‘It’s possible.’
He returned to the window to stare at the wall of glass, thinking of the flash of blonde hair he’d seen the night before. She was up to something, Ana Stoyanova. But what?
It was easy. A key in the kitchen door. Through the kitchen, out into the cafe and then into the hallway. A right turn and the stairs were there. Even if the camera on the Christmas tree had been trained down the hallway instead of on the courtyard door, it probably wouldn’t have caught any movement at that distance.
Up the stairs and there it was. The corridor and the wall of glass.
It was easy.
‘Anything?’
‘For God’s sake, Samson,’ hissed Delilah. ‘Shut up. I’ll tell you if I see anything.’
He glanced back out of the window, the sharp edge of tension fraying his nerves. It was the worst bit of an operation. The most exciting, too.
Outside the wind had picked up, tugging at the tables and chairs in the courtyard, blustering against the glass. He returned his attention to the brightly lit corridor spanning the two wings just in time to see her.
‘She’s here!’ he snapped. That blonde hair spilling out from under a baseball cap, face in shadow under the peak. She was keeping close to the back wall. Coming their way. ‘Can you see her yet?’
‘No,’ Delilah said. ‘Not yet.’
‘She’s gone from my line of sight. She must be close to the door now?’
‘Nothing.’ Delilah clicked on the camera in the wreath, enlarging the picture to full screen.
‘Anything?’
‘No.’
Samson strode over to the laptop, checking it over her shoulder. The tranquillity of the corridor outside Arty’s flat reflected back at him.
‘I don’t get it,’ he muttered, anxious.
‘Perhaps we ought to check on him anyway?’ urged Delilah.
Samson shook his head. ‘No. We have to catch her in the act. Otherwise, we have nothing.’
‘But Arty . . . ?’ Delilah clicked the mouse, returning the screen to a view of all the video feed. She was just in time to see a pair of shoes walk past the reindeer camera.
A pair of women’s shoes.
Inside. Down the hallway. Past the toy reindeer lying on the floor. Then creeping forward towards the bedroom. Hand held down by the side and in it, a syringe.
There would be no saving him.
‘She’s in there!’ shouted Delilah, leaping up off the floor, laptop in hand, the dog stirring.
‘How the hell—?’ Samson was already running for the door.
‘I don’t know how, but she’s in there. Quick!’
They burst out into the corridor, no attempt at discretion, Samson already fitting the spare key into the lock. Turning it. Racing inside.
‘What on earth—?’ Arty was standing in the hallway in his pyjamas, a hand held to his chest, the other wielding a golf club. Eyes wide with fright, he stared at them. ‘Are you trying to give me a heart attack?’
‘Where is she?’ demanded Samson. ‘Ana was in here.’
Arty shook his head. ‘No. There’s no one here – only you two.’
But Delilah was pointing at her laptop. ‘She’s here. Look!’
The women’s shoes were back in shot. Walking across the hallway. Arty’s hallway.
Delilah glanced down at the floor. Then up at Arty. ‘Where is it?’
‘What?’
‘The reindeer. I put a camera in the reindeer. Where is it?’
‘The reindeer? I gave it to Joseph—’
‘Christ!’ Delilah wheeled round. ‘Your dad, Samson. She’s in with your dad!’
He was asleep, as she’d known he would be. Slumped over in his armchair. A hefty dose of Rohypnol in his hot chocolate and he’d lost all use of his limbs. And now he was about to get a hefty dose of death.
Ethanol injected into his system. It would look like he’d succumbed to that Christmas melancholy that seized so many alcoholics. Spiced up with another dose of Rohypnol, and no one would be any the wiser. Respiratory depression. Followed by eternal rest.
She reached into her jacket and pulled out a bottle. Whisky. Unscrewing the cap, she crossed the lounge and tilted his head back.
‘Good boy,’ she said, as his mouth opened obligingly. She tipped up the bottle, pleased to see him swallow. It would make his demise more authentic.
Then she raised the syringe.
‘Dad!’ Panic searing through him, Samson tore out of the flat. ‘Call the police, Arty,’ he shouted as he ran down the corridor.
And there she was. Ana Stoyanova, opening his dad’s front door. Blonde hair tied up in a ponytail.
She didn’t even look round. Just ran inside.
He charged after her, through the doorway, along the hall. Beyond, in the dark lounge, he could just make out two figures struggling. He didn’t take time to think. He lunged, bringing both of them crashing to the ground.
In the confusion of limbs, Samson landed badly, the full weight of a body falling on him, smashing his hip into the floor. He wrenched himself free, his shoulder screaming in pain, and a shoe lashed out, catching him full in the face. Unable to see more than shadows, he rolled over, away from the kicking feet, trying to work out which one was her. But it was impossible to tell. So he grabbed hold of the person nearest to him. It was all he could do in the dark.
‘Let me go!’ Ana screamed, giving an identity to the writhing figure trying to pull out of his grasp, nails raking at his hand. ‘Let me go!’
Relief washed over him. He had her. Ana. He’d caught her. He tightened his grip.
The other figure was up and running, a shifting silhouette heading for the door.
Then the light came on. A harsh blaze of illumination that made him blink. And there was Delilah in the doorway. Ana on the floor. His father – he could see his father slumped in his chair. And trapped between them all, another person.
Vicky Hudson, blonde wig askew and a savage expression on her face.
‘Just try it,’ said Delilah, the closed laptop in her hand being wielded like a baseball bat, Tolpuddle next to her, teeth bared. ‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure.’
25
By one o’clock in the morning – Christmas morning – Fellside Court was returning to normal. The last police car had driven away, the disturbed residents had been reassured that all was well and ushered back to bed, and Joseph O’Brien had been taken to hospital for a check-up.
Most of the apartments had returned to the unlit state they’d been in before the commotion had roused everyone. The apartment that housed Edith Hird and her sister, Clarissa Ralph, wasn’t one of them.
Nearly every light in the place was on and burning bright, as though to ward off the evil that had come so close to claiming another one of their friends.
‘I can’t believe it,’ exclaimed Edith. She had a dressing gown pulled tightly over her nightdress and a cup of cocoa in her hands, yet she was shivering. The shock of nearly losing Joseph had really hit her badly.
‘None of us can,’ said Arty, reaching out to put an arm round her. Rather than shrug it off, the retired headmistress leaned into his embrace. ‘She seemed like such a nice young woman.’
‘You knew?’ Samson turned to Ana, who was sitting with them, a hand resting on Tolpuddle’s head.
She grimaced. ‘I suspected. Not that it was Vicky. But that something was going on.’
‘So you were keeping watch?’
‘As much as I could. Which in the end, placed me in danger too, I suppose. In danger of being wrongly accused.’ She turned to Arty. ‘Thanks for believing in me.’
Arty blushed at the irony. He was still trying to get his head around the events of the last hour. He’d arrived in the doorway of Joseph’s flat to see a strange tableau: Samson and Ana Stoyanova lying on the floor, the detective’s hand grasping Ana’s arm; Joseph unconscious in his chair; and Delilah standing in front of Vicky Hudson brandishing a laptop, Tolpuddle by her side.
/> ‘The police are on their way,’ he’d stammered, confused as to what was going on; confused as to why the care assistant was there. His words had broken the impasse, Vicky jerking the blonde wig from her head and pointing a finger at Ana.
‘She was trying to kill Joseph!’ she’d declared defiantly. ‘But for me, she would have succeeded.’
Arty sensed Samson’s hesitation, unsure of what he’d witnessed. Delilah, too, seemed uncertain, casting an anxious glance at the detective. Then Ana Stoyanova had wrenched her arm free and got to her feet. Samson had jumped up, ready to detain her again, but she’d stepped back from him. Stepped towards the comatose figure of Joseph O’Brien, her green gaze on Samson the entire time.
‘Stop her!’ Vicky had shouted. ‘She’s deranged.’
But Ana simply reached out and eased Joseph back against the headrest, her long fingers pushing back his cuff to check his pulse.
‘Is an ambulance on its way, too?’ she’d asked, glancing over at Arty.
He’d nodded.
Sensing her hold on the situation slipping, Vicky had become more emphatic. ‘You have to believe me,’ she was insisting. ‘That woman needs locking up. I have proof.’
Arty hadn’t needed any more proof than was already right in front of him. Ana Stoyanova was tenderly brushing the hair back on Joseph’s forehead, an expression of concern on her normally impassive face.
‘Proof?’ he’d growled, turning on Vicky Hudson. ‘How about this for proof?’ Using his pyjama sleeve to hold it, he’d pulled Alice Shepherd’s pillbox from the pocket of his dressing gown. ‘Perhaps you can explain why – apart from Alice’s – yours are the only other fingerprints all over this?’
The transformation had been dramatic. Like a cornered rat, Vicky had turned malicious, aiming a stream of vitriol at Ana, blaming her for taking the job that should have been hers. Even blaming the foreigner for necessitating the horrific attacks on the residents of Fellside Court. She’d still been ranting as the police took her away in handcuffs, condemning herself with her malevolence.
‘I have to admit,’ said Delilah, taking a sip of her cocoa and giving Ana a sheepish look. ‘I wasn’t sure what to think. For a split second there as the light went on, it was hard to tell who was doing what.’
Samson nodded. ‘Yes. Vicky certainly muddied the waters for a few minutes. Confronting her with the pillbox and lying about her fingerprints was a stroke of genius.’
Arty grinned. ‘I saw Columbo do the same once. Thought it was worth a try.’
‘It certainly was,’ said Ana. ‘But what made you so sure I was the innocent one? Was that Columbo, too?’
‘No,’ he muttered, uneasy at being hailed as her defender after all he’d accused her of. ‘That was thanks to King Solomon.’
Ana looked puzzled, but Edith was smiling at the bookmaker, nodding her head approvingly.
‘I remembered a story from the Bible,’ he explained, ‘about two women both claiming a baby as their own.’
‘A Sunday-school classic,’ continued Edith. ‘Both were adamant that the baby was their son, so King Solomon told his servant to cut the baby in half in order to settle the dispute.’
‘And the woman who immediately offered to give up the baby, rather than have it killed, was identified as the genuine mother,’ concluded Samson, recalling his own mother telling him the story many years ago. ‘You saw Ana tending to Dad, while Vicky was only concerned with saving her own skin.’
Arty nodded. ‘I knew then which one was the real carer. Which one wasn’t capable of hurting the people she was charged with looking after.’
‘But why?’ whispered Clarissa, eyes round from the excitement of the evening. ‘Why would Vicky do such awful things?’
‘Jealousy,’ said Samson. ‘She applied for the job as manager here and was passed over in favour of Ana. Full of resentment – especially as Ana was foreign, to boot – she set out to undermine her. To begin with, she stole things—’
‘My headscarf!’
‘Yes, and Arty’s cufflink.’
‘So Alice was right? Her watch really was stolen?’ asked Arty.
‘I’m ashamed to say that Alice was right about everything,’ said Samson. ‘Someone really was trying to kill her. And I did nothing to help.’
‘None of us did,’ said Delilah. ‘It sounded so farfetched.’
‘But why put Alice’s watch back, then?’ asked Edith.
Samson shrugged. ‘Vicky was trying to create an uneasy atmosphere. One of suspicion. She was planning to frame Ana for the thefts – an easy target as it turned out, given that the new manager wasn’t a local—’
‘And wasn’t overly friendly,’ admitted Ana, with a wry smile.
‘But then Vicky’s plan escalated into something more lethal. Alice had begun telling people something was going on at Fellside Court. She’d also mentioned that she was thinking of coming to see me. While Vicky wanted to whip up unrest – enough to get Ana sacked – she didn’t want the police involved. Or a private detective.’
‘So she started messing with Alice’s medication?’ asked Arty.
‘Yes. Alice’s dosage had recently been increased. Plus she was getting more confused with age. She was vulnerable and Vicky saw the perfect way to exploit that.’
‘And I helped her.’ Ana bit her lip, tears in her eyes. ‘It was Vicky who gave me the pillbox that day. She said she’d found it on the floor after the aerobics session, and even pointed out that the pills were still inside. I forced Alice to take that extra medication.’
‘You’re a nurse,’ said Samson. ‘You know that one extra dose wouldn’t have killed her. Until the authorities have carried out a post-mortem – which I’m afraid is unavoidable now, given the circumstances – we can’t say how much Alice was over the limit. But I would imagine she was coerced into taking her tablets a lot more than just twice that day – and possibly the day before, too.’
‘All thanks to a second pillbox.’ Arty shook his head in despair at the simplicity of such a heinous act. ‘Poor Alice. She’s not even going to be allowed to rest in peace.’
‘What about Eric?’ asked Clarissa. ‘Did Vicky admit trying to kill him, too?’
‘Yes,’ said Samson. ‘She saw the unrest Alice’s death had caused and decided to capitalise on it. Eric’s illness made him fair game.’
‘But thankfully she made a mistake,’ said Ana. ‘She thought turning off his oxygen supply would be enough. If she’d increased it instead, Eric wouldn’t be at home with his family today.’
‘Christ!’ muttered Arty. ‘Eric had a narrow escape.’
‘You too,’ said Delilah. ‘If it hadn’t been for Joseph . . .’
Clarissa turned to stare at Arty. ‘Vicky tried to kill you?’
‘Apparently,’ said Arty, with more nonchalance than he felt. It had chilled him to the bone to realise how close to death he’d come, the care assistant bitterly lamenting her missed opportunity as she was taken away by the police. ‘But for Joseph staying over the night after Alice’s funeral, I probably wouldn’t be here.’
‘No doubt Vicky would have made it look like heart failure and no one would have questioned it,’ added Samson.
Edith shuddered. ‘It doesn’t bear thinking about. I reckon we all had a narrow escape. Except poor Alice. And Rita . . . Here’s hoping poor Rita pulls through.’
‘If only she hadn’t found that bloody pillbox,’ Arty muttered.
He didn’t need to ask if that had been the reason for the attack on Rita. He’d heard it with his own ears. The care assistant had seen her uncover the box in the snow – the second box that Vicky had taken from Alice’s apartment the morning the old lady died. Planning on retrieving it later, Vicky had dropped it out of the hallway window into the shrubs below. In the commotion that followed, however, she’d not had a chance to go and get it straight away, and when she did get time, the pillbox was no longer there.
She’d accused Rita of stealing it. Of being about
to blackmail her. She’d claimed she had no option but to kill her.
Arty felt sick thinking about it.
‘What puzzles me is how the pillbox came to be buried in the copse in the first place,’ said Samson. ‘Who moved it?’
Heads shook around the table. ‘Beats me,’ said Arty. ‘We were all too stunned by the news about Alice to be running around making holes in the ground.’
‘Perhaps it was an animal?’ suggested Clarissa. ‘A squirrel, maybe?’
‘It’d have to be a squirrel on steroids,’ said Arty. ‘It’d take a strong jaw to carry that thing all the way across the courtyard.’
It was the mention of the courtyard. Delilah had a sudden memory of the day of Alice Shepherd’s death. Of a chair knocked over. Of muddy paws on her coat. Of a certain animal loping towards them from beneath the trees. An animal that had a penchant for burying things . . .
‘A strong jaw,’ she hissed, turning to look at Tolpuddle.
Hearing the tone she used when he’d tattered her shoes or bitten a cushion in half, the dog tipped his head sideways, raised an eyebrow and let out a noise between a whimper and a whinny.
‘Tolpuddle?’ Samson was looking at the dog too, comprehension dawning. ‘Oh my God, it was Tolpuddle! He moved the pillbox.’
‘And placed Rita in danger,’ murmured Delilah, feeling awful.
But Arty was leaning over to rumple the worried dog’s ears, the hound instantly repaying him with affection. ‘There is another way of looking at it,’ he said. ‘If Tolpuddle hadn’t buried that pillbox, Vicky would still be getting away with her crimes.’
‘And Ana would be getting the blame,’ said Samson.
‘Are you sure she was trying to frame me?’ asked Ana.
‘Definitely. She knew that some of the residents weren’t comfortable with a foreigner in charge. She wanted to take advantage of that, so she started wearing the blonde wig, walking the corridors at night. Doing enough to provoke fear and suspicion, bringing your role as manager into question.’
‘And if anyone had carried out a post-mortem on Alice and discovered she’d taken an overdose, everyone had witnessed Ana forcing her to take her medication,’ exclaimed Delilah.
Date with Malice Page 30
