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.
18
“Basically, I’m here in a professional capacity?”
Florence looked mortified. “It’s not—”
Glancing over Barty’s shoulder, she cut off. Seconds later, Mia appeared at the table with their food.
“All okay?” she asked as she put down their plates. “Not too late for me to get that oil, Little Bee.”
“If you do, please keep it below the neck,” said Barty. “I’m rather attached to my face.”
“Why? I thought you might find the oil improves it.”
Upon assurances from Florence that everything was okay, Mia departed. Once she was gone, Barty looked at his sister and caught her smirking.
“What?”
“Don’t think that because I’m twelve, I don’t know what flirting is.”
“If you think that was flirting, I’d say you don’t.”
Florence made a sound like pshh. “I’ve read enough books to know what flirting looks like, and that was flirting.”
“She threatened to melt my face.”
“Exactly.”
“That’s evidence in favour of your argument, is it? She wants to melt my face so—”
“She wants to smooch, yes.”
“We’ve only just met.”
“What, you’ve never wanted to kiss someone you’ve only just met before?”
“I… refuse to answer on the grounds that I may incriminate myself.”
“You wanted to kiss Mia, so why shouldn’t she want to kiss you?”
“I never said I… why am I having this conversation with a twelve-year-old?”
“You know I’m right.”
“If threatening to assault someone is a flirting technique, does that mean Harriet also wants to kiss me?”
“Probably.”
“A man threatened to beat me with a crowbar yesterday. I’m sure he didn’t want to kiss me.”
This comment seemed to terminate the game as concern knocked the fun of teasing from Flo’s features.
“Why did someone threaten you with a crowbar?”
“It was all he had to hand.”
Florence gave him a look, and Barty cursed himself. Why had he opened this can of worms?
“He was an abusive husband, also a cheat. I showed his wife evidence of the latter. He was displeased that I’d done so.”
“But he didn’t hurt you?”
“No. He was a bully but a coward. I called his bluff.”
“Weren’t you worried you might be wrong? That he’d attack?”
“I’ve dealt with a lot of angry spouses. You get to know the ones who mean the threats, the ones who don’t. I was confident.”
Florence stared at her food. Talk of Barty’s job had returned her thoughts to their pre-Mia discussion.
“It’s not just about your job,” she whispered. “I want you here as my brother. I’m so glad we met.”
“I know,” said Barty. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I said.” He looked at his pizza. “Come on. Let’s eat.”
The food was delicious. The base was crisp, and the crust was doughy and sprinkled with cheese. Imran hadn’t held back on the tomato base as many pizzerias did, so the pizza wasn’t dry. The mozzarella was stringy and perfect, and the toppings were piled high. Barty’s was so spicy it made his eyes water, just as he liked it.
They were three slices deep before Barty lowered his pizza cutter and observed his sister, knowing he could no longer hold his tongue. He believed that she wanted to get to know him as her brother. That did not change her desire for something else as well.
“The thing about runaways,” said Barty. “Especially adult runaways – if they don’t want to be found, it’s tricky—”
“Wait. Stop. What are you talking about?”
This was a puzzler.
“Our father. You wanted me to find him. I’m explaining the problems. Why are you staring at me like that?”
“Because you… I thought you’d understand. He hasn’t run off. He didn’t leave me. Not by choice.”
Stalling, Barty took another slice of pizza and bit into it. The more time he spent with his sister, the more he saw what an intelligent, considered young girl she was. And yet, he had to remind himself she was still a child. There was bound to be naivety, however grown up she acted.
“When we spoke on the phone, I didn’t get the impression he was kidnapped. He put you to bed, right? When you were asleep, he walked out of the door?”
“Yes, but why did he do that?”
“I don’t know. Why did he walk out on me and my mother fifteen years ago? Some people—”
“This isn’t like that.”
“It isn’t?”
“No. For lots of reasons. I thought you were a detective?”
“I’m a private investigator. It’s not like I solve crimes. I reveal deceits, sure, but I’m not Sherlock Holmes. Please don’t make the mistake of thinking I am.”
“You don’t need to be to realise this is different. Your mum is alive, isn’t she?”
Barty nodded, although he felt a strange sense of guilt for doing so.
“Well, exactly. Your dad left you with your mum, but my mum’s dead. He’s all I have. Leaving me has a completely different implication to leaving you.”
She stared at Barty, her gaze hard. Once again, he was staggered by how like an adult she sounded. Not just in tone but in how she applied reason and logic to her problems.
Barty’s mum was alive. Florence’s was dead. It was true, that changed what Vincent was doing when he walked out of the door.
“It’s more than that,” she said. “He told me he was a crap dad to you. Not with me. He’s my rock, my world. I love him, and he loves me. He wouldn’t walk out. He just wouldn’t.”
As the tears came again, she grabbed another slice of pizza, the delicious flavour providing the slightest distraction from her grief.
“I’m sorry,” said Barty. “Maybe I’m making assumptions based on my experiences with our father. I don’t know him like you do.”
Florence did not respond. Did not speak again until her latest slice of pizza was gone.
Then she said, “A year ago, I woke up to the sound of a blazing row. It was my mum and our dad.”
She held his gaze without blinking, daring him to comment on this. Barty said nothing.
“They loved each other,” she went on. “They had fun. They laughed a lot and argued rarely, but when they did… the rows were explosive.”
This was the opposite of Barty’s experience with his mother and their shared father. There were few laughs in that relationship, and while they rarely had blowouts, they were forever bickering.
“When I say explosive,” Florence moved to clarify, “I’m not talking about physical violence. Dad never laid a finger on Mum. Nor she on him. But they had screaming matches. Almost always after I’d gone to bed, and it always woke me up. Sometimes, I’d stay beneath the covers. Sometimes, I’d creep to the top of the stairs. That’s what I did a year ago. I got there as Mum was coming out of the living room, slamming the door. She saw me.”
Barty pictured the scene: his upset sister at the top of the stairs, her mother at the bottom, cheeks flushed, breath short from the argument.
“‘Bed, sweetie’. That’s what she said. That’s all she said. Then she left the house. A minute later, Dad came out. He came up, tucked me into bed, and told me it’d be okay. She’d be back before long. It wasn’t the first time she’d stormed out. He’d done it too. They needed time to cool off. That was all.”
Although it wasn’t cold, Florence rubbed her arms, battling goosebumps.
“When she wasn’t back by lunch the next day, Dad called the police. They came and made the right noises, but they weren’t interested. He went to them again after three days. Again, they pretended to care. He said it was obvious what they thought. They knew about the row. They thought she’d left him. Left us. They didn’t care. Not until a jogger found her body.”
A wave of sickening grief came over Barty. He had known Florence’s mother was dead. But there was knowing the fact, and there was hearing the details. Flo was breaking down, and Barty could feel tears in his eyes, too.
“It was a hit and run,” said Florence. “The driver was going so fast, hit her so hard, that she was thrown from the road into the woods. That’s why it was a week before anyone found her. My mum. My beautiful mummy.”
Barty rose. This time, Florence did not stop him as he came around the table and pulled her into a hug.
“The police didn’t care when she was missing,” Florence said. “They didn’t care until it was too late, and they don’t care about Dad. I can tell. They don’t care. They won’t look for him.”
Holding the sobbing girl in his arms, tears rolling down her cheeks, Barty said, “Maybe you’re right. Maybe they won’t look. But I will.”
He pulled away from the hug and looked her in the eye.
“I’ll find him, Florence. I promise. I promise I’ll find our father.”
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