by Agatha Frost
She believed he was innocent.
“Ed, do you know who shot Mindy?” Julia asked, handing Olivia to Barker. “Do you know anything at all?”
“I find it curious to hear that people think I’ve been having an affair with Mindy,” he said, resisting being dragged through the door into the hallway. “Amusing almost. Any idea where that rumour came from?”
DI Christie held up a hand and the officer stopped tugging.
“Ruth told us,” Christie revealed. “Pretty certain.”
“Then I have to apologise to Mindy for thinking she was paranoid,” said Ed, loosening his shoulders now that the dragging had stopped; he glared at the officer. “She wouldn’t shut up about how she was sure the financial adviser was out to get her. I always thought she was a strange one.”
“Who’s the financial adviser?” Dot asked, joining them at the door.
Ed arched a brow. “Uh, Ruth?”
“I didn’t realise that part,” Julia thought aloud, thinking back to the times she’d seen Ruth. “Makes sense. Why do you think she’s strange?”
“Her shoes,” he said. “I checked the average yearly salary for a financial adviser. More than a stylist, but not enough to afford that collection. It’s funny that someone should spend so much money to look so … pedestrian.”
“Alright, you’re stalling now.” Christie snapped his fingers at the officer, and they kept moving. “Sorry to break up your interview, folks.”
He didn’t sound very sorry, and he left all the same, taking their one connection to the case with him.
“What shoes?” Dot asked, hands on hips. “She’s always dressed in beige. Who pays attention to the woman’s shoes?”
But Julia had an idea what he was getting at.
She left the sitting room and went upstairs, where she found Evelyn changing the bedding in one of her eclectically decorated guest bedrooms.
“Ruth’s room?” Evelyn scratched at her turban. “It’s two doors down.”
Master key in hand, Evelyn led the way. It was tidy, but the piles of neatly folded clothes, all beige, indicated someone was living there. Beauty and hair products covered a dressing table, and under it, six pairs of identical high heels waited neatly in a row.
“Can I have a look in?” Julia asked. “I won’t touch anything.”
“I was on my way down to the change the bedding anyway,” she said, nodding for Julia to enter. “Ruth’s not back tonight, so I thought I’d get it out of the way for her return.”
Julia crouched beside the shoes that, upon closer examination, weren’t identical at all. They were all cream-coloured, closed-toe pumps with a slight heel, but the labels on their soles were vastly different.
She’d seen those labels before.
Dior.
Yves Saint Laurent.
Manolo Blahnik.
Jimmy Choo.
Christian Louboutin.
Prada.
Julia had helped Katie list her shoe collection when she’d sold them to raise some cash. She’d typed in enough of them to know each shoe was worth around a thousand pounds new.
Julia had more shoes at home, though she wouldn’t call those a collection. She wouldn’t call six a collection, either. What Katie had owned, hundreds upon hundreds of heeled shoes, had been a collection.
But what did it mean?
She’d assumed she was seeing designer clothes on James and his entourage the whole time they’d been in town. It was how they seemed to operate.
Why were Ruth’s shoes any different?
“Evelyn, did you say Ruth wasn’t coming back tonight?” Julia left the shoes and found Evelyn two doors down, flattening out a freshly changed duvet. “When did you last see her?”
“I’m not sure how long ago,” she said, adding yellow pillows to the spread. “Not too long after she left for the hospital, to be honest. She said she had a meeting with some business associates in London and would be back before the weekend. Said she’d cleared it with the police.”
Maybe she had.
But it was a strange time to leave.
15
For the second time that week, Katie found herself waiting alone in the entrance hall of Wellington Manor. Unlike the previous time, she had no idea who she’d find on the other side of those huge doors when the knocking started. She wasn’t sure if it should, but it scared her less than expecting Uncle Jarvis.
The woman on the phone had sounded sweet.
Their conversation had been short. Once they’d asked if they could meet, Katie agreed immediately. She hated talking about property and money over the phone.
Face to face, it was easier to suss people out.
Another of her father’s tips.
They were supposed to be meeting at two, and hopefully it would be short enough that she could run back to the café before anyone noticed the ‘Back in Ten!’ sign had expired; it was already twenty past the hour.
She waited, tapping her foot, the echoes tapping back at her, until a knock at the door silenced her foot at half past.
Suddenly, she was nervous.
And excited.
On the phone, they’d sounded interested.
Really interested.
If she could sell the manor without involving James Jacobson, it would be a win for everyone. This was the Plan B she’d wanted since so reluctantly making James Plan A. She’d lost faith in him. Only that morning, he’d given her his word that he’d still buy the manor when things were back to normal.
And when would that be? After a trial? There could be bailiffs at Katie’s door right now. She didn’t have months.
No, this was better.
A clean break from a souring association with James Jacobson was what she wanted when she opened the door.
Only to realise it wasn’t what she was getting.
“Oh,” she said, stepping aside. “Ruth. Come in.”
“Sorry I’m late.” Ruth flattened her wild, unkempt hair. “Got a little lost.”
Katie took Ruth’s beige coat as she shrugged it off, revealing yet another beige outfit beneath. Katie didn’t know why Ruth was here, but Ruth seemed to.
“Gilbert Holdings Limited?”
“I can explain,” Ruth said with an airy laugh. “You know what it’s like.”
Katie wasn’t sure she did understand, but she did know Burberry when she saw it. The mid-length Chelsea Heritage trench coat in Honey, to be exact. She’d seen Ruth in the simple staple before, but she’d never been close enough to notice the detailing. Though it looked like Ruth had just dragged the coat through a hedge, brand new, they were easily worth £2000. Katie hung it up, quietly impressed.
“It’s a long story.” Ruth laughed again as she opened a leather folder on the kitchen island. “Why don’t we get straight down to it? Same offer. Sign now. Done deal.”
“For James?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Through a company?”
“For legal reasons,” she explained. “You know what it’s like.”
“I’m not sure I do.” Katie spoke the words out loud this time. “Because of a possible trial?”
“Exactly. A trial.” Ruth hunched over the paperwork. “Katie with a y, or an ie?”
“Y.”
The lie came out so quickly and easily Ruth didn’t catch it. Another Vincent Wellington trick. If one was unsure, one twisted the letters to invalidate what one was signing.
Not that Katie would be signing anything.
Not without Brian.
But she was unsure.
And Ruth had brought paperwork.
“Now,” announced Ruth, spinning around and holding out a pen. “Shall we do what we were supposed to do on Monday and get this manor off your hands?”
“I think I should call my husband.”
“And I think you should put the phone down and sign on the dotted line.” Ruth jabbed the pen in Katie’s direction. “I really do insist.”
In Ruth’s eyes, Katie s
aw what the woman thought of her. Lately, she’d been seeing the same look everywhere.
Ruth thought she was dumb.
She’d turned up alone, after all.
Told nobody.
Not a good move.
And she had very few left to play.
She could run for the door, but something else in Ruth’s eyes gave her pause. The insistence. What would happen if she didn’t get her way? Suddenly, Uncle Jarvis and his winking wandering eyes didn’t feel like the worse of the two.
Well, when in Wellington Manor . . .
Katie took the pen and scribbled a signature before Ruth could notice she’d caught on. Though she didn’t know exactly what she’d caught on to, Ruth was up to something. Katie had been on enough beaches in the middle of winter, shooting summer calendars, to know how to fake an ‘I’m totally okay with all this’ smile.
To her relief, signing popped the bubble of tension.
Ruth inhaled deeply as she accepted the file and the pen. While she was packing it away, Katie pulled out her phone and texted Julia.
‘Is James with u? His mum is here with paperwork & she’s acting v weird xx’
No sooner had Katie slipped her phone back into her jeans did a reply come pinging through. She reached for it as Ruth spun around, clutching Katie’s wrist so tightly the phone fell to the floor.
“Katy Willingten?” Ruth closed her eyes and exhaled. “Who did you text?”
Katie glanced down at her phone. The screen was still lit up, and somehow uncracked. If Julia had sent a normal message, she wouldn’t have been able to see it. As though Julia had known, she’d sent her reply entirely in caps lock.
‘NOT MOTHER. GET OUT!!!’
“Oh, dear,” Ruth said, kicking the phone away. “We are in a bit of a pickle, aren’t we?”
16
Staring at her phone, her heart in her throat, Julia waited for Katie’s reply. Or even just the three bubbles to indicate she was typing something. A videocall request came through from Jessie. Julia swiftly rejected it and continued staring at the screen.
Usually ill-timed.
Always welcome.
Just not right now.
She’d call and explain later.
“We need to find Katie,” she managed to say. “I think she’s in trouble.”
Everyone else in the B&B stared at her as if already aware of what she was thinking. They’d been talking of nothing but Ruth since James and Richie had returned from the hospital in a taxi.
“So, let me get this straight,” Dot said as they all clamoured for the door. “Ruth isn’t your mother, James? And you didn’t buy her any of those shoes?”
“Nope.”
“She’s just your financial adviser?”
“That’s literally all she is.” He shook his head. “This is insane. Didn’t anyone think to check such a detail? Is that what she’s been telling you?”
“I think we all just . . . assumed,” Dot muttered, looking around the hallway for support as they filed out. “You’re touchy-feely with each other, and she’s about the right age. She looks like someone’s mother.”
“But she’s constantly in business casual.” This time, a bark of laughter escaped him. Clutching his freshly bandaged head, he doubled over. “None of this is real. This is just the painkillers.”
“We should all be so lucky!” Dot declared. “Where did you even meet her?”
“Just a party years ago,” he said. “She’s always been there for me. Are you sure, Julia? How can Ruth be behind all this? She’s not like that.”
“You’ve always been blind to her,” Richie insisted. “Mum’s been talking for ages about how Ruth poisoned your mind against her.”
“Your mother has been doing a fine job of that herself.”
But Julia couldn’t stand around and listen to their family therapy session on the doorstep of the B&B. She already felt guilty enough running out on Olivia for a second time that day.
She’d make it up to her later.
First, she needed to find Katie.
“Did she say where she was?” Barker asked as he caught up with her. “Shouldn’t she be at the café?”
Any other middle of the afternoon, she would have been. But things were hardly normal. Julia could tell the café was shut even before she saw the sign in Katie’s handwriting stuck in the window. She’d put a heart over the i in the word ‘in.’
Julia felt sick.
“There’s no way of knowing how long ago she put up that sign,” Julia said, looking desperately around the green. “She could be anywhere.”
“You looking for Katie?” Shilpa called as she swept the doorstep of the post office. “She went to the manor not too long ago, all excited about a new offer coming through. Said she was finally rid of James.”
An offer from Ruth?
Or another coincidence?
If the idea rattling around Julia’s mind in snatches and whispers was leading her in the right direction, Ruth certainly had the money. £121,000 a week. Plus salary.
She probably had a whole room full of Dior and Jimmy Choo.
Julia’s instinct to rush straight to the manor slammed up against Barker’s insistence on going via the police station. While he explained the situation to Christie, who looked frustrated at being pulled away from making the story fit around Ed, Julia’s phone pinged.
A text from Katie.
‘Hi, I’m sorry about before. Ignore me. I was mistaken, and everything is fine. I’ll see you later.’
“Barker,” Julia called, holding her phone out. “Sent from Katie’s phone just now.”
Barker and Christie squinted at the screen with very different reactions; Julia was glad to see her husband’s suspicion matched her own.
“See, that solves it.”
“No.” Barker shook his head. “Katie never sends a text without at least one kiss on the end. And commas? Never. Christie, you need to send cars to the manor right now.”
“Steady on, Brown, this is still my station.”
“Just do it.” Barker rested a hand on his shoulder. “This woman isn’t who she says she is. Ruth isn’t James’s mother.”
On a pleased chuckle, Christie folded his arms.
“That’s what you thought? We’ve always known she just worked for him,” he said. “She says they’re like mother and son, though.”
“Please, John,” Barker urged. “That woman’s been moving around like a shadow all day, and now she’s with my family.”
Christie hesitated just a moment longer before clapping his hands and barking the orders Barker had just given him. Officers sprinted for the door.
“Stay here,” Christie ordered, pointing at them both. “I’m sick of you two turning up at all my arrests. You’re starting to feel like groupies.”
Christie left, but Julia could tell Barker had no intention of obeying him; neither did she. No sooner had the last police car driven away than a taxi appeared. James and Richie were heading towards it from the B&B, but Julia and Barker jumped in first. She took the front; he took the back.
“This is ours,” James called as he climbed in the back and took the middle. “Unless you’re going back to the hospital? I need to talk to Mindy about everything. I don’t know what to believe. This is all boggling my mind.”
“That can wait,” Julia said, tapping the driver’s dashboard. “Wellington Manor, and be quick about it.”
Though James’s face indicated he wanted answers, he put on his seatbelt and didn’t call off the order. She could see the fear. He didn’t want it to be true. He’d never wanted to believe anyone close to him was guilty.
But a red laser was firing from her gut, and it pointed right at the woman close enough to James they’d all been happy to believe she was his mother.
If she was right, she feared it would break him to accept it.
Leaving Barker to deal with the taxi, Julia ran for the manor. The police were already searching the place inside and out. Chris
tie rolled his eyes but didn’t tell her to leave. She thought the word me mouthed under his breath was ‘Typical.’
“Boss,” someone called from inside the manor. “Over here.”
Julia heard the same out-of-tune nasal voice she heard in the café whenever Katie was singing along with the radio. Usually amusing and occasionally bordering on annoying, today, it only provided relief.
She overtook Christie and reached the downstairs bathroom. Katie was sat on the closed toilet seat, half hunched over, fingers in her ears, singing to herself.
“It was locked from the inside,” an officer explained. “One of those you can twist from the outside in a pinch.”
Julia threw herself down next to Katie as the split second of sheer terror burned right into relief. As her arms wrapped around Julia’s neck, Katie made some sounds like the ones Olivia was learning.
“I-I . . . sh-she . . .” Katie panted. “That woman is a psycho!”
“Where is she?” Christie demanded.
“I-I don’t know.” Katie wobbled to her feet with Julia’s help. “She came at me in the kitchen. The only thing to hand was a jug of raspberry lemonade. I . . . I think I killed her.”
“Sir?” Another voice called. “Kitchen.”
Christie, joined by Barker, charged across the entrance hall. Everyone reached the kitchen at the same time. The handle and rim of the jug rested on the kitchen island, the middle lay in shards around them, and the bottom – a solid chunk of rotting raspberries and crinkling lemons – was on the floor. Red blood burned stark dots on the white island. The officer who’d called them in had followed a similar trail leading to the French doors.
“Stay here!” Christie demanded, scanning them all with his finger. “I mean it.”
Julia returned to Katie, who was shaking like a leaf. The stools that had once surrounded the island were gone, but someone had stacked the white plastic garden chairs by the back door. She pulled one out and pushed Katie into it. Katie went down like a puppet having its strings cut. Julia rinsed another of the raspberry lemonade jugs and filled it with cold water.
“She’s crazy,” Katie said after drinking deeply from the jug. “I don’t understand what’s going on. She said she was with some company.”
