by Della Galton
What with all this going on, Clara was surprised she slept at all, but she did eventually and Tuesday morning arrived. With it came Kate’s promised visit.
She phoned first and arranged to call at 11.00. She arrived on time, smiling on the doorstep and leaning on crutches. ‘I can manage without them, but they make me feel a bit more secure,’ she explained, bending to stroke Foxy, who was a little wary of the crutches at first but capitulated when she recognised her owner.
It felt odd showing Kate into her own kitchen and making her coffee from her own percolator. Odd, but strangely comforting. Kate didn’t comment on the way the place looked. It was fairly tidy anyway; Clara didn’t like mess.
Kate had a dark blue A4 folder with her – which was the only thing that reminded Clara this wasn’t just a friend calling for a social visit. She put it on the table and they sat opposite each other, with Foxy lying on the rug, keeping a weather eye on both of them.
‘First of all,’ Kate began, ‘how’s your Grandad?’
Clara told her and she looked pleased. ‘That’s really good news. Secondly, I want to say thank you again for looking after my hotel. You inspire a hundred per cent loyalty in our staff. Not a single person I’ve spoken to has a bad word to say about you. Not that I was expecting anyone to say anything bad, I hasten to add.’ She slurped her coffee. ‘It’s still impressive though.’
‘That’s good to hear,’ Clara said, wondering what was coming next.
‘I’ve been doing some research,’ Kate continued. ‘With regard to the person or persons who have been making mischief for us.’ She sighed. ‘If you can call it mischief. It’s a bit more than that, I think.’
‘I think so too.’ Clara met her employer’s eyes. ‘They’ve cost the Bluebell at least some business. Not to mention Saturday’s attempt to wreck the wedding. That could have been very expensive.’
‘Thank goodness for dolphins,’ Kate said. ‘How did you arrange that anyway?’
Clara smiled. ‘Thank goodness we’ve got such an amazing team. And thank goodness your Aiden and John Scargill were old cronies.’
‘That was a bonus. Yes.’ Kate opened the dark blue folder and drew out some grainy photographs. There was also a piece of paper with her handwriting on it. ‘Here’s what I’ve managed to ascertain so far,’ she began, reading from it. ‘It has to be someone who has something to gain. Which rules out my regular staff, you would think, because they’d lose out if the Bluebell closed down. Having said that, I do think it’s likely to be someone close to home. They’d have had to know about the Young Farmers booking in order to cancel it. They’d have had to know about the Curly Wurly record too, although I’m guessing quite a few people knew about that.’
‘It was well publicised,’ Clara agreed.
‘It has to be someone who knows their way around a computer. Mr B assures me that anyone can upload a video on YouTube, but I don’t think that’s quite true. Aiden says there’s no way in the world he could do it.’
‘I’d agree they would need to be reasonably techie,’ Clara said. ‘But I suppose it’s possible they could have had help.’
‘Yes, that’s true. But you wouldn’t want too many people knowing what you were up to, I wouldn’t have thought.’
‘No,’ Clara concurred.
‘It’s also likely to be someone who has close links with The Purbeck Gazette. They were incredibly quick off the mark, weren’t they? Both times. Zoe told me that Simon Tomlinson, their reporter, was the first person on the scene after the Arnold Fairweather proposal and that the only reason he didn’t run the feature was because you threatened him with legal action.’
‘That’s right, I did.’
‘Thank you for that.’ Kate’s eyes flashed with bulldozer-like stubbornness. She was utterly focused and Clara got a glimpse of the passion that had carried her through to the completion of the Bluebell Cliff Project. She had heard on the grapevine that Kate had come across some fairly major stumbling blocks during the refurbishment, but she’d refused to let anything swerve her from her goal.
‘Simon Tomlinson was also the reporter who wrote the feature about Micky Tucker’s botched record-breaking attempt, wasn’t he?’
‘He was.’
‘I don’t suppose we can prove anything, but he certainly had the opportunity to spike Micky’s drink. He was with him before the event started.’
‘Correct.’ Phil must have told her that.
Also… And this is the big one. The mischief-maker was probably at the wedding. Either that, or they bribed someone else to let out the pigs and set off the fire alarm.’
‘That makes sense. Yes.’
Kate waved another piece of paper at her. ‘So, with that in mind, I’ve done some research. I have the full guest list here. I got it from our very obliging bride just before they left for their honeymoon. Did you know she’s already given us a five-star review?’
Clara nodded.
‘She was thrilled with everything. They loved the food. Mr B pulled the boat out on the lobster thermidor – we got really good feedback from everyone on that. Anyway, Isobel was more than happy to tell me who she’d invited once I’d explained why I wanted to know. I was hoping you’d help me to go through this and see if we can ascertain anything. I’m not sure how or what – but I think it’s worth a try.’
‘So do I. Of course I can.’
‘I also have these…’ She laid out the grainy photographs on the table. ‘They’re the stills from the CCTV. This is the person who delivered The Purbeck Gazette early. You’ve seen this already, I know, but not as a still. And this is the person who let the pigs out. I know you can’t see his face clearly in either one because he’s made sure of that, but I think it could be the same person. As you know, Mr B is convinced it’s Simon Tomlinson.’
Clara looked at the two shots side by side. ‘It does look as though he could be right. But he wasn’t at the wedding.’
‘He wasn’t invited. That doesn’t mean he didn’t sneak in.’ She let out a breath. ‘I sound paranoid, don’t I? But when someone’s having a go at you and you don’t know why, it makes you feel like that. Also - and this is my pièce de résistance – I have a photo of the person who we think set off the fire alarm. Phil caught a glimpse of him on the fire escape and he’s pretty sure this is the guy.’ This time, she produced a much clearer image of a figure running across the Bluebell car park. It was dated the same day as the wedding, but, more importantly, it was timed. It had been taken at 12.46, just after the fire alarm had gone off.
‘How did you get this?’ Clara asked. ‘This isn’t CCTV.’
‘Pure luck.’ Kate looked pleased. ‘While the photographer was snapping the happy couple inside the venue, he asked his assistant to do some location shots outside and this man just happened to be in one. I think he might be the key to the whole thing.’
She pushed the photo towards Clara. It wasn’t Simon Tomlinson, that was for sure. It was someone Clara had never seen. Someone a bit taller, maybe nearer six foot. Someone who was wearing a suit. Someone who was dressed for a wedding.
‘It looks like he could have been a guest,’ Kate said. ‘Or someone who was masquerading as one. I don’t know who he is yet. I’ve sent the photo to Isobel, but she’s on her honeymoon, so I don’t expect to hear back for a little while.’
Clara nodded. ‘You said I was impressive. Right back at you.’
Kate met her gaze. ‘No one takes potshots at my hotel and gets away with it. When I find out who it is, which I intend to do very soon, they are going to be very sorry.’ She tilted her head on one side in a question. ‘I shall need your help with the legwork. Is that OK?’
‘Of course it is. I am totally at your disposal.’
‘Then, from one impressive woman to another, I’d like to propose a toast.’ Kate lifted her coffee mug. ‘To putting an end to our mischief-maker and ensuring the Bluebell has a brilliant future.’
They clinked mugs.
Kate lef
t the blue folder with Clara. ‘I have copies of everything in it,’ she had said before she went. ‘I’ll be looking too. I’m not exactly sure what we’re looking for, but two heads are better than one.’
‘If not three,’ Clara said. ‘Could Phil or Mr B help?’
‘They’re on the case. I’ve set up a WhatsApp group so we can stay in touch. If any of us has any kind of brainwave, we can put it on there. I wanted to check with you first, but I’ll add you to the group. I think Mr B has put quite a lot of theories on there already.’ Her lips had twisted in a wry smile. ‘I’m slightly regretting asking him, but it’s a bit late to retract it.’
Then she left, looking determined, and Clara watched her drive away. Seeing Kate had made her feel much more positive. So did having something constructive to do.’ If they could track down the saboteur and stop them, then at least one thing about her future could be certain.
30
Kate had been right about Mr B having an avalanche of theories, all of which made their way on to the WhatsApp group. He tended to put them on late at night when he wasn’t working. Did the man never sleep?
Over the next couple of days, Clara sifted through them, trying to decide which could be important and which definitely weren’t. She also went through the wedding list with a fine-tooth comb. She wasn’t exactly sure what she was looking for, but her instincts told her she might know it when she saw it.
Rather helpfully, there were a few scrawled notes from Kate on the list. She had put ‘bride’s side’ or ‘groom’s side’ after each one. She had also put ‘friend’ or ‘family’.
Clara decided to focus on the friends list, which wasn’t as long. It also struck her that family might not be as keen to ruin a wedding, which was basically what setting off the fire alarm and letting out the kunekunes had been supposed to do.
Interestingly, one of the names on the guest list had seemed familiar. Veronica Cooper Clark. Where had she heard that name before? It wasn’t someone she knew, but it was triggering alarm bells and she couldn’t think why. It had cropped up in a conversation recently she was sure and she hadn’t been anywhere, apart from out with Adam.
She had spoken to him every day since their night out. Everything they’d said had cemented the strong connection that she had felt when they were together and, judging by the warmth in his voice, it had done the same thing for him.
They had made plans to go out again on Thursday lunchtime, which was the next time he thought he could get away. Clara would have loved to see him again before and he said he felt the same, but she didn’t push it. He had so much on his plate. She already knew he and Nick were trying to run the Manor House on a skeleton staff and they’d be organising putting it on the market. That would be time-consuming too.
In the meantime the name Veronica Cooper Clark kept turning over in her mind and then, finally, when she was out with Foxy on the cliff path one morning, she remembered where she had heard it. It was the name Mr B had mentioned. The name of the ‘stuck-up girlfriend’ who was going out with Simon Tomlinson. Clara’s heart began to pound and it had nothing to do with the fact that she was walking up a steep grassy part of the coast path. Or very little to do with it, she thought, pushing a strand of windswept hair behind her ear. She had got incredibly fit since she’d had Foxy to look after. That was a bonus.
She glanced at the FunFit to see how many steps she had done. The battery was flashing up empty. Bloody thing. That had happened a lot lately when it came to counting steps, although it usually had enough juice in it to send her its nonsensical weekly reports. This morning’s had said:
Speed of walking is up to optimum levels. Very good health wise. Your static activity fitness improvement is 85 per cent accommodation is no good target. Good news. Excellent.
Who the hell did the translation for these things? Didn’t anyone ever check? The word excellent mollified her slightly though.
Maybe she would invest in a more reliable pedometer when she got back home. Maybe Kate would still let her take Foxy out for walks. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
She called the little dog to her and clipped on her lead because they were getting to a part of the cliff that wasn’t fenced and Clara was always worrying that she’d go over the edge after a rabbit. Having three legs didn’t seem to have any impact on her speed, but it did occasionally interfere with her braking system.
‘What do you think?’ she asked Foxy, as they carried on along the path. There were red berries on the stunted bushes that survived up here and they were also covered with what was locally known as ‘old man’s beard’, which looked like random handfuls of cotton wool.
‘Do you think we’re on to something? Do you think Veronica Cooper Clark and Simon Tomlinson are in league with our saboteur?’
Foxy flicked her ears to listen and then tugged on her lead; she was much more interested in the sniffs along the well-used path.
Clara contemplated the information they had already. Mr B was convinced that Simon Tomlinson was the person who’d let out the kunekunes. He certainly wasn’t on the guest list. But it was odd that his girlfriend was.
When she got home, she googled the name Veronica Cooper Clark. This turned up several Facebook and LinkedIn profiles but wasn’t that helpful because Clara didn’t know anything about her. So she couldn’t pick out which of the photos might be her.
Then she tried Veronica Cooper Clark, Brancombe Yacht Club, which was a little more successful because she was listed as a member. But there were no photos. Then she tried putting the names together: Veronica Cooper Clark and Simon Tomlinson.
Bingo! She had what she was looking for: A photograph of a couple at some press evening that was featured in the same local society magazine that had been booked to cover the Young Farmers event.
There was Simon Tomlinson, looking very sleazy and a little pissed, in a dark suit and black tie, and beside him was a bronze-haired, sharp-faced woman, who looked older than he did by maybe ten years – she must be in her late forties – but was what Phil would have called incredibly well preserved. She was smiling to reveal perfect teeth, but her beautifully made-up eyes were cold. It was a very staged pose – here was a woman who was used to being photographed.
But, most importantly, Clara was sure she had been at the wedding. It was the bronze hair. There had been a woman with that colour hair amongst the wedding guests. Clara had a snapshot memory of them all standing outside in the sunshine after the fire alarm had gone off. There had been maybe twenty or thirty guests milling about, but she remembered that hair. She remembered thinking that it had fitted in very well with the autumn theme and wondering if she’d had it done especially. Clara had been sure it had been manufactured, not real – in an expensive salon too – it definitely wasn’t out of a packet. After so many years of working with people, she was an expert on such things.
Then there was the Mulberry handbag, slung casually over her shoulder. The bag had evoked a fleeting envy. Clara had made a mental note to check out eBay for bargains. After the conversation with Zoe, she was still wary about second-hand Mulberries.
Now, Clara glanced at her laptop and came back to reality with a little thump. None of this proved anything. But she was sure it was relevant. Simon Tomlinson and Veronica Cooper Clark were the Bluebell Cliff saboteurs. She had no idea why, but every instinct she had told her she was right. She was about to add it to the growing number of theories on the WhatsApp group, but something stopped her.
Maybe it would be better to find out some more before she went blundering in. She had agreed with Kate that this time off would be part working from home and part actual holiday. But she didn’t have to go back to work properly for another ten days. She had plenty of time to start packing up her things in preparation for moving back to her house.
She also had plenty of time to do some more research on Ms Veronica Cooper Clark.
On Thursday lunchtime, she called for Adam as agreed. She’d insisted it was her turn to pick him up. Also, he’d
mentioned it was about time she met his brother, Nick.
Clara was really looking forward to meeting him and her stomach crunched with expectation as she walked through the automatic doors into the citrus-scented reception of the Manor House.
Adam looked pleased to see her and he went to find Nick, who he introduced to Clara as, ‘The brother I would have been if I was nicer.’
As she stepped forward, Clara’s first impressions were of a man who was very similar - looking to his brother, only he was slightly thinner, maybe an inch or so shorter, and his hair had some grey in it, even though she was sure Adam had told her Nick was the younger of the two.
The other startling difference was what she could only describe as Nick’s aura. He had the hugest smile and sparkling eyes and a warmth as palpable as sunshine.
‘It’s so lovely to meet you,’ he said, gripping her hand in both of his and Clara could see immediately where the labels of Mr Nice and Mr Nasty may have originally come from. Where Adam was wary, Nick was full on. Where Adam was taciturn, Nick was gushing. ‘I’ve heard so much about you,’ he rushed on before she could speak. ‘You’re the lifeblood of Bluebell. Firm but fair; astute but compassionate; doesn’t suffer fools gladly but has a fine sense of humour. Your reputation precedes you.’
‘He hasn’t heard any of that lot from me,’ Adam put in, giving his brother a look that was at the same time both affectionate and exasperated.
‘Blimey,’ Clara said. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘Sorry. I do go on.’ Nick beamed some more. ‘That’s why they don’t usually let me out of the kitchen.’
