Chapter 11
Larry Potter hadn’t looked at the newspaper he’d been offered and accepted at the outset of the flight. He’d been content to sip on a glass of wine, talk to Jenna over his shoulder, and watch the activity taking place around the plane through the window. It was only as the flight attendants started moving around the cabin in preparation for the breakfast service that he took the paper out of his seat pocket and unfolded it. He was bleary eyed after less than four hours of trying to sleep, and he found himself skimming through the pages. It was only because the headline on page seven included the word Salcombe that he paused to look at the accompanying photo and read the story. But it was the image that first caught his attention. Taken from an angle, it showed a courtroom packed with spectators taking in a murder trial. The top right-hand corner of the photo contained a face that looked remarkably to Larry like Trish Montgomery’s. Her hair was styled differently, and it had been dyed, but Larry was almost certain that the face in the photo belonged to his former friend. The details of the story made Larry think that he might be right. They described the brutal murder of a man who, the evidence suggested, had been unfaithful to his wife. The killer had castrated the victim and then pinned his genitals to a tree with a hunting arrow. It was all too similar to a murder in Toronto, which Larry now believed that Trish had likely committed despite the police determination that the killer was Geoffrey Brown, her former lover. Larry had not shared his thoughts on the Toronto case with his wife nor the detective who’d led the investigation into Jonathan Piggott’s murder. They’d seemed too outlandish at first, and he had simply not been able to accept that the woman who’d been one of his best friends since his teenage years was capable of such violence. It was why, when Trish became the prime suspect in the police investigation into her husband’s murder, that he got involved in the case. Larry had set out to prove Trish’s innocence, risking his marriage and physical safety. It was only later, as he’d been recuperating from the injuries he’d suffered as a result of Brown’s actions, that he’d started to have doubts about Trish. Now, looking at her face in the newspaper photo taken at Linquist’s trial, he wondered anew about her guilt and whereabouts. If she was in Salcombe, there was a chance he would find out. Larry and Jenna planned to spend four days in the village, after a sojourn in Clacton on Sea. There were two reasons for the visit to Clacton. It had been featured in an Elizabeth George mystery that Jenna had enjoyed, and her father had been stationed there during the Second World War as a member of the Canadian Armed Forces. John Smith had enlisted with the Canadians in early 1940, more than a year before the Americans entered the war, in the belief that Hitler must be stopped. He’d trained at a base located just outside the English seaside town before being posted to London as an antiaircraft gunner. Although he never talked much to his daughter about the war, he had reminisced fondly about Clacton and his wartime experiences there. Jenna had a hankering to walk in her father’s footsteps a bit. She’d never really felt that she’d known him during his lifetime. Despite his love for her, and all the time they’d spent together, there was always a part of himself that he never shared. With his health and memory both failing as he entered his mid-80s, she felt compelled to connect more fully with him. Jenna also felt that the stop at Clacton would give her a chance to assess her husband’s capabilities before the couple headed to the hillier counties of Devon, Cornwall and Somerset. She wanted to have a good sense of how he would cope with the walking they hoped to do, and how much of it he could do without experiencing pain or fatigue. It would, she hoped, allow her to structure their excursions in doable chunks, and to ensure there were places where Larry could rest along the way. The last thing she wanted was to end up on a footpath miles from their car or a convenient pub, with Larry having reached the point of exhaustion. Nor did she want him to feel that he was impeding her enjoyment of their holiday or holding her back in any way. Being honest with herself, Jenna was also a bit worried about driving on the left-hand side of the road. She’d never done that before. The detective had received advanced training to enhance her road skills – she knew how to control a skid, turn on a dime and a lot of other high-speed manoeuvers – but none of it had been acquired sitting in the right-hand seat of a car, and very little had entailed driving down narrow country lanes. And while many of the British mysteries she’d read described picturesque drives down narrow roads, with drivers knowing instinctively where the nearest layby was situated, as well as how to back into it to let oncoming traffic pass, she was smart enough to know that her lack of familiarity with the roads and road habits in the West Country could prove both challenging and stressful. So, Jenna wanted to do a bit of driving on what her Michelin map classified as M roads and A roads before she tackled the Bs and the laneways, even if it was just to get used to driving on the left. The route down to Clacton looked reasonable from that perspective. Plus, a few days of R&R in a seaside down would give her husband a chance to recover from the overseas flight and the jetlag that they’d likely both experience. Despite having pictured herself driving on the left in her mind, Jenna felt slightly disorientated when they finally made it to their rental car. It had been a long flight. She hadn’t slept. The British morning found her feeling groggy. And the attempt by the rental car company agent to upsell her into a bigger vehicle with an automatic transmission hadn’t helped. All she’d wanted was to get the car she’d reserved, get on the road, and drive the two hours it should take them to reach Clacton if the traffic was good and they didn’t get lost. Jenna had stuck to her guns and kept the smaller car that she’d purposely reserved. The last thing she’d wanted was to end up in a vehicle that would make her more nervous driving on the country lanes. When she finally had most of their luggage in the boot (only one case had to go on the back seat), and Larry was buckled into the passenger seat, she walked around to the driver’s side of the car. Even opening the door and getting herself settled in the car felt disorientating. She took her time to adjust the position of her seat and mirrors, then, before starting the engine, depressed the clutch and moved the stick shift into each of the car’s five gears to familiarize herself with their position and get the feel of using her left hand to change gears. Finally, she took one last look at their Michelin map, and the road numbers she’d noted in ballpoint on its margins, put the map where she or Larry could easily reach it, depressed the clutch and started the engine. The trick, she knew, was to stay focussed and stay on the left.
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AuthorT. Lawrence Davis grew up in Quebec and spent many summers as a teenager working as a groom at racetracks and on his mother’s Thoroughbred horse farm. He ran his mother’s farm for several years before becoming a journalist and, for a time, managing editor of Canadian Thoroughbred magazine. ArchivesCategories |