The reporter didn’t answer immediately. He was around forty years old and scruffily casual, and his answering smile became a leer as he noted her tight black trousers and v-neck top. Then he leaned back in his armchair, his legs sprawled wide and his eyes showing an unwelcome interest.
It took no more than seconds for his reaction to register with Alex, but she was in no mood to waste time on pervs, and the leer was enough to make her smile freeze.
‘If you have any questions to ask me, I’ll answer them as well as I can, but if your sole purpose was to sit and stare at me, this interview is already concluded,’ she said, in a voice sharp enough to cut crystal.
‘Hey, I didn’t mean to offend you,’ he said, sitting bolt upright at once. ‘But you’re quite a looker, Miss Best, and you have to admit that nobody expects a private dick to look like you!’
Alex fumed at the sexist remark, realizing that either Mrs Dooley or the police would have given him the information.
‘We don’t come ready-stamped like something in Sainsbury’s,’ she retorted. ‘Now, can we get on with it?’
‘Right. The name’s Ken, by the way. Ken Coombes — if you ever want to get in touch.’
She gave him a cool stare that said it was more likely she would kiss a hundred frogs, and had the satisfaction of hearing him give an irritated smoker’s cough, and make a show of fiddling with his notebook with nicotine-stained fingers.
‘You discovered the deceased’s body, I believe?’
‘Miss Wolstenholme, yes. Miss — Moira — Wolstenholme.’
She has a name, you bastard. She’s not just a body ready to be dissected for discussion among pathologists and coppers and rat faced reporters.
‘Of course. Strange that she and her weird mother should have died so soon after one another, wasn’t it? Did you know them well? I presume the latest stiff — victim — was more than an acquaintance if you were visiting her in the evening.’
The questions were innocent enough, if insultingly said, but Alex knew what was behind them. Trying to ferret out a connection between the women to see if there was any hint of intrigue or mystery involved. And so there bloody well was, but none that she was going to tell him about.
‘I hadn’t known her for long. We had some business dealings, and I needed to see her on a private matter.’
‘And instead of that, you found her in the swimming-pool. Must have been a bit of a shock. How did you feel about that, Miss Best?’
‘Do you people have special training in asking the most inane questions?’ she snapped. ‘How did you think I felt? It was a terrible shock. It was also a pretty sure bet that Moira was dead, since she was at the bottom of her pool,’ she added sarcastically, ‘so I did what any decent person would have done. I jumped into the pool and got her out, and then I called the police.’
‘And would you say she had been in the pool very long?’
‘I couldn’t answer that. If you need that kind of information you’ll have to ask the police.’
And you’re not trapping me like that, sonny.
‘So was it suicide or did somebody push her in?’ he said, apparently musing, but with his pencil poised over his notebook for her answer. ‘The police aren’t giving out any clear information yet, but I’m sure you have some theories of your own. You private dicks always like to beat the coppers at their own game, don’t you?’ he leered again.
‘I have no theories on it at all.’
‘But you did say that you and the deceased — Miss Wolstenholme, I mean — had business dealings. And you are a private di— investigator. You must be curious.’
‘I have no theories whatsoever on the cause of death,’ she repeated coldly. ‘And there’s nothing more to say.’
She stood up and waited for him to do the same. He was a leech, and she loathed him. He snapped his notebook shut, and handed her his card. She took it automatically.
‘Just in case you think of anything else — or fancy a night out on the town,’ he added.
The minute he had gone she ripped the card into shreds. There was still a strong smell of tobacco lingering from his breath and his clothes, and she needed some air.
She was also sure that Mrs Dooley would be air-freshening the room as soon as it was empty. For once she was in full agreement with her fussiness, and since she didn’t intend being quizzed on what the reporter wanted, she slipped out of the house again before anyone saw her leave.
She found Moira’s florist shop easily enough. It was closed, with the shutters halfway down and a notice in the glass panel of the door to the effect that due to the owner’s death, the premises would remain closed for a few days.
She should have expected it and come here first thing in the morning, before the news had infiltrated, and someone had had time to write out the notice. She wasn’t sure it would be any use at all to come here, except as an insight into Moira’s character from her employees’ gossipy point of view, but it was frustrating all the same.
The next second she jumped at the sound of the loud female voice behind her. It was vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t think for a minute where she had heard it before.
‘They had to close the shop out of respect. You’re that friend of Leanora’s, aren’t you? The one at the send-off?’
Alex turned around slowly, and saw two of the women who had been at Leanora’s funeral; the one who had flitted around asking everyone what their zodiac sign was; and her bosom companion, a sombre-faced woman. They were both still dressed garishly, their hair a shrieking henna straight out of a bottle, their arms linked. Doreen and May. Alex resisted a shudder at the sight of them, and answered quickly.
‘That’s right. And now poor Moira has died. You’ve heard about it, then?’
Doreen nodded. ‘Oh yes. As a matter of fact we were deciding how we should get in touch with you with Moira’s letter, since she didn’t write your address on it, but now you’ve saved us the trouble of finding you.’
‘Dear Leanora would have expected that, of course,’ the second voice said gushingly.
‘Leanora?’ Alex said without thinking.
Her voice was jerky, unlike its usual cool. She found herself wishing desperately that she had never set eyes on Leanora Wolstenholme, nor her daughter, and especially not these two freaks. And easily disregarding any inkling of political correctness, she was damned if she could think of them as anything else.
‘Oh yes. It was all ordained, you see.’
Alex groaned. She didn’t want to hear this. She definitely DID NOT WANT TO HEAR THIS…
Doreen gave a half-smile. ‘I know you’re not a believer, Miss Best, but Moira was quite sure something of the sort would happen sometime, even though she didn’t know how. She didn’t have dear Leanora’s gift, of course, but a short time ago she sent letters to all her close friends to be opened on her death. No ifs or buts, you see. She simply knew. There was a letter for you too, entrusted to May and me.’
Alex swallowed. There was a chilling matter-of-factness in the way Doreen spoke. Her friend was dead, but there were no tears or remorse. Just acceptance that this had been ordained, and that Moira was now in the Great Beyond with Leanora. Both gazing down on them indulgently like ghastly twins... Castor and Pollux... and Alex had a hell of a job not to glance upwards in the expectation of seeing two gruesomely distorted mythical faces in the guise of Leanora and Moira beaming down on her…
‘Here you are, dear.’
Doreen had rummaged in her canvas bag and was handing Alex a large brown envelope now. She wished desperately that she didn’t have to take it, but of course she did. The letter might provide clues. It might tell her who the gentleman friend was... the friend who might be Mister Big... was undoubtedly Mister Big…
‘Would you like to have some lunch with us if you feel the need to talk?’ May said next. ‘It sometimes helps, and you do look rather pale, dear.’
‘No — but thank you. I have to go—’
‘Well, no doubt we’ll be seeing yo
u again when Moira’s send-off is arranged.’
Alex hesitated. Her nerves were on edge and she was desperate to get away from these two, but she still had a commitment to Moira.
‘What will happen to the house now, I wonder?’ she said. ‘Were there any other relatives?’
In her experience, they came out of the woodwork once there was a house and money involved. But both the other women shook their heads decisively.
‘Not one,’ Doreen said, disgustingly cheerful. ‘It was all settled between dear Leanora and Moira and their solicitors years ago. When they had both been called, everything would be sold and the proceeds divided between the Psychic Society and a designated animal sanctuary.’
Alex puzzled for a moment over who had been calling them, and then realized what Doreen meant.
‘Well, thank you for the letter,’ she said quickly.
‘Go with luck,’ May said, and they both turned as if they were one unit and glided away into the crowds.
‘Shit,’ Alex muttered, using her least favourite expletive, but at that moment it seemed to express in a single word all the unease and abhorrence she was feeling.
‘Come on, don’t let them get to you,’ she continued to mutter as she walked back to the guest house, and then she realised she was doing just that, as people began glancing her way.
Just as if she was the weird one... either that or she had her name printed in sky-high letters above her head, announcing to the world that she was the one who had found Moira Wolstenholme dead in her own swimming-pool.
***
She let herself into her room with shaking fingers. It had been a hell of a 24 hours, and anybody could be forgiven for being slightly traumatized by it all.
She wasn’t Superwoman. Definitely not. In fact, she felt more like Minnie Mouse right now.
Her stomach was gnawing, and she remembered it was almost midday, but she didn’t really feel like eating. And that was a first, she told herself feebly. It was BB & EM at Mrs Dooley’s, so she usually had a snack at a local beach caff, but not today.
But she supposed she should eat something, if only to dispel the emptiness in her stomach, which she knew damn well wasn’t actually due to hunger. She had some crisps in her bag, and along with the small packet of biscuits on her room tray, she would make some coffee and that would do.
She knew she was simply putting off the moment when she had to open Moira’s letter. Once she did, it would be as if Moira was standing over her shoulder, dictating the words. She would hear Moira’s voice in her head... instead of which, in her imagination, she suddenly heard someone else’s.
Are you quite sure you’re cut out for this job Alex?
‘No, Gary, I’m not,’ she snapped. ‘I’m damn well not. Not this one anyway. And get out of my head, will you!’
At the mention of his name, she found herself wondering what he was doing now. It took her mind off Moira for a moment, and even thinking about him conjured up an image of his dark eyes and seductive mouth, together with the whiff of his leathers and the throbbing power of his motorbike. The powerful Harley Davidson that was an extension of himself. And as the images sped through her mind Alex felt her tension begin to unwind.
Which was the strangest thing, when she would never have thought of Gary Hollis as the catalyst to calm her down. He’d always had the means of arousing her, in more ways than one.
The sound of the kettle boiling pierced her thoughts. She made her cup of coffee and dunked the biscuits, and contemplated the brown envelope for a moment longer before telling herself not to be a fool, and ripping it open.
And after all, the envelope contained nothing more than an undated note in Moira’s handwriting, and a second envelope. The note said that however long it was before she received the enclosed, it was for her services with grateful thanks. If it transpired that the job was still unfinished, then Moira hoped that this would help to see it through.
The message was vague enough to mean little to anyone but herself, Alex thought, but the packet of crisp fifty pound notes was an unexpected surprise. She counted them quickly, and the surprise turned to shock when she realized it amounted to five hundred pounds.
She had already been paid a good sum in advance, and this was far too much... but she instantly appreciated Moira’s foresight in not making it a cheque which would have furthered the suspicion of her involvement in Moira’s death.
But even as she thought it, she knew Moira could never have foreseen such a thing. She said herself that she didn’t have Leanora’s gift. Doreen and May had affirmed that, so whenever this note had been written, maybe it had been Leanora’s hand guiding her daughter to enclose untraceable money instead of a cheque.
Alex shivered, forcing herself to stamp out such a thought. This was an unexpected bonus, and while she disliked the thought of profiting by Moira’s death, she knew she mustn’t see it like that, and she vowed to see through to the finish what she had begun. She would find Moira’s stalker, and if in doing so she found the killer as well, she would feel she deserved the bonus.
As long as she kept that in mind, it would keep her sane.
As long as the stalker didn’t get her first, the insidious little thought whispered in her head.
She made up her mind about one thing though. Whenever it was arranged, she wasn’t going to attend Moira’s funeral. She couldn’t face the thought of seeing the same weird people again, nor the major — if he dared to turn up. And nor did she intend showing up for the benefit of any watchful police attendance, or the slimy oaf from the local rag. She knew Moira would understand...
‘Christ, I’ve got to get out of here,’ she found herself muttering. ‘Or I’ll be as nutty as the rest of them.’
***
‘I’m checking out today, Mrs Dooley,’ she told the landlady a while later, when she was packed and ready to go, and it was too late to change her mind. ‘I’ve been called back to London on business.’
‘Oh, what a shame. I’ll be sorry to lose you, my dear,’ Mrs Dooley said, clearly impressed at the importance of her paying guest. ‘I hope I’ll be seeing you again.’
‘I hope so too,’ Alex said, lying through her smile.
But if she never saw Worthing again…
It was a lovely summer’s day as she drove away, and she kept her car windows open, breathing deeply. Almost without realizing that she did so, she slowed down near the road sign pointing to Beckingham, and she gave a little sigh of resignation.
‘All right, Moira. I’ll go and check that the rotund Mr Johnson knows what’s happened to you.’
She didn’t know why she said it or why she thought it, but it seemed like a humanitarian thing to do.
And a pretty stupid thing when she got the reaction of the Happy Days Rest Home boss.
‘Dear heavens, what dreadful thing will happen next?’ he said, practically wringing his hands in best movie-shock style. ‘I hadn’t heard, Miss Best, as our local newspaper doesn’t arrive until this evening, and I shall try to keep the news from our people as long as possible. It’s upsetting and very disturbing for those who are past the first flush.’
Oh God, any minute now he was going to turn into Jane Eyre, Alex thought faintly.
‘Well, I’m sorry to bring you such news, but you’re bound to hear it, and also that I actually found Miss Wolstenholme.’
‘My dear young lady, how ghastly for you,’ he said, his eyes near to popping. ‘Would you like a cup of tea? Or perhaps a tot of brandy which we keep for medicinal purposes, you under-stand?’
‘No, thank you. I have to get back to London, and I’m driving,’ she said, her voice becoming strangled. ‘I just thought I would call and let you know, Mr Johnson.’
And now all she wanted was to get out of there. Even here in Johnson’s spacious office, certain smells were drifting through, making her feel slightly nauseous, and she wasn’t feeling in the best of health as the trauma of the last few days began to take effect. A good night’s sleep
in her own bed was what she needed most of all.
***
London was full of the usual cacophony of street noise and traffic, and despite the frustration and the time involved in get-ting through, Alex didn’t really mind, because it was familiar and it was home.
And then she paused, her hands drumming on the steering-wheel at the traffic lights as a thought with the force of a hurricane hit her. No, it wasn’t home. Not really. She hadn’t made all that many friends — not close friends — in all the time she had lived in London, no more than in the isolated community in the depths of Yorkshire where she had been born.
And suddenly, ridiculously, infuriatingly, she missed it. Not so much the dank, always misty fields in the dales where her father had farmed, but the wild moorland spaces with space to breathe, which you didn’t get here...
An angry tooting from the car behind her made her realize the lights had changed, and she was sitting there like a loon on green. She resisted the temptation to hoist two fingers at the guy behind, knowing she was in the wrong, and shot away with a crunch of the gears.
She could still see his smirking face in the car behind. Bloody woman driver! it said. Well, sod you, mate. Do you have an unexpected bonus of five hundred pounds in your pocket?
She sobered at once, knowing that the money wouldn’t have come her way if it hadn’t been for Moira’s untimely death. Presumably she would have got it someday, unless Moira had withdrawn all the letters with their grim portents she had left for her friends.
She parked her car in her designated space at the block of flats and let herself into her flat with shaking hands. She scooped up the mail without much interest, aware that she did indeed feel unwell. And it had to be that that had brought on the small surge of nostalgia, for a simple life in the country, for being Audrey Barnes again without any of the complications in the life of Alex Best, private eye…
‘God, what’s the matter with me?’ she said out loud, and switched on the radio to the blare of Radio One, before switching it off again just as quickly, as her head throbbed to the remorseless beat of the music.
She felt her forehead, and it was burning. Somewhere in her bathroom she had a thermometer, but as usual you could never find such a thing when you needed it. There was a half-empty packet of hot lemon powders, which would do for a start.
Illusions (Alexandra Best Investigations Book 2) Page 16
