as checking through the phone book for the Neals and the family of Charlotte's friend, Kimberley Hughes. I found no trace of the Neals at their former address, hardly surprising perhaps, but there was an A. Hughes still listed at 122 Conway Drive. I tried the number but got no reply. Turning my attention to the policeman, I found a G. Plover on Main Street in Harcourt and dialled again. Bingo! Right first time. Mr Plover, who had reached the heights of Detective Chief Superintendent before he retired, or so he told me, was more than happy to see me once I'd explained who I was and what I wanted. Arranging to call on him the following morning, I replaced the receiver then returned the directory to the bookcase of reference works that stood beside the door and took down the map of the Crofterton area. Mr Plover's address was easy to find—he lived in the next village to mine and had a cottage on the main road. The two addresses in Darrington I located quickly from the gazetteer. Then, with no little difficulty and a lot of bad language on my part together with shouted instructions from the far side of KD's desk, which were totally inaccurate and no use at all, I battled with refolding the map.
"Right. That's me finished for the day unless there's anything else you want me to do?"
It was nearly six o'clock already.
"Did I hear you make an appointment with the Inspector chappie?"
"Plover, yes. Ten o'clock tomorrow morning. Is that OK?"
"Fine. I'll see you when you get here. Have a good evening."
"You too. 'Bye."
Perched on my favourite stool in the wine bar that evening, I decided it was time to go home; I could do with an early night and the place was beginning to fill up. I glanced around at the crowd and suddenly changed my mind. Stepping out of one of the booths at the back of the room came Greg Ferrari! The first thing I noticed about him was his height. He was about a head taller than anyone else in the place and seemed to tower over them as if on stilts. I had a momentary flight of fancy at the idea of him dancing on giant platform boots, before glancing down at his footwear. Even at this distance they appeared to be made of hand-tooled leather. Ten to one they were Italian and specially made and shipped over for him. Given how much money he must be making out of Star Steps no doubt he could afford to buy them by the boat-load. The suit too looked Italian, superbly tailored with sharp lapels, waist darts and buttons that were probably hand-crafted on the banks of the Arno by some dark haired, oval-eyed maiden. He filled it immaculately from broad shoulders to narrow hips. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm no expert on men's fashions - or even women's for that matter - but Greg Ferrari just oozed class, style and money. He moved, not unnaturally, like a dancer with a lithe cat-like grace. He was on the prowl, that was for sure. More surprisingly he was prowling in my direction.
“ Hello. Didn't I see you at the studios yesterday afternoon?”
Had he? I hadn't seen him - and believe me I would have noticed him, if I'd done so.
I could have jet-skied off the plane of his cheek bones, his eyes were like molten chocolate. I wanted to dive right in and lap it all up. I held his deep brown gaze for a moment, wishing I was ten years younger, before I snapped out of my fantasies.
“ Well I was there." I admitted. "So, perhaps you did.”
“ Greg Ferrari,” he said, as if it wasn't a household name and held out a smooth well manicured hand. Still, I thought, as I shook it, up until a few days ago I'd never heard of him so it was possible there were others like me. Monks in a silent order perhaps or hermits in some cell in a valley in deepest Wales.
“ Verity Long.”
“ Can I get you a drink, Verity?”
He smiled, lines showing at the corner of his eyes. He wasn't as young as I'd first thought him to be and I found his stare somewhat disquieting. Suddenly, I was on my guard.
“ I'll have an apple juice,
"Right. That's me finished for the day unless there's anything else you want me to do?"
It was nearly six o'clock already.
"Did I hear you make an appointment with the Inspector chappie?"
"Plover, yes. Ten o'clock tomorrow morning. Is that OK?"
"Fine. I'll see you when you get here. Have a good evening."
"You too. 'Bye."
Perched on my favourite stool in the wine bar that evening, I decided it was time to go home; I could do with an early night and the place was beginning to fill up. I glanced around at the crowd and suddenly changed my mind. Stepping out of one of the booths at the back of the room came Greg Ferrari! The first thing I noticed about him was his height. He was about a head taller than anyone else in the place and seemed to tower over them as if on stilts. I had a momentary flight of fancy at the idea of him dancing on giant platform boots, before glancing down at his footwear. Even at this distance they appeared to be made of hand-tooled leather. Ten to one they were Italian and specially made and shipped over for him. Given how much money he must be making out of Star Steps no doubt he could afford to buy them by the boat-load. The suit too looked Italian, superbly tailored with sharp lapels, waist darts and buttons that were probably hand-crafted on the banks of the Arno by some dark haired, oval-eyed maiden. He filled it immaculately from broad shoulders to narrow hips. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm no expert on men's fashions - or even women's for that matter - but Greg Ferrari just oozed class, style and money. He moved, not unnaturally, like a dancer with a lithe cat-like grace. He was on the prowl, that was for sure. More surprisingly he was prowling in my direction.
“ Hello. Didn't I see you at the studios yesterday afternoon?”
Had he? I hadn't seen him - and believe me I would have noticed him, if I'd done so.
I could have jet-skied off the plane of his cheek bones, his eyes were like molten chocolate. I wanted to dive right in and lap it all up. I held his deep brown gaze for a moment, wishing I was ten years younger, before I snapped out of my fantasies.
“ Well I was there." I admitted. "So, perhaps you did.”
“ Greg Ferrari,” he said, as if it wasn't a household name and held out a smooth well manicured hand. Still, I thought, as I shook it, up until a few days ago I'd never heard of him so it was possible there were others like me. Monks in a silent order perhaps or hermits in some cell in a valley in deepest Wales.
“ Verity Long.”
“ Can I get you a drink, Verity?”
He smiled, lines showing at the corner of his eyes. He wasn't as young as I'd first thought him to be and I found his stare somewhat disquieting. Suddenly, I was on my guard.
“ I'll have an apple juice,
Similar Books
