‘Thanks ever so.’ There was a light in Dawn’s eyes that gave Melissa hope.
The door chimes tinkled and a slim girl in a grey coat and skirt entered, shot a quick glance at Justin, who was laughing prettily at some witticism from his influential client, and scurried across to speak to Dawn. Melissa took off the pink gown and brushed out her skirt while the two discussed plans for the evening in hasty undertones. Then the girl, whom Dawn addressed as Tracy, hurried out. Almost immediately a door slammed close by and the sound of footsteps running up a flight of stairs echoed from the other side of the salon wall.
‘Tracy lives in Babs’s old room,’ Dawn explained, helping Melissa on with her coat. ‘She only works round the corner so she comes home for lunch.’
Melissa settled her bill, put a generous tip in the staff box and was bowed out of the premises by Justin, who had handed over a rollered and netted Mrs Farrell to an apprentice who was escorting her to a dryer. It was just twelve o’clock and the proceedings at the U.P. Club did not begin until half past two. Melissa wandered up to the door adjacent to Petronella’s and examined the two bell-pushes; one was labelled ‘Farrell’ and the other ‘T. Simpson’. After a moment’s hesitation she pressed the second.
The footsteps came running down again and Tracy opened the door. She had taken off her jacket, revealing a blouse patterned with the emblem of a leading building society. In one hand she held a half-eaten sandwich.
‘Tracy Simpson?’
‘That’s right.’
‘My name’s . . . Meryl Collins.’ Almost, Melissa had forgotten her alias. ‘I’m told Babs Carter used to live here.’
‘She left nearly a year ago.’
‘Yes, I know. Dawn told me.’
‘Oh, yes?’ Tracy took another bite of her sandwich. Melissa began to wonder what on earth she was doing here. An inexplicable impulse had prompted her to ring Tracy’s bell and already she was regretting it. Still, the thing was done and she might as well try to sound convincing.
‘Do you think I could come in for a moment? I’m trying to get in touch with Babs, you see . . . her boyfriend is in hospital and he’s very worried about her.’
Tracy made no attempt to move aside. ‘I don’t know where she went. Try asking Mrs Farrell. She lives on the first floor . . . but she’s next door having her hair done at the moment.’
‘Yes, I know . . . I’ve just come from there.’ Suddenly, Melissa had an intense desire to see the room where Babs had lived, a feeling that it might hold a clue that had been overlooked. ‘I don’t suppose Babs left anything behind? You haven’t found . . . ?’
Tracy gave Melissa a strange look, then held the door open wider and motioned her inside.
‘You’d better come up.’ She led the way to a room on the top floor that occupied the entire width of the house. It had been furnished, apparently from junk-shops, as a bed-sitting room. In one corner was a kitchenette with a small sink and a miniature electric cooker. On the stained dining table was a tin tray with a mug of coffee and a packet of sandwiches.
‘I’m sorry, I’ve interrupted your lunch,’ said Melissa.
‘Not to worry,’ said Tracy. She took a swig from the mug, helped herself to another sandwich and went across to a rickety-looking chest that stood under the window and evidently doubled as a dressing-table. From a drawer, she took out a large plain manila envelope and handed it to Melissa. She looked acutely embarrassed.
‘I dropped my comb behind the chest of drawers the other day and found these,’ she said. ‘I think they must have been hers. They’re nasty,’ she added as Melissa turned over the unsealed envelope and prepared to examine the contents.
One glance was sufficient to confirm that they were very nasty indeed. As Melissa had been at pains to point out to Bruce, she had on occasions encountered some fairly dubious characters and situations but this was the first time she had come across hard porn. Sickened, she pushed the photographs back into the envelope.
‘I haven’t shown them to anyone else,’ said Tracy. ‘Are they . . . is it Babs?’
‘I imagine so . . . I’ve never actually met her,’ said Melissa. She thought of Clive and wondered if he had any inkling.
‘I don’t know what to do with them.’ Tracy finished her last sandwich and screwed up the plastic wrapper. ‘If I put them in the dustbin, someone might find them. I’ve got nowhere to burn them. I thought of putting them through the office shredder but there’s always someone about.’ She picked up her mug, then put it down. ‘Care for a coffee?’
‘No, thanks all the same,’ said Melissa. ‘I’m going to have some lunch in a minute. Had you thought of handing these over to your landlady?’
Tracy looked appalled at the suggestion. ‘And let her lecherous son get his grubby paws on them? Not likely!’
‘Do you have trouble with him?’
Tracy grinned. She had well-cut features, a firm mouth and a determined set to her chin; her figure was slim but sturdy.
‘I’ve been to classes in self-defence. I know how to handle his sort,’ she said. The gleam in her eye suggested that she might welcome a chance to prove it.
‘What about the police?’
‘If old Ma Farrell found out I’d brought the fuzz round here, she’d kick me out.’
‘Would you like me to take charge of them?’ offered Melissa. ‘I know someone who might be able to find out where they came from.’
‘Would you?’ Tracy appeared relieved. ‘I hate the thought of that stuff in my room. The people who deal in it ought to be shot . . . and the girls who pose for the pictures . . . makes you sick!’
‘You’re absolutely right,’ agreed Melissa. She found a plastic supermarket carrier in her shopping bag and put the envelope inside. ‘I’ll be going now. Don’t bother to come down.’
As she closed the street door behind her, Mrs Farrell emerged from Petronella’s. Her hair had been sculpted into a sphere that sat on top of her flushed face like a scoop of vanilla ice-cream on a dish of strawberries. She stared suspiciously as Melissa walked past her.
It was not until she had walked several yards, and heard the street door slam for the second time, that Melissa realised that Mrs Farrell, who had entered the salon with nothing but her handbag, had emerged carrying a parcel that looked exactly like the one Justin had stowed so carefully under his desk.
Sixteen
Before looking for somewhere to have lunch, Melissa went to the Photo-Me booth in the Post Office. The card admitting her to membership of the U.P. Club, which Gloria had handed over with much giggling and eye-rolling, had a space for a photograph without which, the holder was advised, there would be no admission. As she sat on the stool, posing and waiting for lights to flash, Melissa told herself for the umpteenth time that what she was doing was idiotic. Authentic backgrounds were all very well but she should have drawn the line at this. Supposing one of her readers, or worse, someone from the village, were to spot her? When at length the photographs clattered out of the machine, she was reassured; it would have taken a very sharp eye indeed to identify them as her own likeness.
She had lunch in the cafeteria of a large store, browsed for a while among the fashions and eventually made her way along Westgate and turned into the alley leading to The Usual Place. It had begun to drizzle with rain. Mindful of her new hairstyle, which she felt was rather becoming, she put up the folding umbrella that she carried in her handbag.
The Usual Place had not yet closed after the lunchtime session and the last few customers were drifting out. She strolled past, glancing casually inside. It was a relief to see Pete Crane busily tidying up behind the bar. Presumably someone else would be in charge of admission to the U.P. Club, which meant that her disguise would not be subject to his scrutiny. It was quite absurd, but she felt even more excited, nervous even, over this escapade than she had over the visit to Petronella’s.
Gloria had directed her to a side entrance and as she approached, two women coming from the opposite direc
tion turned in ahead of her, chatting to one another beneath their umbrellas. At least she would not be the first to arrive. She followed them to the door. Inside, in a vestibule like the reception area of a small hotel, a plump blonde woman with glass-green eyes sat behind a desk, checking the cards of new arrivals. In nasal, metallic tones generously sprinkled with glottal stops she was exchanging boisterous and highly suggestive comments with the women ahead of Melissa, who were evidently well-known to her. They addressed her familiarly as Annie and she barely glanced at the cards that they waved under her rather prominent nose.
‘New member?’ The eyes flicked from Melissa’s proffered card to her face. They rested there for barely half a second, but she could almost hear the click of an internal camera. Annie would certainly know her again. ‘Meryl Collins!’ She pronounced the name with a knowing twitch of her scarlet lips as if she knew perfectly well it was assumed. ‘You can leave your things in the cloakroom,’ she said, jerking her head in the direction taken by the other women, who were just emerging from an alcove on the right of the passage, minus their umbrellas, coats and shopping-bags. ‘Enjoy the show!’
‘Thank you,’ said Melissa politely but Annie was already busy with the next arrivals.
Melissa made her way to the cloakroom, which turned out to be a deep alcove fitted with hooks and shelves. The building was old and she guessed that the alcove had once been a china closet. A number of coats were already hanging up, there were wet umbrellas in a stand, packages on the shelves and several bulging supermarket carriers on the floor. Four canvas shopping trolleys were parked neatly side by side at the back of the alcove, with space for one more.
While Melissa was removing her coat and arranging her own belongings, two more women came in, one dragging a trolley which she lined up beside the others while expressing surprise that there was room for it just there and wondering volubly where Tara had got to. The second woman had no shopping, merely a large dripping umbrella which she thrust into the stand. They greeted Melissa with friendly smiles and introduced themselves as Sharon and Sue. Just in time, she remembered her name was Meryl. New arrivals were pressing in rapidly and Melissa and her new friends squeezed past and made their way upstairs.
‘Did you hear Annie saying they’ve got a new boy today?’ said Sharon, a small, scrawny woman well into middle age with a pallid complexion and curly dark hair that Melissa suspected was not her own.
‘You mean, Georgie-boy isn’t performing?’ Sue’s painted mouth formed an ‘O’ of disappointment. She was about the same age as her friend but her heavy make-up, pale blue trouser suit and high-heeled sandals were a gallant if unsuccessful attempt to disguise the fact. She turned to Melissa with a woeful expression. ‘Now that is a shame! Gorgeous George is really smashing; the show won’t be the same without him!’
‘So I’ve heard!’ Melissa did her best to register acute disappointment and felt she was doing it rather well. There was something warm and friendly about the two women, enlivening the monotony of their daily lives with a bit of harmless but risqué fun. She began to feel more at ease.
‘So who’ve we got then?’ demanded Sue.
‘Sultry Sam, the Sizzling Sex-Pot!’ said Sharon with disdain. ‘He’d better be good, that’s all!’
At the top of the stairs they drifted into a large room smelling of stale tobacco-smoke and dotted with small tables and chairs, a number of which were already occupied. At the far end was a small stage with curtains, spotlights and an upright piano to one side. As Melissa had half-expected, most of the audience were middle-aged and had obviously dressed themselves up for the occasion. There was a buzz of chatter and an air of expectation.
Sharon and Sue exchanged effusive greetings with a pair of stout, homely creatures standing just inside the door who looked as if they would be more at home at a meeting of the Mothers’ Union. Cordially urging Melissa to join them, they all sat down together and proceeded for her benefit to identify everyone present, reeling off a string of names, all of which were highly improbable and most of which she promptly forgot.
At one of the tables close to the stage was a small group dominated by a woman with magenta hair, a loud voice and an awesomely sculpted bosom. She was expressing indignation at the change of programme and relied on a single adjective, frequently repeated, to record her disappointment. Sharon and Sue, sitting one on either side of Melissa, twittered in disapproval.
‘Her name’s Lorraine but we calls her Effie . . .’
‘On account of she keeps saying eff.’
‘Effing this and effing that . . .’
‘So vulgar . . .’
‘Can’t think why Annie lets her in . . .’
‘She’s a friend of Annie’s . . .’
‘Annie’s not vulgar . . .’
‘She doesn’t use that word . . .’
The room was filling rapidly. While the others at her table gossiped Melissa sat back and looked around. There was a bar along one wall but towels were draped over the pump handles and only the coffee and tea-making equipment appeared to be operating. She wondered if the reason had anything to do with not wishing the audience to become over-excited during the performance and had to put her hand over her mouth to suppress a giggle.
It was almost half past two. Melissa suddenly remembered the envelope that Tracy had given her, which she had left in her shopping-bag. She had no idea of the level of security at the U.P. Club but if any light-fingered person should have access to the cloakroom during the performance and make off with the photographs, all chance of tracking down their source would vanish.
‘I’ve just remembered, I left something very important downstairs,’ she whispered in Sharon’s ear. ‘I think I’ll pop down and get it.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry,’ said Sharon. ‘Annie’s down there all the time during the performance . . . she keeps an eye on our things.’
‘It’ll be quite all right,’ Sue chipped in. ‘A fly couldn’t get in there without Annie spotting it!’
‘Remember that time when Jackie went down for her hankie . . . ?’
‘In such a hurry, she felt in someone else’s pocket . . .’
‘Annie was on to her in a second . . .’
‘And it was Jackie’s first time here . . .’
‘So embarrassing . . .’
‘Genuine mistake of course . . .’
Their chorus was interrupted by Pete Crane appearing on the little stage to a generous round of applause. He beamed on the assembly and addressed them in a jovial bellow.
‘Good afternoon, girls!’
‘Good afternoon, Pete!’ they responded, Effie’s voice rising fortissimo above the others.
At their first meeting over the bar at The Usual Place, Melissa had suspected Pete of being a womaniser. His attitude towards this entirely female gathering now confirmed the impression. He exuded a sensuous bonhomie; his smile had a raffish brilliance and his voice a lubricity that she found slightly off-putting. She wondered if he was Annie’s husband. They both spoke with a south-east London accent.
‘Lovely to see all of you,’ he declared, rubbing his hands. ‘And we can see nearly all of Marlene, can’t we?’ There were sniggers as attention was briefly focussed on a gipsyish woman of statuesque proportions. ‘I love that blouse you’re nearly wearing, darling!’ This evoked uproarious laughter, with Marlene’s bosom threatening to wobble clean out of her scanty corsage. Plainly, Pete considered himself to be the warm-up act and there was no doubt that he had an enthusiastic following.
‘Welcome to our two new members as well!’ he continued. ‘I hope you realise your good fortune, Meryl and Annabel!’ His round eyes, the colour of aniseed balls, singled out first Melissa and then a tiny, fragile-looking woman wearing dark glasses. Curious but friendly glances homed in on the two newcomers. ‘It just so happened a couple of our members moved house or you’d never have got in. We don’t often get vacancies, do we, girls?’
A chorus of ‘No’s’ rippled obedien
tly round the room.
‘Right then!’ said Pete. ‘I know you don’t want to listen to me rabbiting on. You can’t wait for the bingo to start, can you?’ A huge wink and an exaggerated emphasis on ‘bingo’ raised another round of titters. ‘So have your fifty pees ready, girls, Johnnie’s coming round with the cards. Fifty pees, eh?’ His eyes rolled suggestively. ‘Must be all the lager you drank last night, Marlene!’ More squeals of appreciation.
Johnnie, a white-faced lad in jeans and a sleeveless denim jacket was well ahead with the distribution, having started before Pete began speaking. Some people bought several cards, Sharon and Sue took two apiece and Melissa one.
‘Course, this is just a cover-up,’ explained Sue unnecessarily, nudging Melissa in the ribs. ‘It doesn’t go on for too long before the real show starts.’
‘The prizes aren’t bad, though,’ said Sharon. ‘It comes in handy to take something home now and again. Stops the old man getting suspicious. You married?’
Melissa shook her head.
‘Lucky old you!’
The games proceeded at a brisk pace. The winners collected their prizes from Pete along with a smacking kiss, a slap on the bottom and an assurance that the wrappings concealed nothing they couldn’t show their husbands. An interval was declared for refreshments, during which Melissa, directed by Sharon, slipped out to the toilet on the landing. Glancing down the stairs she saw Annie, still mounting guard in the hall. The green eyes flicked upwards as she passed to and fro, missing nothing. Her vigilance was reassuring.
Back in the hall, the curtains were closed and a single spotlight switched on. Conversation quickly died away as Pete remounted the stage.
‘Right, girls, this is the big moment! Fags out, fasten your seat-belts, prepare for take-off!’ He paused to savour the gleeful response to the innuendo. ‘Now, as you know, the bad news is that your old mate Gorgeous George can’t be with us today.’ A sigh ran round the room. ‘But the good news is we have with us a lad who’ll drive you just as crazy. A big welcome then for Sultry Sam, the Sizzling Sex-Pot!’
Murder at Hawthorn Cottage: An absolutely gripping cozy mystery (A Melissa Craig Mystery Book 1) Page 16
