But I was about to get something. A car was approaching. It seemed Mr and Mrs Cope drove a smaller vehicle than their budget for a new house implied – a modest Mazda 6. OK, not modest at all by my standards, but compared with the Turovskys’ and the others’ cars, it was almost a Mini.
He was about fifty, his incipient beer gut controlled for the time being by – I guessed – sessions in the gym, or even the boxing ring. His grey hair was fashionably cropped. She was young enough to be his daughter, but sported a trio of rings on her left hand – engagement, eternity and wedding. Her outfit, from the leather blouson jacket via the ballet pumps to the monster bag (I didn’t recognise the make), appeared to have been sprayed with sequins.
I greeted them warmly. In return I got cool nods – clearly they saw me as someone on whom their umbrellas could safely and unapologetically drip.
As always in such situations, I was almost painfully polite. Sometimes this teetered over the edge into obsequiousness; at other times I reminded myself of my younger self in the headmaster’s study. Now I behaved as if I was at a Palace tea party – not as a guest, I have to admit, but as the hostess.
Since this house was unfurnished, I didn’t make too much fuss when they gave cursory glances at what I was showing and then drifted along at different paces, rather like two kids dragged to a National Trust property and refusing to stick with the rather tedious guide. So I didn’t give the full and enthusiastic spiel I’d given the – apparently – friendly Russians. Clearly exploring the garden was not a possibility, so I simply led them to the window with the best vantage point. Unfortunately the rain leaking from a broken gutter meandered down the leaded lights in dismal trickles, showing just how urgent some basic maintenance was. He noticed; she had lost interest and drifted goodness knew where.
She was waiting for us in the hallway. As we joined her, Mr Cope produced a rather battered set of particulars for Langley Park.
‘Your boss said you’d show us this if we had time.’
‘It would be a pleasure,’ I declared truthfully. ‘The easiest way is back to the A road, and then first left past the pub. Then just follow your nose until you come to the church, and turn left, signposted Stratford. Langley Park is on your right, about a mile out of the village. I’ll just lock up here and meet you there, shall I? Do you have the particulars of all our period properties in the area? No? Let me offer you these, then. If there’s anything else you’d like to see I can always phone from Langley Park.’ No one could say I hadn’t tried to occupy them even if I hadn’t offered to lead the way.
It is probably obvious by now that of all the properties on Greg’s books, Langley Park was one of my favourites. So I set off happily, using my usual rat run. As I expected I got there before them, and tucked the Fiesta well out of sight.
I stood on the front step and welcomed them in, again with a warm smile. They blinked, his pebble-grey eyes in particular chillingly reminding me of something more in place in a reptile house. She just looked blank.
I wanted to shake them. Who could not respond to the gracious and timeless elegance of the place? The Copes, it seemed. As before they consented to what rapidly became a perfunctory conducted tour; as before, when I thought I had an audience of two, I suddenly discovered one of them missing – him, this time. But perhaps he’d just nipped out to his car. When Mrs Cope and I returned to the hall, he was standing there with the brochure for dear old Knottsall Lodge in his hands. Since I’d handed it to him earlier, presumably I’d meant to engage his interest, but I was nonetheless surprised to the point of being disconcerted when he waved it in front of me and said, ‘How soon can you show us round?’
‘I’ll get someone to meet us there with the key if you want to see it this afternoon. I must say, however, that since the gardens are so attractive, you won’t see it at its best in this weather. Tomorrow afternoon, perhaps?’
He made a curious sideways rocking movement of his head, and raised an eyebrow. ‘Pick up the key and see us there at – say – seven?’
Seven on a Saturday? If I could have believed for one instant that a sale would result, I wouldn’t have objected. I didn’t say anything, but inwardly I seethed.
‘Excuse me,’ I said, stepping outside and reaching for my phone. Greg could do this one himself.
Even he seemed a little taken aback. ‘Sounds as if we’ve got a right one, here. Doesn’t he realise that people have lives? Ask if he’ll meet you there at five, Vee, there’s a good girl. That’ll give you time to pick up the keys from here and return them by six, so I can lock up.’
I passed on the message to Mr Cope, who blinked slowly, never dropping his eyes from mine, however. ‘I said seven.’
‘I’m afraid that there are no representatives available at that time.’
He considered. ‘Very well. Five-thirty.’
‘I need to go back to pick up the key. Shall I give you directions?’ Surely he’d have Sat Nav anyway. ‘I’ll meet you there.’
‘Why not just get in that bloody car of yours and lead the way?’ he asked.
She appeared at his shoulder, still silent but now subtly menacing.
‘I don’t have the key, Mr Cope. If you want to fight the traffic all the way into Stratford on a Saturday afternoon and then battle your way out again,’ I said, going on to the offensive, ‘then of course you can follow me. If we get separated, I’ll wait for you at the office, shall I?’
She whispered something.
‘Very well. Five-thirty, then,’ he said. ‘At Knottsall Lodge.’
Claire was busy dealing with clients when I arrived. I’d rarely seen so many people rifling through the display racks.
‘Any chance you could help out, Vena?’ she asked, in a sort of sideways mutter.
‘Not a prayer. If I’m late at Knottsall Lodge Mr Cope’ll kill me,’ I responded. ‘Claire, do me a huge favour and call me in half an hour, will you?’
She shrugged, looking expressively around her.
‘Please. If I don’t answer, send in the cavalry. Please,’ I begged.
At least I was back at Knottsall Lodge before the Copes, and had been able to unlock the front door and deal with the burglar alarm before they arrived. Unfortunately my phone chose to ring the moment the Mazda nosed on to the gravel. A quick glance told me it wasn’t Claire. I redirected calls hurriedly. Mr Cope was the sort of man to believe he had the right to all my attention, whether or not he had paid me for it.
‘As you can see,’ I began, closing the door and switching on the lights, which did precious little to alleviate the gloom, ‘this is a family house, still lived in. So I must ask you both to stay with me – it’s a foible of the owner,’ I added hurriedly.
Mr Cope said nothing. His blank-faced stare told me that he would do exactly as he liked.
More, a marginal lift of his eyebrow told me that if he wanted, he could have me killed.
He might even do it himself.
He might do either, and no one would ever know.
Stage fright was nothing to this. Had I not had years of practice breathing unobtrusively through my mouth I might have vomited there and then. Or worse.
‘We’ll start with the leads,’ he announced. ‘And before you ask, my wife doesn’t do heights.’
Nonetheless, she accompanied us up the stairs.
They both watched me deal with the bolt on the trapdoor. I waved him ahead. ‘I don’t do heights either,’ I lied.
‘I need you to point out the landmarks,’ he said. In this weather he’d have been hard put to see the end of the drive. ‘What is it they say in the play? Lead on, Macduff?’
Should I tell him he was misquoting, as most people did? On the whole, I rather thought not. And even outside the theatre I didn’t like quoting the Scottish Play.
His wife was not inspecting the graffiti when we came down. She was nowhere to be seen. Surreptitiously I switched on my phone. If I got the chance, I’d call Greg and beg him to come out.
Pe
rhaps I’d manage it. Mr Cope was showing signs of wanting to explore on his own. But each time he strayed, he summoned me to explain something. We both knew his questions were entirely specious.
At last, like a cat feeling suddenly benevolent – or bored – he decided to spare me. He called his wife. They were leaving. But not completely, as I found when I’d locked up the house and made my way to the Fiesta. They had parked just round the corner on the road. So they had time to clock the model, the number, and the way I was going. Only then did the Mazda slide away. And only then did Claire get round to calling me.
‘So much for the anonymous new car,’ I told Meredith Thrale over a straight whisky. At least my teeth had stopped chattering. Thank goodness the publican knew about English spring evenings and had lit a roaring fire.
‘Take it back. Tell them you don’t like it.’
‘I don’t think you can do that. Not when you’ve paid cash,’ I added.
‘Cash?’ Clearly the concept was foreign to him.
‘An advance on a bonus. Not enough to pay off my credit cards, of course.’
He shook his head. ‘Why not stick to the company car?’
‘I told you,’ I said with exasperation, ‘I wanted to go around incognito, which isn’t exactly possible when your vehicle is that colour pink. Come on, you remember. I’ve been tailed by someone. I wanted a nice anonymous car. One that could get nicely lost in a crowded car park or on a busy road.’
‘I suppose you could borrow my wheels,’ he said. ‘And I could use yours.’
I swallowed. His wheels? Oh, no. But I couldn’t say that aloud.
‘That’s terribly sweet of you, Merry. It really is. But what if they thought you were me and attacked you? Or what,’ I added with a giggle as if I didn’t really believe those threats against Toby, ‘if you used it as a getaway car after you’d killed Toby?’
‘Haven’t got much time to do it now, as it happens. I’ve decided to rent a flat nearer Bristol. More convenient for when filming starts,’ he said, with a cocky little smirk that made me long to pour his beer over his head. How dare he break the unwritten rule that one should not be triumphalist in front of a still-unemployed fellow actor.
‘Of course. So does that mean Toby’s off the hook?’ I pursued. I so wanted to believe his threats were no more than actorly hot air.
‘Neither forgotten nor forgiven,’ he said.
I tried again. ‘But—’
‘Look, he seriously pissed me off, and one day he’ll know how it feels. But he looks bloody fit, and you know I’m a lily-livered coward.’
I knew nothing of the sort, of course. ‘I’d hate you to do anything you might regret. With this wonderful chance coming up, especially.’
‘I’m not going to kill him. So just drop this anxious-auntie act, will you?’ He swigged. ‘How are you two getting on? Has he got his leg over yet?’
Why had I ever thought an evening with an old friend would be a better option than sitting at home worrying?
‘He is a married man,’ I said tartly. ‘With two young children,’ I added for good measure.
‘His wife’s, not his.’
‘He couldn’t treat them better if they were his own,’ I declared, ready to list examples of his kindness. But then I thought better of it. I grabbed the bull by the horns and re-routed the conversation back into more helpful channels. ‘This here house scam, Merry. What do you think’s going on?’
‘Why do you call it a scam?’
‘Because there’s a pattern emerging. Well, it’s emerged, and is sitting on the roof waving a great big flag. A set of punters come round three particular properties and I never see hide or hair of them again. Then they’re followed by an English set—’
‘Aren’t the first set English, then?’
‘Foreign. One set claimed to be Russian but I’d swear is Albanian. The other set of foreigners never said they were anything, but sounded Russian – you know, darling, all those accent CDs we endlessly play.’
‘You’re getting me very confused.’
I’d have said it was his third pint of Greene King, but started again, very slowly. ‘A foreign couple visit three of our properties and then drop from the radar. Then an English couple visit the same three, and also disappear. Then another foreign pair see the same properties, and vanish. And an English team come and see the same ones. And I bet they’ll disappear. In fact, I sincerely hope they do. From the face of the earth.’
‘A bet? Who can see the most top houses?’
‘Only ever three. In our agency at least.’
‘OK. That is weird.’ At least I had what passed in his case for full attention.
‘This is my theory for what it’s worth: Couple A drop something for Couple B to collect. Then when whatever it is has gone, Couple C drop something off and today’s Couple D take it. I’ll bet,’ I continued, warming to my theory, ‘that you could take Knottsall Lodge apart now, and find nothing at all. But after the next pair—’
‘Couple E?’ he prompted, sage with alcohol.
‘Exactly, Couple E will leave something for a Couple F to pick up. And whatever it is, believe me, Merry, I shall find it!’ OK, I might have been pot-valiant, but I meant it.
‘And how will Brother Greg react to you taking apart his favourite properties? Aha – caught you out there, Vee!’
He had, hadn’t he? I managed a grin. ‘If he sacks me, it looks as if I shall have to take up your offer of a vehicle swap, Merry.’
But by now he looked altogether less keen. Perhaps he was lily-livered after all, these days. Perhaps I really didn’t have to worry about him.
Which just left Cope and his friends to disturb my slumber.
CHAPTER TWELVE
At St Jude’s next morning there were as many buckets as members of the congregation. Apparently one afternoon some scaffolding had appeared up the side of the building, with a perfectly respectable roofer’s sign clamped to it. The following day both sign and scaffolding had disappeared. It transpired, according to the churchwardens, that because everyone had seen the roofer’s sign elsewhere, no one had bothered to check that the roofers themselves were genuine. Every last square inch of lead had been stripped from the roof. Ginnie, the generously forgiving rector, prayed for the thieves; I rather hoped for the Old Testament version of God zooming down to exact a bit of revenge – and then spent a while prayerfully beating myself up. Ginnie was embarrassingly grateful for the news that Greg had pledged five thousand pounds to the repair fund, and promised to pray for him too. St Jude might be the patron saint of lost causes, but I fancied he’d have his work cut out there. Especially when I got round to telling Greg exactly how much I’d pledged on his behalf. But he could afford it and more – one of the reasons he’d wanted the keys back in Stratford by six on Saturday evening (I managed to drop them off at half past) was that he was flying off on holiday later that night. He was to spend the next two days playing golf on the Algarve. So my immediate desire – to tell him where to put his job – was frustrated.
In contrast to the weekend, Monday morning was fine and dry, promising warmth later. And it was further brightened by a phone call from Caddie.
‘Darling,’ she greeted me, ‘you can sing, can’t you?’
‘Er…’ I liked to be honest, but when there was work in the offing…
‘And you can dance?’
I wouldn’t mention the touch of arthritis in the right knee. ‘Of course.’
‘And you’re a fine actress of a certain age?’ Without waiting for a reply she said, ‘They’re casting for a tour of Sunset Boulevard.’
Before she’d said the last consonant I was in heaven. Norma Desmond! The part might have been written for me. In fact, parts of it hit painfully home: the former star no longer considered for roles still dreaming of the greatest part. I put that aspect aside very swiftly.
‘…the trombone?’ Caddie asked.
‘I’m sorry. Could you repeat that?’
‘
I was asking, darling, if you could play the trombone?’
‘Norma Desmond play the trombone?’ I repeated. Stupidly.
‘Who said anything about Norma Desmond playing the trombone?’ Not waiting for a reply, thank goodness, she rushed on, ‘It’s a small company, darling, and everyone has to be able to sing, dance and play an instrument. They’re having real difficulty finding a trombone, you see, and I just wondered… No? Well, I shall keep on trying. Still nothing definite about that new soap, but keep on with the accents, darling. How’s your Welsh? They’re thinking of changing the setting to Anglesey or Barry Island or somewhere.’
Before I could go draw enough breath for a truly satisfactory scream, the phone rang again.
The call was from Claire. ‘Greg forgot to ask you to go and have a look at something that came on our books a couple of weeks back. The guy from Henley really isn’t cutting the mustard these days, and people have started to ask for you, so Greg thought you should get briefed just in case.’
People had started to ask for me because they knew they could threaten me into accepting their scam. People who knew my Ka and now knew my car. All the same, I asked, ‘Where is this new property?’
‘Wilmcote.’
‘Wilmcote?’ I repeated, disbelievingly. ‘As in Mary Arden’s house?’
‘The same. A period cottage.’
‘So how’s it managed to stay on the market for two weeks? Places for sale out there are like hens’ teeth. They’re sold before the photocopier ink’s dry.’
‘There has been some interest,’ she said. ‘Quite a lot of interest, actually. But the vendors may not have been entirely realistic about the price, and of course there is the credit crunch… Greg thought a woman’s touch…’
Staging Death Page 11
