I’d been here ten minutes, now, and for some reason started to feel uneasy. It was time to get out and run, I knew that. But how could I, with the job not done?
Then I heard the car. The Porsche. Why was it turning back into the drive?
And what was my excuse for still being here?
By the time they were parked, I was outside the front door, ostentatiously locking it, but quite clearly holding my mobile. That was going to be my excuse. I’d put it down somewhere in the house and had to return for it.
Their excuse was that Mrs Zhubov had forgotten to take a photo of the place for their records. As if there weren’t several in the folder with the particulars. With the rigid smiles of people who knew they were being lied to and were lying in return, we waited while Mrs Zhubov took her pictures, the Porsche and Mr Z prominent in the foreground, and returned to our cars. I was afraid he was going to graciously wave me off first, but perhaps Porsche drivers are hard-wired to take precedence. I meekly followed in his wake as far as the gates, waving politely as he turned left and roared off. Had he bothered to check his rear-view mirror, he would have seen my Fiesta creeping decorously out and setting off in the opposite direction. By the time I’d found a gate to do a reverse turn in, he should be miles away. Unless he found a similar gate.
This time I hid the car in an outbuilding, tugging over it – poor paintwork – an old tarpaulin I found there. Poor fingernails, too.
My heart thumping, and not necessarily with all that effort, I slipped back into the house. I locked up very carefully behind me, sliding heavy bolts, and set the alarm for the front door, but none of the other areas of the building.
What was I doing? I’d checked everywhere. If it wasn’t on something, or under something – whatever it was – it must be in something. And there was nowhere for it to be in.
Biting a badly broken nail, I pondered.
The loo had always featured in the excuses the viewers had given for separating. The loo? I ran upstairs into the Nineties en suite bathroom carved tastelessly out of a beautiful symmetrical bedroom and stared. Not so much as a bathroom cabinet. The bath stood free from the wall on cast iron legs: no hiding place there, then.
I had an aunt who always used to amuse us by hiding what she referred optimistically to as my jewels behind the washbasin pedestal. Could anything be there? A couple of serious spiders apart, the space was unoccupied. There was only one other place. The cistern. The place where we’d been told to place house-bricks or water-savers in time of drought. And for some reason it was overflowing. Fortunately for me, it was a low-flush loo, so I could easily lift the cover.
I nearly dropped it.
Two polythene-swathed packets at least the size of a bag of sugar lurked inside. I left them where they were. What about the family bathroom? Bingo. And the downstairs cloakroom? Yes, a fourth and fifth. And there was one last bathroom, with another bag in its cistern. Somehow I did not think any package was sugar. Should I look? It was very tempting, for one as nosy as myself.
But I had something else to think about. The Porsche was back again. I could hear its roar, its wheels on the gravel.
Footsteps approached the front door.
Did I stay stock-still and wait to be found? Or risk finding a hiding place, knowing every move would make the old boards creak? I called on St Jude. Perhaps he didn’t consider me an entirely lost cause. His answer came very swiftly: ‘Jab your thumb on the button and call the police.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The police were amazing, much more efficient and sympathetic than the fictional ones I’d met on the set of The Bill. The sound of the two cars’ sirens was music to my ears, and the sweetly flashing lights were better than anything I’ve ever seen on a Christmas tree. Unfortunately, of course, it also gave the Zhubovs a chance to get away.
‘I don’t think it will take long to catch up with them, particularly as we’re quite motivated,’ one of the officers said, ‘by six bags of what we’re pretty sure is cocaine. The Scene of Crime people will want to give the place the going over of its life.’
‘In that case, you’d better get them to do some spring cleaning at Langley Park, too,’ I said. ‘And get some of your mates out there in case the Zhubovs try to retrieve what they left an hour or so ago.’ I told them where all the loos were to be found and handed over my key. I’d have hated the lovely double front doors to be shattered by one of those battering-ram devices. ‘And just for good measure you might want the alarm code,’ I added, writing it on the back of one of my visiting cards. To my profound irritation, my hands were shaking so badly my usual script was almost illegible.
Eventually it was decided that I should return to the police station in Rother Street. Since, to my profound irritation, I was still dithering with distress, my Fiesta, rescued from its ignominious hiding place, was driven by a very capable-looking young woman with a vividly mobile face. DC Karen French. It turned out she’d got a first in her drama course at Birmingham University.
‘I’d have loved to act, but there just wasn’t the job security,’ she sighed.
‘Tell me about it!’ I sighed, and spoke more freely than I’d have expected about my own career and its disappointments. ‘Which is how I came into my present job,’ I concluded.
She looked aghast, as well she might – it was a matter of honour for all us resting thesps to put up the bravest of fronts, as if we were turning down the work which was in fact simply bypassing us. Failure was simply never mentioned.
‘But if anyone could have succeeded in making a lifelong career, it should have been you!’ she exclaimed. ‘I saw your Lady Bracknell a few years ago.’
A tour that didn’t make it to the West End.
‘You were wonderful, playing against type,’ she continued. ‘And when everyone was expecting the usual stress on a handbag you did it quite differently and brought the house down.’ She ventured to mimic my version, to which I responded with applause some people might have thought generous. ‘And to think you’re just an estate agent.’
‘Lower than that, darling. Estate agent’s gofer. But I do some interior design work, too. So I mustn’t grumble.’
‘Interior design?’ Karen repeated.
‘That’s freelance too, more’s the pity.’ I suppose because I was still a bit unsettled by the shock of everything, not to mention being terribly hungry all of a sudden, I started to yack again. ‘At the moment I’m helping do up Aldred House, Toby Frensham’s place.’
‘The Toby Frensham? Is he as gorgeous close to as he is on the stage? And…’ she broke into giggles so I knew what she was going to ask, ‘…is it true what they say in the papers, that he doesn’t wear anything under his toga on stage?’
‘You’d have to ask his dresser, darling,’ I said, perhaps a little repressively. ‘I only know about his curtains and his carpets.’
She slowed for traffic lights. ‘But I thought… didn’t some gossip column… Weren’t you and he…very close?’
Bloody media. ‘We were and we are. Very close friends, darling. He’s married and I don’t do married men. Never have, never will.’ Perhaps it was time to lighten up. ‘I don’t suppose there are any handsome bachelors at the police station? I adore men in uniform.’
‘I lost my heart to Richard Gere too,’ she said, bright enough to pick up on my change of mood. ‘I could offer you our DCI. He’s quite old, of course, must be at least fifty. Probably more. But you must promise not to laugh at his name or even imagine what his nickname might be.’
‘Finger wet, finger dry,’ I said, hamming it up a bit. ‘Lead me to him!’
‘Actually,’ she said, turning into the police car park, ‘that’s precisely what I’m about to do. DCI Martin Humpage.’
I didn’t so much as snigger.
‘What I can’t understand is why people should bomb around the countryside with so many drugs,’ I told the very attractive man sitting on the sofa opposite me, in what I gathered was a ‘soft’ interview
room – in other words one where they questioned people who might not be actual suspects and might even be victims. ‘I’d have thought that dealing drugs was a city crime. You know, Birmingham or Coventry,’ I added, sitting forward in a not uncomfortable armchair. What a shame the upholstery and the curtains were such an unremittingly cheerful shade of yellow. It reminded me of the prisons I’d visited with a small group doing socially responsible drama, whatever that meant. Someone had decided to paint every wall in sight a sort of sub-custard, no doubt in the hope of improving morale.
DCI Humpage smiled. I could see how he might have acquired the nickname I imagined was current, and why Karen French should compare him with Richard Gere. I hadn’t asked her why he should still be a bachelor; I’d made the assumption quite natural to someone spending so much time with actors. But try how I might, I couldn’t detect a hint of gayness.
‘West Midlands Police have been having a huge crackdown on drug dealers,’ he said, ‘so it’s safe to assume that they thought they could get away with activities in a nice rural area like Warwickshire, where the local bobbies can only deal with scrumping,’ he added, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
‘Well, there aren’t too many CCTV cameras on haystacks,’ I said. ‘Not that we even have haystacks anymore, just large black polythene sausages.’
He looked at me sharply as soon as I mentioned CCTV, the haystack observation achieving little more than a flicker of fleeting amusement.
‘Darling, I’ve had parts in The Bill,’ I explained. ‘I picked up some of the lingo. So I can talk a bit about crime and make it sound quite convincing. For instance, I could tell you that many of you rural officers are far more multi-skilled than your urban counterparts, because you don’t have so many teams of specialists to draw on.’ Spurred on by his appreciative smile, I continued. ‘And I would also hazard a guess that the Serious and Organised Crime people will be inflicting their assistance on you, whether you want it or not.’
‘Nine kilos of what appears to be very high-grade cocaine – you can bet your life they’ll be involved.’ He did not seem keen on their arrival.
‘Oh, it’s a lot more than that, Chief Inspector. A very great deal.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘This wasn’t their first drop – that’s the term, right? Because there have been at least two others and two collections,’ I said. ‘Shall I explain?’
‘I think you should. And I think you should tell me why you haven’t notified us before.’ His voice changed from charming to chilly.
I responded with my most businesslike tone. ‘I had no evidence of any wrongdoing. Not until the flowers appeared on the driver’s seat of my company car – and even then I thought it was a friend, playing a joke.’
Frowning, he appeared to be working out which question to ask first. He settled on one I wouldn’t actually have prioritised. ‘Had you left it unlocked or do you number car thieves amongst your friends?’
‘Probably, darling! I number all sorts of riff and raff amongst my friends. Don’t you? Ah, I suppose not. Seriously, when actors are on realistic TV programmes, they have to learn certain tricks of the trade, elementary ones, so they can con viewers. Breaking into cars, for instance, not to mention hot-wiring.’ As his frown remained, I added, ‘I’ve “played” the piano beautifully on TV a number of times but actually I can’t even manage “Chopsticks”. A dear friend of mine who was once a consultant on Casualty was once flagged down by some of your colleagues to deliver a baby.’ I beamed. ‘Mother and baby survived. And so did he. Anyway, to return to the flowers: eventually I tackled the man I thought was my amateur florist, only to have him deny leaving the daffodils or…’ and I raised a finger in emphasis, wishing I hadn’t left it unmanicured quite so long ‘…stealing some CDs I kept in it. I think we should talk about those CDs later, when you’re ready, of course, because I don’t want to keep wrong-footing you.’ I made an apologetic moue. ‘Actually, darling, I think I might be talking too much because I’m still a bit shaky. There wouldn’t be a chance of a cup of hot water, would there?’
‘I could get you tea or coffee,’ he said, rising to his feet.
‘I’d rather have just hot water, thank you.’ I fished one of my little tea bags out and shook it at him.
He smothered a laugh, which was in danger of reaching his eyes and giving them a most delightful twinkle. The egregious Mrs T was credited as saying that she felt she could do business with Mr Gorbachev. I had a similar feeling about this officer, who, I was pleased to see, didn’t run to the birthmark that some people thought disfigured the former Russian leader. I didn’t see Martin and me shoulder to shoulder dealing with world disarmament, more knee to knee in a small and intimate restaurant. And blow me if my stomach, regarding lunch as much overdue, didn’t start rumbling. Damn.
But he had thought I might be hungry. Along with the cup of hot water – he hadn’t committed the solecism of bringing milk and sugar – he brought a selection of sandwiches.
Between mouthfuls, I started my narrative right at the beginning. I described the Brosnics, the Copes, the Turovskys, the Gunters and finally the Zhubovs. I outlined what I rather proudly referred to as their MO. I told him about their cars, their clothes. Everything I could think of. Down to their accents.
‘Which brings me back to the CDs stolen from my car,’ I concluded. ‘Although currently I’m not working on the stage, I live in constant expectation of a part, and keep my acting muscles toned, as it were.’
He looked at me not entirely straight-faced. ‘I’m sure you do.’ But something about the subsequent expression he quickly suppressed told me he’d noticed I kept my real muscles toned too. And appreciated what he saw.
‘So, among other things, I practise accents,’ I continued, seamlessly. ‘One can buy CDs – everything from Albanian to Zulu, with others devoted to British regional accents. As I drive from house to house I play these and repeat them.’
‘As if you were mugging up Greek for your summer holiday.’
‘Precisely. Anyway, to cut a long story short, I’d been practising eastern European accents and left the CDs in my car – from which they were stolen, the morning the flowers arrived. Because my friend is given to romantic gestures – though he would never venture beyond a gesture, if you take my meaning – I thought it was he who had left them and borrowed the CDs in preparation for a part he was hoping for.’
‘You believed him when he denied having anything to do with either?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘All the same, I’d like to have a word with him.’
I opened my eyes the merest fraction, and said, ‘You might think of sending a woman.’
‘Are you warning me about something?’
‘Would I do that? Would I need to? No, Chief Inspector, I just thought young Karen French would do an excellent job. Of that and anything else,’ I added. ‘Meanwhile, listening to the CDs suggested something else to me – that while the would-be purchasers claimed to be Russian, in fact they might not be. They might, for instance, come from Albania. And if my memory of Crimewatch is correct—’
‘Have you acted on that?’
My nod was glum. ‘No dialogue, less money. Much less,’ I admitted, parenthetically. ‘But isn’t Albania – some of its neighbours, too – the country of origin for all sorts of nasty villains?’
‘Indeed. And many of whom feel a visit to the UK might be profitable.’
‘And—’ I slapped my face at my stupidity ‘—isn’t it at the heart of all sorts of prostitution rackets? Far be it for me to typecast or stereotype, of course – I’m just recalling what that wonderful Nick Ross was saying.’
‘Of course.’ He nodded. ‘But your gesture suggested something else. You smacked your head – as if you should have remembered something earlier.’
‘Should have made a connection earlier, shall we say. The very first couple I showed round the houses in question – Knottsall Lodge, Langley Park and Oxfield Place…
’
He consulted his notes. ‘The Brosnics?’
‘Yes. She was painfully thin and had dreadful bruises on her arms. She didn’t behave at all like an equal partner in the purchase of a house. She was submissive to the point of being cowed. And while her clothes were expensive – extremely expensive – down to her huge Anya Hindmarch bag, they didn’t make a coherent outfit. You know,’ I added, when he looked puzzled, as well he might: I couldn’t imagine the average male knowing about Anya Hindmarch bags, ‘the colours, the cut, the labels – they didn’t hang together. It was as if someone had grabbed items from an extremely expensive dressing-up box. OK, let’s get back to the bruising,’ I said, a little exasperated by his lack of comprehension. ‘Someone had grabbed this woman too hard here.’ I crossed my arms across my chest and gripped the biceps area.
‘You’re suggesting that she was a woman brought into the country as a sex-slave by this Mr Brosnic who then played, under duress, the role of his wife?’ He made some attempt to keep disbelief from his voice, but only a very little. ‘Again, Ms Burford, if you are, I have to ask why you did nothing about this before?’
I put my chin up. ‘And what would your front-desk person have said if I had? Or, if I’d been allowed to speak to a junior officer, what would he have said? Not DC French – I think she’d have taken note,’ I conceded. ‘Anyone else and I’d have been patted on the head as a middle-aged weirdo and sent on my way. Come on, you hardly credit my theory yourself! Anyway, it was pretty much my brother’s response, when I told him there was something amiss with his clients.’
A flicker across his face acknowledged the hit. To disguise it he jotted. ‘And your brother’s actual response?’
‘He pointed out that, in these straitened times, a client was a client. But I did moan at him about his record keeping. We’re supposed to make a file for every enquiry – the client’s phone, address, estate agent’s address if he claims he’s sold his property, and anything else that could be useful. If he’s from overseas, and a lot of people seeking the top-of-the-range houses my brother sells are, then we need UK details – the number and supplier of their hire car, for instance.’
Staging Death Page 16
