Free Murder Takes the Stage by Amy Myers Page B

probability of anyone caring enough to kill over it now has to be so remote that we could hardly be blamed for not thinking it might present any physical risk.’
    â€˜If it does  . . .’ Georgia decided not to take her unwelcome thought any further, but Peter finished it for her.
    â€˜Then there’s a chance it’s also a risk to us, if Ken’s killer knows we’re sniffing around too. That being the case, do we continue with Tom Watson or keep our powder dry for Rick?’
    Georgia struggled with the answer, longing to say yes to the latter. But she could not do it. It would seem a betrayal of Ken – and indeed of Cherry. ‘Continue with both?’
    â€˜I agree, of course,’ Peter said. ‘But if – and it is still if – Ken’s death should by any chance be connected to Tom Watson, it would suggest that there’s a lot more to the story than he told us.’
    â€˜Agreed, but in what way?’
    â€˜Anyone directly connected with Joan’s murder – Cherry, Sandy, Harold Staines or Joan’s lovers – is going to be in his or her late seventies at least, and probably older. Agreed again?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Whatever we uncovered, we would be unlikely to be able to prove conclusively, and mere allegations are going to be defamatory and therefore unpublishable. Agreed?’
    â€˜Yes, but that’s often the case.’
    Peter impatiently waved this aside. ‘Due to age, it’s unlikely any of these people would kill again, especially with the obvious risk of discovery. If by any chance one of them is guilty, it implies there’s an angle to this case that we don’t know about. After all, look at the inconsistencies even in the story as we know it so far. There are plenty of them, and they’re remarkable, even given the passage of time. Joan Watson was warm-hearted, a bitch of the first order, promiscuous, devoted, all at the same time. Tom was guilty, not guilty, devoted to Joan, devoted to Cherry; he committed suicide, would never have done such a thing  . . . No, there’s more to this, and since I think it unlikely that an octogenarian would be knifetoting around on the seafront at midnight, a wider range of interested parties could well be involved.’
    â€˜What about Ken’s scoop?’ Georgia asked, leaping ahead. ‘That was to be published on Friday, and Ken might have handed in his copy already. If stopping the scoop was the murderer’s aim, there would not be much point in killing Ken – the article and his notes would have to go too. Was his home broken into?’
    â€˜Full marks. I’m afraid it was. No info on what was taken. It’s the Chronicle for you, Georgia. Right now.’
    Georgia found the Chronicle office easily enough, having parked near Broadstairs High Street. It was tucked in a side road opposite Jameston Avenue and was hardly flaunting itself. With so much media competition its circulation was unlikely to be large, she realized, although for local communication it must be invaluable.
    The office promised more from its outside appearance than it did inside. A back room was obviously given over to technology, and the front office into which Georgia walked straight from the street had three desks set close together, although only one was occupied. There was also a small glassed-off partitioned area for, presumably, the editor.
    As she entered, she saw a head glued to a computer as earnestly as if it provided the answer to the Big Bang all by itself. Fortunately its owner, an attractive tall blonde girl in her twenties, leapt up to greet her after a moment or two. Trousers, tank top and the kind of face that could launch a thousand ships, Georgia thought. She had the brightness and confidence of a girl who knew where she was going in life and why. Today the Chronicle , tomorrow The Times. ‘Sorry. We’re all pretty busy today,’ the