Jo's archive

Casually Jane by Jo Turner - January 2008

Had they had the time to think about it Jane’s neighbours would have been justifiably jealous. Lime Grove is one of those long, curving suburban streets that, when built, led out of town into open countryside but is now engulfed by a maze of newer housing estates. Most of the residents of the uniform, tile hung semi’s in Lime Grove live frenetic ‘must have’ lives, burdened with huge mortgages and demanding families. Competition is rife, between neighbours, families and peers and especially among the young. Parents who must provide the best bike, latest mobile, loudest boom-box, most frequent and exotic holidays, stressed and stretched to screaming point.

Jane had no such worries, widowed after only a few years of marriage she’d no children, no mortgage and an adequate income. Number 117 was an oasis of contentment, free from high output hi-fi’s, revving engines, rowing partners or screaming kids. Jane enjoyed a casual life style, dressed generally in jeans and t-shirt, fresh faced with straight fair hair brushed loose. Jane got up when she felt like it and came and went as she pleased, she pottered in the garden, read a dozen books a week and browsed casually round charity shops. She needed nothing and wanted very little. She took casual work locally, covering for sick leave and other emergencies in most of the local businesses at one time or another, just for fun and a little extra cash. Everyone knew Jane. Mild mannered, smiley Jane belonged to every club and society in the town, attending often but erratically carefully avoiding commitment or expectation. The bridge club, the history society, the garden club or the WI all welcomed her whenever she appeared. She was easy going, a great listener and the soul of discretion. She enjoyed a glass of wine occasionally in the Crown at the end of the road or the bar at the golf club and when a new title appealed to her Jane would go to the cinema. Wherever she went Jane found that men would confide their marital moans to her, they would air their fears of redundancy or financial meltdown, and flirt, blatantly all the while. The women too told Jane, trusting and unguarded, all their domestic anxieties, about the children, the husbands, the lovers, and the in-laws. Jane knew them all intimately. While everyone regarded Jane as a friend, none were her friends. Jane didn’t need friends and revealed nothing of herself to any of these casual acquaintances. Nor did she accept invitations to their barbeques or dinner parties, she kept a distance, nobody minded – Jane was just Jane.

It was early September, a hot and sultry day, that they found her. She’d been dead for weeks through the hottest weather – terrible it was, strangled they thought but difficult to tell, the condition she was in.

Shock and disbelief oscillated person to person along Lime Grove and beyond. The town reeled in horror. Who on earth could possibly want to hurt Jane? Tragic that, with everyone back and forth for the summer holidays, no-one had missed her sooner, not that they’d have been able to do anything, dead was dead.

The initial investigation was brief. There had been no forced entry, no theft and she’d been fully clothed, definitely murder and they were looking for someone she knew and who’d had been in the area at the beginning of August.

Speculation had hardly taken its first step when John, the BMW dealer from number 35, Ray the accountant from 98 and Phil, landlord at the Crown, were given a simultaneous early morning call by the men in blue and taken in for questioning. Their wives, or partner in Phil’s case, were also invited to assist with enquiries.

In adjacent interview rooms, John sweated profusely as he struggled to say just how well he’d known Jane, Phil insisted that she had just been a casual member of staff and customer and Ray, too had employed her, she was a good receptionist.

Had they ever been into number 117 Lime Grove? Much squirming in chairs and plenty more sweating produced a reluctant admission from each that they might have been round to help her with some job or another.

John, was asked if he normally put up shelves with a gentle but passionate touch.

Phil gripped the arms of his chair, white knuckled, when asked if he was regarded as well endowed.

Ray broke down when the officer asked if he was aware anyone had nicknamed him ‘fluffy’.

Meantime, the three women had been quizzed about their marriages, extramarital affairs, family finances and their partner’s activities. Had they felt threatened by their single female neighbour? None had. They’d never been to her house and didn’t think anyone else had either.

Released without charge all six arrived back at Lime Grove just as a further eight neighbours were being detained.

‘Life Insurance’ she’d labelled it, her journal in which Jane had daily detailed the minutiae of everyday life in Lime Grove, in her neat and elegant hand every confidence and smidgen of gossip and the intimacies she’d shared were exposed. ‘Fluffy’ Ray, big Phil, gentle John and dozens more were providing endless amusement at the police station. Murder hunt aside the journal was the greatest read they’d ever come across, could it be fiction - was it fantasy? From the reaction from the guy’s so far they were pretty sure it was for real, and it was going to keep them busy for a while.

Wives suspicious of husbands, husbands nervous of wives, colleagues eye one another anxiously. Stilted conversations. Rumoured quotes from that diary leak hourly from the police station. Accusations and counter accusations reverberate.

By her own account Jane had enjoyed casual sex with anyone who wanted it and documented it all. She had been fun-loving, kind and discreet and if some bastard hadn’t killed her it would all have been fine, men protested.

Suddenly to the women who’d trusted her, mild mannered Jane became ‘that bitch’ terrorising the neighbourhood posthumously.

Now it ‘s everyone for themselves, not a gram of trust anywhere. No-one knows who knows what. Those who weren’t involved feel they’ve missed out; those who pride themselves in knowing everyone’s business are humiliated in their ignorance; the press are having a field day; jobs are at risk; divorces imminent and children, confused and frightened, take to drink and vandalism to be heard.

Anarchy reigns in Lime Grove.

The interviews and questioning go on and on.

There is no viable forensic evidence, just the journal – which neither eliminates nor identifies anyone as a killer. Was it a jealous wife? Had someone got too attached and been rejected?

A town full of suspects serving sentences of guilty silence.

Still they are watched and watching; waiting for reprieve.

Click here to add text.Gone West

Brett Jnr had had the time of his life, but now he was trying to face reality. He and his best friend Harvey were on their way home. It was an eighteen hour road trip back east across three states and it was Harvey’s shift at the wheel.

Brett was coming down from the high now. He could still feel the wind in his hair, the burn of the Badlands sun on his skin and smell the Black Hills pines. Closing his eyes he could see the buffalo roaming Custer State Park, the presidents towering over him at Mount Rushmoor and the 1814 train blowing steam as it chugged out of Hill City.

How the hell was he going to tell Diane?

He’d lied to her, well not actually lied, she’d never asked and he’d never told her about the money he’d been saving or that he and Harv had a shared dream; a project. Nor had he told her where he was going or what he was doing. He’d been away a week and she’d just assumed it was work. She hadn’t asked. She’d made it so easy for him to deceive her.

He would have to confess? He wanted her to know, he wanted to tell her all about it.

They had a civilised, neat and tidy, well groomed life in Janesville. The kids were grown now, Di had her job and did the groceries, he had his job and did the back yard, they ate wholesome home cooking and came and went like clockwork. So tame, so orderly, just as Di wanted it.

How could he tell her he hated it?

Tell her that he wanted to be wild and free, at least for one week a year. Was that too much to ask?

Would she shrug it off as a mid life crisis, tell him to get a grip or ignore him busying herself in the kitchen? Perhaps not. Maybe he’d shock her. Maybe there’d even be a row. They’d never had a row.

He’d have to tell her that he and Harvey had been saving for two years for their pride and joy. Glancing over his shoulder he checked that the trailer with it’s precious cargo was OK. ‘Cher’ they’d called her, short for ‘too bloody expensive’ and because she was sleek, black, had a beautiful voice and was very, very sexy. And oh what an awesome ride! Their 1997 Harley Heritage Softail Classic.

Since he’d never told her Di wouldn’t know that he’d fancied a bike or that he’d got his licence last year. Come to that she didn’t know much, she never asked and he never said, but then he was as bad. Two of a kind.

He’d have to explain, would she listen?

How he and Harv had left their pressed shirts and polished shoes behind and donned fringed leathers, bandanas, belts, buckles and boots and joined ten thousand other Harley riders for the annual Sturgis rally. How could he explain the allure of cruising four abreast in convoys of a 100 or more bikes through the plains, hills and valleys of South Dakota, the appeal of the packed bars and loud country music he normally disdained, or the beer and lewd jokes? How, for someone with whom he’d barely ever made conversation, could he espouse the joy of talking Harley’s day and night with men and women from every state in the union and beyond.

He wanted to be able to tell her how he had been adopted into the Sturgis family in an instant, of the camaraderie. He’d have to show her his pictures of hundreds of gleaming Harley’s parked herringbone along both sides of Deadwood City Main Street.

Tell her of the pride he felt when kids and grown men would come and admire ‘Cher’ and ask to sit on her or have their pictures taken with her.

She’ll be suspicious about the women, jealous even. He’d tell her that Sturgis guys are mostly respectable straight middle class guys playing wild child for a week. Sure there were bike chicks but the men only had eyes for the bikes. Brett hadn’t even been tempted, Cher was passion enough for him and anyway he’d had Harv with him 24/7. That should sort that out.

Could suggest she goes off and does her thing, whatever that might be, with a friend. Lavish some cash on her. Fair’s fair.

Brett tried hard to assure himself he could handle this, but he was pretty anxious and they still had eight hours to go. He was supposed to be getting some rest so that he’d be fit to drive again soon but his brain was not going to let that happen, over and over he rehearsed his lines.

Harv dropped Brett off in the street. Brett let himself in, something felt odd, but that was probably his nerves. There was no-one home. He went through to the kitchen, immaculate - but looking for a cold drink he found there was nothing in the fridge. Odd he thought. Where’s Diane?

He darted nervously from room to room.

Then - stuck to the computer screen was a picture of four long haired guys with their motor bikes outside a log cabin, oh my God, she’s found out.

Where is she? He called out hoping she’d emerge, he was starting to panic - no reply.

He looked closer and under the picture in Diane’s neat round hand writing was a brief message.

‘Sorry, I’ve had enough of neat and tidy. Need the wind in my hair, to sing and to dance. Gone to San Diego with Rob and his friends. Bye Brett. Take care.’