he could be contacted. The farmer could not help, and all he remembered about the girl was that she had lived on or near the Kentish coast. In the slight hope that even all these years later this mysterious girl might be able to provide a fragment of a clue to Rick's disappearance, Peter had advertised in every local newspaper in Kent, not to mention Internet sources.

For months there had been no reply, and he had all but given up. Then something – perhaps Georgia's marriage to Luke at Easter two months ago – had sparked a new hope in him, and Peter had tried one last round of advertisements. And this time Christine Reynolds had replied. She had just returned to Kent to live nearer her father in Broadstairs and had seen the curious advertisement.

Georgia went to help Christine make tea in the kitchen, disciplining herself not to burst out with the questions she longed to ask, until Peter could hear the answers too. But as soon as the tray was put down in the living room, she began nervously:

‘Did you know Rick before Brittany?' Oh, the relief of simply being able to speak about him to anyone other than Luke and Peter.

‘No. I met him there. We were both staying at the same farmhouse. I was backpacking my way round the world on a gap year – I'd just graduated. That's why I didn't know he was missing.' Christine looked worried again. ‘I'd come to Brittany to see the Carnac megaliths, but I was really on my way south. I went to Marseille and on from there, ending up in Australia. I wasn't back for ten months or so, and by then I suppose the publicity about his disappearance had died down. I had no reason to contact Rick – didn't even know his surname, though I remembered he mentioned living in Kent.'

Georgia's hopes plummeted. She had hoped for a brief summer romance, but this had obviously been a much more casual relationship.

Peter wasn't giving up so soon. ‘So what made you call at the farmhouse again?'

‘It was just a whim. I was in Brittany again, a year or so after my return. I was doing a PhD in archaeology, and Rick had some interesting ideas that might have been useful if I could get in touch with him again. I thought he might have left his address in the farmhouse visitors' book.' She caught Georgia's eye. ‘Nothing sexy about it,' she added. ‘I only knew him for a few days, but we got on well – we both wanted to change the world, of course, or failing that just help it along a bit. We'd a lot in common. As well as archaeology we both had a passion for music.'

‘
Music
?' Peter asked, looking as surprised as Georgia felt. ‘What in particular? I know he played the clarinet at one time, but I thought he'd dropped that by the time he reached university. Languages were his forte.'

‘Scarborough Fair' – that was all Georgia could think of. It was Rick's favourite song as a child. Had that led Rick on to something that his family hadn't known about? She felt her stomach lurch at the thought of all the untaken opportunities to know him better. And yet  . . . and yet  . . . she had thought it impossible that anyone, even Peter or Elena, could have known him better than she did.

Christine looked equally astonished. ‘He talked about music all the time. It was his passion, whereas archaeology was only an interest.'

Georgia was still incredulous. The words ‘Are you sure?' came to her lips but she suppressed them. Of course Christine was sure. This was the Rick she had known, albeit probably for only a few days. Rick had had many passions during his short life, most of which he had dropped after a month or two. Perhaps music was one of them and Christine had hit a particular moment when it was top of the list.

‘Mozart was his particular idol,' Christine continued. ‘He talked endlessly about him. That might just have been because of Miss Blondie, of course.'

‘Who was she?' Peter picked up sharply.

Christine looked taken aback. ‘I'd forgotten about her,' she said in astonishment. ‘You've just brought it back to me.'

Thank goodness they had come in person, Georgia rejoiced. The telephone could never have brought this unexpected revelation – if that's what it was. Please  . . . please  . . . let it be, she prayed.

‘I suppose I was very single-minded then,' Christine added apologetically. ‘I was so intent on my PhD, I must have put her to the back of my mind.'

‘Who? What?' Georgia tried to control her excitement, and she could see Peter trying to do the same. Every vein in his hands stood out in tension as he clutched the arms of the wheelchair.

‘He told me –' Christine frowned in concentration – ‘about this girl he'd met the previous week. She'd been staying in Carnac-Plage, the resort part of Carnac. She was a singer – a
real
singer, I understood. That's where the Mozart came in, of course. Rick had stars in his eyes about her. He insisted on showing me a picture of her – well, I might not have been interested in Rick that way, but I was hardly going to be bowled over at another girl's photo, so I didn't take much notice. I began to call her Miss Blondie to tease him. She was fair-haired obviously, and he talked of her as if she was a sort of fairy princess. I had this fellow of my own, so no problem there. Rick used to retort by teasing me about Colin. I'm married to him now, but that summer I was planning to meet him in Cape Town for the great romantic world trip.'

‘Did you meet this princess?' Georgia asked hopefully.

‘No. She'd just left when I met Rick.'

‘Do you remember her name?'

Christine looked doubtful. ‘Pamela, or something like that? No, it was something to do with Mozart—'

‘Pamina?' Peter asked quickly.

‘Could have been. Yes, I think it was.'

Georgia could read the disappointment on Peter's face – indeed it must have been mirrored on her own. Pamina could just have been a nickname if she and Rick were devotees of
The Magic Flute
.

‘What was Pamina doing in Brittany?' Peter prompted, as Christine seemed to have come to a halt. ‘Giving a concert, or on holiday?'

‘No idea. Probably holiday, because so far as I recall Rick didn't mention having been to any musical events. Though I could well have forgotten, of course,' she added apologetically.

That wouldn't be surprising, Georgia thought, given that it was fourteen years earlier, and in fact, Christine was doing brilliantly in remembering even this.

‘But there was something else,' Christine added, just as Georgia was giving up hope. ‘I got the impression it was an ongoing thing – that she had left Brittany but not vanished from the scene, if you see what I mean. I think Rick said she was on her way to some Mozart do and had asked why didn't he come too. I've no idea where. It could have been nearby or in Timbuctoo.'

Christine looked from one to the other, obviously still worried that they were disappointed. But Georgia couldn't speak for fear that Peter was not thinking as she was. Suppose it wasn't a local event. Suppose it was somewhere else entirely – and
suppose that's why the police could get no lead on Rick
?

‘How long were you with him?' Peter sounded as if he were trying desperately to seem normal, but he wasn't. Georgia could see that now. He was trying not to get too hopeful.

‘A few days longer. Then I left and he stayed on – I don't remember how long he intended to do so. This was all within the time span of four or five days, as far as I remember.' She still looked apologetic. ‘I'm sorry you've had this long hunt for me. I've only been back in Broadstairs six months. My dad lives here, my mum's dead, and it seemed a good plan to return to the ancestral hometown. My dad's a journalist,' she chatted on. ‘He enjoys it – I think he reckons he's another Charles Dickens. There's not much excitement round here though. That's what Colin and I like about it.'

‘No excitement? We ran into a murderer at lunchtime,' Georgia tried to joke for politeness' sake, surprised that the fish-bar ghost was lingering so close to Rick in her mind.

‘What?' Christine looked startled.

‘The ghost at Gary's Fish Bar at the corner of this road. You must know it.'

Christine didn't answer for a moment, but then she replied awkwardly, ‘Yes, you're right. They do say it's haunted.'

‘Do you know the story?' Peter asked. It was obvious that she did, but he was clearly too far back in the past with Rick to have his usual alertness in working order.

‘His name was Tom Watson. He was a clown.' Christine looked almost defiant.

‘Oh, a real one?' Georgia exclaimed. She had assumed Gary had been using the word in a general sense. With the thought of a real clown, in hat, paint and white Pierrot's costume, the ghost began to take the stage in her mind. Ghosts traditionally appeared where there was unfinished business, and perhaps this was true of the clown. Clowns wore effective masks with their painted faces, and who could tell what the real face beneath portrayed? Had this clown been a vicious killer, or as jolly as his painted public face, or had he wept underneath that concealing paint?

‘Very real indeed. The Three Joeys they called themselves. They were one of the resident acts in the summer show at the end of the pier. Those were the days, of course,' Christine added, ‘when Broadstairs was very much top of the list for exclusive summer holidays in the late nineteen forties and fifties, after the war.'

‘Who was Tom Watson's victim?' Peter asked with every sign of great interest, although Georgia could see this was still an effort with Rick's shadow very much present.

‘The usual. His wife, Joan. She was murdered in the early fifties.'

‘So he was hung then?' Peter asked. ‘Or did he escape that?' The death penalty had not been abolished until the nineteen sixties, but there must have been a changeover period, Georgia thought, when capital punishment was on hold.

‘He did. In fact he was acquitted, although everyone was sure he did it. Except his girlfriend, but then she wouldn't believe it, would she?'

‘What happened to Tom Watson after that?' Georgia persevered, trying to concentrate on what Christine was saying. Poor man. Assumed guilty despite the verdict.

‘He stayed on in the flat for a while, and then he disappeared. No one heard from him again, and it was generally reckoned he killed himself. Probably walked out into the sea and drowned himself one night.'

‘But the body has never been found?'

‘No, but Tom hasn't reappeared alive in all these years, and he'd be a fair age now.'

‘I suppose there's little doubt he killed her?' Peter asked.

‘None at all, apparently. His wife was a flighty lady, so I gather, and he killed her out of jealousy.
Crime passionnel
, as they say.'

Peter glanced at Georgia, and she knew that he was thinking as she did: why the fingerprints on time if he had been acquitted? There seemed no unfinished business about that. Not like Rick  . . . Unfinished business often dovetailed with injustice, but did being deemed guilty without proof add up to injustice?

‘Have you ever seen this ghost?' she asked Christine.

‘No, and I don't know anyone who has. It's just a load of crap, I reckon. Keeps the story going, that's all.'

‘Who would want to keep the story going?' If the Watsons had children, Georgia reasoned, they would surely want the story forgotten.

Christine smiled. ‘Well, my dad has a go at it every now and then.'

‘A murder fifty years ago? There can't be much to find out now,' Peter said, clearly hoping there was.

‘Dad says there's always something if you look hard enough. But he has a special interest,' Christine added. ‘My grandad was one of the other Joeys. They were Tom, Sandy Smith and Micky Winton – Micky's gone now, but Sandy is still going strong. My dad is Ken Winton, Micky's son. Oh, and there's Cherry Harding, of course.'