Murder Takes the Stage by Amy Myers

photo, not aggressive or otherwise remarkable, but that of a man who had a life of his own and was not just the victim – or perpetrator – of tragedy. ‘I’ll put it in Suspects Anonymous too.’ He cocked an eye at her to see how she took this.
    Badly. Georgia was not impressed. She had never been a fan of Suspects Anonymous, despite the fact that this software was the brainchild of her cousin Charlie Bone and intended to assist Marsh & Daughter in their work. Unfortunately Peter had more faith in it than she did. It was all very well seeing icons of little men in striped jerseys dashing across the screen, Georgia thought, but translated into harsh real terms the software couldn’t work unless there was input from their all-too-human brains and hands.
    At the moment this was sadly lacking. As regards suspects for Joan Watson’s murder, Tom stood very firmly at the top of a list of one. Witnesses yes, but no suspects. She and Peter had fed the times, names, alibis, recollections in so far as they could, but nothing shot up as a warning flag to indicate there was any clash or discrepancy, although in other areas the software came to abundant life, notably over the golden-hearted Joan versus the first class bitch.
    Marsh & Daughter’s website was far more productive as an aid. There, nets could be cast upon the water and the results carefully trawled. Now that Tom’s photo had been put up on their website, there was a faint chance that it might strike a chord in someone’s memory, either from his younger days up to 1953 or, if she and Peter were really lucky, later than that. Cherry’s fairy-tale hope that Tom had survived might just prove not to be fantasy.
    It took only two days before precious metal, if not gold, was struck, but it was not the website that produced it. To her chagrin, it was Suspects Anonymous. Instead of Peter’s usual frustrated shout of ‘I don’t know why I bother with this rubbish’, she was surprised to hear him call out, ‘Hey, Georgia, look at this.’
    There was a note of real interest in his voice, and so she hurried to peer over his shoulder. On the Forgotten Elements screen, designed to pick up statements that didn’t connect with anything else on the site, there was usually only a long list of drivel. Today – perhaps it was something to do with its being Friday the thirteenth – it contained something that had caught Peter’s eye, and no wonder.
    â€˜Â . . . her daughter had been in there babysitting that evening.’
    â€˜The babysitter!’ she exclaimed. ‘We’d forgotten her.’
    â€˜And the neighbour,’ Peter cried in unison with her. A few moments of rapid mutual congratulations, and then, ‘How do we find them, or at least the daughter?’ Georgia asked.
    â€˜Elementary, my dear Georgia. We can try Gary’s Fish Bar or—’
    â€˜Pamela Trent.’
    â€˜Who was three years old at the time.’
    â€˜But might have known who they were.’
    â€˜Accepted.’
    â€˜I’ll write to the Trents. I winkled out their address from Christine. They’re not in the phone book.’
    â€˜No telephone number?’
    â€˜No, and it’s too chancy. Gives them no time for reflection.’
    â€˜That might be just as well,’ Peter muttered. ‘Gwen’s asked us over to lunch on Sunday, by the way. Luke too, of course, if you can prise him away from his desk. Apparently, Charlie’s got a girlfriend, and Gwen wants support when she meets her.’
    â€˜ Charlie ?’ She was flabbergasted.
    This must be serious. Charlie seemed the eternal bachelor, more dedicated to roaming cyberspace than searching for a girlfriend. Not that he locked himself up in a room with a screen that passed for life. Far from it. He dashed here, there and everywhere, solving abstruse problems and enjoying the life o’Reilly on his travels. Travels,