The Case of the Uncommon Witness by Alison Golden & Grace Dagnall

Author:Alison Golden & Grace Dagnall
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Mesa Verde Publishing
Published: 2022-11-14T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

BEETLE, AKA JONNY Hughe-Gordon, couldn’t have looked less like an insect. He was in his twenties, tanned, blond, and athletic. He wore an emerald-green polo shirt, shorts, and deck shoes that were worn just enough to prove to Barnwell that he sailed the yacht the constable found him on.

“Afternoon,” Barnwell said.

“Hey there, er, Officer.” Hughe-Gordon raised his eyebrows. If Barnwell hadn’t already formed an impression of the man from his name and appearance, the message these few words conveyed and the accent with which they were spoken would have fed his imagination. As it was, they sealed the deal. To Barnwell, a working-class lad from the East End of London, Hughe-Gordon was a “moneyed, upper-class twit.” His precisely enunciated consonants and elongated vowels told Barnwell so.

“I called earlier.”

“Indeed you did. How can I help you?” Hughe-Gordon had been polishing the deck when Barnwell walked up. He wiped his hands with a cloth. The white decking and hull gleamed in the bright sunlight, making Barnwell squint. Aware that this put him at a disadvantage, Barnwell pulled out his sunglasses and self-consciously put them on, trying very hard not to look like an American cop off the TV, but also not like a prat either.

“I wanted to have a little chat with you. About the murder of a local man, James Reeves. I was told you might know something.”

Hughe-Gordon held his gaze. He had sparkling blue eyes. Barnwell suspected he was a babe magnet. He could just imagine it.

Hughe-Gordon turned down the corners of his mouth and shook his head. “Ah, no. Can’t say I know anything about that. Ah, should I?”

“I was told that you are well connected. That you know things, people. Perhaps in your line of work?”

“What line of work would that be, Officer?” Hughe-Gordon flashed a huge smile, revealing uniform, brilliant-white, straight teeth. They were a testament to advanced and expensive dental care that had nothing to do with the barbaric medieval practices that passed for dentistry in Barnwell’s youth.

Barnwell decided to lob a missile and see where it got him. “Drugs, mate.”

“Drugs? Moi?” Hughe-Gordon widened his blue eyes and opened his mouth in mock astonishment. When Barnwell’s stony expression didn’t change, he said, “I don’t know anything about drugs. Never touch the stuff.”

“I never said you did.” Barnwell got out his phone and flashed a photo of Jamie Reeves in front of Hughe-Gordon. “Have you ever seen this man among the circles you move in?”

Hughe-Gordon glanced quickly at the photo. “No, can’t say that I have.”

“You sure? Look again. Longer this time.” The younger man took the phone and looked at the photo carefully. “Well, maybe he looks a bit familiar. I think I’ve seen him at the yacht club.”

“Does he sail?” Nothing like that had turned up in Jamie Reeves’s profile.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“I thought you had to be a member to drink there.”

“You do, but he might have been a guest if he knew the right people. Might he have?”

Barnwell ignored the question. “Did you see who he was talking to?”

“Hmm, I’m not sure.

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