Jigsaw Read online

  Table of Contents

  Titles by Anthea Fraser

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Titles by Anthea Fraser

  The Detective Chief Inspector Webb Mysteries

  (in order of appearance)

  A SHROUD FOR DELILAH

  A NECESSARY END

  PRETTY MAIDS ALL IN A ROW

  DEATH SPEAKS SOFTLY

  THE NINE BRIGHT SHINERS

  SIX PROUD WALKERS

  THE APRIL RAINERS

  SYMBOLS AT YOUR DOOR

  THE LILY-WHITE BOYS

  THREE, THREE, THE RIVALS

  THE GOSPEL MAKERS

  THE SEVEN STARS

  ONE IS ONE AND ALL ALONE

  THE TEN COMMANDMENTS

  ELEVEN THAT WENT UP TO HEAVEN

  THE TWELVE APOSTLES

  Other Titles

  PRESENCE OF MIND

  THE MACBETH PROPHECY

  BREATH OF BRIMSTONE

  MOTIVE FOR MURDER

  DANGEROUS DECEPTION

  PAST SHADOWS

  FATHERS AND DAUGHTERS

  BROUGHT TO BOOK

  JIGSAW

  Anthea Fraser

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2004 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  This eBook edition first published in 2012 by Severn Digital an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2004 by Anthea Fraser.

  The right of Anthea Fraser to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Fraser, Anthea

  Jigsaw

  1. Women biographers - Fiction

  2. Detective and mystery stories

  I. Title

  823.9'14[F]

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-314-3 (epub)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6065-1

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  One

  ‘How much do you know about Buckford?’ Rona Parish asked suddenly.

  Her twin sister raised an eyebrow. ‘What is this, A-levels?’

  ‘Seriously; if someone asked you, what would you say?’

  Lindsey reflected as she sipped her coffee. They were seated at the kitchen table in the basement of Rona’s tall Georgian house. Beyond the open glass door, the small patio garden was ablaze with colour and Gus, her golden retriever, lay dozing in the sunshine.

  ‘Well?’ Rona prompted.

  ‘Well, it’s the county town, of course, and goes back yonks. Isn’t it about to celebrate its nine-hundredth anniversary or something?’

  ‘Eight-hundredth. Go on.’

  Lindsey frowned, reviewing her scanty knowledge of the town. ‘I know some important people were born there, though offhand I can’t remember who – a poet, I think, and some general or other – oh, and one of the nineteenth-century prime ministers. Then there’s the school, of course, which is why most people outside the county have heard of it.’ She paused. ‘And I must confess to being even hazier on its more recent history; in fact, all I remember is that murder a couple of years ago, that hit the headlines.’

  She gave a little laugh. ‘You know, it’s ridiculous, but I don’t think I’ve been back since that school trip when we were about eleven.’

  ‘Lord yes, I remember; we had to find a list of exhibits in the museum, and then draw them.’

  ‘So!’ Lindsey sat back and looked at her challengingly. ‘Have I passed my exam?’

  ‘Borderline,’ Rona adjudicated.

  ‘You, presumably, know a great deal more.’

  ‘Actually, no, but I soon shall. I’m thinking of writing a series about it, to coincide with the celebrations.’

  ‘That’s a great idea!’ Lindsey exclaimed. ‘Something you can really get your teeth into!’

  Rona smiled ruefully. A few months ago she’d had to abort a promising biography, since when she’d done nothing more enterprising than write a few articles for the Sunday supplements. Obviously, her twin expected more of her.

  ‘Nothing’s been decided yet,’ she warned. ‘I’ll have to sound Barnie out first.’ Barnie Trent was the features editor of Chiltern Life, a prestigious glossy magazine for which Rona wrote on a freelance basis. He was also a friend. ‘It won’t be a straightforward history,’ she went on. ‘I’m thinking more of a quirky look back over the centuries, picking out places and people that were slightly out of the ordinary.’

  Lindsey reached for some grapes. ‘Sounds great; I was beginning to wonder when something would grab you. I mean, it’s not as though you’ve been short of offers, is it? Max was telling Pops you’ve been inundated with requests to write bios or look into unsolved crimes.’

  Rona laughed. ‘A slight exaggeration, though I’ve been approached, yes.’

  ‘Thanks, no doubt, to the Theo Harvey débâcle.’

  The reason for dropping the biography had been Rona’s inadvertent discovery that its subject, thought either to have drowned accidentally or committed suicide, had, in fact, been murdered; an outcome that had led indirectly not only to two more deaths, but to the reappearance on the scene of Hugh Cavendish, Lindsey’s ex-husband, a development with which the family was less than happy.

  As he came into her mind, Rona asked involuntarily, ‘What’s the position with Hugh?’

  ‘No change.’

  ‘Which means?’

  ‘That he’s still trying to get a transfer back here, but in the meantime comes up every weekend.’

  ‘And stays with you,’ Rona said flatly.

  ‘Don’t be stuffy, Ro, it doesn’t suit you.’

  ‘It’s not that,’ Rona defended herself. ‘I just think it’s unfair on him; he’s obviously hoping to be taken back permanently.’

  Lindsey shrugged. ‘No harm in hoping, but I’m not rushing into anything. Once bitten, twice shy.’

  Twice bitten, too, Rona corrected silently, remembering her sister’s last disastrous liaison. Lindsey needed a man in her life, and loneliness had warped her judgement.

  ‘Anyway,’ she was continuing, ‘it has its advantages, seeing each other only at weekends. As you should know.’

  Rona’s husband, Max, was an illustrator and part-time art tutor, and since they both worked from home, friction had arisen when it transpired that he liked to have music playing at full volume while he painted, whereas Rona needed complete quiet in which to write. The
solution had been to buy a cottage ten minutes’ walk away, where Max set up his studio and played his loud music to his heart’s content. And since he held evening classes three times a week, and Rona frequently worked late to meet deadlines, it seemed sensible on those occasions for him to stay there overnight, an arrangement that had initially horrified Rona’s parents – who foresaw imminent divorce – and gave rise to Lindsey’s dubbing him Rona’s ‘semi-detached husband’.

  Lindsey looked at her watch. ‘I must be going,’ she said, pushing back her chair. ‘I’m seeing a client at two thirty.’

  Rona also rose. ‘I’ll walk part of the way with you and call in at Chiltern Life. Might as well make a firm commitment before I change my mind.’

  Gus, hearing the word ‘walk’, raised his head, ears cocked hopefully.

  ‘Come on, boy,’ she confirmed. He bounded inside, tail wagging, and, having closed and locked the door, she followed him and her sister up the basement stairs to the hall.

  Unlike Lindsey, whose flat was a fifteen-minute drive away, Rona lived in the centre of town, her road parallel with Guild Street, the main shopping district. They walked in companionable silence along the pleasant, tree-lined avenue, turning up Fullers Walk in the direction of the shops and then, two thirds of the way along, branching off into Dean’s Crescent and following its curve towards the eastern end of Guild Street.

  The Crescent contained not only the offices of Chiltern Life, but Dino’s Italian restaurant, regularly patronized by Rona, who never cooked if she could avoid it. She paused now to glance at the menu in its glass case. This was one of Max’s class nights and she would be eating alone.

  ‘One of the perks of living in town,’ Lindsey observed. ‘You can either dine here in splendour or slum it with a choice of takeaways. If I don’t feel like cooking, I have to rely on convenience foods.’

  ‘But you always feel like cooking,’ Rona pointed out equably. ‘Obviously, you snaffled all the culinary genes.’

  ‘I’m just not lazy!’ Lindsey retorted.

  Round the next curve they could see the main road ahead of them, clogged with traffic, and, just short of it, the imposing building that housed Chiltern Life. Lindsey’s office was on Guild Street, some fifty yards round the corner.

  ‘Thanks for lunch,’ she said, as they came to a halt.

  ‘Such as it was.’ It had, in fact, been a selection of cold meats and salads. Rona’s dislike of cooking did not prevent her eating well.

  ‘Love to Max when you see him.’

  Rona raised a cryptic eyebrow. There was a state of armed neutrality between the two of them that she had done all in her power to overcome, to no avail.

  ‘And good luck with the Buckford idea,’ Lindsey added more sincerely.

  Rona nodded an acknowledgement as she pushed open the door. Polly, the receptionist, came round her desk and took Gus’s lead out of her hand.

  ‘Let me look after him, for the sake of Barnie’s files.’

  Rona smiled, undeceived by the pretext. True, the dog’s plumed tail had more than once dislodged piles of papers, but Polly was unashamedly devoted to him and took every opportunity to have him to herself.

  ‘Thanks, Poll.’

  Gus was already trotting behind the reception desk. Polly kept a supply of biscuits in a drawer, and had never failed him yet.

  ‘Rona!’ Barnie Trent came to greet her, planting a smacking kiss on her cheek. ‘Long time no see! How goes it?’

  ‘Less than brilliantly,’ Rona admitted, taking the chair he indicated.

  He nodded in sympathy. ‘It was damned bad luck, being left high and dry like that. Specially when you’d geared yourself to the prospect of two or three years’ work.’

  ‘It cast a long shadow,’ she admitted sombrely. She had indeed lost a lucrative contract, but what had plagued her these last months was that her work had precipitated one of the deaths. ‘However,’ she went on, brightening determinedly, ‘I’ve come up with an idea I’d like to run past you. It’s to do with Buckford’s octocentenary.’

  ‘Yes?’ His shrewd eyes examined her from beneath bushy brows.

  ‘I wondered if you’d be interested in a series of articles? Not a chronological spiel – there’ll be plenty of those over the next year or so. I was thinking more of cherry-picking.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, each would be complete in itself, but taken together they’d be a record of the town from its earliest beginnings – its architecture and how it developed, the foundation of the school and its slot in the development of education generally. Like a giant jigsaw really, starting with a handful of jumbled pieces and fitting in the different bits to make a complete picture. As far as possible, I’d like it to be people-based, concentrating on interesting or eccentric inhabitants over the centuries and their effect on the town.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said slowly, ‘I like the sound of that. How many articles do you envisage?’

  ‘That’s up to you. I could start with half a dozen, and see how we go. I thought we might do them as a central pull-out and offer a binder or something, so they could be kept as a souvenir.’

  ‘Good thinking. You’d need photos, of course. Then and now.’

  She nodded. ‘The “then” will be in the archives, but I’d like to borrow Andy for the modern stuff, if that’s OK?’

  ‘Sure, no problem. It’ll be good to have you back on board.’

  Taking that as dismissal, Rona retrieved her bag from the floor. ‘How’s Dinah?’

  Barnie grimaced. ‘Up to high doh about the expected grandchild.’ The Trents’ only daughter, who lived in the States, was awaiting her second baby.

  ‘Of course, it must be getting close now.’

  ‘Still eight weeks off, but Mel’s blood pressure’s causing concern.’

  ‘That’s bad luck,’ Rona sympathized. ‘Look, why don’t you come to dinner, for a bit of light relief? We’ve been meaning to ask you for ages.’

  ‘Sounds good.’ He gave a lopsided grin. ‘I take it Max will do the honours?’

  ‘Very definitely.’ Rona fumbled in her bag for her diary. ‘Let’s make it a Friday, so we can all relax. Next week?’

  Barnie leafed through his appointments book. ‘I’m free, but I’ll need to check with the boss.’

  Rona replaced her diary and stood up. ‘I mustn’t take any more of your time.’

  ‘Keep me posted on the articles, and I’ll come back to you about Friday.’

  She’d burned her boats, she thought, as she ran down the stairs. Now there was no going back, no more procrastinating. It was high time she put the traumas of the biography behind her and embarked on a new project. And this, she thought, her spirits rising, should be just the one.

  ‘I have a proposition for you,’ Rona told Max, when he phoned that evening.

  ‘Sounds promising.’

  ‘How would you like to go to Buckford for the weekend?’

  ‘What a let-down! You’re going ahead with those articles, then?’

  ‘Yes, I saw Barnie today and he’s in favour. I’d like to have a look round and get the feel of the place. It’s ages since I was there.’

  ‘I thought the anniversary wasn’t till next year?’

  ‘It’s not, but plans are already under way, and if I time it right, the articles should extend into the new year.’

  ‘You’ll have a fair bit of competition, love; there’ll be any number of people wanting a piece of the action.’

  ‘I know, but mine will be slanted differently.’

  ‘That, I don’t doubt!’

  ‘Seriously, is the weekend OK? Up on Saturday, back on Sunday?’

  ‘Fine, if that’s what you want.’

  ‘Oh, and I’ve invited Barnie and Dinah to dinner next Friday.’

  ‘OK. Anything else you’ve let me in for?’

  ‘No,’ she answered serenely, ‘that’s all for the moment.’

  He laughed. ‘I must go. The class starts in ten minutes a
nd I still have things to prepare. Love you.’

  Max Allerdyce replaced the phone and went up the open staircase to his studio, his mind still on his wife. It seemed that at last she was getting back on her feet, he thought with relief. He’d been surprised it had taken so long, when initially she’d appeared unscathed – on a high, perhaps, from unearthing facts the police had missed. Of course the loss of the contract was a blow, but she’d always bounced back before. In fact, it had been her supreme self-confidence that first attracted him, and though at times it could irritate, it was still the quality he most loved in her. And to be fair, he conceded as he set up the easels, it was hardly surprising she’d suffered some reaction, when she’d twice narrowly escaped death herself.

  The front door bell interrupted his musings and, whistling softly to himself, he ran down the stairs to let in the first of his students.

  The following day was a Friday, and Rona spent it at the local library, going through archives and old newspapers and making numerous photocopies.

  It wasn’t until mid-afternoon that, almost guiltily, she fast-forwarded a century or two, to reports of the murder Lindsey had mentioned. It was, as her sister had said, part of the town’s recent history, but Rona admitted to herself that her own brush with murder had left her with a morbid curiosity.

  The story she read was a tragic one: four-year-old Charlotte Spencer had been knocked down and killed by Barry Pollard, whose blood/alcohol level was found to be just over the limit. His drinking – apparently totally out of character – had been a direct result of receiving his divorce papers, and he had broken down in court, overcome with guilt and remorse. His relatively light sentence caused predictable outrage, and within days of his release, he was attacked outside a pub and stabbed to death. Charlotte’s father was convicted of his murder.

  Rona’s heart contracted as the child’s photograph appeared on screen, a curly-haired little girl laughing at the camera. Abruptly she switched off the monitor, collected her papers, and went out into the warm sunshine.

  ‘I invited both girls to Sunday lunch,’ Avril Parish said flatly, ‘but they don’t want to come.’

  Her husband lowered his newspaper. ‘I’m sure they never said that.’