Murder Takes the Stage (8 page)

This didn't tie in with what Ken had told them. Harold was obviously still alive, and Georgia wondered what his side of the story would be.

‘What happened to the little girl?' Peter enquired. ‘Didn't she give him a reason for living?'

‘Joan's parents took Pamela. They wouldn't give her back even when Tom was acquitted. He was unemployed, so he couldn't insist.'

‘How did you know Tom had disappeared?' Peter's voice was quiet, and Georgia realized Rick was on his mind as well as on hers. They had had an illogical but never-ending niggle of guilt that they had reported Rick's disappearance too late.

‘Tom said he'd got the offer of a job in Eastbourne. That would have been about October or November in 1953. It was a job in pantomime, he said. Off he went, but he never came back.'

Georgia saw her lips tremble again. ‘You must have been broken-hearted for the second time. It was hard on you.'

‘It was. I married Harold a year or two later – I did it only to get over Tom's going. It was worse than the case itself for me. He just walked out, without telling me or even leaving a note behind him. That's why I know he's not dead, you see,' she added confidently.

That happy smile wasn't assumed, Georgia thought uneasily – Cherry really did believe this.

‘He would have told me, you see, or left a note. Tom loved me,' Cherry continued serenely. ‘I've got a lock of his hair on my dressing table. I look at it every day, so I know he'll be back.'

‘But where has he been in the meantime?' Peter asked.

‘He made a new life for himself, that's what happened. For my sake, or so he thought. But now we're older – he'd be eighty-six – he'll come back. He always said we'd die in old age in each other's arms. So I know he will come back soon. It's just  . . .' Her voice faltered. ‘I'd like to know when. And where he is.'

Like Rick, Georgia thought dully. Like Rick. Before they had set out, Peter had broken the news to her that the 1994 festival programme at Guidel had no singers in it. That did not mean Rick and Miss Blondie had not been present, but as the police had covered that area in their search, they had agreed to discount Guidel as a lead. She and Peter were no further forward, and Rick became a smaller and smaller figure as he walked away briskly from them along that country road. Her nightmare.

Talk of work was banned from Medlars itself, except on rare occasions sanctioned by both parties. Unfortunately Georgia could dream up no way of keeping
thoughts
of work out of her mind. Family talk either of Luke's relations or of Peter's sister Gwen, who now lived at Wymbourne between Canterbury and Dover with her second husband Terry, or of Gwen's son by her first marriage, Charlie Bone, only took so much time, and setting the world to rights was too tough a task for evenings after a day's work. Usually, the boundary was respected, but when Georgia returned from Broadstairs she found Luke in the Medlars' living room engrossed with sales figures.

As a result, vague worries about Tom Watson refused to disappear. The meeting with Cherry had both helped and hindered her. Cherry was a dear but unfortunately so fixed in her own prejudices over Tom that her contribution to the investigation was not going to be as significant as she and Peter had hoped. On the other hand, the meeting had brought the case to life in a different way. Cherry had been there at the time, and therefore what had been history could now be brought alive in a way that even Brian James could not achieve. But where next?

‘Supper might help,' she said aloud, breaking the silence.

Startled, Luke looked up from his laptop, caught her look of reproof and laughed. ‘Sorry. We could talk about redecorating the bathrooms, if you like.'

‘Great idea,' she agreed as the phone rang. It was Peter, which caused instant alarm. He so rarely rang that she knew something must be wrong.

‘Have you seen the regional news this evening?'

‘No.' A terrible foreboding shot through her.

‘A man was found knifed on the seafront path at Broadstairs early this morning.'

‘Who?' Her voice sounded strangled.

‘I'm afraid it was Ken Winton.'

‘I'm afraid it was Ken Winton.'

FOUR

C
oincidence – or did Ken's horrible death have some connection with their visit or his scoop? Georgia's sleep had been punctuated by long periods of thrashing over this unanswerable question. Had he been the random victim of a drunk? Possibly. The use of a knife suggested that, and it would be all too easy to assume that because Tom Watson was occupying her mind, Ken's death must somehow involve him. The restless night meant she was early at work the next morning, but when she arrived in the office, Peter was already engrossed in the computer screen, regardless of an apple and plateful of toast at his side. Margaret was obviously failing in her familiar task of coaxing Peter into eating some kind of breakfast.

‘Your turn,' came a call from the kitchen. Margaret had obviously heard her enter and was passing on responsibility for Peter's breakfast to her.

‘Ah, Georgia.' Peter swung round from his desk, sending the toast flying and Georgia diving for it.

Margaret must have heard the noise from the kitchen, as there was a grim call of ‘I'll bring you some more.' When Georgia went to fetch it, she added, ‘And you look as if you could do with some yourself.'

Georgia sensed that Margaret was becoming proprietorial about her role in the household, probably due to Janie's frequent presence here, although she had never dared to raise the subject. Although Margaret graciously accepted Georgia's help in what she saw as ‘her job', Georgia had the impression that Janie's was a different matter, and sometimes, if Janie was free of museum responsibilities, she would come over during the day as well as the evenings.

Toast might comfort, but it couldn't cure, alas. Peter did deign to have half a slice, but his mind was on other matters, and Georgia could not blame him. ‘I've been on to Mike again,' he told her.

‘It's not his area.'

Peter looked surprised. ‘So? He has staff, who are presumably capable of emailing Thanet?'

As usual, Peter was supremely confident that Mike was waiting at the end of a phone, eager to help him. Perhaps his blithe assumption worked, for the phone rang and, judging by Peter's look of triumph, it was Mike.

‘Thanet said my contribution confirms what Christine told them,' Peter said, as at last he finished the call. ‘Ken was probably killed late on Monday night. Not too many strollers along the seafront at that time, and even if he were seen slumped on a bench, he could have been taken for a drunk or assumed to be sleeping rough, which is why it was discovered only early yesterday morning.'

‘No arrests yet?' she asked, expecting the answer she received.

Georgia was sickened that they had both been in Broadstairs yesterday, but unaware of Ken's murder. It must have taken place much nearer the pier than where she and Peter had parked.

‘No. Keeping mum about lines of enquiry, if any.' He glanced at her. ‘We can't blame ourselves, Georgia. It wasn't us who stirred up the story. It was Ken himself, and his blessed scoop.'

Georgia voiced her fear. ‘Suppose he was thinking twice about something or someone and we galvanized him into publishing too soon?'

Peter sighed. ‘Joan Watson's murder took place fifty years ago. The probability of anyone caring enough to
kill
over it now has to be so remote that we could hardly be blamed for not thinking it might present any physical risk.'

‘If it does  . . .' Georgia decided not to take her unwelcome thought any further, but Peter finished it for her.

‘Then there's a chance it's also a risk to us, if Ken's killer knows we're sniffing around too. That being the case, do we continue with Tom Watson or keep our powder dry for Rick?'

Georgia struggled with the answer, longing to say yes to the latter. But she could not do it. It would seem a betrayal of Ken – and indeed of Cherry. ‘Continue with both?'

‘I agree, of course,' Peter said. ‘But if – and it is still
if
– Ken's death should by any chance be connected to Tom Watson, it would suggest that there's a lot more to the story than he told us.'

‘Agreed, but in what way?'

‘Anyone directly connected with Joan's murder – Cherry, Sandy, Harold Staines or Joan's lovers – is going to be in his or her late seventies at least, and probably older. Agreed again?'

‘Yes.'

‘Whatever we uncovered, we would be unlikely to be able to
prove
conclusively, and mere allegations are going to be defamatory and therefore unpublishable. Agreed?'

‘Yes, but that's often the case.'

Peter impatiently waved this aside. ‘Due to age, it's unlikely any of these people would kill again, especially with the obvious risk of discovery. If by any chance one of them is guilty, it implies there's an angle to this case that we don't know about. After all, look at the inconsistencies even in the story as we know it so far. There are plenty of them, and they're remarkable, even given the passage of time. Joan Watson was warm-hearted, a bitch of the first order, promiscuous, devoted, all at the same time. Tom was guilty, not guilty, devoted to Joan, devoted to Cherry; he committed suicide, would never have done such a thing  . . . No, there's more to this, and since I think it unlikely that an octogenarian would be knifetoting around on the seafront at midnight, a wider range of interested parties could well be involved.'

‘What about Ken's scoop?' Georgia asked, leaping ahead. ‘That was to be published on Friday, and Ken might have handed in his copy already. If stopping the scoop was the murderer's aim, there would not be much point in killing Ken – the article and his notes would have to go too. Was his home broken into?'

‘Full marks. I'm afraid it was. No info on what was taken. It's the
Chronicle
for you, Georgia. Right now.'

Georgia found the
Chronicle
office easily enough, having parked near Broadstairs High Street. It was tucked in a side road opposite Jameston Avenue and was hardly flaunting itself. With so much media competition its circulation was unlikely to be large, she realized, although for local communication it must be invaluable.

The office promised more from its outside appearance than it did inside. A back room was obviously given over to technology, and the front office into which Georgia walked straight from the street had three desks set close together, although only one was occupied. There was also a small glassed-off partitioned area for, presumably, the editor.

As she entered, she saw a head glued to a computer as earnestly as if it provided the answer to the Big Bang all by itself. Fortunately its owner, an attractive tall blonde girl in her twenties, leapt up to greet her after a moment or two. Trousers, tank top and the kind of face that could launch a thousand ships, Georgia thought. She had the brightness and confidence of a girl who knew where she was going in life and why. Today the
Chronicle
, tomorrow
The Times.
‘Sorry. We're all pretty busy today,' the girl apologized.

‘With Ken Winton's death, I expect. That's why I'm here.'

The girl grimaced. ‘You're right. It's not good having to report the murder of one of our own, especially Ken.'

‘I can imagine just how much,' Georgia said sympathetically, and then explained who she was and why she was here.

The girl considered this. ‘You'd better talk to Will Foster. He's the editor. I'm only Number Two, limping in a long way behind. Cath Dillon,' she introduced herself.

She led the way through the glass door to where Will, who looked scarcely older than Cath, was at his desk staring gloomily at his screen. ‘Georgia Marsh is here about Ken. She met him a few days ago.'

Will looked interested. He waved her to a fold-up seat that just fitted in between his desk and the partition wall, and Cath took another to complete the cosy threesome as Georgia repeated her story.

‘Ken told us about his scoop,' she ended hopefully. ‘He said it would be out on Friday.'

‘Would have been,' Will said gloomily. ‘He was going to send it over today. We weren't expecting much. We've heard the story before. Always the big one next time. The lion roars, but out trots a pussycat.'

That was a blow. ‘He seemed sure enough,' Georgia nevertheless persisted.

‘I wasn't holding the front page.'

A setback this might be, but it was also a relief. If the scoop had been only in Ken's mind, it could hardly have been the reason for his death, and some of the turmoil inside her relaxed.

‘He must have meant it this time,' Georgia replied. ‘My father and I were considering the Watson case as our next full-length book project, and Ken was eager to help.
After
he'd published his scoop. It was in his interests to publish quickly, and he was keen to get involved.' Was that true? She had a sudden doubt. Could Will Foster be right? Ken had been eager, but in hindsight it had been a nervous excitement, suggesting what he'd
like
to be doing rather than what he could do. ‘He'd never let you down on producing copy, had he? Did he email his copy in?'

‘No to the first; he was reliable at least. Yes to the second.'

‘But obviously he didn't this time. Could he have typed the story on the computers here?'

‘Nope. I checked,' Cath said. ‘We're doing a big feature on him, of course, and it would have been good to use his story, scoop or no scoop. But I can't get at his home computer – even if it's still there. It's an official crime scene, because of the break-in. I'm waiting for his daughter to give me the all-clear.'

‘I've met Christine. It must be very tough for her.'

‘She's a trouper though. She'll help if she can,' Cath said. ‘We're going to make a big thing of Ken having been Micky Winton's son, and the Watson murder.'