Paul Magrs - Mystery Lady

www.storytel.com

Copyright © Storytel Original 2021

Copyright © Paul Magrs 2021

Publisher: Kate Jones

Editor: Kate Jones

ISBN 978-91-7991-326-7

www.storytelpublishing.se Copyright © Storytel Original 2018 Copyright © Paul Magrs 2018 Senior editor: Kate Jones Cover idea and design: Cover Kitchen Company Ltd Published 2018 by Storytel Original. ISBN: 978-91-7991-326-7 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, store in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright owner.

My name is Dodie Golightly and I am a murderer.

Murder is my profession. I am a writer of stories, a composer of riddles and a setter of puzzles. I create characters in order to do dreadful things to them. I am a ‘woman of mystery’.

Wherever I go, I seem to be beset by mysteries. They follow me about. Timothy Bold says that I simply imagine this. He says that, if anything, I deliberately seek out danger and mayhem. He accuses me of bringing these things on myself. But then, what would Timothy Bold know? He’s got his head filled with dolly birds and pop music and the ridiculous clothes he wears. He’s all about external fripperies, and I tell him so. But he just shrugs and gives a carefree laugh.

‘Better superficial than morbid, Dodie,’ he says.

Am I morbid? Just because I spend much of my life thinking about murder? Deep down I have come to believe that life is really all about death. That’s all there really is to the world – the inevitability of everyone’s demise and the various gruesome ways in which it can come about.

That was something that struck me quite forcibly during that recent affair I investigated to do with the poisonings at the Women’s Institute in Cheadle Hulme. Strychnine in the raspberry jam. I rather enjoyed solving that one.

Yes, I suppose all my preoccupations are quite morbid, actually.

Good thing that, when I’m in company, I can keep up such a jolly front. I can cover up my darker thoughts and pretend to be simply stylish, sharp, witty and sleek: an adventurous lady investigator with a sports car and a loyal but slightly ditzy assistant.

Cassandra is very sweet but she was changed forever by something that happened at a book launch last year. It was in the revolving restaurant at the new Post Office Tower in London, and I don’t think she’ll ever be the same. Not that she even really understands what went on. But that’s Cassandra for you.

I live in the North of England, in the city of Manchester, hidden away in the leafy suburbs of Heaton Moor, behind tall hedges and red brick walls. Mostly I sit at home in a turret of my little house. It’s quite an eccentrically designed house, rather like a small castle. My turret looks out on swaying trees, spectacular in autumn, when our story begins, and it’s the perfect place for me to work.

I’m very lucky because mostly I get to stay at home, which is lovely. I have my books and my tastefully curated objets and my cats – Agatha and Edgar – and I have no one to disturb me or clutter up my home or get in my way. Apart from Cassandra, of course, or my showbizzy best friend Timothy… but they are both good and try not to bother me much.

The night our story begins was one of those nights when I found I had to leave my home and be more sociable. I couldn’t simply sit around in my silk wrap and turban, playing records and hatching plots.

That night it was Timothy’s debut as a presenter on a TV teen pop show. He was going to be the host of ‘Smashing Tunes’ and I was being roped in as moral support. I had to wear something ‘groovy and hip’ – his words – and dance energetically in the studio for the cameras. I had to look as if I was enjoying every moment and, if it wasn’t too much trouble, I had to scream myself hoarse at the pop stars, too.

It really wasn’t my kind of thing.

‘Oooh, I can’t wait,’ said Cassandra, as we surveyed my wardrobe together. ‘Look, I’m already done up.’

She was indeed. She was in a lime green, bell-shaped mini dress with knee-high white plastic boots. Her hair was strawberry blonde and backcombed into a vast heap. The thing about her particular condition, it seemed, was that she could get away with wearing just about anything. It was a shame that not everyone could appreciate her transformation.

She made a few suggestions about what I ought to wear that night. Most of what I had was rather too classy for prancing about to pop music. We settled on a midnight blue cat suit with golden embroidered details. It would look fab with my dark hair.

‘Just look at us!’ sighed Cassie, when we were all ready and heading out to the Jag. ‘He won’t know what’s hit him!’ Then, clambering into the passenger seat, she was overcome by a fleeting sadness. ‘And yet, somehow, he always behaves as if I don’t exist.’

I hopped into the driver’s seat and gunned the engine. Honestly, I didn’t know what to say to Cassie when she said that.

‘Smashing Tunes’ was broadcast from a one-time church in Manchester. A deconsecrated church might seem like funny place to film a pop show, but Timothy had explained that it was because it had a lovely large floor space and wonderful acoustics. It just seemed a bit sacrilegious to me, but this is the Sixties, isn’t it? We’re living in a different age now. The old order is being overturned. Everything is upside down and, mostly, that’s all for the best. A lot of bad attitudes and prejudices are being examined and opportunities are opening up for everyone. Everything is changing so fast. Being an old-fashioned girl at heart – though a fabulously trendy one – I do wonder if we aren’t moving along too fast sometimes…

‘Is this the place..? It must be!’ cried Cassandra as we encountered heavy traffic on the long, broad stretch of Dickinson Road.

There was a crowd of local kids hanging around the dark vans outside. The vans clearly belonged to the television company, and perhaps the pop stars, too. Young girls in cardigans and boys in anoraks or leather jackets were gathered excitedly, hoping for a glimpse of a famous face.

I parked in a side street and popped on my sunglasses, even though it was nearly dark.

‘You do look glam, Dodie,’ Cassandra told me. ‘I don’t know why Timothy doesn’t beg you to run away with him.’

My jaw dropped open. ‘What? Why would you say that?’

‘Oh, come on. You two were made for each other!’

‘We’ve known each other since the first day at Betty Street Infants,’ I protested. ‘We played in the Wendy House and that’s the closest I ever want to get to playing Mams and Dads with Timothy Bold, thank you. He’s a sweetheart and I love him to bits, but you’re wrong, Cassie. There’s no chance of romance between us. Just the thought of it is upsetting!’

By now we were passing through the rabble of spectators.Cassie was still nattering on. ‘Upsetting? But he’s so lovely! He’s a gorgeous-looking fella!’

She wasn’t wrong, but Tim was much more like a younger, dafter, and, at times, slightly irksome brother. I tried to explain this to Cassandra yet again.

Away from the milling crowds and the busy technicians, we met the daft lad himself, inside his tiny and rather chilly dressing room.

‘Goodness, are you really wearing that?’ I asked him.

It was a regency frock coat and a frilled shirt apparently made out of ten pound notes. His hair had been teased into a meringue even more elaborate than Cassie’s.

‘It’s how the producer wants me to look,’ he grinned. ‘Just a little bit outrageous.’