A Fatal Mistake: A gripping, twisty murder mystery perfect for all crime fiction fans

‘Oh, Dad – nothing dangerous! Nothing silly! I’m only going to go to some student hangouts, and chat and gossip! It’s not like I’m entering dens of iniquity or anything.’

By the sink, her mother heaved a massive sigh. She was counting out some money and putting it in a biscuit tin – which meant it was being put by for the rent. The money for the electric and water bills, which she took down to the post office and paid whenever they came in, was kept in an old Bisto tin and a canister marked ‘ginger’ respectively.

‘Lucky it’s summer and the electric bill won’t be so high this time,’ she muttered to herself, and Trudy felt a flash of something very close to shame.

Although she paid for her ‘keep’, she knew it wasn’t all that much, and probably didn’t go very far. The trouble was, her wages weren’t exactly generous. But she could always do without, couldn’t she? Stockings, for example, weren’t needed in the summer either.

‘Mum, would you like a little more for my keep each month?’ she asked, walking over to her and slipping her hands around her mother’s ample waist. ‘I can always make do…’

‘No, you won’t, then, our Trudy,’ Barbara Loveday said firmly. ‘Brian dropped by earlier. Wanted to know if you wanted to go to some dance or other on Saturday night. It’s time you had a pretty new dress to be seen out and about in. Your “best” is looking a bit dated now. You save your money up and treat yourself.’

Trudy, well aware her mother considered Brian Bayliss, a boy she’d known since infant school, as prime husband material, bit back a sigh and forced a quick smile onto her face.

‘Oh, I expect I’ll see him around,’ she agreed peaceably, releasing her arms and walking casually back to the kitchen table.

As usual, the table had a small lace cloth on it that had come down in the family from her namesake, Aunty Gertrude. In the centre was a small vase of Poole pottery (her mother’s pride and joy, bequeathed to her by her own maternal grandmother) with a small bouquet of Sweet Williams in it. Her father grew them religiously in the garden, as both of his ‘girls’, as he referred to his wife and daughter, had a fondness for the scents given off by the carnation family.

‘A dance might be nice,’ she said. It was easier to keep her mother sweet than to argue with her that she was in no hurry to marry and start producing babies. And Brian – who was a local hero due to his prowess with a rugby ball – was a nice enough lad. And a good dancer!

‘Mind you don’t go out to these student places at night, then, my girl,’ her father said, putting his foot down, making his daughter regard him fondly. As if his word was still law, Trudy thought with a slight pang. She wasn’t his little girl any longer. If either DI Jennings or Dr Ryder thought she needed to go out at night, then she would have to!

But Trudy Loveday hadn’t reached the ripe old age of nineteen without learning how to handle her parents.

‘Yes, Dad,’ she said meekly.

She wondered just what she should wear tomorrow. Mentally, she began running through her rather meagre wardrobe. She wasn’t sure she had anything really suitable. After all, Oxford women students were all bluestockings from wealthy backgrounds, and their clothes were, of course, of the best quality. She was pretty sure her Woolworths glad rags wouldn’t fit the bill!

How she wished she had the nerve to ask Dr Ryder if she could buy some more ‘upmarket’ clothes, in order to fit in more easily and be accepted as one of the gang. But she just couldn’t see herself asking him for money for a fancy hat! And the look on DI Jennings’s face if she were to put in an expenses claim for a new outfit was just too comical – and horrific – to even contemplate!

Chapter 6 (#ulink_5bbb9918-f63d-5374-a1fb-384d9821348f)

Reginald Porter (Reggie to his family and very few friends) leaned nonchalantly against the wall surrounding the Ashmolean Museum, and glanced casually up and down Beaumont Street. On another hot summer’s day, the place was crowded with shoppers and tourists. Down the way a little, a couple of students were sitting on the steps leading up to the world-famous museum, smoking French cigarettes and talking animatedly about something to do with Oriental art. With a sneer of contempt, Reggie ignored them. What did it matter what the overeducated, overprotected little sods thought?

Two business types in a pair of matching neat, pin-striped, dark-blue suits and bowler hats swept past, discussing the tennis.

‘I tell you, mark my words, the men’s finals will turn out to be an all-Australian affair this year,’ one of them said to his companion, with a shade of bitterness in his Home Counties accent. ‘Wimbledon nowadays seems to belong to them.’

‘Really? Which one do you think will lift the silver then? Rod Laver or Neale Fraser? Not that I really care – I’m more of a cricket man myself. Have you been following the second test against South Africa? Disgraceful, I call it…’

They passed on, their equally banal chatter about meaningless sport wafting past and over him. Instead, Reggie kept his eyes fixed on the progress of his quarry. He’d followed him all the way down the Broad after he’d stepped out of his college gates. Mind you, Reggie mused viciously, it was easy enough to keep track of him, with that head of hair so ostentatiously fair it was almost white, and his swagger telling the world he thought he owned it.

Right now, he was crossing the road alongside the Martyr’s Memorial, and was heading, of course, for lunch at the Randolph hotel. Where else, Reggie Porter thought contemptuously, would someone like Lord Jeremy Littlejohn go for a snack?

He’d been keeping tabs on the peer now, off and on (as his working hours permitted), for over a month. Because of this, he was working up a general picture of the man and his habits. Which was why Reggie knew all about His Lordship’s select little list of eateries.

He sighed as the fair head disappeared into the hotel. He’d been wearing his usual trademark white – today, in the form of a crisp white shirt and white linen summer jacket over pale-grey flannels.

It hadn’t taken Reggie long to notice that his quarry had an affectation with regard to the colour, and again his heart twisted bitterly in his narrow chest. What a poseur! What a nancy boy! And how inappropriate! That Lord Jeremy Littlejohn of all people should favour white – the supposed colour of innocence! He just couldn’t understand what Rebecca, his little sister, had seen in him.

As he thought of Becky, Reggie felt his heart give a sickening lurch. Just where was she? What had happened to her? Had she really run away to London as everyone insisted? And if she hadn’t, where was she? He had to find out. It was killing him, not knowing.

He remembered her being brought home to the house by his parents when he was barely seven years old. A tiny scrap of a thing, he’d resented her at first for turning his life upside down, and threatening to steal all his parents’ love, which had once been his alone.

But he’d been fascinated by her not long after – as a squalling infant, and then a chubby toddler, taking her first steps. As a child, she’d been simply adorable, with a riotous mop of fair curly hair, just tinged with the faintest hint of copper, and a pixie-like, gamin face. Precocious, funny and a little wild, naturally, she’d soon been able to twist him around her little finger, just as she had everyone else.

As soon as she’d hit her teens, she started to sing and dance, wear too much make-up and express an interest in being a ‘star’. Somehow, the naivete of her extravagant dreams had only led to her family indulging her all the more. Of course, underneath all her pseudo-sophistication, she was still a total innocent.

His face twisted as he thought of her now, alone and helpless somewhere in the big, wide, nasty world, without her family to protect her. It was then that he noticed a woman passing by with a shopping basket in one hand giving him a startled look, and hastily stepping out past him.