Staging Death

by Judith Cutler

  And yet there were other genuine problems. As I’d told Sandra, I was concerned about Martin’s career. Having had my own destroyed by other people, I couldn’t louse up someone else’s, especially someone I cared for. And there was that age gap. He couldn’t be described as young, but I suspected he was a few years younger than I. A few. He certainly couldn’t have been described as a toy boy. Could he? What the hell! It wouldn’t worry me a scrap. At least I didn’t think so. But it might well worry him.

  Did he know that his colleagues were whispering about him? Perhaps he did, and didn’t care. After all, he must have braved enough gossip in the past, when Sandra came out. It must be bad enough losing your wife to another man, but for her to prefer another woman must have been devastating. Perhaps that was why he was still unattached.

  Had Karen known his past when she’d spoken of him so warmly?

  Drat, I hadn’t phoned to see how she was this morning. And it meant speaking to either Martin or Sandra, of course, neither an easy option, all things considered.

  It was time to emerge from the duvet.

  I did what I’d sometimes done in the past when I was worried about calling a contact about a job. I treated it as if I were going to have a face-to-face interview. So it was several minutes before I picked up the phone, but I did so showered and wearing one of the nicer outfits I’d packed for my exodus. I spent a few minutes checking my make-up, posture and breathing, smiled happily, and dialled.

  He responded first ring. Did I pick up an answering smile in his voice?

  ‘Martin, I want to apologise for messing up yesterday.’

  ‘Apologise?’

  ‘Sandra made it clear that when I shoved Frances Trowbridge into the Mondeo boot I acted very foolishly, and that I could have jeopardised the case when it comes to court. I’m really sorry.’

  ‘Sandra can be a bit forthright,’ he said cautiously.

  ‘She was right and I was wrong. No more heroics, I promise,’ I said, clearly drawing a line under that part of the conversation. ‘The other reason I phoned, Martin, was Karen. How is she this morning?’

  ‘Both better and worse, I’m afraid. There’s been an improvement in her general condition, but the medics are still talking about eye problems.’

  ‘Blindness?’ I asked baldly. ‘Oh, Martin. I’m so sorry. Look, one of the things I used to do was read talking books. I’ve got a pile of tapes and CDs in my a— Oh, God.’

  ‘In your attic?’ He finished kindly. ‘The forensic fire team may be able to salvage one or two, they say.’

  ‘Another bit of my past gone,’ I groaned. But then I pulled myself together. ‘Hell, I’m still alive and in one piece. And that poor kid’s got such an uncertain future. Do you visit her, Martin?’

  ‘When they let me.’

  ‘Next time you go, promise her that when I can, I’ll sit and read to her. And tape her favourite books. Whatever. Oh, Martin, not being able to read…’ From being poised and positive, I was now almost in tears.

  ‘Thank you. I’ll pass that on. But you don’t sound—’

  ‘Please don’t be nice to me or I shall cry. For her, not me. Now, I need a computer, Martin, one with everything on it and ready to run. Email and the internet and Microsoft Office. I can use them but wouldn’t have a clue how to set them up.’

  He laughed. ‘I’ll get a laptop organised, with a wireless connection. Printer? I’ll even see they get a dongle so you can access the internet via your mobile. Or would you prefer a fully fledged BlackBerry?’

  ‘Only if it comes with a fully fledged personal tutor.’ Did I mean that to sound like a flirty invitation? Because it did. And how would he take it? More to the point, how did I want him to take it?

  He chuckled. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  On the less-is-more principle, I thought it was time to end the call before it dwindled into embarrassment. ‘I’ve got another call coming in,’ I lied. ‘Talk soon, Martin.’

  ‘Of course. And…please…be careful, whatever you’re doing today.’

  I’d promised to refurbish Greg’s office, and might as well get on with it. I could use his phone and computer to source everything. As for today’s car, Greg had fixed everything in advance with another dealership. The vehicle turned out to be an altogether more manageable Focus, which slid into the office car park with commendable ease. Claire seemed pleased to be consulted about her work area, especially when I took her leg and back measurements with a certain amount of laughter but with serious intent – she needed a chair designed for a short woman, not a rangy man. We soon agreed a colour for the walls and carpet. We surfed the internet for good-quality visitor furniture and desks. I gave her a list of my usual decorators. All fine and dandy. And then the phone rang. Even though she knew that the call would be monitored by the police, Claire went white. Her greeting was alarmingly shaky, too.

  But then she smiled, and jotted as her caller spoke. ‘Yes, we’ll be happy to market your home for you. Mr Burford isn’t here at the moment, but I’ll get him to call you the moment he comes in…Miss Burford?’ she repeated, sounding as if she were being throttled. ‘I’ll just—’

  ‘She’s in hospital, Claire,’ I hissed.

  She swallowed visibly. ‘Perhaps you haven’t heard,’ she began, looking at me for support. I made winding gestures – she must keep going as long as she could. She nodded. ‘Poor Miss Burford isn’t expected back at work for a very long time. She’s very ill, very ill indeed. An accident. Her poor face… Yes, a fire at her house. It was in all the papers and on TV. So it’s her brother you need to talk to, Mr Denham. Could you give me your number and just a few details of the property? I’m sorry? Yes, of course you can phone back. I’d try about noon.’ She put the phone down, and sat down hard. In a moment she was on her feet again. ‘I nearly gave you away, Vee.’

  So she bloody did. ‘But you retrieved the situation well, Claire. And you kept going just like the police told you, so they should have a chance of finding who made the call. Now, what we ought to do is forget Vee exists. I’m Connie, even when I’m here. And I should speak and behave like Connie, who’s not the nicest of women.’

  ‘Are you going to be Connie even when you meet friends like Toby Frensham?’

  I stared. There were people at Aldred House who disliked my presence there enough to force me away. Perhaps I wouldn’t be as safe there this afternoon as I’d blithely assumed I’d be. I was deeply tempted to run over to the police station and ask for Martin’s advice.

  On the other hand, it would be more discreet and more professional to speak to Sandra, preferably in front of a third person, so we’d have to mind our Ps and Qs. I called her with the news I was working at Greg’s office and would welcome some advice.

  ‘About the flower arrangements, is it?’ she asked dryly. ‘I’m on my way.’

  ‘I’ve been checking,’ Sandra said, without preamble. ‘The phone call Claire took came from a prepaid mobile. And you really need to be more on the ball, Claire,’ she continued. ‘That caller was obviously double-checking the story. A woman’s life and a huge drugs operation depend on details like that. You tell anyone you’ll just fetch her and everything’s up in the air.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  If Claire drooped any more her neck might break. It was time to step in. ‘It was Claire who pointed out it might be risky to turn up as myself at Aldred House this afternoon. My first thought was that they were all friends – Allyn and Toby, certainly. But someone went to a great deal of trouble to make sure I didn’t stay on any longer, not Allyn or Toby, I’m sure. But someone.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Such as Greta or Frederick. Or both.’

  ‘Anyone else there who might find you inconvenient?’

  ‘A tennis coach who fancies his chances with Allyn? A security guard I bollocked and probably got his ears chewed off by Ted Ashcroft, the head of security there?’ I paused, hoping that whatever was bobbing about at the back of my brain wo
uld swim a little closer to the shore of my consciousness.

  Sandra regarded me sternly. ‘What’s the problem? OK, take your time.’

  ‘I’ve always liked and trusted Ted. It was he who pointed out I was being followed and gave me free advice about my choice of car,’ I said. ‘He wanted Toby to up his security, and I told him the best approach. Hence those impressive gates. He’s installed more security cameras than you can shake a stick at. And is – presumably – discretion personified. He must see all sorts of things on those screens of his. But he said something odd. When we were talking about Karen, before I’d even heard about the blast, he said, “She was a pretty little thing.” Or something like that. Definitely past tense.’

  ‘A slip of the tongue. People change tenses all the time.’

  ‘Say “may” when they meant “might”,’ Claire chimed in, perhaps relieved someone else was getting the rough edge of Sandra’s tongue.

  ‘All the same.’ I could feel my lower lip going out, just like Greg’s did. ‘Has anyone checked Ted out? I mean really checked him out?’

  The phone rang again. Sandra pointed the most minatory finger I have ever seen at poor Claire, who pounced on the phone, giving all the Burford preliminaries as if her life depended on it. Well, my life, anyway.

  ‘The Zephyrs? Yes, it’s still on the market,’ she said. ‘Would you be interested in a viewing? I’d be happy to arrange that. Tell me, is your own house on the market yet? Sold? Excellent…’

  I edged Sandra away while Claire went through the rest of her spiel. I didn’t want Sandra to intimidate her, and I did want to make sure she got a whole lot of information that Greg had signally failed to obtain time after time. And she did. An address in London; his solicitors; his estate agent. As Greg had implied, it was all very time-consuming and no doubt irritating to the possible purchaser.

  ‘This afternoon? Let me check the diary. I can’t see anything here. But I’ll have to check. The lady who will be showing you round is new to us, and I’m not quite sure of her movements… Oh, yes, she will be extremely well briefed. We take great pride in our staff development, Mr Kemble. In fact that’s why she’s not here now: she’s touring round all our properties to familiarise herself with them. Yes, very efficient. A Ms George. From somewhere in Scotland. Oh, off sick, I’m afraid. A very bad accident. Now then, I see you’ve given us a London phone number. On what number should I call you back to confirm the time of your viewing? Excellent. And would you be interested in any other properties on our books while you’re up here? We have a most beautiful Georgian house called Langley Park…’

  Whatever else Claire had taken on board this morning, she had certainly learnt the importance of keeping the conversation with punters going as long as she could.

  Eventually she cut the call and the three of us looked at each other.

  I spoke first. ‘Not wasting a lot of time, are they? How soon could the police put together a reception committee at The Zephyrs, Sandra? Because I think I’d like it done differently this time, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘What an interesting idea,’ said a male voice from behind my back. ‘What exactly did you have in mind?’

  I almost threw up. ‘Martin! Where the hell did you spring from?’

  ‘And how lovely to see you too, Connie. I used the staff entrance. And I must say, it seems to me remarkably remiss of someone not to keep it locked. Not just now, in our present crisis, but all the time. For your protection, Claire.’

  ‘And to stop Burglar Bill dashing out at the back when he’s raided the safe,’ I said. ‘Greg’s policy, Claire?’

  ‘He’s the boss.’

  My pulse and blood pressure almost back to normal, I said, ‘It seems to me that to anyone looking at the properties in the window, this place would be suspiciously crowded. Shall we adjourn to Greg’s office?’

  ‘I’ll organise some tea,’ Claire said, in an almost Pavlovian response.

  It was only after the three of us were closeted together that I realised how piquant the situation was. But neither Martin nor his former wife showed any signs of finding it awkward so, in a term Connie might have used, it was better to save my breath to cool my porridge.

  ‘So how would you like to run the pickup part of the operation?’ Martin enquired, without sarcasm, I thought. ‘You said you’d like to do things differently.’

  ‘After you,’ I said. ‘You’re the professional.’

  ‘But you’re the tethered goat,’ Sandra observed. ‘How do you want to face the tiger or Komodo dragon or whatever it is?’

  ‘Not at all. But I will. The question is, do you need to catch them fishing the cocaine out of the cisterns, or could you just pick them up as they come out of the house? Because if it’s the latter, I could simply let them in and make an excuse and walk out.’

  Martin shook his head firmly. ‘They’d smell a rat. I think you’ve got to go through your usual spiel. If they start wandering off, and you really are scared, then you can slip away. We can have the gardener, BT van and roadworks a bit closer if you like.’

  ‘But what if they say that I gave them the cocaine? And you’ve no proof I didn’t?’

  ‘Lots of hidden cameras, don’t forget,’ said Sandra. ‘And bugs in every room.’

  There was a tap on the door. Claire popped her head in. ‘Mr Kemble again, pressing for an early afternoon appointment. Can I go ahead and make it?’

  ‘I’ve actually got another appointment,’ I ventured. No one took a bit of notice; very well, it gave me a good reason to cancel it till I was happier in my own mind about going there.

  ‘Make it three-thirty earliest,’ Martin snapped.

  Sandra stood up. ‘I’ll come with you and give you a voice you can murmur to if they get stroppy. Refer to me as Mr Burford. I can do squeaky Brummie.’

  ‘He might be squeaky but he’d kill you if you call him a Brummie,’ I said. ‘He’s Black Country.’

  But I spoke to a closing door.

  ‘What brought you over here, Martin?’ I asked. ‘And via the tradesman’s entrance, too?’

  ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea for the police constantly to be seen coming in to one particular estate agent’s office.’

  ‘Good point. And the reason you came?’

  ‘To ask Claire if she’d mind attending a line-up. We think we’ve picked up your art thieves. My feeling is they’ve got nothing at all to do with the drugs gang, but you ought to look at them too, from the far side of a two-way mirror, of course.’

  This didn’t quite answer my verbal question, as I didn’t believe that a DCI would leg it across the street to put a question he could easily have got a junior officer to ask over the phone. On the other hand, his body language and the warmth in his smile certainly gave the right response to the question in my eyes. He even allowed the faintest, exasperated lift of his eyebrows when Sandra bustled back in.

  ‘He stuck out for two forty-five, on the grounds he wants to see three other properties by daylight. Is it doable, boss?’

  ‘It’ll have to be. Can you start setting it up? Thanks.’

  Perhaps the ID parade hadn’t been an excuse. He ushered me through to the main office, and explained to Claire what she must do. We nodded and synchronised our diaries. I suppose making an appointment for six that evening was a sort of touching wood for the success of the afternoon’s activities.

  At last, turning to leave the way he’d come in, he said, ‘I think we should definitely reconsider this afternoon’s plan. We should pick up our friends after the first visit, not the last. Minimise the risk.’

  I nodded. He would not see me swallow in terror.

  There was no flirtation in his very grim smile. ‘Are you up to this, or do you want one of my officers to stand in for you?’

  ‘It seems to me that one of them already has. And I owe it to her to go ahead.’

  If I had asked myself why I was spending more money on one outfit than I usually spend on a whole season’s, I su
ppose the answer would have been that if this was my last day on earth I was not going to meet my Maker looking scruffy. I also bought another pair of glasses, even more fearsome in their angles and, most importantly, with Reactolite lenses.

  As for Allyn, I left a message with Miss Fairford that I was obliged to cancel. I did not explain why, which nonplussed her into silence.

  The Focus and I presented ourselves outside The Zephyrs a few minutes before time. I practised my breathing, and tried to smile. My preparations were interrupted by a phone call.

  ‘Sandra?’

  ‘I’ve just had a call from Claire. Your friend Heather phoned her, with a message for poor Vena’s successor. There’s a man she called Mr Nasty back on the scene. She says that’s as good a name as any other, because she’s sure he uses aliases.’

  ‘He does. I know him as Mr Gunter.’

  ‘Anyway, Heather says she’s seen him with the same middle-aged wife in tow, parking in the Rother Street car park.’

  ‘What if Mr Nasty, aka Mr Gunter, is Mr Kemble?’ I asked, my throat unpleasantly dry. ‘In which case, his wife is probably none other than Frances Trowbridge. There is no way she wouldn’t recognise the woman who shoved her in the Mondeo boot. And then she might make the connection with Vee Burford, since they once shared a smile over the antics of a bird.’

  ‘I’m telling Martin to abort the operation. It’s too great a risk. Get back in your car and drive off. Now.’

  ‘It’s too late. There’s a silver Merc just nosing its way towards me now.’

  ‘Can you recognise the driver?’

  ‘I can. And the car. And his so-called wife. Sandra, I’m in the shit.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  My Glasgow accent as strong as I could make it without needing subtitles, I emerged from the car and limped towards them. I owed the limp to a piece of gravel I’d inserted into my right shoe, just to remind me. The important thing was to give no sign of recognition to either.