by Edie Baylis
He'd been winging it of course. He didn’t have the first clue whether the old bat was even on medication, never mind what sort, but regardless of that, it had got him what he wanted. Well, not what he wanted, but what he wanted to know. And that was that Dulcie Adams was not a resident at Oak Apple Residential Home.
Spluttering apologies about how he must have got his patients’ notes mixed up, Nero had hung up quick sharp. But they were still none the wiser where Dulcie Adams was and when Helen Shepherd had walked out through the doorway, he was so frustrated with the whole thing that he felt like taking a leaf out of Keith’s book and smashing her face into the nicely gravelled driveway until she told them where the fuck her mother was.
The bloke Helen had met earlier was nowhere to be seen either. They were getting nowhere fast and Nero had just about had enough. He certainly hadn’t wanted to go with Keith’s idea of following Helen again just in case, but with a face like a slapped arse, he sulkily tailed the Mercedes back into Maidenhead, this time to a rather upmarket residential area the other side of town.
‘I reckon we’re on to something here,’ Keith muttered, twitching in his seat as they turned into yet another road full of big houses.
‘Probably her place,’ Nero spat. ‘We’ve been just about everywhere else that she goes to, so why not there? Wherever she’s heading is bound to be anywhere apart from where we want it to fucking be.’
Seeing Helen pull up outside a large, but decrepit-looking gaff, a flutter of hope stirred and Nero’s pulse accelerated. Could it be? An upmarket estate agent was unlikely to live in a place with peeling paint... He grinned. For fuck’s sake. He didn’t know about Dulcie Adams - this gaff looked more like Morticia Adams lived there.
Both men watched with bated breath as Helen walked up the steps to the front door. Seeing the geriatric opening it was the same one featured in that stupid dance clip, Nero grinned.
Bingo. Dulcie Adams.
‘Thank fuck for that,’ Nero muttered, now glad he’d gone along with Keith’s idea. He puffed his chest out, feeling weirdly proud that he, out of everyone in the Powell firm, was the first person to lay eyes on Dulcie Adams – the woman that had given everyone the slip for the last forty years.
He grinned. Jonah would be pleased with this – that’s if he could get hold of him. Unusually for Jonah, he hadn’t answered his mobile when he’d called first thing this morning.
Nero shrugged. He’d be around by the time they got back to Soho and once he found out about this, with any luck it would mean he’d get an early one and sink a few beers down the boozer.
HEATH’S BACKSIDE WAS STIFFER than the proverbial board, but this was the best chance he’d had in a while, correction – ever, to get ahead. He glanced at his watch. Gone midnight already. He’d been at this all evening and his eyes felt like they were falling out, but he’d stay up all night if it brought answers.
His aching fingers fumbled to open a can of coke. If, and it was a big if, what he’d discovered so far was anything to do with what his father had been going on about, then it would set him up for life.
Opening the Google link in a new tab, he could barely hide his impatience for the page to load. He needed a couple more accounts to back up his findings and if they did, and he was right, that would make him very happy. Very happy indeed.
He glanced at his notebook. He hadn’t got much to work with, but he knew more than yesterday so that was a start. The main problem – at least, the one most important to him, was what had been swiped? What had this mistress of his grandfather got?
Heath had shelled out for an Ancestry account and, finding himself on there, along with his parents, he’d drilled down, locating his grandfather, Michael Pointer Senior and downloaded his death certificate, showing the date as 18th May 1965.
The robbery had obviously taken place at some point beforehand and scouring Google brought reports of several robberies preceding that date. Further searching narrowed it down, but there were a couple fitting the bill large enough to have made the nationals. And if it was one of those...
Heath stared at his notes: a bank robbery netting thirty grand, a safe deposit box containing six gold bullion, two post office jobs and a burglary on a house in Chelsea. All of these occurred in the six months prior to May 1965. The spoils from any of those would be appreciated, but if the job in question wasn’t any of these, it meant scouring through past records of the local London papers. It would be a case of wading through microfilm in a local library like he’d seen someone doing once in an 80s film and he realised with a sinking heart a robbery not making the nationals would be worth a hell of a lot less than his Nan had given the impression of.
Further digging ruled out the bank robbery and the post office jobs. Clicking on several links relating to the bullion job made Heath’s heart plummet further. The goods were recovered a month after the robbery and the perpetrators jailed, which only left one...
Heath’s pulse gained pace as he scanned the article dated 12th May 1965:
‘...A large amount of money, silverware and jewels were stolen from a house belonging to a known figure in the London underworld in Chelsea on Tuesday night. Police have linked this robbery to a vendetta between members of rival gangs.
Jewellers are to remain alert to anyone approaching them with unusual and rare gemstones...’
Reading on, Heath focused. It couldn’t be this one could it? If it was this one...? Opening another tab digging for more accounts, his eyes flicked feverishly over the text:
‘...items stolen from the exclusive Chelsea townhouse included extremely valuable pieces...’
His fingers trembled as his mouse scrolled down the page. Aside from 19th century silverware and money, it looked like the biggest part of the haul were rare gemstones:
‘...it is estimated that at least fifteen gemstones were taken - four of which were white diamonds, the rest pink...’
Heath frowned. The word ‘diamonds’ interested him enough, but pink diamonds, he’d never heard of. Frantically opening another tab, he blinked rapidly. It was an American site, the article written last year, but that didn’t matter.
Heath gulped at his can of coke, wishing he had something stronger to hand. Fuck me! If this was true.... If this was what his grandfather had lifted...?
‘...since 1979 the price of pink diamonds has skyrocketed,’ Heath muttered, his eyes scanning the screen. ‘Light pink diamonds used to fetch around $10,000 per carat... now around $220,000 per carat...’
He gulped at more coke, partially missing his mouth, the fizzy brown liquid sloshing down his shirt. ‘Vivid pink diamonds, a rare colour... are now worth in excess of $600,000 per carat...’
Almost choking in his rush for further detail and aware he was talking to himself like a lunatic, Heath flicked between the tabs. ‘Owner of the stolen gemstones listed items missing as several small pink diamonds of less than 0.4ct... 3 pink diamonds between 1 and 2ct and 2 at over 12ct each... Diamonds had previously been bought as investments... substantial reward for information as to their whereabouts...’
Grabbing his calculator, Heath stabbed at the numbers. ‘Worst case scenario, forget the smaller ones, let’s see... call it three at one carat – maybe bigger... it said between one and two, but we’ll say one...’ He tapped in the figures. ‘Hang on, what’s this? Pink diamonds can be various shades which alters the price... Light pink... vivid...’
He scribbled in his notebook. ‘And the big ones... two at twelve carats...’ Heath stared at the calculation in shock.
‘Depending on what sort of pink they are, then three of at least one carat would fetch... for the least valuable pinks, 1.8 million dollars...’ Nausea bubbled. ‘And the two big ones – the twelve carats - worst case scenario, over $2.6 mil each, top of the range ones, over $7.2 mil each.
Wait! So that was at least... Jesus Christ! ‘That’s at least $600,000 for the three one carat diamonds, best case $1.8 mil. And the bigger ones... $5.2 million or best, $14
.4 mil.’ Sweat formed on the back of Heath’s neck. ‘So, in total around twenty million dollars, whatever that is in sterling. Let me think, erm... about fifteen million quid!’
Fuck!
Heath blinked once, twice and then blinked again. Fuck, fuck, fuck! And these should be his? His eyes narrowed. They would be his come hell or high water. That was unless whoever was behind the shooting of his grandfather had got them back?
A further frantic Google search found no results mentioning the Chelsea haul had ever been recovered, but then it wouldn’t. If whoever owned these things had got them back it was likely to have been by less than salubrious means and they’d hardly be advertising that in the paper. But if these hadn’t been reclaimed, it meant they were still out there - either in the possession of some crusty old bag or her family. The family, who were also related to him.
Related or not, as the legal offspring of Michael Pointer Senior, his father was the legitimate beneficiary, but being as spoils from a robbery hardly stood as a legitimate source, that didn’t count for much.
Heath slammed the lid of his laptop closed. He needed a proper drink and a large one at that. There was no way he was letting this one go. He had to find the woman who had stolen his inheritance and get back what was rightfully his.
‘WHAT ARE YOU DOING?’ the voice screeched, making Teagan bash her head on the dressing table that she’d been under on her hands and knees.
Scrambling to her feet, she spotted the tiny figure of Dulcie in the doorway of the second floor bedroom, her face crimson with rage. ‘Dulcie! I...’
‘You have no right to be in here!’ Dulcie screamed. ‘No right at all! This room is private. If I wished you to enter any of the closed rooms, then I would have asked you to.’ Her cheeks trembled. ‘Did you hear me? You are not to go anywhere that is not open. This is not your house to do with as you please, it is mine.’
Cheeks scarlet from being scolded like a naughty child, Teagan held her hands up to reason, her left hand holding the little silver box that she’d been retrieving from the floor. ‘Dulcie, I came in here to tidy up after y...’
Dulcie’s eyes narrowed as she focused on Teagan’s hands. ‘Think you can steal from me, do you?’ She marched over to Teagan and snatched the trinket box. ‘One of you girls before tried a stunt like this. Trying to steal my silverware she was, but even she didn’t have the audacity to snoop around private rooms and...’
‘I wasn’t stealing!’ Teagan protested. ‘I came in to...’
‘I’m calling your agency to lodge a formal complaint. Go and pack your things straight away, young lady. I’m very disappointed.’
Feeling the burn of tears at the unprovoked attack, Teagan moved towards the door, ‘I was righting the cabinet you knocked over last night. It must have hit your dressing table and knocked things off. I promised you I’d clear this up today.’
Teagan was almost at the doorway when Dulcie spoke again. ‘Wait!’ Her voice was now quiet. ‘Last night? I was in here last night?’
Turning, Teagan nodded. ‘I heard a crash so came downstairs to see if you’d fallen. The door was open, so I looked in and you were in here.’
Dulcie visibly shrank. ‘I... I was in here? I...’
‘You must have been sleepwalking,’ Teagan said quietly. ‘You weren’t yourself.’
Dulcie staggered slightly as if Teagan’s words had pushed her off balance and she rushed forward to steady the lady. ‘I wasn’t stealing, Dulcie. I’d never d...’
Dulcie flapped her hand for quiet and tentatively lowered herself on to the bed.
‘Are you alright? You’ve gone very pale? I didn’t mean to upset you. I thought I was helping by putting the furniture back.’
‘I upset myself, dear,’ Dulcie said, her blue eyes meeting Teagan’s. ‘I should have known you weren’t the type to snoop. I-I didn’t think I’d... I don’t remember coming in here... I...’
Teagan patted Dulcie’s hand. ‘Don’t get upset. As I said, I think you were sleepwalking.’
‘I wasn’t sleepwalking,’ Dulcie snapped. ‘I do come in here sometimes, just not very often. I-I don’t remember doing it last night. Oh, this is so frustrating.’
Teagan smiled. ‘Come on, let’s go and have a cup of tea.’
Dulcie gripped Teagan’s hand. ‘I know what they say about me, you know. I might be old but I’m not deaf.’ She studied Teagan’s face. ‘They think I’m crazy, don’t they? My children?’
Teagan bit her bottom lip. ‘I’m sure they don’t think that.’
‘Yes they do! I know they do. Well, Helen does. She’s always saying it. She was always such a lovely girl, but now she just wants to get rid of me and convince everyone I’ve lost my mind. What do they call it? Dementia? And now even Robert believes it. I might be forgetful, but I’m not mad.’
Teagan got to her feet. Dulcie’s children did think she had dementia and now, if she was honest, she was finding it more and more difficult not to agree, but Dulcie was wrong about one thing. Helen wasn’t horrible - the opposite if anything. Anyone could see the woman was worried sick over the state of her mother’s mental health. ‘I’m sure Helen and Robert don’t think you’re mad.’ A little white lie never hurt anyone, did it?
Seeing a brooch on the floor, Teagan stooped to pick it up. Admiring it, she held it up to the light. ‘What a beautiful brooch! It’s a good job neither of us trod on it.’
Dulcie’s eyes clouded over. ‘Yes... the brooch... It’s one of my favourites.’
‘Shall I put it back in your trinket box?’ Teagan asked, stepping towards the bedside table.
Dulcie reached out for the brooch. ‘No! I’d like to wear that today.’ Holding it in her hands, she smiled. ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it? I remember the day he gave me this. Can you pin it on my blouse?’
Fiddling with the dainty clasp, Teagan passed the pin through Dulcie’s blouse and fastened it carefully. ‘There, that looks lovely,’ she smiled. ‘Your husband had very good taste!’
Dulcie scowled. ‘Peter didn’t buy it. He never bought me anything! Michael... Michael bought it for me.’ She stared through the window to somewhere far beyond. ‘These last few months things have been getting confusing and I’m not sure where I am sometimes. I can’t explain it.’
Teagan faltered. Would she worsen Dulcie’s delusions if she asked questions, or would it help? Perhaps if she finished telling her story – the one in her head, then she’d realise it wasn’t real. She might realise it was just that – a story. The blur between fantasy and reality?
She swallowed nervously. ‘Do you think it might be a good idea to speak to a doctor. If you’re not happy with how you’re feeling, th...’
‘Now you sound like Helen!’ Dulcie snapped. ‘She keeps going on and on about that. Why do you think I haven’t mentioned this to her or Robert? They’d have me in the loony bin, like that!’ She snapped her fingers together.
‘Perhaps you just need a bit more sleep,’ Teagan suggested, even though she knew that to be pointless. Poor Dulcie. It really did look like she had dementia and being aware of it must be even more terrifying.
‘I’m sorry for shouting at you and for what I said about stealing,’ Dulcie said, her voice small.
‘Already forgotten.’ Teagan patted Dulcie’s hand again. ‘Come on, let’s go downstairs and put some music on. I’ll get your vitamins. They’ll perk you up.’
‘I don’t want those pills,’ Dulcie pouted. ‘Helen and her new-fangled ideas. I have no idea what she thinks they will do! All of this has only been happening since I started taking them.’
‘They’re good for you! Even I take vitamins and I’m only twenty five!’ Teagan grinned. ‘Helen just wants to make sure you’re healthy.’
Dulcie got to her feet. ‘No she doesn’t. She’s trying to poison me.’
Swallowing uncomfortably Teagan led Dulcie out of the bedroom. Poisoning her? This was worse than she thought.
LENA PERCHED on the velvet stool she�
�d bought to go with the new dressing table for their bedroom. Yes, their bedroom. Jonah could hardly have an issue with her wanting to put her own personal touch on the house anymore now she was officially his fiancée.
Her stomach did a flip. She’d done it. She’d only gone and done it.
A wide smile slid across her face and she stared at her reflection in the tri-fold mirror. ‘Cracking job, Lena. Cracking job!’ she said out loud.
Blowing on the third coat of bright pink polish she’d applied to her nails, Lena glanced at her phone. Still no reply to that text she’d sent? She’d send another one - an update. If that didn’t spur things into action, then she didn’t know what would.
At least she’d succeeded in getting the next part of the plan rolling. She glanced at her bag. The trip to the registry office this morning was worth putting up with the godforsaken twenty minutes stuck with a cab driver sporting horrendous body odour.
The marriage was pencilled in for a date nine weeks from now. She’d been hoping to get a slot sooner, but it would have to do. All she needed now was to get Jonah to countersign these forms.
Happily sipping at her wine, she glanced at the glass. That was a huge downside. Having to lay off the booze wasn’t anything that she was much relishing, but she couldn’t risk openly drinking too much in front of Jonah. At least she could have a few on the sly, being as no one knew about the baby yet.
Not that there was one and there bloody wouldn’t be either.
Lena’s overpainted brows arched. She wasn’t ruining her figure for a bleeding kid, but as long as Jonah believed her to be pregnant, then she was home and dry. The minute the signed and sealed wedding certificate was in her hand, not only would she be entitled to half of everything he owned by law, but she’d break the news to him that the baby was no more.
