Tag: Mystery

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Auntie Gladys and the Du Maurier Connection

Q – Angela

If you’ve ever lived in Fowey, Cornwall, you’ve been blessed to dwell among giants—not only of industry and political scandal, but also of poetry, literature, and history. It’s a place where the past feels alive, where the echoes of ancient civilisations cling to the rugged cliffs, and the wind carries whispers of stories untold.

My first visit to Fowey was in 1970. I was nine years old, giddy with the promise of adventure. My family had just purchased a brand-new campervan, a marvel of modern convenience to us, and our holiday plans were ambitious: a couple of days in Fowey followed by a jaunt to Sennen Cove near Land’s End. But what thrilled me most was the prospect of meeting Auntie Gladys—”crazy Auntie Gladys,” as the family lovingly called her.

Gladys was the woman who left an impression on everyone she met. She was sharp as a tack and fearless in conversation. Years later, I learned that the “crazy” part of her nickname stemmed from a court case where she’d been called as a prosecution witness. Faced with a smirking defence lawyer intent on tripping her up, she didn’t just answer his questions—she turned them into a masterclass in wit. When the judge admonished her to “just answer the question,” she replied with a perfectly straight face, “Oh, Your Honour, I would answer the question, but I thought the truth deserved a little company along the way.”

That summer, Auntie Gladys had promised my brother Richard and me something extraordinary: a visit to The Haven, once the home of Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch. She knew the Quiller-Couch family and wanted to show us his famous library. As we explored, she regaled us with tales of his mentorship of a young Daphne du Maurier. She spoke with reverence about the bond between the two authors, and as she described Daphne’s eventual success, her voice seemed to glow with pride. “Rebecca,” she said, “wasn’t just a book—it was a revolution. She gave us Manderley, a place we’ve all dreamt of visiting.”

I hung on every word, but Richard was particularly taken with the story. Even then, I think, he had a gift for making connections, for seeing the humanity behind the legend.

Seven years later, when we’d moved to Fowey, Richard and I found ourselves caught up in an unusual situation. Our rowing boat had broken free from its moorings and drifted downstream, ending up at Ferryside, the du Maurier family’s home in Bodinnick. By some miracle—or perhaps Dad’s habit of labelling everything—the phone number scrawled on the deck had led Angela du Maurier to call us.

When the phone rang, Richard answered. I still remember how his voice changed when she introduced herself. He straightened, his tone becoming both careful and warm, as though he realised the significance of the moment even before the name fully registered.

“You’re Angela du Maurier?” he asked, his voice just above a whisper. He paused, and I imagined him standing there, hand gripping the receiver, his face lit with excitement. Then, after an audible breath, he added, “Oh, it’s an honour. Truly. My brother and I… we’ve heard so much about you.”

Angela’s voice, though I couldn’t hear it from the other end, must have been kind because Richard seemed to relax slightly. “Yes, of course, we’ll come right away. Thank you for letting us know.”

After hanging up, Richard turned to me, his face flushed. “Do you know who that was?” he asked, almost breathless. “Angela du Maurier.”

“I know!” I said, grabbing the oars.

As we rowed to Ferryside, Richard seemed distracted, his strokes less precise than usual. “I wonder what she’s like,” he murmured, half to himself. “I hope… I hope she’s not sick of people talking about Daphne.”

When we arrived at Ferryside, Angela met us at the gate. She was older than I’d expected, with sharp eyes that seemed to take in everything. She greeted us warmly, and I was struck by how unassuming she seemed for someone from such a storied family.

Richard stepped forward, his smile broad but not overbearing. “Thank you for calling us about the boat,” he said. There was a slight hesitation in his voice, as though he was searching for the right words. “I hope it wasn’t too much trouble.”

“Not at all,” Angela replied. Her voice was soft but firm, with a lilting cadence that seemed to echo the river’s flow.

As we walked toward the boat, Richard began talking—tentatively at first, then with growing confidence. “My brother and I had a wonderful aunt, Auntie Gladys. She knew the Quiller-Couch family… and, well, she once showed us Sir Arthur’s library. She told us about how he encouraged young writers. Your book, It’s Only the Sister, was there.”

Angela’s step faltered slightly, and Richard, noticing, quickly added, “I mean, we didn’t get to stay long enough to read it. But she spoke so highly of it—of you.”

Angela stopped and turned to him, her expression unreadable at first. Then, slowly, a smile broke across her face, genuine and touched. “Did she now?” she said, her voice quieter. “That’s… kind of her to say. And of you to remember.”

Richard nodded, his enthusiasm bubbling up again. “I’ve always wanted to know—what was it like, growing up with all those stories around you? With people expecting so much?”

For a moment, Angela seemed lost in thought. “It was… complicated,” she said at last. “There’s always more to a story than people see from the outside.”

Richard nodded, his expression thoughtful. “I can imagine,” he said softly. “But I hope you know… you’ve inspired people too.”

Angela smiled again, this time with a warmth that seemed to dissolve any lingering tension. “You’re very kind,” she said. “I don’t often hear that.”

Later, as we rowed back home, I asked Richard why he’d mentioned Auntie Gladys and the library. “I don’t remember her talking about Angela,” I said.

“She didn’t,” Richard admitted, his voice light but thoughtful. “I made it up. I just… I wanted to say something that would make her feel seen, not compared to Daphne for once.”

I looked at him, struck by the quiet depth of his kindness. “That was clever,” I said. “And brave.”

He shrugged, a faint smile on his lips. “She deserved it.”

Q – Daphne

Authors Note: Every time I visit Fowey and pass by The Haven, two questions surface in my mind. The first is simple enough: How much of the garden still remains? Over the years, I’ve watched as more of this once magnificent garden has succumbed to the river, with at least a quarter of it lost in my lifetime. The second question, however, is far more elusive, perhaps impossible to answer. As a writer, I can’t help but wonder: How did Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch mentor Daphne du Maurier? Was his influence limited to encouragement, or did he play a more profound role in shaping her extraordinary talent for crafting such vivid, unforgettable characters?

What follows is not history, but the story as I imagine it might have unfolded.

adjusts spectacles and leans forward with a kindly but scholarly demeanor

My dear young Daphne, sit closer and listen well. Writing, you must understand, is not merely the arrangement of words upon a page, but the delicate art of revealing the human soul’s most intimate tremors.

Dialogue, child, is the marrow of storytelling – but not dialogue that merely speaks, no! Dialogue that breathes, that quivers with the unspoken. When characters converse, they are not reciting lines, but performing an intricate dance of emotion, where what is unsaid often thunders louder than what is spoken.

Consider the human voice – that remarkable instrument of revelation. A tremor, a sudden catch, a pitch that rises like a startled bird – these are not mere sounds, but symphonies of feeling. When your character speaks, let their voice be more than sound; let it be a messenger of their inner landscape.

And watch the body, my dear! We are not static creatures, but living canvases upon which emotion paints its wild and unpredictable strokes. A hand that clenches, a shoulder that tightens, eyes that dart away – these are not mere movements, but poetry in physical form. Each character will compose their own unique bodily language, as distinctive as a fingerprint.

The mind, ah, the mind! It is a labyrinth where thoughts dart and weave like silvered fish. Do not be afraid to plunge into those interior waters. A character’s thoughts are not always rational, not always kind – they are raw, mercurial, leaping from one shore of consciousness to another with startling agility.

But take care with what I shall call visceral reactions – those primal, uncontrolled responses that surge through our mortal frames. A racing heart, a sudden chill, that electric moment when the body knows something before the mind can comprehend – these are powerful, but like potent spirits, they must be used sparingly. A drop can illuminate; a flood can drown.

Remember, Daphne, great writing is not about displaying emotion, but about allowing emotion to reveal itself through the most delicate of touches. You are not a painter hurling color, but an embroiderer threading the most gossamer of silks.

Now, shall we speak of how one might begin to master this sublime craft?

peers at her over his spectacles, a twinkle of encouragement in his eye

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Revisiting Heneage Street

Lena had long avoided Heneage Street. She had known Brick Lane all her life—its bustling markets, the smell of curry and fresh bagels, the clatter of people moving through it. But Heneage Street… it held a peculiar power over her. She discovered it in her early twenties, quite by accident, on a mundane afternoon stroll. As she crossed the invisible threshold, her legs felt younger, her step lighter, and suddenly, she wasn’t 21 anymore. She was 16, walking in the late summer of 1976.

The phenomenon had haunted her since then. Each time she left Brick Lane and ventured down Heneage Street, she was transported backward in time. She would re-enter a different year, not as a spectator, but fully as she had been—feeling the emotions and wearing the skin of her younger self. She experienced everything again: the adolescent joy of passing exams, the excitement of travelling abroad for the first time, the thrill of meeting her future husband.

But no matter how far back she went, one constant remained: the grief that had first settled in her heart when she was 13—the year her sister, Evie, died. Lena had been supposed to watch over her that day, but she got distracted, a moment’s lapse that had cost Evie her life. The weight of it had shaped Lena’s adulthood in quiet ways, but she had resolved to live well, to do right by the family she built. She raised two children, forged a strong career as a Project Manager, and even enjoyed the wisdom that comes with grey hair and gentle wrinkles.

Still, every time she stepped into Heneage Street, she feared where it would take her. The youngest she’d ever been was 13, the year she started dance school, the year Evie died. And though she hadn’t yet been thrown into a time earlier than that, the possibility terrified her. What if she went back to a version of herself too young to remember? What if she was trapped in some distant past, lost to the shifting tides of time?

The years passed, and with each decade, Lena made fewer trips down Heneage Street. She grew older, more cautious, more afraid of the unknown. Eventually, she stopped altogether. Her children moved away, her husband died, and she found herself living alone in a small flat not far from where she’d grown up. One day, while putting away groceries, she fell and broke her arm. The ambulance took her to the Royal London Hospital.

Her days in the hospital were long and quiet. The rhythm of nurses and doctors was soothing in its regularity, but it gave her too much time to think. One afternoon, a familiar thought crept back into her mind, unsettling her in a way it hadn’t for years. Heneage Street was only a few minutes’ walk away. Just there, just beyond the bustle of Brick Lane. What if…?

One evening, after the nurses had gone for their rounds, Lena slipped out of bed. Her arm was bound in a cast, but she didn’t care. With surprising determination, she made her way out of the hospital, down the street, and towards Brick Lane. The pavement felt solid beneath her feet, the air brisk with the scent of autumn. She turned the familiar corner, and there it was—Heneage Street. It waited for her like an old, familiar tune she hadn’t heard in years.

With her heart pounding, she stepped across the threshold.

The world shimmered, the air thickened, and when she blinked, her surroundings shifted. She was 13 again. The awkwardness of adolescence returned: the too-long limbs, the uncertainty of everything, the brightness of a life just beginning. And then, for the first time, something was different.

She wasn’t alone.

Lena looked down at her hand and saw it. Another hand, smaller and warmer, gripping hers. She turned, and there stood Evie—her beautiful 11-year-old sister, smiling up at her with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“Evie?” Lena whispered, her voice trembling.

“Yes, it’s me,” Evie replied, her voice as sweet and familiar as a long-lost melody.

“I’m so sorry,” Lena’s voice cracked. “I should have—”

Evie shook her head and squeezed Lena’s hand tighter. “You don’t have to be sorry, Lena. I never blamed you. Not even for a second.”

Lena’s tears fell silently, rolling down her young cheeks. “I’ve missed you so much. Every day.”

“I know,” Evie said gently. “But I’ve always been with you. You just couldn’t see me.”

They stood together, the two of them, lost in a moment that felt infinite, a pocket of time where all the years and all the grief dissolved into nothing. Lena’s heart swelled with a warmth she hadn’t felt in decades. She didn’t need to go forward or backward anymore. She was right where she needed to be.

“Can we stay like this?” Lena asked, her voice soft, almost childlike.

Evie smiled, a knowing smile. “For a while, yes.”

And so, they stood there, sisters reunited, hand in hand, the past and present merging in the quiet of Heneage Street, where time, for once, stood still.

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Unintended Consequences

Chapter 1:

The Muffled Shots

David had been out in his garden, tending to the small but meticulously kept flowerbeds when he heard what sounded like muffled gunshots. A sound so out of place that his first instinct was to dismiss it.

“Must be the telly,” David muttered, standing upright. His gaze shifted towards his neighbour’s house, the imposing home of Gerry, Jenny, and their daughter Alice. A happy family. He saw something out of the corner of his eye, a shadow darting along the fence line. It moved too quickly for him to properly make out. “Sheppy, you rascal,” he chuckled to himself, referring to their energetic sheepdog.

It wasn’t until the wail of approaching sirens disturbed the idyllic tranquillity of the village that David’s heart rate began to pick up. The sight of police cars and an ambulance turning onto the long, winding driveway of his neighbours’ home caused a sinking feeling in his chest.

“That can’t be right…” David whispered, slipping on his jacket and lacing up his shoes with uncharacteristic haste.

He arrived at the property just as a police officer was stretching a line of yellow tape across the gate.

“Excuse me!” David called out, hurrying towards the officer. “I’m David, the neighbour. I heard something, but I thought it was—well, the telly, to be honest. But now… I’m a trained medic, ex-marine. Is there anything I can do?”

The officer, a burly man with a serious expression, held up a hand to stop David’s advance. “Sir, I appreciate your concern, but this is an active scene. We’re doing everything we can.”

David’s brow furrowed. “Please, if someone’s hurt, I can help. I know the family well, they’re my friends.”

The officer looked back towards the house, hesitating for a moment before addressing David again. “Sir, an incident has occurred. Unfortunately, someone was seriously injured. We have medics on site already, and we’re securing the area.”

David’s heart sank at the confirmation that this was no misunderstanding. “Injured? Who?”

“I can’t release details at the moment,” the officer replied firmly. “But I do need you to remain outside the cordon. We’ve got an inspector on the way, and he’ll be speaking with witnesses. If you could wait here, he’ll want to talk to you shortly.”

David took a step back, nodding numbly. He glanced up the driveway towards the house. The familiar home, once full of life, now seemed eerily still.

Chapter 2:

The Body

Inside the house, the scene was grim. Gerry lay face down on the pristine hardwood floor, his body lifeless, a crimson pool beneath him. Detective Inspector Rice stood just outside the living room door, speaking to one of the first officers on site.

“A single entry wound through the heart, another through the back of the skull,” the officer was saying. “The wife and daughter were present. They’re in the lounge, distraught.”

Rice nodded, his face grim, then turned his attention to Becky, the police liaison officer. “The family’s neighbour is outside. Ex-marine, medically trained. Can the women handle seeing him right now?”

Becky hesitated. “It’s hard to tell. They’re… they’re really shaken. Should I ask them?”

Rice nodded, watching as Becky gently approached Jenny and Alice, both of them huddled on the sofa, their faces tear-streaked and eyes vacant with shock.

“Jenny,” Becky said softly, kneeling in front of them. “There’s a neighbour of yours outside, David. He’s worried, and he wanted to check on you both. Should I send him away, or…?”

The women exchanged glances. Alice buried her face deeper into her mother’s side. Jenny opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. She shook her head, clinging tighter to her daughter.

Becky stood back up and turned to Rice, shaking her head. “They’re not ready.”

Rice gave a curt nod before heading outside to speak with David.

David stood just outside the cordon, his eyes fixed on the house. When Rice approached, he straightened. “Inspector, I… I heard the shots. And the screaming. I thought at first it was a loud TV. But then I saw something—a shadow, I think—running along the back of the property. At first, I thought it was the dog, but now…”

Rice raised an eyebrow. “A shadow? Did you see who or what it was?”

David shook his head, his face creased in frustration. “No. It was moving fast. It could’ve been Sheppy, but on reflection, maybe not. The sun was behind me, so it was hard to tell. It might’ve been someone.”

The inspector noted down the details. “We’ll need your contact information, David. You’ve been very helpful, but I think it’s best you head home for now. We’ll be in touch if we need anything else.”

David reluctantly nodded, casting one last look at the house before turning away.

Chapter 3:

The Witnesses

Inside the house, Alice was still trembling, her hands balled into tight fists in her lap. Jenny stroked her daughter’s hair absent-mindedly, staring off into the distance, her eyes unfocused. The room felt heavy, like the very air was thick with grief.

Rice crouched down in front of them, his voice calm and gentle. “Jenny, Alice, I need to ask you some questions, if that’s alright.”

Alice sniffled, but didn’t speak. Jenny nodded slowly, her lips trembling as she fought to hold back more tears.

“Did either of you see what happened?”

Alice shook her head violently, as if trying to shake the memory away. “I heard the gunshots,” she whispered. “And Mum… Mum screamed. But I didn’t see anything.”

Rice turned to Jenny. She swallowed hard before speaking, her voice barely above a whisper. “We’d just come back from walking the dog… Gerry and I. And then… a man, he jumped out of the bushes. Two shots. And then he was gone. Just like that.”

Forensics would be combing the property for days. But Rice already knew this case wouldn’t be simple. Nothing ever was.

Chapter 4:

Uncovering the Past

Detective Inspector Rice sat in his office, a few days after the initial investigation had begun. The evidence was minimal, and no obvious leads had surfaced. Forensics had combed the house meticulously, but there was little to work with beyond the bullets and Jenny’s vague description of the assailant. He knew cases like this could go cold quickly without something concrete.

He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. Something about the way Jenny had described the incident felt off, but there was nothing tangible to act on. She had been emotional, of course. Who wouldn’t be after witnessing their husband’s murder? But her reluctance to part with her phone had lingered in his mind.

“Let’s see what’s there,” Rice murmured, opening the file with the mobile data. He had requested the family’s phones to be fully analysed, and the forensic techs had taken a complete image of each one. He started with Jenny’s. Thousands of photos and messages from years past—nothing seemed out of place. The normal snapshots of a happy family, holidays, and charity events.

Then, he stumbled upon a name.

Webby.

A message thread dating back to 2010. Rice clicked through it. The messages seemed innocent enough at first, reminiscing about school days and catching up on old times. Webby—Michael Webb—had apparently been a school sweetheart. Rice’s instinct sharpened. There was no overt flirtation, but there was a familiarity to their tone that suggested the conversations had once meant something more.

He scrolled down further, looking for anything that might have relevance to the case. Webby disappeared from Jenny’s inbox after 2011. But as Rice examined the data, he caught something odd in the more recent messages.

Mick Webster.

The name didn’t immediately jump out, but after seeing “Webby,” it was impossible not to make the connection. The tone of these more recent conversations was less innocent, with occasional flirtatious undertones, the kind that made Rice sit up straight in his chair. He clicked through several exchanges from just a few months before the murder, noting the subtle shifts in conversation. Nothing too alarming—yet—but it didn’t feel right either.

Rice frowned, his fingers drumming on the desk. “Why didn’t she mention this?”

He requested a search on Mick Webster and found that he worked as a mechanic, his details lining up with the recent hospital visit due to an accident at work. The timing of Mick’s accident gave him a firm alibi, but something still gnawed at Rice. There was a connection here, one Jenny hadn’t mentioned, and it was worth pursuing.

That afternoon, Rice decided to interview Mick at his place of work.

At the Garage

The garage was a noisy, oil-slicked environment, with cars in various stages of repair and a few mechanics going about their business. Mick Webster, a stocky man with grease-stained overalls, looked up as Rice approached. His leg was still in a cast, propped up on a stool.

“Inspector Rice,” the detective introduced himself. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Jenny Telford.”

Mick’s face flickered with recognition at Jenny’s name. He set down the wrench he was holding and leaned back, wiping his hands on a rag. “Jenny, huh? What’s this about?”

“We’re investigating her husband’s murder,” Rice said bluntly. “We’ve found some messages between you and her from a few months ago.”

Mick’s eyebrows shot up, and he gave a slow whistle. “That’s a blast from the past. Yeah, we kept in touch. She reached out a while ago—chatted here and there. But murder? Gerry? What’s this got to do with me?”

“Just routine,” Rice assured, watching him closely. “I have to explore every lead. Your conversations seemed… personal.”

Mick laughed, shaking his head. “Nah, not really. Look, Jenny and I go way back to school, but that’s all it ever was. She’s a good woman, but there wasn’t anything going on if that’s what you’re hinting at. Besides,” he tapped his cast, “I’ve been in and out of hospital since the accident, couldn’t have shot anyone even if I wanted to.”

Rice nodded but wasn’t quite ready to let him off the hook. “Anyone from Jenny’s past who might have had a grudge against her? Or against Gerry?”

Mick’s expression darkened. He leaned back, thinking hard. “Jenny, huh… Look, she was always the kind of girl who could get people riled up. She liked attention, let’s put it that way. I remember back in school, she liked to play boys off each other. Not saying she’s a bad person, but she could be manipulative. She told me once about how she set up this guy—got him expelled. All because he wouldn’t fall for her charms.”

Rice leaned forward, intrigued. “Do you remember the name of the boy?”

Mick frowned, trying to recall. “No… it was ages ago. But if you’re thinking someone’s holding a grudge, it wouldn’t surprise me. She wasn’t always kind when things didn’t go her way.”

The detective’s mind raced. “So you’re saying Jenny had a reputation for leading boys on, and when things didn’t work out, she’d lash out?”

“Yeah,” Mick confirmed, “but we’re talking about school days. I doubt anyone’s carrying that kind of baggage now, surely?”

“People hold grudges for less,” Rice muttered.

Before leaving, Rice asked one final question. “Do you know anyone else who might’ve been close to Jenny? Someone who might’ve wanted to hurt her or her family?”

Mick shrugged. “Honestly, I wouldn’t know. I’ve been out of touch with that whole crowd for years. But if you’re digging into her past, you might find something. She wasn’t always the saint she pretends to be now.”

As Rice left the garage, his mind turned over Mick’s words. The family had seemed perfect—too perfect. Now, cracks were starting to show. Could Jenny’s past have resurfaced, leading to this violent end?

The case had just taken a new direction. It wasn’t about the loving wife grieving her husband anymore. It was about what lay beneath the surface.

Chapter 5:

Secrets Unraveling

Detective Inspector Rice sat at his desk, reviewing the conversation he’d had with Mick Webster. The more he thought about it, the more something gnawed at him—Jenny wasn’t the murderer, that much he was beginning to feel confident about. But she wasn’t telling the full truth either. The puzzle pieces weren’t quite fitting together, and something about Mick’s story, the casual reference to how Jenny used to manipulate boys in school, stuck in Rice’s mind.

There was someone missing from the picture.

Rice clicked through the social media profiles again, tracing back through connections, old photos, school reunions. And then he found him. Tom Webster, Mick’s younger brother. A few photos of Tom and Jenny as teenagers, standing close, too close, suggested something more than casual friendship. Rice leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing. Tom Webster, unlike his brother, hadn’t exactly made much of himself. No job, no steady income, and according to local gossip, still living with his parents in his mid-30s.

Rice’s pulse quickened as he dialled his team. “I need everything you can find on Tom Webster,” he said brusquely. “Background, current whereabouts, the works. And get me any traffic or phone data between him and Jenny Telford over the past year.”

Something was off. Jenny wasn’t a murderer, but she was hiding something.

Later That Day

Jenny sat at the kitchen table in the Telford house, nursing a cold cup of tea. Alice had finally gone to stay with a friend for the weekend, giving her some space. The weight of the past few weeks had grown unbearable. The police hadn’t been able to link anyone to Gerry’s murder, and she knew it was only a matter of time before her secrets started to catch up with her.

Her phone buzzed on the table, breaking her from her thoughts. She hesitated before picking it up, seeing Tom’s name flash across the screen. Her stomach churned, and for a moment, she considered ignoring the call. But she knew she couldn’t run from this anymore.

“Tom,” she answered softly.

“Jenny, we need to talk,” his voice was tense, almost desperate. “I’ve been thinking about everything. What happened to Gerry… you know I did it for us.”

Her breath caught in her throat, and a cold wave of dread washed over her. “What? What do you mean, you did it?”

“You don’t need to pretend with me anymore. I know you wanted him gone. I thought you were asking me to—”

“Tom, no!” Jenny’s voice shook as she interrupted him. Her hands trembled as she gripped the phone tighter. “I never wanted you to kill Gerry! I—this was never what I wanted, Tom. I didn’t ask for this.”

There was silence on the other end of the line, and she could hear Tom’s shaky breathing. “But… you always talked about how unhappy you were, how you couldn’t stand the life you had with him. You kept saying how things could be different if only he weren’t around.”

Jenny’s heart raced as she realised just how horribly she had underestimated Tom’s attachment to her. He’d taken her casual complaints, her frustrations, and twisted them into something dark. She had enjoyed the time they spent together—the stolen moments, the excitement—but she had never considered replacing Gerry with Tom. He was never part of the real picture for her.

“You don’t understand, Tom,” she whispered, her voice thick with regret. “I was never serious. I was just… just being selfish. I didn’t mean for you to do anything.”

Tom’s voice became a low growl. “Selfish? So you were just using me, then? Was it all just a game to you? All the times we spent together, you didn’t mean any of it?”

Jenny blinked back tears, her mind swirling. She had liked the intimacy, the attention Tom gave her—after years of being the perfect wife and mother, Tom had made her feel young and alive again. But she had never seen him as more than that—a fleeting escape.

“I never thought it would come to this,” Jenny whispered. “You’ve misunderstood everything.”

“No, I haven’t misunderstood,” Tom said coldly. “I did this for you. For us.”

Before Jenny could say another word, the line went dead. She stared at her phone in disbelief, her heart pounding in her chest. She had never imagined it would get this far. She hadn’t seen Tom for what he really was: obsessed, unstable, and now, a killer.

At the Police Station

The next morning, DI Rice stood in front of a whiteboard, his team gathered around. He had been up all night, piecing together the new information.

“Tom Webster,” he began, circling the name he had written on the board. “He’s Mick’s younger brother. What we’ve discovered is that Tom has been having an affair with Jenny Telford for over a year.”

Sullivan raised an eyebrow. “An affair? We knew there was something off with Jenny, but that’s a bit of a leap from an affair to a murder.”

Rice leaned forward, his expression serious. “It would be, but Jenny called me not long after we picked up Tom. She was in a state. She said she hadn’t told the full truth earlier because she didn’t want to destroy what little remained of her family. But after Tom’s confession, she couldn’t keep it in any longer. She admitted to the affair with Tom Webster. Told me she’d led him on, never intending for it to go this far.”

Sullivan blinked, clearly surprised. “So she confessed everything?”

Rice nodded grimly. “Jenny hadn’t realised just how deeply Tom had fallen for her. She thought he was harmless, that it was just a bit of fun for her. But when she heard that he believed he killed Gerry for her, she knew the game was up. She said she never asked him to do anything, but she understands now that her manipulations led him to believe it was what she wanted.”

Sullivan let out a low whistle. “She must be reeling.”

“She is,” Rice said. “But it doesn’t change the fact that her lies and misdirection created the environment for this to happen. Now we have the whole story.”

As the team listened, the air grew thick with tension.

“So Tom thought Jenny wanted her husband dead,” Sullivan said slowly. “But she didn’t.”

“Exactly,” Rice replied. “Jenny was leading him on, playing her old game of manipulation. But Tom, he was different. He took her frustrations and ran with them. He genuinely believed she wanted Gerry out of the picture.”

“Tom’s not exactly a mastermind,” another detective muttered. “No job, no home, still living with his parents. But if he’s desperate and in love…”

Rice nodded grimly. “Desperation can be a powerful motivator. He saw Gerry as the only obstacle standing in the way of a life with Jenny. So he took matters into his own hands.”

Sullivan sighed. “So what’s the next step?”

“We bring in Tom,” Rice said firmly. “He’s confessed in his own twisted way. But we still need a full confession. And we’ll need to talk to Jenny again. She’s been hiding the affair and we need to know what else she’s been hiding, it’s time to see if she’ll come clean.”

Later That Day

Jenny sat in the small interview room at the police station, her eyes red from crying. DI Rice sat across from her, a sympathetic but firm look on his face.

“You’ve been protecting Tom, Jenny,” Rice said softly. “I know you didn’t want your family to fall apart, but your husband is dead. You need to tell us the truth.”

Jenny sniffed, wiping her nose with a tissue. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I never thought Tom would actually—” She choked on her words, unable to finish the sentence.

Rice leaned forward, his voice calm. “Tell me about the affair. How long has it been going on?”

Jenny looked down at her hands, twisting the tissue in her fingers. “It started about a year ago. Tom… he made me feel alive again. But I never loved him. I was never going to leave Gerry. Tom just misunderstood everything.”

Rice studied her, his mind working through the information. “Did you ever tell Tom you wanted Gerry dead?”

She shook her head violently. “No! Never. I might have complained about my life, about how hard things could be sometimes. But I never, ever asked him to do anything like this.”

Rice nodded. “We believe you, Jenny. But we need you to help us bring Tom in. He’s dangerous, and he’s convinced he did this for you. If you don’t help, he might try to hurt someone else.”

Jenny’s eyes filled with fresh tears, and she nodded, realising that the mess she had created was about to come crashing down around her. She had thought she could control everything—the affair, the lies, the double life—but it had spiralled out of control.

And now, it was time to face the consequences.

Epilogue:

Months had passed since the arrest of Tom Webster, but the quiet streets of Holmbury St Mary had yet to regain their former sense of peace. The scandal of Gerry Telford’s murder had rippled through the village, shattering the illusion of the perfect life the Telford family had projected.

Detective Inspector Rice sat at his desk, going over the final reports. Tom had eventually confessed to the murder, breaking down during his second interview. It had taken hours of coaxing and questioning, but the full picture had come into focus. Tom, consumed by his feelings for Jenny, had interpreted her frustrations as a cry for help. He believed that by eliminating Gerry, he could finally be the man she needed. It was only after pulling the trigger that Tom realised he had misunderstood everything. Jenny’s flirtations, her intimacy—it had all been a game to her, not an invitation to rewrite her life. And now, Gerry was dead because of it.

Rice exhaled deeply as he closed the case file, feeling the weight of it lift from his shoulders. The investigation had revealed more than just the shocking reality of a murder driven by obsession and confusion; it had exposed the dangers of misdirection, even when it came from a place of unintended harm.

Jenny Telford, though not a criminal in the legal sense, had been a master of deceit in her own way. Throughout her life, she had manipulated, twisted, and led people on without ever considering the consequences. In school, her games had been harmless, just youthful indulgences. But as an adult, she hadn’t let go of those habits, and they had come back to haunt her in the most devastating way.

She had underestimated Tom, thinking of him as nothing more than a distraction, a brief escape from her responsibilities as a wife and mother. She had believed she could control him, keep him dangling on a string for her own amusement. But Tom had seen something entirely different. To him, Jenny’s affection was real, and her complaints about her marriage were the foundation of a shared future.

In the end, Jenny had been left with nothing. Gerry was dead, Alice was distant, and Tom, the man she had used, was behind bars for a crime he believed she wanted him to commit. She had become trapped in a web of her own making, a web of lies and misdirection that had unravelled in the most tragic way imaginable.

In the months following the murder, Jenny had retreated from public life. The Women’s Institute meetings, the charity events, the community functions—everything that had once defined her social presence was now out of reach. The people of the village no longer looked at her with admiration or warmth. They whispered behind her back, exchanging glances of pity and suspicion. She had once been a pillar of the community, but now, she was a pariah.

Alice had moved in with her aunt in the nearby town. The relationship between mother and daughter had fractured in the wake of the revelations. Alice couldn’t bear the weight of the deceit, the knowledge that her mother’s selfish actions had set off the chain of events that led to her father’s death. Jenny had tried to explain, to make Alice understand that she had never meant for any of this to happen. But Alice didn’t want to hear it. In her eyes, the damage was done.

Jenny now lived alone in the large, empty house, haunted by memories of what once was. The house, once filled with life and laughter, now felt cold, a monument to the lies she had told and the people she had hurt. Every corner of it reminded her of Gerry, of Alice, of the family she had destroyed.

For DI Rice, the case had been one of the most complex of his career, not in terms of evidence or forensics, but in terms of human emotion. It wasn’t a simple crime of passion, nor was it a calculated murder-for-hire. It was a crime born from misdirection, misunderstanding, and unchecked desire. The people involved weren’t evil—they were flawed, deeply so, and their inability to be honest with themselves and each other had led to a tragedy no one could have predicted.

Rice stood by the window of his office, looking out at the rain-soaked streets. The case had been closed, but the lessons it left behind lingered. Misdirection, deceit, and manipulation didn’t always come from malicious places. Sometimes, they came from desperation, from longing, from the need to feel something in a life that had become stifling. Jenny hadn’t intended for anyone to die. She hadn’t planned any of it. But in her pursuit of momentary pleasure, in her failure to be honest with herself and others, she had set the stage for a terrible and irreversible outcome.

In the end, the lesson wasn’t just about the dangers of deceit, but about the quiet, insidious ways in which misdirection can creep into our lives. It can start small—a little white lie, a harmless flirtation, a moment of selfishness—and before you know it, you’re trapped in a web of your own making. The truth, once distorted, becomes impossible to unravel. And sometimes, the people you least expect—the ones who seem the most trustworthy, the most reliable—are the very ones capable of leading you down a path of destruction.

As Rice left the office that evening, he couldn’t help but think about Jenny Telford, sitting alone in her grand house, a prisoner of her own choices. She had thought she could control everything, but in the end, her misdirection had destroyed her.

And perhaps that was the greatest tragedy of all.