But Not Forgotten – A Gripping Murder Mystery
A serialised novel
“I think I’m your sister. Our father is missing.”
After receiving a call from the sister he didn’t know existed, private investigator Barty Symonds travels to a village in the beautiful New Forest to find the father who abandoned him years ago.
Then someone dies, and all eyes in the tight-knit community turn to the newcomer, the outsider, and Barty finds himself not only in the role of investigator…
But prime suspect.
13
Away from the warmth of Florence’s living room and the conversation starter that was her Stephen King collection, talk became more stilted. Partly, this was because the siblings were feeling their way into a new relationship. One that, at present, was based only on genetics and the shared love of an author. Mostly, it was because of Vincent. The serial abandoner weighed on their minds, but it was worse for Florence, who could not yet have come to terms with his decision to leave. On top of that, there was her mother. Florence had said nothing to Barty about the woman who raised her, but it was clear she wasn’t around. If she were, Harriet would not be acting as Florence’s guardian, and it was likely Barty’s sister would never have phoned him. He would not know of her existence.
Harriet did nothing to facilitate the stalled conversation. She stayed close to Barty throughout the walk along tree-lined lanes, her hand on her bag, her eyes fixed on his face, ready to stick a knife in should he make any moves she perceived as predatory.
Thankfully, they reached their destination without Harriet feeling the need to remove one of Barty’s testicles. Harriet gestured to the door, and he held it open for his companions to step inside. As he joined them in the building, a small, round man with sparkling eyes and a broad grin strode out of the kitchen. He wore black jeans and a black t-shirt emblazoned with the word Imranio’s.
“Harriet, Florence, how wonderful to see you on this beautiful day.”
His booming voice shook the room as he strode towards the door, and his arms, spread wide as though to hug the newcomers, almost knocked one of his guests from their seat. Barty braced for the man to jump up and complain at the restauranteur. Instead, the nearly displaced guest smiled and then laughed with his partner across the table about the almost incident. Barty remembered the day his grandmother had moved to the countryside. City air shortens tempers, was her reason for relocating. Barty’s mother had laughed, but perhaps the joke was on her and her son, who had stuck around.
“Imran,” said Harriet. “I am convinced you will claim it’s a beautiful day as a hurricane rips the roof from your restaurant and cantaloupe-sized hail stones cave in your customers’ skulls.”
“Harriet, Harriet, Harriet.” Imran stopped a couple of feet away but did not lower his arms. “Firstly, I have no customers.”
“I’ve noticed that’s often the case,” said Harriet. “It’s a wonder you stay in business.”
Imran threw his hands to his chest as if he’d taken a bullet.
“You wound me. We have no customers because I do not see those who eat here as customers. They are guests, and I am their host.”
“Except they pay,” said Harriet.
“As for your comment about the weather, I submit that what makes a day beautiful has nothing to do with the sky above. Forget the sunshine; I need only to see your lovely face to be content.”
“Good grief.” Though she did not look as displeased as she made her tone sound.
“Speaking of lovely faces.” Imran was short enough that he did not have to hunch to meet Florence’s gaze. “How is my favourite Pivert pre-teen?”
“Okay.” Flo’s voice was soft but full of warmth for the man to whom she was speaking. “How are you?”
“Happy, though disappointed to hear you’re only okay. Lucky for me, you’re in the right place to receive a mood boost. Food is happiness, I always say, and no food will make you happier than a meal cooked by my hand, as you’ve previously discovered. Before we get to that, though…” Imran shielded his mouth, flicked his eyes to Barty, and said in a stage whisper: “You seem to have led an outsider into our midst. Can you keep him busy while I drum up the mob?”
Florence giggled. It was a lovely sound.
“This is Barty,” she said.
Imran looked up at Barty, then back to Florence. He laughed.
“No, no, no. You think you can fool poor Imran? This is not Barty. This is your father. This is Vincent.” Imran reached out as though to touch Barty’s face. “The question is: did you discover a machine that reverses the ageing process or is exceedingly expensive surgery to thank for making you look twenty-five years younger? Please share. I must know your secret.”
Florence giggled again. “He’s my brother.”
“Your brother? Plot twist.” The jolly man thrust his hand towards Barty. “Hello, Barty. My name’s Imran.”
Barty shook, his hand disappearing into the one the round man offered. He tried to reflect the man’s smile. Tricky, given he was again having an adverse reaction to being compared to his father. When he closed his eyes and pictured the man who had been around until he was fifteen, he saw an ugly drunk with two days of stubble and greasy hair. In Barty’s memory, Vincent looked nothing like his son, though he knew how easily feelings could warp memories. There were rose-tinted specs – also grime-tinted ones.
And he definitely had a smaller nose.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he told Imran.
“The same to you. Might I say how handsome you are?”
“That’s always nice to hear.”
“Your father was too, but too old and too married.”
“For what?”
“You’re in your late twenties?”
“Thirty,” said Barty, baffled but rolling with it.
“Fabulous. And no ring on your finger. I take it you didn’t remove it to do the dishes? No? Wonderful. Perhaps you have a girlfriend, but I believe what Beyoncé said.” He raised his hand, showed the back of it to Barty, and then turned it back and forth. “If they liked it, then they should have put a ring on it, am I right?”
“I don’t have a girlfriend,“ said Barty.
“Or a boyfriend?”
Harriet tutted. “For Heaven’s sake, Imran. You’d better not be doing what I think you’re doing.”
“Just let the man answer.” Imran fixed eager eyes on Barty, who remained lost but strangely inclined to play this out.
“I’m not gay if that’s what you’re—”
“Mia!” Imran cut Barty off with a bellow. “Could you come out here?”
“I knew it,” said Harriet. “You are the limit. You cannot marry your daughter off to a perfect stranger.”
“But she leaves me no choice,” said Imran, pouting. “She’s rejected all the men in the village. If I don’t seize this opportunity, she’ll become a spinster. Time is running out.”
“She’s 27.”
“Exactly. The clock’s ticking.” He looked at Barty. “She’s done some modelling.”
“Dad,” a voice snapped. “Let the poor man go and stop offering me around like your old telly.”
“No one wants that either,” Imran sulked. Then, to Barty: “Do you need a telly?”
The owner of the voice – Mia – crossed the room. Like her father, she wore black jeans and a black T-shirt emblazoned with the Imranio’s logo, albeit hers were better fitting and more flattering. She had dark hair which flowed in natural waves down her back. Her eyes were also dark but expressive. As she came to Imran’s arm, they blazed with frustration.
“I’m so sorry about my father,” she said to Barty.
“It’s not a problem.”
“See,” said Imran. “He wants to marry you.”
“That’s not what he’s saying. Do you plan to seat our guests or intend to make them stand in the doorway until you’ve got rid of me?”
“Well, I thought I would—”
“Seat them,” Mia said in a tone that discouraged argument. “I’ll be in the kitchen.” Her eyes lingered on Barty; then she was gone. Imran touched Barty’s arm.
“I trust you like strong women?”
“Imran,” Harriet warned.
“Yes, yes, of course. Everyone does. My wife—”
“Imran.”
“Sorry, sorry. Table for three? Or will Mr Symonds be joining us?” He looked at Barty. “The other Mr Symonds, that is.”
Imran’s engaging manner and infectious smile had temporarily distracted Florence from the reason she’d summoned Barty to Pivert. Where previously the restauranteur had drawn laughter, his latest comment was a painful reminder of Vincent’s absence. Rather than a giggle, it drew a sob.
“What’s the matter?” Imran lay a hand on Florence’s shoulder.
“It’ll be a table for two,” said Harriet.
Picking up on the subtext of this response, Imran did not push for information.
“You’re not eating?” he asked.
“I’ve errands to run, but I wanted to escort Florence and Barty over. Barty is her brother. However, neither she nor I have met him before. We know nothing about him.”
“Say no more. I won’t let them leave until you return in case he’s a serial killer.”
“Appreciated.”
Imran appeared to be a man devoid of sternness. Even so, he leaned forward and fixed Barty with a stare that was supposed to convey this emotion. “A warning for you, my good man.”
“Okay,” said Barty.
“I’ve got my eye on you.”
“Understood.”
“And if it turns out you are a serial killer…”
“Yes?”
“There’s almost no chance I’ll let you marry my daughter.”
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