Letting out the Worms: Guilty or not? If not then the alternative is terrifying (Kitty Thomas Book 1 by Sue Nicholls (top e book reader TXT) 📗

The woman frowned. ‘You are a reporter?’

‘A journalist. Following up a story from a long time ago.’ As Kitty explained their mission, the young woman’s face grew cagey and after consulting with the man, returned to Kitty, saying, ‘I am sorry. We cannot help you.’

Kitty retained her disarming expression and thanked her for her trouble. To Sam she muttered, ‘Come on,’ and the pair strolled towards the pool entrance, in the hope of finding a chatty bar tender. But the determined young man left his post and rushed to block their way. There was no option but to give up, and Kitty and Sam descended the steps and wandered back to their accommodation, dawdling in shops and cafés on their way.

At half past seven, following Sebastien’s directions, they found the crowded bar. Inside, the air was steamy; ceiling fans toiled with little effect so that perspiration must be their sole protection. They ordered two beers at the bar and carried them to a table, where they sat, opposite one another and breathed in sweat, olive oil and garlic. Kitty felt nauseous after the rich food she had consumed earlier. A wiry little man at a table behind Sam was holding court over a group of grinning, potbellied old chaps. One, burst into loud laughter and slapped him on the arm, and the name, Jean, carried across the room. Kitty kicked Sam and he glanced over his shoulder. The movement attracted Jean’s eye, so Kitty raised her glass, and Jean raised his eyebrows and chin with an enquiring smile.

Kitty cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted across to him, ‘Are you Jean, who used to work at Le Chamarel?’

He rose, calling, ‘Oui Mademoiselle,’ and beckoned them over.

His hand was dry and hard in Kitty’s, with crooked, rheumatic fingers. After saying, ‘Enchantée,’ Kitty lapsed into slow English. ‘Please forgive me for me interrupting your evening, I’ll try not to keep you long. My name is Kitty Thomas. My mother, Fee, was murdered on the cliff outside Le Chamarel in 1996.’

Jean studied Kitty. ‘I see the resemblance,’ he bellowed over the noise. ‘You are like your mother.’ His eyes twinkled, ‘Apart from your nose ring and tattoo.’ At her wan smile, he was quick to apologise. ‘This must be difficult for you.’ He turned to his cronies and said something in French then took Kitty’s elbow and steered her towards the bar. Leaning across the counter he had a brief word with the owner, and pointed at a door to the rear. He put his mouth to her ear. ‘We can go upstairs and talk in private,’ he said, releasing a powerful blast of garlic.

Kitty nodded, and the three struggled between tables to reach the door. At the top of a short, narrow staircase was a studio flat, which Kitty assumed to be the home of the bar owner or one of his staff. Jean gestured to a couch and pulled up a metal chair from the small table. ‘How can I ‘elp you? It was a very long time ago, vous savez?’

Kitty spoke as succinctly as she could. ‘It was, but they have released the murderer and he is still protesting his innocence. Nobody from Mauritius was at his trial in the UK, so I am hoping to uncover something that might add to the evidence against him.’

‘I see.’ The old man tipped his head to one side, ‘Well, I think I can help you there. The correct man was certainly imprisoned. My friend downstairs, Jerome, he saw the entire thing from his fishing boat.’

To find a witness this early in their trip was beyond Kitty’s craziest dreams.

‘Why didn’t he come forward at the time?’ Sam demanded.

Jean winked. ‘Jerome is not a fan of the police. His fishing boat does not always carry only fish.’

Kitty found her voice again. ‘Can we speak to him - find out what he saw?’

Jean nodded. ‘I think so.’ Jean rose. ‘I will send him up. When you have what you need, come back and drink with us. You will need it by then, I think.’

Soon, a fresh pair of feet banged up the stairs and an ancient face with skin like a dried date blinked at them in the room's brightness. Jerome broke into a wide smile, exposing large, yellow teeth. His muscular thighs strained against the fabric of his trousers, which was, in common with the rest of his garb, inappropriate, youthful denim.

‘Bonjour Monsieur, Ma’m’selle.’ He almost genuflected to Kitty. ‘Excusez moi, je ne parle pas beaucoup d’Anglaise.’

Kitty dropped into schoolgirl French, and Sam watched, uncomprehending as they found their way through a conversation that seemed to please Kitty. She turned to him and continued to talk to him in French, forgetting he did not understand. He gave a Gallic shrug, and Kitty looked at the ceiling with a smile and reverted to English. ‘There’s no doubt it was Max. Jerome says he was fishing off the coast and saw him push Mum. He is sure it was the right man because his picture was on the front page of the local paper the next day.’ Her body slumped with relief. ‘I didn’t expect to find a witness.’

Sam reached across and gave her a squeeze. ‘Good news for us both.’ He looked at Jerome. ‘Merci beaucoup,’ he said, with a wide smile, nodding several times to convey his appreciation.

Kitty asked for a description of her mother, what she wore, how she seemed, and her position on the cliff, but aside from saying she was seated with her legs hanging over the ledge when Max pushed her, Jerome remembered nothing. As soon as he had seen Fee fall, he made his escape, not wishing to draw the attention of the gendarmes.

When they ran out of questions, Jerome beamed and rose to his feet and gestured towards the stairs, saying,