Kelly felt an unexpected chill creeping around her.
It was almost 11.05 by the time John Fraser left the Public bar of ‘The Huntsman’. (
He had not consumed as much booze as he normally did and he felt almost abnormally clear-headed. Fraser rarely got drunk no matter how much he had and tonight, especially, he felt only a pleasing calmness. He climbed into his car and, at the third attempt, started the engine. He made a mental note to get his battery checked.
The rain continued to pelt down and the storm which had been building all night had finally broken. Thunder shook the sky while the lightning etched erratic lines across the tenebrous heavens.
As he pulled out of the pub car park, a lorry roared past and Fraser stepped on his brakes.
The pedal sank mournfully to the floor beneath the pressure of his foot.
The car continued to roll.
The lorry swerved slightly to avoid the Datsun and Fraser gripped the wheel in terror, as if awaiting the impact, but the larger vehicle swept on, disappearing around a bend in the road.
‘Jesus,’ murmured Fraser, stamping on the brake pedal. This time the car stopped dead.
He tried it once more.
No problems.
He shook his head and drove on. Bloody brakes. He’d only had them checked the day before.
She had not slept much the previous night. Her mind had been too active, all too ready to present her with snap answers to questions for which she so badly sought concrete solutions.
Kelly glanced down at the piece of paper on the parcel shelf and re-checked Fraser’s address. A sign post at the corner of the street confirmed that she had found the right place. She turned the Mini into the street and slowed down, scanning the doors for the number she sought.
The storm of the night before had cleared the air and the sun shone brightly over the carefully maintained houses with their neat gardens. Kelly saw an old man mowing his front lawn. On the other side of the street a youth was busy washing his car.
‘Number fifty-nine,’ she murmured to herself, squinting at the houses. ‘Number fifty-nine.’
She saw it and pulled the Mini into a convenient parking space, switching off the engine. Kelly sat behind the wheel for a moment gazing at the house. She was reasonably sure that Fraser had told her everything he knew about Vernon but she had spent half the night wondering if there might just be something else which he might have neglected to mention. Perhaps in his own home, away from the noisy distractions of the pub, he might be able to give her some more information. Exactly what she was going to do with it she wasn’t yet sure.
Confront Vernon?
Why should she need to confront him?
Kelly shook her head, as if trying to force the thoughts to one side, then she pushed open the door and climbed out.
There was a pleasing smell of blossom in the air, as if someone had opened a gigantic air freshener. The sun, broken up by the branches of the trees which flanked the road, forced its way through the canopy of leaves and blossom to brush warming rays against her skin. The blossom itself, stirred by a gentle breeze, fell from the trees like pink tears.
Kelly walked up the path to the front door of number fifty-nine and rang the bell. As she stood there she noticed that the garage door was closed. There was no sign of Fraser’s Datsun. She hoped that he was at home.
A minute passed and no one answered the door. Kelly rang again, this time keeping her finger on the bell button for a time.
At last she heard movement from inside.
The door swung open and she found herself confronted by a rotund, middle-aged woman in a dark blue dress. Her greying hair was swept back from her forehead, giving her round face a severity which it perhaps did not merit.
‘Mrs Fraser?’ Kelly asked.
‘No. I’m her sister,’ the woman said, eyeing Kelly up and down. ‘Who are you?’
Kelly introduced herself.
‘I used to work with John Fraser,’ she explained. ‘It was him that I wanted to see really.’
The woman didn’t speak at first then, slowly, she lowered her gaze and her voice softened.
‘My sister is upstairs sleeping,’ she said, quietly.
Kelly didn’t have to be a detective to realize that something was wrong.
‘And Mr Fraser?’ she asked.
‘He was killed in an accident last night. His car hit a tree. He was dead before they got him to hospital.’
New York
There were two of them waiting outside the house.
One was smoking a cigarette and pacing agitatedly up and down while the other squatted on the pavement and adjusted his camera. Both of them would occasionally stop what they were doing and peer in the direction of the building.
Toni Landers replaced the curtain, wondering if the newsmen had seen her.
She had not seen these two before although, since her son’s death, so many had thrust themselves at her with notepads and microphones that she doubted if she would remember faces. The actress walked across the room to the drinks cabinet and poured herself a large measure of J&B which she downed virtually in one swallow, coughing as the fiery liquid burned its way to her stomach.
The house was deathly silent. She had given Mrs Garcia some time off, promising to ring her when her services were required again. Exactly how long that would be even Toni herself was uncertain of. On the sofa before her the copy of Variety was folded open at an appointed spot and she glanced at it briefly before returning to her vigil at the window.
As she stood gazing out at the two newsmen, she thought how odd it had been that she should discover the story in such a journal. She had read with interest that Jonathan Mathias was to visit England to appear on a TV special.
She had seen him as her last hope. The only one she knew who possessed the kind of abilities she had need of. Toni didn’t intend to allow him to slip away.
She had need of his services.
There was a loud beeping sound and she looked out to see that the Ford Sedan had pulled up outside her house. The
driver was banging the horn.
Toni drained what was left in her glass then scuttled for the front door, re-adjusting the dark glasses as she did so. She waited a second then walked out.
Immediately, the two newsmen approached her and she winced as the flash bulb momentarily hurt her eyes.
ll have nothing to say,’ she told them.
‘How soon will you be returning to the stage?’ the first man asked, ignoring her declaration.
She swept on towards the waiting car.
‘How will your son’s death affect your career?’
The flash bulb exploded again, closer to her this time.
Toni struck out angrily, knocking the camera from the photographer’s hands. It crashed to the ground, the lens splintering.
‘Hey lady,’ he shouted. ‘That’s an expensive fucking camera.’
She pulled open the rear door of the Ford and glanced at the driver.
it ain’t my fault your fucking kid is dead,’ the photographer roared as the car pulled away.
‘Where to, Miss Landers?’ the driver asked.
She checked her watch. She had enough time.
‘Kennedy,’ she told him.
