The Forget-Me-Not Killer

The Forget-Me-Not Killer A Detective Inspector Benedict Paige Novel: Book 4 Joshua Black © 2023 Joshua Black Rathbone Publishing All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission from the author except for the use of quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or deceased), or actual events is purely coincidental. Follow Joshua on Amazon and be the first to know of new releases. Chapter 1: Eugene Eugene Cole was expecting a visitor. He was excited by the prospect. The man was due at eleven, in time for morning coffee. Eugene had a shave and took an age deciding whether he should wear a tie and, if so, what colour. Not too bright or garish, not too sombre. In the end, on the advice of his wife, Shirley, he plumped for a muted green. Shirley would have liked to have met the man herself but she had a hair appointment and nothing got in the way of that. Eugene had a tidy-up in recognition of this momentous occasion – pushed the vacuum cleaner around and plumped the cushions, rearranging them several times. He dusted the pictures on the wall, especially the framed newspaper cuttings featuring him back in the days when he was something. Even Bunty, their black Labrador, sensing something in the air, was excited. Then, with nothing else to occupy himself with, Eugene sat down on the edge of his settee, hands neatly on his lap, and waited, checking his watch. Eleven o’clock came and went. At five minutes past, the doorbell rang. He was five minutes late. Bunty barked. The man had phoned him a few days earlier. His name was Henry Bowen, a freelance journalist writing an article about the history of the Halle Orchestra. Eugene was retired now, had been for two years, but he’d been the orchestra’s first violinist for nigh-on twenty years, the happiest years of his life, and he still missed it, missed the excitement of it all, the buzz of performing. But he didn’t miss the touring, all the anonymous hotel rooms and endless flights. And here he was, Henry Bowen, sitting in Eugene’s ever-so-tidy living room, the place smelling of air freshener, being assaulted by Bunty’s attentiveness. Good-looking fellow, thought Eugene, slicked-back hair, positively shiny, tall, very pale, wearing a dapper cream-coloured suit, firm hand grip. ‘It’s lovely to meet you, Mr Cole.’ He seemed on edge. Perhaps, thought Eugene, he was in awe of his reputation. He was known to have been a hard taskmaster, striking fear into his charges in the string section. ‘Thank you, Mr Bowen. Do take a seat. Bunty, getaway now. I’m sorry, are you OK with dogs?’ ‘Yes, fine. I love dogs.’ They talked about dogs for a while. Eugene wanted the man to relax a little. He refused his offer of coffee and biscuits, and, at Eugene’s invitation, sat down on the settee which sucked him in, leaving him looking slightly awkward. Mr Bowen took in his surroundings. Eugene and Shirley lived in a three-bedroom detached house in Highgate, one of London’s most affluent areas. ‘It’s a lovely home you have here,’ said Mr Bowen. ‘Must be worth a bob or two. How long have you lived here?’ ‘Oh, er, let me see. Coming up to nineteen years or so.’ ‘Do you know its worth?’ ‘I… I d-don’t know.’ It’s not your bloody business, he thought. Something was off here, that’s not the sort of question you ask someone on first meeting them. He decided he didn’t like this man; the fact Bowen couldn’t look him in the eye and his fingers kept fidgeting. ‘So, who is this article for? Did you say?’ ‘The Tatler.’ ‘Oh? A very prestigious magazine. I’m a long-time subscriber. Have you written for them before? I’m sure I would have read it.’ ‘Oh, yes, erm, a couple of articles.’ ‘Such as?’ ‘Yes, so, my most recent was about Princess Leonor of Spain.’ He patted Bunty, still not wanting to look Eugene in the eye. ‘Oh right. Was that the one about her doing her military training?’ ‘That’s the one.’ OK, alarm bells were ringing now. Eugene had read that article and he knew the woman who’d written it, Stephanie Bridges. The man was lying. ‘Yes, I read that. Most interesting. Do you know Jonathan Griffiths, the editor?’ ‘No, but I’ve spoken to him via email.’ Like hell you have, thought Eugene. Griffiths had retired years ago. ‘My parents had all your records,’ said Bowen, almost falling over his words. ’They loved everything you did. I think the Richard Strauss was their favourite.’ Eugene sat down opposite him, crossing his legs. ‘Your parents had fine tastes, Mr Bowen.’ He laughed politely. ‘As far as they were concerned, if it had your name on it then it had to be good.’ Eugene noticed the man was holding onto Bunty’s collar. ‘You can let the dog go, you know.’ ‘It’s fine.’ ‘If you insist. So, tell me again, what’s this article about?’ ‘I’m writing a short history about your orchestra, Mr Cole.’ ‘So, what exactly do you want to ask me?’ ‘When you worked for the orchestra, you lived out in Buckinghamshire, didn’t you? But once you retired, you moved here. It’s strange because most people, when they retire, move to the countryside but you’ve done the opposite.’ Eugene narrowed his eyes, trying to work the man out. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not catching the relevance here, Mr Bowen. Where I choose to live has got no bearing on my work with the orchestra, apart from convenience. So I don’t see the point you’re making here.’ Now, finally, the man looked him in the eye, and Eugene found himself shuddering. ‘You and Shirley used to live