Jigsaw

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

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

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.

‘H
ow 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.'