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Dying for Love

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by John Douglas

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Author's Disclaimer : Characters and places portrayed in this story that appear in episodes of 'Midsomer Murders' and/or in novels by Caroline Graham are the property of their respective copyright holders. I assert copyright of such characters, scenes and situations as are my original creation. This story is written purely for enjoyment and not for profit.

Acknowledgements : I am indebted to my good friend 'Bo Georgeson', a fellow Midsomer Murders fan, who kindly proof-read this story for me and made several invaluable suggestions, which have much improved my story. Don't forget to read his own Midsomer Murders masterpieces also search for him by author name [Bo Georgeson] on this site (or type /u/2540096/ immediately after typing the name of this site to see his profile).

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Chapter One

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"This is marvellous!" said Joyce Barnaby, putting down a casserole dish in the middle of the table. "All three of us together, like the old days!"

"How is Simon, by the way?" asked Tom innocently.

"Tom!" Joyce gave him a disapproving look, because she feared that her daughter's marriage might be on the rocks.

"He's in Indonesia," said Cully. "That's why he's not here." Cully, now in her early thirties, was sporting short-cropped auburn hair and a yellow-and-black roll-neck sweater, which made her look rather like a wasp.

"Ah." Tom Barnaby seized the bottle of Corbières and topped up Cully's glass. "That explains it." Joyce glared at him.

"Actually, he's on tour with a very up-and-coming rock band," said Cully. "Close Quarters. Though of course you wouldn't have heard of them."

"But the up-and-coming director at the Causton Playhouse is none other than... Cully Dixon!" exclaimed Tom.

"Yes, isn't it wonderful?" asked Joyce. The Causton Playhouse, which had been struggling financially for a number of years, had recently been revived by a large injection of cash from a previously unknown patron. "Cully's directing the new play by Victor Hugo, and I'm doing the costumes!"

"How is it new?" asked Tom Barnaby, who had taken the lid off the casserole and was helping himself to the stew of unknown properties, "I thought Victor Hugo died some time ago."

"It's in a brilliant new translation, Dad," said Cully. "It's called 'Le Roi s'Amuse', or 'The King's Fool' in English."

"I'm glad it's in English," said Tom.

"We've started on rehearsals already," said Joyce. "And Cully always knows exactly where people should be on stage at any moment. She really is good, Tom. You should see her at work."

"And I hope to," said Tom, "so long as my duties allow."

"Of course they allow!" said Joyce. "You're not on any case at the moment, are you?"

Tom had to admit that he was not.

"Well then. Though I have to say, the sixteenth century costumes are a bit of a problem. I think we can manage something like it, though. Amy Parkhurst has been a tremendous help."

"Who is Amy Parkhurst?" asked Tom blandly.

"Amy Parkhurst ― you know, my great friend at the Women's Institute!" said Joyce.

"Oh, that Amy Parkhurst," said Tom, none the wiser.

"She owns Holly's in Causton ― the shop that sells period costumes for fancy dress parties ― she's ever so knowledgeable about these things."

"And she's also a character in the play," said Cully. "Madame de Cossé ― an aristocrat."

"But she's not like that in real life," said Joyce. "She's very down-to-earth. She and I often have very good heart-to-hearts. Her father was a butcher," she added.

"And does she have an important part in this play?" asked Tom, who had taken several spoonfuls of the casserole dish and was still uncertain as to its ingredients.

"N-not really," said Joyce. "Her daughter is the heroine, though."

"Avril," said Cully. "I really think she should become a professional actress."

"She dies in the end, though," said Joyce. "She sacrifices herself for love ― to save her lover, who is a scoundrel."

"Oh, dear," said Tom, "it sounds too much like real life."

"Barnaby." Tom was still in bed, though he had woken up some time before. He glanced at the alarm clock. A quarter to eight. "I'll be right over." He put the mobile down.

To Joyce's exasperation he only drank half a cup of coffee before dashing out of the house. "Sorry, Joyce, I've got to go," he said as he left.

Dan and Ted, in their bright yellow hi-visibility jackets, were patiently waiting for the police outside The Queen's Head in Morton Fendle, having parked their refuse collection lorry in the pub car park. George Bullard, the forensic pathologist, was already there when Tom Barnaby drew up and appeared to be interested in a large black bin liner which was propped up against the wall of the pub.

"Hallo, Tom," he said cheerily, "this is a new one on me!" Now Tom could see that the black bin liner contained the body of a young woman, though only her head was visible at first. George expertly drew the black bin liner down to the ground. "Not bad looking, is she?"

"Oh, George, cover her up again!" said Tom, for the young lady ― and she must have been no more than twenty ― was completely naked except for a semi-transparent negligée.

George grunted and obliged, though he returned to a more thorough examination of the body as soon as Tom had turned his attention to the refuse collectors.

"Good morning, gents," said Tom, approaching Dan and Ted, who were rather similar to look at, being about thirty and of muscular build, "I take it that you telephoned the police."

"We did," said Dan. "I'm Dan, by the way. And this is Ted."

"That's right," said Ted. "It's lucky we didn't put her through the shredder."

"Would have been an awful mess, then," said Dan. "She might have got jammed in the machine."

"People put out the weirdest things," said Ted, "but a human body ― that's got to be a first."

"And where did you find her, exactly?" asked Tom.

"In that bin," said Dan, waving towards a large commercial bin on wheels standing to the side of the pub. "Every Monday and Friday, that's the deal," he said.

"Have you ever found anything... unusual put out before by this pub?"

Ted shook his head. "Just bottles, mostly. Landlord's called Josh. He doesn't live here, though, and he won't be here till eleven o'clock to open up. I drink here sometimes," he confided.

Tom satisfied himself that the bin was now completely empty. "Well, George?" He joined the pathologist, who was searching the corpse with his latex-gloved hands.

"I can't find anything on her," he said. "I think it's a case of missing persons."

"And what about―"

"The time of death? She's as stiff as a board. Must be some time ago. We'll have to do some tests on her. No obvious sign as to how she died, either."

"Do you think we could go now, gov?" asked Dan, who had approached. "Only, we've got a round to finish."

"Yes, yes, of course," said Barnaby, "but please could you give me your contact details first? We might have some further questions."

Detective Sergeant Ben Jones, who had been detailed by Barnaby to interview the landlord of The Queen's Head, returned to Causton police station at about eleven thirty. "Nothing," he said morosely. "Josh swears he knows nothing about it. He says the last time he put bottles out was a couple of days ago, on Wednesday, and there definitely wasn't a large black bin liner, full of something body-shaped, in it then."

"Do you believe him?" asked Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby.

"Yes, sir, I do." Jones sounded annoyed, as though his own integrity was being questioned. "In fact he looked at me the whole time as if he didn't believe a word of what I was saying."

"Well, it is rather a tall story," said Tom. "And still no missing persons?"

"There have been no reports of persons missing in the Midsomer area for more than six months," said Jones. "There was a report of a cat gone missing a week ago, but it was found up a tree."

PC Robson tapped on the door of the CID office and entered. "Excuse me, sir, but I thought you might like to know that a gentleman has just come into the station to report his daughter missing," he said.

"Who? When?" barked Barnaby, suddenly sitting bolt upright.

"Just now, sir ― he left a minute or two ago. But I've got all the details, sir," said PC Robson, taken aback by his superior's tone.

"Damn!" said Barnaby. "Well, what are the details?"

PC Robson cleared his throat and read from the clipboard he was holding.

"A Mr Martin Wrigley, aged fifty-four, of 12 Apple Blossom Crescent, Morton Fendle, says that his daughter, Gillian Wrigley, nineteen, unmarried, still living at home, disappeared one week ago."

"One week ago," interjected Ben, "isn't that rather a long time to leave some-one missing?"

"Perhaps; perhaps not," said Tom. "Robson, what is the description of this girl?"

"Medium height, blonde hair, no distinguishing features," said Robson. "But he added that she was very good-looking."

"Thank you, Robson," said Tom in a kinder voice. "Well, I suppose I must go back there, but first I am going to The Playhouse to have a bite to eat and meet my wife and daughter. Jones, would two o'clock sharp suit you?"

Jones knew that there was no way that two o'clock sharp would not suit him.