The DI Benedict Paige Collection: Books 4 – 6 | Paperbacks

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THE FORGET-ME-NOT KILLER

Chapter 1: Eugene

Eugene Cole was expecting a visitor. He was excited by the prospect. The man was due at eleven, in time for morning coffee. Eugene had a shave and took an age deciding whether he should wear a tie and, if so, what colour. Not too bright or garish, not too sombre. In the end, on the advice of his wife, Shirley, he plumped for a muted green. Shirley would have liked to have met the man herself but she had a hair appointment and nothing got in the way of that. Eugene had a tidy-up in recognition of this momentous occasion – pushed the vacuum cleaner around and plumped the cushions, rearranging them several times. He dusted the pictures on the wall, especially the framed newspaper cuttings featuring him back in the days when he was something. Even Bunty, their black Labrador, sensing something in the air, was excited.
Then, with nothing else to occupy himself with, Eugene sat down on the edge of his settee, hands neatly on his lap, and waited, checking his watch. Eleven o’clock came and went. At five minutes past, the doorbell rang. He was five minutes late. Bunty barked.
The man had phoned him a few days earlier. His name was Henry Bowen, a freelance journalist writing an article about the history of the Halle Orchestra. Eugene was retired now, had been for two years, but he’d been the orchestra’s first violinist for nigh-on twenty years, the happiest years of his life, and he still missed it, missed the excitement of it all, the buzz of performing. But he didn’t miss the touring, all the anonymous hotel rooms and endless flights.
And here he was, Henry Bowen, sitting in Eugene’s ever-so-tidy living room, the place smelling of air freshener, being assaulted by Bunty’s attentiveness. Good-looking fellow, thought Eugene, slicked-back hair, positively shiny, tall, very pale, wearing a dapper cream-coloured suit, firm hand grip. ‘It’s lovely to meet you, Mr Cole.’ He seemed on edge. Perhaps, thought Eugene, he was in awe of his reputation. He was known to have been a hard taskmaster, striking fear into his charges in the string section.
‘Thank you, Mr Bowen. Do take a seat. Bunty, getaway now. I’m sorry, are you OK with dogs?’
‘Yes, fine. I love dogs.’
They talked about dogs for a while. Eugene wanted the man to relax a little. He refused his offer of coffee and biscuits, and, at Eugene’s invitation, sat down on the settee which sucked him in, leaving him looking slightly awkward. Mr Bowen took in his surroundings. Eugene and Shirley lived in a three-bedroom detached house in Highgate, one of London’s most affluent areas. ‘It’s a lovely home you have here,’ said Mr Bowen. ‘Must be worth a bob or two. How long have you lived here?’
‘Oh, er, let me see. Coming up to nineteen years or so.’
‘Do you know its worth?’
‘I… I d-don’t know.’ It’s not your bloody business, he thought. Something was off here, that’s not the sort of question you ask someone on first meeting them. He decided he didn’t like this man; the fact Bowen couldn’t look him in the eye and his fingers kept fidgeting. ‘So, who is this article for? Did you say?’
‘The Tatler.’
‘Oh? A very prestigious magazine. I’m a long-time subscriber. Have you written for them before? I’m sure I would have read it.’
‘Oh, yes, erm, a couple of articles.’
‘Such as?’
‘Yes, so, my most recent was about Princess Leonor of Spain.’ He patted Bunty, still not wanting to look Eugene in the eye.
‘Oh right. Was that the one about her doing her military training?’
‘That’s the one.’
OK, alarm bells were ringing now. Eugene had read that article and he knew the woman who’d written it, Stephanie Bridges. The man was lying. ‘Yes, I read that. Most interesting. Do you know Jonathan Griffiths, the editor?’
‘No, but I’ve spoken to him via email.’
Like hell you have, thought Eugene. Griffiths had retired years ago.
‘My parents had all your records,’ said Bowen, almost falling over his words. ’They loved everything you did. I think the Richard Strauss was their favourite.’
Eugene sat down opposite him, crossing his legs. ‘Your parents had fine tastes, Mr Bowen.’
He laughed politely. ‘As far as they were concerned, if it had your name on it then it had to be good.’
Eugene noticed the man was holding onto Bunty’s collar. ‘You can let the dog go, you know.’
‘It’s fine.’
‘If you insist. So, tell me again, what’s this article about?’
‘I’m writing a short history about your orchestra, Mr Cole.’
‘So, what exactly do you want to ask me?’
‘When you worked for the orchestra, you lived out in Buckinghamshire, didn’t you? But once you retired, you moved here. It’s strange because most people, when they retire, move to the countryside but you’ve done the opposite.’
Eugene narrowed his eyes, trying to work the man out. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not catching the relevance here, Mr Bowen. Where I choose to live has got no bearing on my work with the orchestra, apart from convenience. So I don’t see the point you’re making here.’
Now, finally, the man looked him in the eye, and Eugene found himself shuddering.
‘You and Shirley used to live in Halford Manor, didn’t you?’
There was something about the way he so casually mentioned Shirley’s name that added to Eugene’s anxiety. And how in the hell did he know about Halford Manor? He spread his hands. ‘Yes and again, I still fail to see the relevance of your question.’ He needed to assert himself here and get rid of the odious man. ‘Mr Bowen, I think you need to do a little more preparation. I think perhaps–’
‘I’m very prepared, thank you, Mr Cole. I’ve been preparing for this for years.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You were living in Halford Manor in 2000, were you not?’
Eugene stood. Bunty made to reach him, but Bowen still had her by the collar. ‘Mr Bowen, I think you need to go now.’
‘May third, 2000, to be precise.’
OK, shit, something was happening here. ‘Mr Bowen, I’d like you to leave now.’
‘Not yet. I’ve got a few questions still.’
‘And I’m not prepared to answer them. Please go before I call the police.’
‘I wouldn’t do that.’ He yanked Bunty so close to him, the dog yelped.
‘Mind the bloody dog.’
A flash of silver. The man was holding a knife to the dog’s throat.
Eugene put his hand out, trying to calm the man. ‘OK, Mr Bowen, I don’t know who you are, but let’s… let’s stay calm here. Please let the dog go.’
‘I want you to take a piece of paper and write down their names and their addresses.’
‘Their names? Whose names?’
‘You know full well, Mr Cole. The names of the three men you invited to your house on May third, 2000.’
‘That’s twenty-three years ago. I’m not sure–’
‘I give you thirty seconds, Mr Cole, or I’ll slice your dog’s throat for you.’
Eugene wanted to be sick. Was the man being serious? He couldn’t think. That was some knife he was holding to the dog’s throat. ‘Look, is it money you want? I’ve got money, I can–’
‘The names, Mr Cole. I only want their names and addresses.’
‘OK, OK, I’ll write them down for you. Let me just go through to the kitchen and–’
‘You leave my sight, the dog’s dead.’
Eugene could barely control his breathing. He found a scrap of paper on the coffee table. ‘Y-you want their names, is that it? Is that all you want?’
‘And, for the third fucking time, their addresses. Yes.’
Thank Christ for that. But he found it difficult to write, his hands were shaking too much. His heart, his bloody heart, was going like the clappers. Take a deep breath, he told himself. He had to get these names and addresses down. Should he write false names? No, too risky, the man knew where he lived. He wasn’t going to risk his life for the sake of those three.
The man stood and pulled Bunty off her two front feet by yanking up her collar. Bunty twisted her head, trying to free herself. ‘If you don’t hurry up. You’ll be writing their names in your dog’s blood, so fucking get on with it.’ He held up that vicious-looking knife, in fact, it had two sharp edges, that wasn’t a knife, the man was wielding a bloody dagger.
‘Give-g-give me a m-minute.’ Writing those three names was quite the hardest thing Eugene had ever done, not because he was worried about them, right now, he couldn’t give a shit about them, but his vision had blurred, he couldn’t coordinate his hand to write. Bunty was choking. He was hurting her. Eugene could hear and sense her distress. Finally, with shaking fingers, he managed to scrawl the names and addresses down. ‘H-here, here,’ he whispered, holding out the scrap of paper.
The man snatched it. He lowered the choking dog down and studied the names for a while. ‘These are the men?’ he asked, still holding onto Bunty’s collar.
‘Yes.’
‘Because if they’re not, you know I will be back.’
Eugene nodded, finding it too difficult to talk.
Finally, the man let the dog go, and with three long strides, walked right up to Eugene. Eugene cried out, thinking this was the end of him. ‘Now, this is what I want you to do. Do not report this to the police. And do not tell your three friends about this. If you want proof that I’m being serious, I’ll cut off one of your dog’s ears right now.’
‘No, no. Please, no. I w-won’t s-say a word, I-I promise.’
The man actually smiled, the bastard. ‘Good. It’s been nice meeting you, Mr Cole.’
And with that, he spun around and, patting the poor dog briefly on her head, walked out of the house.
Eugene was about to cry when his heart burst and gave out on him.