The Necklace

Copyright © Jim Fairfax (2023) The right of Jim Fairfax to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored 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 publishers. Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. First published by Cranthorpe Millner Publishers (2023) ISBN 978-1-80378-093-1 (eBook) www.cranthorpemillner.com Cranthorpe Millner Publishers To Sarah PART ONE A DEATH CHAPTER ONE Death of an innocent man Stewart Bingham muttered angrily under his breath as he climbed the final few steps and turned the key in the front door of his fisherman’s cottage, completely ignoring the sweeping panorama of the picturesque Cornish fishing village below. The view was great, but it was over a hundred steps to get up to the small porch, something he had brushed aside when he made the impulse purchase nearly a decade ago. Now, as time was catching up on him, Stewart was already putting off trips to the convenience store below on a regular basis as his knees kept seizing up. The much beloved tiered front garden had been converted to low-maintenance shingle and a few hardy shrubs last summer by a local gardener. The greenhouse, three panes cracked and the rest mottled with rain damage, stood defiantly on the edge of the flat patio and was verging on an eyesore. So much for his initial plan of a long retirement based around growing his own produce. Stewart made a mental note to attempt to resurrect it in the not-too-distant future. At least the constant dives of the seagulls had stopped recently, seen off by his elderly female neighbour’s air rifle. As he dropped his coat on the sofa and opened a cold beer from the fridge, Stewart was still cursing to himself. Bloody Penny – his agent, Penny Grainger – the whole thing had been her idea. In fact, it was last Sunday when he had been woken far too early, following a late night in the Jolly Fisherman on the quay listening to sea shanties and sinking more pints than he could remember. Blindly reaching for the receiver, she was already talking excitedly, ten to the dozen, at the other end of the line. As he focused on what she was saying, one word stood out. ‘Neddy?’ he interjected. ‘Yes, Stewart. That’s why I’ve rung you up. An appearance on local television. They want to talk to you about the show you did with Neddy. They’re doing a slot on retro children’s TV programmes.’ Stewart thought carefully. It had been a decade since he’d been axed from the children’s TV scheduling, together with his co-star Neddy, a small glove puppet. Since then his career had faltered, with a few years of sparse daytime TV and radio appearances, before he had made the decision to retire altogether from the public eye. ‘How much?’ After all, he reluctantly admitted to himself, it may be worth his while for a good fee. Added to this, life had become rather repetitive. He couldn’t quite admit to it being boring, but it was definitely repetitive. And so, he had agreed to Penny arranging today’s trip to the South West TV studio in Exeter. They had paid for the rail ticket, although, much to his chagrin, not first class. Stewart was not phased when the taxi pulled up outside the unprepossessing sixties office block on an out-of-city retail park. This was par for the course. No, what had really pissed him off today was the way he had been treated. Actually, no, it was the way he had been ignored. People came and went past him in the small seating area he had been guided to, but none stopped to acknowledge his presence. After being seated with a plastic cup of instant coffee for what seemed an eternity, Stewart checked his watch, and finding nearly an hour had elapsed, approached reception. ‘Excuse me, any idea when I will be needed? I’ve been here an hour now.’ He tried to contain his frustration, adding in case they had forgotten, ‘Stewart Bingham for the retro children’s TV programme interview.’ The shaven-headed young man on the reception desk looked up vacantly from the magazine he had been reading, apparently unaware that he had welcomed Stewart earlier. ‘Yeah, no problem. I’ll just check.’ He picked up the phone, dialled an extension and nodded for at least a minute as he listened to the reply. Stewart stood by waiting even more impatiently. ‘Sorry. They don’t need you after all. The guy who used to be in Blue Peter turned up with a new book he’s launching. In the end they ran out of time. It happens quite a lot actually. Nothing personal.’ Nothing personal! Noticing Stewart’s agitation, he added, ‘Still, money for nothing to be fair. You’ll still be paid. They always honour that.’ He seemed somewhat taken aback as Stewart raised a single middle finger and then, turning abruptly on his heels, marched out through the entrance doors, calling a taxi as he did so. The train journey back in a cramped second-class compartment did nothing to improve his mood. The carriage was overflowing with schoolkids for much of the journey and the phone reception was so poor that he could only manage to connect to Penny’s number when he was disembarking from the train. ‘Never again! A complete bloody waste of time. They didn’t even call me. This guy from Blue Peter took up