bell for the second half rang through the foyer. He watched his fellow musicians take their places. What would they do if they knew they were playing alongside a murderer? He forced down nausea.
The rustling and coughing ceased. Tension filled the hall and before he realised it, a column of flame stood on the stage in front of them. Tall and slender, blonde hair upswept, her earrings pinpoints of light igniting the glowing dress, glittering lights flashing from the bodice and skirt. The audience gasped; thunderous applause ensued. Mesmerised, his gaze dropped to where the sexiest golden shoes he had ever seen flashed fire on her feet.
Pamela Miller, flautist.
A wave of Ariel’s perfume reached him and suddenly he was transported back to the park. His heart started to pound. Sweat pricked under his suit coat and his collar restricted his breathing . He gazed at Pamela’s delicately painted toes, the diamonds glittering around her ankle. His eyes travelled up to her slender hips and as he looked into her beautiful face, his mind spun out of control. He daren’t allow panic to overtake him.Was the photographer hersister?Did Pamela have a sister?Perhaps someone just like her... onetwothreefourfive ...Pamela might be related to the woman, but when he focused he could see that not only was she taller, but the photographer had shoulder-length hair.
Relieved, his attention snapped back to the girls below him before returning to the matter in hand. Control... control...two, four, six, eight...He grappled for his handkerchief – A gentleman is never without a freshly laundered and ironed cotton handkerchief, my darling – and pressed it to his mouth to force back screams... go away you old cow... catching Pamela’s eye, he pretended to cough and looked down into the audience once more.
The two girls were incandescent with excitement, one of them even going so far as to wave to Pamela, whose face lit up with pleasure as she smiled down at them. She knows them? The flautist turned to the rest of the audience acknowledging the applause. Did she see me with Ariel? A shaft of fear struck him. He forced himself to hide any emotion. He rubbed his hand over his thighs to keep them from shaking.
Pamela Miller raised the flute to her lips. Within minutes, the audience was transfixed by the beauty of the music, swelling throughout the concert hall – mesmerising, magical.
Ariel was forgotten.
CHAPTER 9
Jeffrey Triumphant.
Saturday, 9.10PM.
Deep in Jeffrey’s doggy brain lurked a vague memory of something exciting hidden under a pile of bushes at the top of an embankment near the water. ‘Jeffrey! Jeffrey? Where are you?’ Robert Simkins shone his powerful flashlight around the park.
Snuffling his way along, his tail wagged faster as the scent got stronger. Yum. It was almost more than a daffy dog could bear! He snorted his way forward and there it was: the pile of bushes and leaves. Jeffrey wasn’t about to let his treasure go. He barged into the centre of the pile, dug deep and tossed his head, sending a flap of old sacking into the air. Branches of every size and leaves flew in every direction. Seeing his quarry, he pounced.
‘Jeffrey! Get out of there, you dozy animal!’
Jeffrey held another sandal in his drooling jaws. Torchlight flashed over him, passed on and then veered back and down; behind the dog, lay part of a jeans-clad body. Quaking, Simkins moved forward as though in a dream and gingerly moved aside the top branch to see a still form underneath – a young girl, glossy dark hair hiding her face, arms folded across her chest as though she was asleep.
He had never seen anything like it; he felt sick. Drugs? A recollection from CSI reminded him that a dead person usually didn’t fold their arms neatly in front of their body, unless of course, it was suicide. He didn’t dare look any further in case he found needles or something, but the unwelcome realisation dawned that someone had
The rustling and coughing ceased. Tension filled the hall and before he realised it, a column of flame stood on the stage in front of them. Tall and slender, blonde hair upswept, her earrings pinpoints of light igniting the glowing dress, glittering lights flashing from the bodice and skirt. The audience gasped; thunderous applause ensued. Mesmerised, his gaze dropped to where the sexiest golden shoes he had ever seen flashed fire on her feet.
Pamela Miller, flautist.
A wave of Ariel’s perfume reached him and suddenly he was transported back to the park. His heart started to pound. Sweat pricked under his suit coat and his collar restricted his breathing . He gazed at Pamela’s delicately painted toes, the diamonds glittering around her ankle. His eyes travelled up to her slender hips and as he looked into her beautiful face, his mind spun out of control. He daren’t allow panic to overtake him.Was the photographer hersister?Did Pamela have a sister?Perhaps someone just like her... onetwothreefourfive ...Pamela might be related to the woman, but when he focused he could see that not only was she taller, but the photographer had shoulder-length hair.
Relieved, his attention snapped back to the girls below him before returning to the matter in hand. Control... control...two, four, six, eight...He grappled for his handkerchief – A gentleman is never without a freshly laundered and ironed cotton handkerchief, my darling – and pressed it to his mouth to force back screams... go away you old cow... catching Pamela’s eye, he pretended to cough and looked down into the audience once more.
The two girls were incandescent with excitement, one of them even going so far as to wave to Pamela, whose face lit up with pleasure as she smiled down at them. She knows them? The flautist turned to the rest of the audience acknowledging the applause. Did she see me with Ariel? A shaft of fear struck him. He forced himself to hide any emotion. He rubbed his hand over his thighs to keep them from shaking.
Pamela Miller raised the flute to her lips. Within minutes, the audience was transfixed by the beauty of the music, swelling throughout the concert hall – mesmerising, magical.
Ariel was forgotten.
CHAPTER 9
Jeffrey Triumphant.
Saturday, 9.10PM.
Deep in Jeffrey’s doggy brain lurked a vague memory of something exciting hidden under a pile of bushes at the top of an embankment near the water. ‘Jeffrey! Jeffrey? Where are you?’ Robert Simkins shone his powerful flashlight around the park.
Snuffling his way along, his tail wagged faster as the scent got stronger. Yum. It was almost more than a daffy dog could bear! He snorted his way forward and there it was: the pile of bushes and leaves. Jeffrey wasn’t about to let his treasure go. He barged into the centre of the pile, dug deep and tossed his head, sending a flap of old sacking into the air. Branches of every size and leaves flew in every direction. Seeing his quarry, he pounced.
‘Jeffrey! Get out of there, you dozy animal!’
Jeffrey held another sandal in his drooling jaws. Torchlight flashed over him, passed on and then veered back and down; behind the dog, lay part of a jeans-clad body. Quaking, Simkins moved forward as though in a dream and gingerly moved aside the top branch to see a still form underneath – a young girl, glossy dark hair hiding her face, arms folded across her chest as though she was asleep.
He had never seen anything like it; he felt sick. Drugs? A recollection from CSI reminded him that a dead person usually didn’t fold their arms neatly in front of their body, unless of course, it was suicide. He didn’t dare look any further in case he found needles or something, but the unwelcome realisation dawned that someone had
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