A Dish Served Cold Read online

  Chapter 24

  Emma Wilson sat moodily in her flat. Justin had stood her up again.

  “Sorry, Em,” he said cheerfully down the phone and sounding anything but, “something came up. Got a meet. You know how it is.”

  Emma did know, and she wondered why she ever bothered with him. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t get another boyfriend, was it? There was that guy with the blond ponytail who came into the shop every week for his lottery ticket. He always chatted her up, didn’t he? He’d have probably asked her out if she given him any encouragement, so, perhaps next time he came in she would, that would show Justin, bloody, Woods.

  With these thoughts running angrily through her mind, Emma decided to open a bottle of wine and spend the evening drinking it in front of the television. She flicked the remote and went into the kitchen to find some wine and a corkscrew. As she tipped everything out of the drawer in her search for the corkscrew she heard the strident music that introduced Crimewatch, the monthly programme in which various police forces asked for help in tracking down murders and rapists and other criminals operating on their patch. Emma quite enjoyed the programme if she happened to see it. Secretly, she always hoped that there would be something she could phone in about, the sighting of a car, or recognising a particular piece of clothing; a face she had seen in the shop or a piece of jewellery she had seen in one of the many antique shops that clustered together in lanes below the cathedral. Justin had laughed at her once when she had told him this and she had retorted angrily, “Well, I’d have thought you’d watch anyway in case there was anything which might lead to a story!”

  “If it’s already on the TV,” he had replied scathingly, “someone already has the story.”

  Now, grasping the bottle of wine and a glass, she returned to the living room and settled comfortably into her chair.

  The presenter, Kirsty Young, talked about the various crimes they would be featuring that evening and then introduced the first reconstruction, and Emma, glass of wine in hand, sat back to watch.

  About half way through the programme they showed pictures of people they wanted to find in connection with various incidents and then the face of a young police woman filled the screen.

  “This evening we have a more unusual request to make,” she began. “Has anyone seen this woman?”

  The picture of a woman in her mid-forties appeared on the screen. She was small and rather mousy looking, with untidy brown hair and a nervous look in her tired eyes.

  “The Avon and Somerset Police are interested in the whereabouts of Pamela Smith. She’s not a criminal but she has disappeared. Mrs Smith left her home in Bristol in February and was last seen in the middle of April. She hasn’t been seen since and there is concern for her safety. It is possible that she is suffering from amnesia and anyone who thinks they may have seen her, is asked to phone us here at Crimewatch or to get in touch with their local police.”

  Emma looked at the nondescript woman whose picture still filled the screen and something moved in the back of her brain. Then the picture was gone and the programme had moved on to another case. She didn’t know the woman of course, why would she know someone from Bristol, but even so something tugged at her memory and she wished she could see the face again. Then she remembered that they usually displayed such pictures on the Crimewatch website, and she decided to have look when the programme was over. Its only because you want to recognise someone, she told herself with a self-conscious laugh. Wouldn’t Justin laugh at you now if you told him? Still for the rest of the programme she racked her brain as to whom the woman reminded her of.

  Later, when the programme was over, Emma flipped open her I-pad and looked at the pictures on the Crimewatch website. There was the woman. Emma stared at her for a long time and then it came to her. She was a bit like that woman who brought the winning lottery ticket to the shop, the one who had been with Miss Durston that day…the one that had come to the funeral. The woman on the screen stared back at her, nothing special, very ordinary; nothing like as smart as the lady at the funeral.

  Probably she just looks like her, Emma thought, as people do.

  She considered the face on the screen and tried to imagine her with well-cut hair, delicately highlighted. That’s how the lady at the funeral had been, immaculately turned out in stylish London clothes. This Pamela Smith they were looking for was frumpy and dowdy and just, well, very ordinary.

  But that’s how I described her to Justin in the first place, Emma thought, very ordinary, and she’d certainly changed by the time she came to the funeral…which is hardly surprising if she did win the lottery. The more she looked at the photo, the more Emma decided that it could well be the missing woman.

  I’ll tell Justin to have a look next time he deigns to ring, she thought. After all he saw her at the funeral, too.

  It was in fact several days later that Justin phoned and suggested they meet for a drink.

  “Come round here first,” Emma told him. “I’ve something to show you.”

  When Justin arrived at her flat she took him into the living room and handed him the I-pad.

  “Look at this.”

  “What? Come on Em, I thought we could…”

  “Just look,” insisted Emma, and Justin reluctantly took the tablet. “Who’s that?” Emma demanded.

  Justin glanced at the picture on the screen and said, “I don’t know. You tell me.”

  “I’m not sure either,” Emma admitted, “but I think it might be your lottery lady. Look at her carefully.”

  She had Justin’s attention now and he peered at the screen. “Could be I suppose. Who is she?”

  “She’s called Pamela Smith,” Emma said. “And she’s missing. The police are trying to find her. They put her picture on Crimewatch. Do you think it’s her?”

  Justin continued to stare at the screen for a moment. “Could be I suppose. No, the woman at the funeral was much classier. This one’s really dowdy.”

  “But what if she had a makeover? If it is her, she won a hell of a lot of money, you know. She wouldn’t stay dowdy, would she?”

  “Trouble is I can’t remember her well enough.” Justin scowled at the screen.

  “But you took a photo of her,” Emma reminded him. “In Miss Durston’s garden, and Jon took one of the woman at the funeral. Remember?”

  Justin turned to look at her and his face cracked into a huge grin. “So we did. Em, you’re a genius.” He plonked a kiss on her lips. “Come on, let’s go to the office and get prints of those pictures.”

  It wasn’t how Emma had planned to spend their evening together, but if she’d put Justin on to something, there was no way he was going to let it go now.

  Half an hour later they were back in the flat, comparing the glossy prints with the picture on the website.

  “I think it’s her,” Justin said excitedly. “I know that she’s quite a long way away in my picture, but look at the eyes and the shape of her nose.”

  “She’s a bit different from the funeral woman,” Emma said doubtfully.

  “Not if you ignore the change in hairstyle,” replied Justin, putting his hand across the hair so that only the face was visible. “See, the nose is the same, look at it.” After studying the pictures carefully, they managed to convince each other that they were indeed looking at the woman for whom the police were searching. Mrs Pamela Smith.

  “Shall we phone the police?” asked Emma excitedly.

  Justin shook his head. “No, not yet. I want to do a bit of ferreting about myself first. Why are they looking for her, did you say?”

  “She hasn’t been seen since April or something, and they are afraid she may have lost her memory.”

  “I might lose my memory if I had suddenly come into eight million quid,” Justin remarked. “That particular win has definitely been claimed, I checked the website after the funeral. It’s not listed as an unclaimed win any more.”

  “But shouldn’t we go to the police?” insisted Emma. “S
omething may have happened to her. They said they were concerned for her safety.”

  “Well, they don’t need to be, do they? I mean she’s fine, isn’t she? We saw her. So it won’t hurt if we wait a few more days before ringing in, will it? If I do a bit of research I may be able to know for sure.”

  “But where will you start?” demanded Emma. “We’ve no idea where she comes from or who she is.”

  “Oh, I know her name,” Justin said as he moved closer to her on the sofa. “It’s Arabella Agnew, and I think I know how to find her address. But I can’t do anything this evening, Em, so why don’t we….”

  Next morning Justin rang a contact he had at the local police and called in a favour. “I just need to know who this car is registered to,” he said. “It’s a black Golf.” He gave the number and his friend said he would check with the DVLA and get back to him later in the day. By the time Justin’s mobile finally buzzed in his pocket he was beginning to think his contact was going to let him down.

  “Yeah. Roberts, that you?” he snapped into the phone.

  “Woods.” Roberts said. “Sorry to have been a while. Computer was down or something. The Golf. It’s a hire car. Belongs to Zodiac Rent-a-Car in North Kensington.” He gave the address and the phone number of the firm and then saying briefly, “Quits now, Woods,” he cut the connection.

  Last info from that quarter, Justin thought ruefully, and not as good as he’d hoped. He would need to go to London, but not, as he’d hoped, to confront Arabella Agnew in her own home. Not yet. He would have to go to the offices of Zodiac Rent-a-Car to see if he could discover the address of the woman who had hired that car over the date of Sylvia Durston’s funeral. He doubted if they would simply hand out her address, but there might be a way of getting it. It would, he supposed, require some subterfuge, but he didn’t mind that. Justin rather prided himself on his methods of gathering information and he was sure he would be able to come up with something. On the other hand…an idea struck him…there might be an easier way to come by the information. Justin looked up the number for the solicitor, David Watson, and punched it into his phone.

  “Mr Watson,” he said when he was put through. “Justin Woods here, of the Belcaster Chronicle. I’m sorry to trouble you, but I wondered if you could help me.”

  “In what way, Mr Woods?” David Watson sounded politely unenthusiastic.

  “I’m writing a piece on Miss Sylvia Durston, you know the teacher who was killed in the road accident? Well, at her funeral you were kind enough to introduce me to an old friend of hers, a Mrs Agnew? I thought it might be nice to interview her properly for my article. I gather they were at school together.”

  “I believe they were,” David Watson agreed.

  “The thing is, I don’t have a contact address for Mrs Agnew,” Justin said, “and I wondered if you did.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr Woods,” David Watson said, “but I don’t give out the home addresses of my clients.”

  “Oh, I see,” Justin sounded disappointed. “ I didn’t realise she was your client as well. I just thought, you know, that she was a friend of Miss Durston’s and you might be able to help.”

  “She is not actually a client of mine,” David Watson admitted, “but even so, I don’t feel able to give you her address. I’m sorry, Mr Woods, but I can’t help you.”

  “No, well I understand,” Justin said, “it’s just that it would have been so interesting to hear a little of their childhood friendship. So many of our readers knew Miss Durston as an adult, you know, I’m sure they’d love to know a little of her childhood. I thought Mrs Agnew might like to contribute to a memorial piece about her friend.”

  David Watson sighed. “All right, Mr Woods, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll give her a ring myself and see what she says. If she is happy for you to have her address or phone number, I’ll ring you back. That’s the best I can do I’m afraid.”

  Justin thanked the solicitor and gave him his mobile number, but he didn’t hold out much hope. Mrs Arabella Agnew had been evasive before, it was what had intrigued Justin in the first place, and he didn’t really expect her to allow David Watson to give him her address now.

  He was quite right. When, ten minutes later, David Watson did get hold of Arabella, she was quite adamant.

  “No, Mr Watson. Certainly not. You were quite right not to tell him. I don’t want to speak to him at all. I found him rather pushy and intrusive at Sylvia’s funeral,” and in the weeks before it, she added silently, “and I have no wish to have anything to do with him.”

  Justin accepted defeat readily enough when David Watson rang him back. He simply thanked him for asking her and rang off.

  So, he thought as he pulled the ring on a can of beer and considered the situation, I’ll have to try my luck with Zodiac. And he headed to London.

  He found the car hire firm with little difficulty and went to the desk where a girl with fair hair was sitting at a computer terminal. The name pinned to the skimpy top that made a feeble effort to cover her noble bosom declared that she was Debbie. She glanced up and smiled as Justin approached and he, appreciating both the smile and the position of the badge treated her to his most devastating smile.

  “Debbie,” he cried as if he’d known her for years and was delighted to meet up with her again, “You’re looking good today.” His eyes rested for a moment on her cleavage and she said sharply, “Can I help you?”

  “Well, I certainly hope you can. The most stupid thing. My sister…” Justin had been going to say his girlfriend, but now he had seen whom he was dealing with he altered his prepared story a little, “my sister, silly girl, has lost a rather valuable earring. She hired one of your cars a few weeks ago, and is wondering if it came off in the car.” Justin winked at Debbie and said in a conspiratorial whisper, “Not quite sure what she was getting up to in the back seat of the car, know what I mean? But she’s looked everywhere for the bloody thing and this is the only other place she can think of where it might be.” Justin’s eyes rested on Debbie’s face. “She’s offering a reward if it is found. The earrings have great sentimental value. They belonged to our grandmother. I said I’d pop in as I was passing.”

  “If it had been found the matter would have been recorded on the file, she would have been informed, and the item kept in our safe for collection.” Debbie spoke primly, but Justin could see the interest in her eyes.

  “Look,” he said,“ Arabella, my sister, says it was a black Golf, but she hasn’t a clue what the number was, just that it was an 13 reg car. Please could you check your records and see if anything was handed in later.” He gave her the date of Sylvia’s funeral and watched as she called up information to her screen, edging round the desk so that he could read it as well.

  “What did you say your sister’s name was?” asked Debbie as she scrolled down through a list of cars.

  “Arabella Agnew,” replied Justin.

  “Address?”

  “Her address? 4 Vicarage Gardens, Maida Vale,” Justin had had a fictitious address prepared and spoke casually.

  “That’s not the address she gave us,” Debbie said peering at the screen.

  “Isn’t it?” Justin sounded amazed. “What address did she give you?”

  “The Sylvester Hotel,” said Debbie. “Oooh, that can’t be bad!”

  “Oh, well I think she did stay there while a friend was over from the States,” Justin improvised, not recognising the name, but reading the address on the screen. “That doesn’t matter anyway. Is there any record of the earring having been found?”

  Debbie shook her head. “Sorry,” she said. “Nothing flagged up anyway. Do you want me to look in the safe in case? I can’t till Mr Warren comes in but if you don’t mind waiting…?”

  Justin had the information he wanted, but he didn’t want to arouse her suspicions as to his real purpose so he looked at his watch. “I can’t wait now,” he said, “but I could come back later, around lunch time. Will Mr Warren be here then?”r />
  “Should be. I go for lunch at half-twelve,” she added pointedly, “so he has to be there while I’m out. If you come back then we should both be there and we can have a look in the safe.”

  “Debbie, you’re a star,” Justin cried. “I’ll come back about quarter-past twelve. See you.” He smiled at her again and with a half wave left the shop. The Sylvester Hotel, Channing Avenue, Holland Park.

  He signalled a cab and in ten minutes was being deposited outside the Sylvester Hotel. As the taxi pulled away he looked up at the dignified houses that lined the quiet, tree-lined street.

  “That can’t be bad!” Debbie had said as she read the address. Justin, looking at the unpretentious red brick houses that comprised the Sylvester Hotel thought that it didn’t look that impressive, but he went up the steps to the front entrance.

  The first thing that surprised him was that the door was locked. You couldn’t just walk into this hotel. There was a brass bell push and a small sign that said Please Ring. He did so and moments later was being greeted by a uniformed man who enquired politely if he could help.

  “Yes,” Justin said briskly, “I want to come in and speak with one of your guests.” He moved as if to enter, but found his way was blocked by the immovable bulk of the uniformed man.

  “Are you expected, sir?”

  “No,” Justin replied, “I’m not. I wanted to surprise her.” He tried to step forward again but the man still barred his way.

  “I can make enquiries for you sir,” offered the man. “Perhaps you’d care to wait in the parlour.” He led Justin into the hotel and showed him into a room that looked out over the street. It was elegantly furnished, and the man indicating a green, silk-covered chair, said, “Please make yourself comfortable, sir. If I could just take the name of our guest, I will enquire if she is at home.”

  Justin shrugged and said, “Mrs Arabella Agnew.”

  “And your name, sir?”

  Justin had already decided not to use his own name. he knew that Arabella would recognise that now and might refuse to see him. Now seeing a writing desk in the window, equipped with paper and envelopes he said, “Perhaps I could send her a note.” Without waiting for a reply he crossed to the desk and drawing a piece of the hotel’s notepaper towards him he wrote. “I need to talk to you about Pamela Smith of Bristol. It is in your interest to see me.” Pushing the paper into an envelope, he sealed it, addressed it and handed it to the man.