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Twelve Red Herrings is the third collection of irresistible short stories from master storyteller, Jeffrey Archer. Cleverly styled, with richly drawn characters and. PDF | On Nov 1, , Albert Henderson and others published Twelve Red Herrings. Twelve Red Herrings pdf by J. Archer. What will it was the motorway' but each alternative endings for which archer. Each alternative in the crow flies and turns.

John Grisham. Tom Clancy Duty and Honor. Grant Blackwood. A Prisoner of Birth. Heads You Win. Only Time Will Tell. Best Kept Secret. Never Stop on the Motorway. Mightier Than the Sword. Kane and Abel. Cometh the Hour. The Prodigal Daughter. This Was a Man. The Complete Clifton Chronicles, Books It Can't be October Already. A Matter of Honor. The Accused. The Sins of the Father. The Eleventh Commandment. Cat O' Nine Tales. Shall We Tell the President?

As the Crow Flies. Paths of Glory. False Impression. Tell Tale. To Cut a Long Story Short. The Fourth Estate. Sons of Fortune. First Among Equals. A Quiver Full of Arrows. The Clifton Chronicles, Books A Twist in the Tale. Honor Among Thieves. And Thereby Hangs a Tale. The Collected Short Stories.

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Continue shopping. Item s unavailable for download. Please review your cart. We were married eighteen months later. Over two hundred guests attended the rather grand county wedding in the parish church of St. But I confess that when I turned to watch Rosemary progressing up the aisle, my only thoughts were of my first wedding ceremony. For a couple of years Rosemary made every effort to be a good wife. She took an interest in the company, learned the names of all the employees, even became friendly with the wives of some of the senior executives.

But, as I worked all the hours God sent, I fear I may not always have given her as much attention as she needed. You see, Rosemary yearned for a life that was made up of regular visits to the Grand Theater for Opera North, followed by dinner parties with her county friends that would run into the early hours, while I preferred to work on weekends and to be tucked up in bed before eleven on most nights.

If she started having affairs and I certainly did, when I could find the time , she was discreet about them. And then she met Jeremy Alexander. It must have been about six weeks after the seminar in Bristol that I had occasion to phone Jeremy and seek his advice.

I wanted to close a deal with a French cheese company to transport its wares to British supermarkets. Send me all the details, Jeremy had said. He was as good as his word, and when he phoned, he mentioned that he had to be in York that Thursday to brief a client and suggested we get together the following day to go over the contract.

He assured me that, although Monsieur Sisley spoke no English, he had made him fully aware of our anxieties. I remember being struck by his use of the word our. After we had turned the last page of the contract, I realized that everyone else in the building had left for the weekend, so I suggested to Jeremy that he might like to join Rosemary and me for dinner. Rosemary, however, was not pleased to be told at the last minute that I had invited a complete stranger to dinner without warning her, even though I assured her that she would like him.

Jeremy rang our front doorbell a few minutes after eight. When I introduced him to Rosemary, he bowed slightly and kissed her hand.

Only a blind man could have missed what was likely to happen next, and although I might not have been blind, I certainly turned a blind eye. I had felt for some time that the company needed an in-house lawyer, and within a year of our first meeting I offered Jeremy a place on the board, with the mandate to prepare the company for going public.

Meanwhile, Jeremy skillfully guided the company through a thicket of legal and financial problems caused by our expansion. It was then that I made my first mistake: I invited Jeremy to become deputy chairman of the company. Under the terms of the flotation, fifty-one percent of the shares would be retained by Rosemary and myself. Jeremy explained to me that for tax reasons they should be divided equally between us.

My father, who had died the previous year, would never have accepted that it was possible to become worth several million pounds overnight. In fact, I suspect he would have disapproved of the very idea, as he went to his deathbed still believing that a ten-pound overdraft was quite adequate to conduct a well-run business. After that, we had to split the shares on three separate occasions, and by the Sunday Times was estimating that Rosemary and I were together worth around thirty million pounds.

I had never thought of myself as being wealthy—after all, as far as I was concerned, the shares were simply pieces of paper held by Joe Ramsbottom, our company solicitor. Wealth seemed somehow irrelevant to me. I would have been happy to continue living much as I was, had I not arrived home unexpectedly one night. I had caught the last plane back to Heathrow after a particularly long and arduous negotiation in Cologne, and had originally intended to stay overnight in London.

Had I phoned Rosemary earlier that day, I might never have ended up in jail. I came to a halt, and stared up at the drawn curtains for some time. I retraced my steps and drove quietly off in the direction of the city center. Jeremy Alexander had booked a room for the night.

He checked the register and confirmed that he had. Alexander has booked himself in somewhere else for the night. I lay on the hotel bed, quite unable to sleep, my anger rising as each hour passed.

Although I no longer had a great deal of feeling for Rosemary, and even accepted that perhaps I never had, I now loathed Jeremy.

Twelve Red Herrings

The following morning I rang my secretary and told her I would be driving to the office straight from London. Alexander was penciled in to chair. Within a week they had opened up a small office above the Constitutional Club in Bradford and begun their investigations. The Don reported to me at four o'clock every Sunday afternoon. Within a month he had compiled a thick file on the case, with detailed dossiers on Rosemary, Jeremy, the company and me.

I spent hours reading through the information he had gathered, and was even able to help by filling in a few gaps.

I quickly came to appreciatewhy the Don was so respected by my fellow inmates. He followed up every clue, and went down every side road, however much it looked like a cul-de-sac, because once in a while it turned out to be a highway. On the first Sunday in October, after Hackett had been working for four months, he told me that he thought he might have located Rosemary. A woman of her description was living on a small estate in the south of France called Villa Fleur.

The postman kindly allowed me to have a look at the address on the envelope before it proceeded on its way," Hackett said. Kershaw seems to be a compulsive letter writer, but this was the first time she's sent one to her daughter.

By the way," he added, "your wife has reverted to her maiden name. Calls herself Ms. Kershaw now. Kershaw's house is surrounded by a ten-foot stone wall, and she has more guard dogs than trees. It seems the locals know even less about her than we do. But at least it's a start.

Kershaw has placed an advertisement in the local paper," he informed me. At first I thought we should question the old butler at length as soon as he'd left, but as I couldn't risk anything getting back to her, I decided Inspector Williams would have to apply for his job instead. Williams has always been a quick learner.

Not when I'm up against a couple of crooks like this. I'm going to get those two behind bars, if it's the last thing I do. Once Williams had been put on the shortlist for the position of Rosemary's butler, I played my own smallpart in securing him the job.

Rereading over the terms of the proposed contract gave me the idea. Rosemary finally offered Williams the job at 13, francs a month, with four weeks' holiday a year, which after forty-eight hours' consideration Williams accepted.

But he did not join her for another month, by which time he had learned how to iron newspapers, lay place settings with a ruler, and tell the difference between a port, sherry and liqueur glass.

I suppose that from the moment Williams took up the post as Rosemary's butler, I expected instant results. But as Hackett pointed out to me Sunday after Sunday, this was hardly realistic.

It once took me five years to nail a drug smuggler who was only living half a mile up the road from me. Within a month Williams had supplied us with photographs and life histories of all the staff working on the estate, along with descriptions of everyone who visited Rosemary--even the local priest, who came hoping to collect a donation for French aid workers in Somalia.

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The cook: Gabrielle Pascal--no English, excellent cuisine, came from Marseilles, family checked out. The gardener: Jacques Reni--stupid and not particularly imaginative with the rosebeds, local and well known.

Rosemary's personal maid: Charlotte Merieux--spoke a little English, crafty, sexy, came from Paris, still checking her out. All the staff had been employed by Rosemary since her arrival in the south of France, and they appeared to have no connection with each other, or with her past life. I raised an eyebrow. Still, let's hope this time it turns out to our advantage. I read and reread the notes on everyone who had ever visited Villa Fleur, but as the weeks went by, it looked more and more as if no one from Rosemary's past, other than her mother, knew where she was--or if they did,they were making no attempts to contact her.

There was certainly no sign of Jeremy Alexander.

I was beginning to fear that she and Jeremy might have split up, until Williams reported that there was a picture of a dark, handsome man on a table by the side of Rosemary's bed. It was inscribed: I struggled to maintain the warm, sincere smile that Matthew had warned me was so necessary to lubricate the wheels of the bureaucracy.

It must have been about eleven weeks after my appeal had been turned down that the cell door was thrown open, and the senior guard on my corridor announced, "The warden wants to see you, Cooper. Whenever he heard those words, it inevitably meant a dose of solitary. I could hear my heart beating as I was led down the long corridor to the warden's office. The prison guard knocked gently on the door before opening it. The warden rose from behind his desk, thrust out his hand and said, "I'm delighted to be the first person to tell you the good news.

While he was doing this I was served coffee, as if we were old friends. There was a knock on the door, and Matthewwalked in, clutching a sheaf of papers that needed to be signed.

I rose as he placed them on the desk, and without warning he turned round and gave me a bearhug. Not something I expect he did every day. After I had signed the final document, Matthew asked: Matthew and the warden burst out laughing. The great gate of Armley Prison was thrown open for me three days later. I walked away from the building carrying only the small leather suitcase I had arrived with. I didn't look back. I hailed a taxi and asked the driver to take me to the station, as I had no desire to remain in Leeds a moment longer than was necessary.

I bought a first-class ticket, phoned Hackett to warn him I was on my way, and boarded the next train for Bradford.

I savored a British Rail breakfast that wasn't served on a tin plate, and read a copy of the Financial Times that had been handed to me by a pretty shop assistant and not a petty criminal. No one stared at me--but then, why should they, when I was sitting in a first-class carriage and dressed in my new suit? I glanced at every woman who passed by, however she was dressed, but they had no way of knowing why.

When the train pulled into Bradford, the Don and his secretary Jenny Kenwright were waiting for me on the platform. The chief superintendent had rented me a small furnished flat on the outskirts of the city, and after I had unpacked--not a long job--they took me outto lunch. The moment the small talk had been dispensed with and Jenny had poured me a glass of wine, the Don asked me a question I hadn't expected. Never forget, that man stole my freedom from me, along with my wife, my company, and more than half my possessions.

It seems he has made himself indispensable. I asked if there was any news of Jeremy. But Williams has told us that every Friday at midday he has to drop her off at the Majestic, the only hotel in the village. She goes inside and doesn't reappear for at least forty minutes. He daren't follow her, because she's given specific instructions that he's to stay with the car. And he can't afford to lose this job by disobeying orders. He's convinced that Rosemary uses the time when she's in the hotel to make a long-distance phone call.

She often drops in at the bank before going on to the Majestic, and comes out carrying a small packet of coins. The barman has told Williams that she always uses one of the two phone boxes in the corridor opposite the reception desk.

She never allows the call to be put through the hotel switchboard, always dials direct.

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He was full of interesting information about Rosemary, and even the smallest detail fascinated me. She had put on weight. I was pleased. She seemed lonely and depressed.

I was delighted. She was spending my money fast. I wasn't exactly ecstatic. But, more to the point, Williams was convinced that if Rosemary had any contact with Jeremy Alexander, it had to be when she visited the hotel every Friday and placed that direct-dial call. But he still hadn't worked out how to discover who, or where, she was phoning. By the time Williams returned to the south of France a fortnight later, I knew more about my ex-wife than I ever knew when we were married.

As happens so often in the real world, the next move came when I least expected it. It must have been about 2: Donald picked up the receiver, and was surprised to hear Williams's voice on the other end of the line. He switched him on to the squawk box and said, "All three of us are listening, so you'd better begin by telling us why you're ringing when it's not your day off.

I was driving Ms. Kershaw into town this morning, when I had to stop at a red light. While I was waiting for the light to change, a man crossed the road in front of the car. He stopped and stared at me. I recognized him immediately, and prayed the light would turn to green before he could place me.

But he walked back, looked at me again, and smiled. I shook my head at him, but he came over to the driver's side, tapped on the window, and said, 'How are you, Inspector Williams?

Remember him, Chief? Kershaw said nothing, I thought I might have got away with it. But as soon as we arrived back at the house, she told me to come and see her in the study, and without even asking for an explanation, she dismissed me.

She ordered me to be packed and off the premises within the hour, or she'd call the local police. Back to square one," said Donald. If you're no longer in the house, we no longer have a point of contact. Worse, we can't play the butler card again, because she's bound to be on her guard from now on. As I wasn't afraid of being found out any longer, I picked up the extension in the corridor and listened in. All I heard was a woman's voice give a Cambridge number, and then the phone went dead.

I assumed Rosemary had been expecting someone else to pick up the phone, and hung up when she heard a strange voice. I picked up the phone again a few moments later, and heard a different woman on the line, saying, 'The director's not in at the moment, but I'm expecting him back within the hour.

It was Charlotte, Rosemary's maid.

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She wanted to know why I'd been sacked. I couldn't think of a convincing reply, until she accused me of having made a pass at the mistress. I let her think that was it, and ended up getting a slapped face for my trouble.

Then Williams asked, "So, what do I do now, chief? Come back to England? Check yourself into the Majestic and watch her round the clock. Let me know if she does anything out of character. Meanwhile, we're going to Cambridge. As soon as we've checked ourselves into a hotel there I'll call you. Catharine's College; a woman's voice on an answering machine; a hairdresser--"Did you want a perm, or just a trim?

The time has come for me to pull a few strings. Allan Leeke," said Donald, without needing to be prompted. He turned to me. He dialed another number. How can I help you? Or at least I hope it's a pleasant surprise, because knowing you, it won't be a social call.

Are you looking for a job, by any chance? I heard you'd left the force. I've resigned, but I'm not looking fora job, Allan. I don't think the Cambridge Constabulary could quite match my present salary. While we waited, Donald told me, "All they have to do is press a few buttons in the control room, and the numbers will appear on a screen in front of him. Things have changed since I first joined the force.

In those days we had to let our legs do the walking. He's the only person registered as living in the house. Jenny wrote the details down. Balcescu, also living in Great Shelford. She lives in Grantchester. We know her quite well.

She's hardly ever at home, because of her concert commitments all over the world. Her house has been burgled three times in the last year, always when she was abroad. That will give us enough time to pack, and for Jenny to book us into a hotel near the city center. We'll meet back here at"--he checked his watch--"six o'clock. I remember thinking that my father would have got on well with him.

Just over two hours later, Jenny was driving us at a steady sixty-nine miles per hour down the Al. I think we can safely ignore Dame Julia. Jenny, you get to work on the wing commander. I want details of his career from the day he left school to the day he retired.

First thing tomorrow you can begin by contacting RAF College Cranwell, and asking for details of his service record. I'll take the professor, and make a start in the university library.

Cooper, you keep yourself well out of sight. It's just possible that the wing commander or the professor might lead us to Alexander, sowe don't need you trampling over any suspects and frightening them off.

Later that night I settled into a suite at the Garden House Hotel--a more refined sort of prison--but despite feather pillows and a comfortable mattress I was quite unable to sleep. I rose early the next morning and spent most of the day watching endless updates on Sky News, episodes of various Australian soaps, and a "Film of the Week" every two hours. But my mind was continually switching between RAF Cranwell and the university library.

When we met up in Donald's room that evening, he and Jenny confirmed that their initial research suggested that both men were who they purported to be. Cooper," said Donald.

He was awarded the DFC for gallantry in He retired in , when he and his wife moved back to Great Shelford, where he had grown up. He has two children, Sam and Pamela, both married, but neither living in the area. They visit him occasionally. Donald picked up a pile of notes that had been lying on the floor by his feet. He was smuggled out of the country by a group of dissident students, via Bulgaria and then on into Greece.

His escape was well documented in the newspapers at the time. He applied for asylum in England, and was offered a teaching post at Gonville and Caius College, Cambridge, and three years later the chair of Eastern European studies. He advises the government on Romanian matters and has written a scholarly book on the subject.

Cooper," saidthe Don. Your wife dialed one of those numbers, and we're just going to have to find out which one. This time we'll need your assistance. Hackett nodded curtly, and turned back to Jenny.

He lives in a cottage in Great Shelford, just south of Cambridge. I'll see you both in the lobby at five o'clock tomorrow morning. But at least I was going to be allowed to join them the following day, instead of being confined to my room and yet more Australian soaps. I didn't need my 4: A few minutes after five, the three of us walked out of the hotel, trying not to look as if we were hoping to leave without paying our bill.

It was a chilly morning, and I shivered as I climbed into the back of the car. Jenny drove us out of the city and onto the London road.

After a mile or so, she turned left and took us into a charming little village with neat, well-kept houses on either side of the road. We passed a garden center on the left and drove another half mile, then Jenny suddenly swung the car round and pulled off the road.

She switched off the engine and pointed to a small house with an RAF-blue door. Some early-morning risers were already leaving their homes, cars heading toward the station for the first commuter train to London. The paperboy turned out to be an old lady who pushed her heavily laden bicycle slowly round the village, dropping off her deliveries. The milkman was next, clattering along in his electric van--two pints here, a pint there, the occasional half-dozen eggs or carton of orange juice left on front doorsteps.

Lights began to flick on all over the village. People had emerged from the houses on either side of number forty-seven before a light appeared in an upstairs room of the wing commander's home. Once that light had been switched on Donald sat bolt upright, his eyes never leaving the house. I became bored, and dozed off in the back at some point. When I woke up, I hoped we might at least be allowed a break for breakfast, but such mundane considerations didn't seem to worry the two professionals in the front.

They continued to concentrate on any movement that took place around number forty-seven, and hardly exchanged a word. At All I could see at that distance was a huge, bushy white mustache. It looked almost as if his whole body hadbeen designed around it.

Donald kept the glasses trained on him. I focused the glasses on the wing commander and studied him carefully. Jenny cursed. Within a few minutes she was only a couple of cars behind him. Danvers-Smith was not proving to be the sort of fellow who habitually broke the speed limit.

About half a mile later he pulled into a gas station. Jenny followed the Allegro into the station and came to a halt at the pump directly behind Danvers-Smith. Cooper," said the Don, opening his door. He stepped out of the front seat, walked round to the back of the car, and unscrewed the gas tank cap just as the wing commander slipped the nozzle of a gas pumpinto the tank of his Allegro.

Donald began slowly topping up our already full tank, then suddenly turned to face the old man. The wing commander looked up immediately, and a puzzled expression came over his weather-beaten face. You lectured me at RAF Locking.

Vulcans, if I remember. Good show," said Danvers-Smith. Grounded after I failed my eye test. Bloody desk job, I'm afraid, but it was the only offer I got. When they came back a few minutes later, they were chattering away like old chums, and the wing commander actually had his arm around Donald's shoulder. When they reached his car they shook hands, and I heard Donald say "Goodbye, sir," before Danvers-Smith climbed into his Allegro. The old airman pulled out of the station and headed back toward his home.

Donald got in next to Jenny and pulled the passenger door closed. Even asked if I'd like to drop in for a bite of lunch. Donald paused. So, now it's the professor's turn. Let's head back toward Cambridge, Jenny. And drive slowly. I don't want to catch up with the wing commander or we'll all end up having to join him for lunch.

After a couple of miles, Donald told her to pull into the side of the road just past a sign announcing the Shelford Rugby Club. This might take some time. I devoured them hungrily. By three I was bored stiff again and was beginning to wonder just how long Donald would hang around before we were allowed to return to the hotel.

I remembered "Happy Days" would be on at 6: What's yours, Jenny? A moment later, a woman in a white BMW nosed out of the driveway leading to the house and stopped at the edge of the pavement.

She paused, looked both ways, then turned across the road and swung right, in the direction of Cambridge. As she passed us, I caught a glimpse of a blond with a pretty face. It's our best chance yet," said Donald, trying not to sound as if he was cross-examining an old con.

I knew I had come across that face somewhere, though I felt certain we had never met. I had to rack my brains, because it was at least five years since I had seen any woman I recognized, let alone one that striking. But my mind remained blank. And Jenny--don't get too close to her. Never forget she's got a rearview mirror.

Cooper may not remember her, but she may remember him. It was about thirty yards ahead of us and heading toward a green light. Jenny accelerated to make sure she wouldn't get trapped if the light changed, and as she shot through an amber light, Sergeant Crann came back on the line. One ticket for speeding in a built-up area, , a thirty-pound fine.

Otherwise nothing known. That's most helpful. Let's head back to the hotel and consider our next move. But with some, it's a particular make of car," he said. Once we were back in Donald's room, he began checking through the file he had put together on Professor Balcescu. The Times report of his escape from Romania, he told us, was the most detailed. Professor Balcescu first came to prominence while still a student at the University of Bucharest, where he called for the overthrow of the elected government.

The authorities seemed relieved when he was offered a place at Oxford, and must have hoped that they had seen the last of him. But he returned to Bucharest University three years later, taking up the position of tutor in politics.

The following year he led a student revolt in support of Nicolae Ceausescu, and after he became president, Balcescu was rewarded with a Cabinet post, as Minister of Education. But he soon became disillusioned with the Ceausescu regime, and within eighteen months he hadresigned and returned to the university as a humble tutor.

Three years later he was offered the chair of politics and economics. Professor Balcescu's growing disillusionment with the government finally turned to anger, and in he began writing a series of pamphlets denouncing Ceausescu and his puppet regime. A few weeks after a particularly vitriolic attack on the establishment, he was dismissed from his post at the university and later placed under house arrest. A group of Oxford historians wrote a letter of protest to The Times, but nothing more was heard of the great scholar for several years.

Then, late in , he was smuggled out of Romania by a group of students, finally reaching Britain via Bulgaria and Greece. Cambridge won the battle of the universities to tempt him with a teaching post, and he became a fellow of Gonville and Caius in September Donald looked up. He wasn't anything like Jeremy. I frowned. According to his secretary, Balcescu delivers his weekly lecture every Friday morning from ten o'clock to eleven.

Jenny bowed her head, and he continued. I'm sure you'll agree, Jenny, that it would be quite difficult for him to take a personal call at that time every Friday, given the circumstances. Donald and Jenny spent the next few hours going over the files, even checking every one of the ten phone numbers a second time. But is she simply Rosemary's messenger, or is she a friend of Jeremy's? Donald ignored her comment, and checked his watch. In any case, we'll be out by eleven, and if we find Mrs.

Balcescu's phone is engaged between twelve and twelve-thirty A few minutes later I joined them, and Jenny drove us out of the hotel parking lot, turning right into the main road.

Donald glanced at me suspiciously in the rearview mirror as I sat silently in the back. Did I look guilty? I wondered. Jenny spotted a parking meter a couple of hundred yards away from the department of Eastern European studies, and pulled in.

We got out of the car and followed the flow of students along the pavement and up the steps. No one gave us a second look.Within five years I wanted to go public. This time they had got themselves a hero and two villains. Balcescu--I'm sure you worked out where I'd seen her long before I did. I wanted to see them together. Not a natural habitat for me, but as Cooper's had taken a full-page advertisement in the program, and Brigadier Kershaw, the high sheriff of the county and chairman of the ball committee, had invited us to join him as his guests, I had no choice but to dress up in my seldom-worn dinner jacket and accompany my parents to the ball.

Could you drop me back at the Queen's Hotel so I can get changed? The cook: