‘John? Are you still there?’
‘Er, yes. Wow. That’s, er . . . wow.’ He sounded as if he had just been pinged with a stun gun. ‘It’s not one of those pictures that Lance Nettleton told me his aunt wanted you to have, is it?’
‘Yes,’ said Cheryl. ‘I imagine he’s rather regretting that now. I think I’m probably going to get a solicitor’s letter demanding them back.’
‘Well, considering there are witnesses and an official police statement pertaining to the fact that his aunt insisted they were yours, and there was obviously such a bond of affection between you and the old lady that he also gave you her ashes, I think that he might be thwarted at the first hurdle if he tried that one.’
Cheryl breathed a big fat sigh of relief. ‘Thank God. I was worried that when the story broke, he’d come after me.’
‘Are you still coming out to dinner with me tonight, or do you have press calls to make?’
Cheryl smiled. ‘I’d love to. It’s my turn to pay.’
‘If I ask you out to dinner, lady, I’m paying,’ said John sternly. ‘Whether you own a Vincent Van Gogh or a Dick Van Dyke. Is that understood?’
It was beautifully understood.
*
According to the dated Yellow Pages in the office, there was a bridal shop in Maltstone: White Wedding. Ivanka thought that she would take a look there after work. After all, she needed to seriously start planning for her own white wedding now.
She was therefore deeply disappointed to find, when she drove over there, that the shop was no more. The large bay window was empty and all that remained was the sign over the door which had been painted over with a weak white solution so that the dark lettering of the former shop name underneath it could still be seen.
She was checking her make-up in the flop-down vanity mirror in her car when she saw a woman emerge from behind the building, carrying some letters. She crossed the road and put them in the postbox there, then walked back. It took Ivanka a few moments to fathom where she knew the woman from because she looked quite different from the last time she had seen her: smarter and much slimmer. It was Jimmy’s wife.
Chapter 86
Tuesday started off beautifully for Della, abysmally for Ivanka, in the offices of Diamond Shine. A client phoned to complain about Alaska Clamp, calling her dirty and lazy and refused to pay for a ridiculously lax clean. Della tried not to crow as the conversation between Ivanka and the client escalated to a high pitch, which resulted in the client telling Ivanka to shove her cleaners and that she would go elsewhere.
‘Stupid woman,’ said Ivanka. ‘Alaska brought with her many good references for work. We do not need clients like her who do not appreciate the jam on their teacakes.’
‘Did you check that the references weren’t fake?’ asked Della.
‘Of course,’ Ivanka replied. It was more than obvious from her prickly, irritated tone that she hadn’t. Della tutted.
‘You get a feel for the awkward customers, don’t you?’
‘Precisely.’
‘It’s like Jimmy always says, there are some customers who just aren’t worth the hassle.’
‘I know.’
No, you don’t know, thought Della, because I just made that up.
Jimmy had been shut away in his office for most of the day. His head was having a tug-of-war with itself. After a night of insomnia, he had spent a large chunk of the early hours of the morning in the bath trying to map out his life. Should he stay with lovely, steady, loyal Connie or carry on with his plans to move permanently into the arms of Ivanka. Although ‘permanently’ was a word he used with slight caution as he was aware that Ivanka was over twenty years his junior. Connie was a ‘forever’ person; he couldn’t say the same about Ivanka with as much conviction.
Since Sunday, he had been desperately trying to formulate a plan that would give him extra time to think, but so far he had come up with nothing that would make Ivanka agree to that. Then in the car that morning she had slipped her hand down his trousers and all his plans had gone to cock. Literally. The balance had tipped back towards a life with Ivanka. Now he had a migraine and wanted peace and quiet in his office with the blinds down and the PC turned off.
‘Do you know Jimmy’s wife well?’ Ivanka asked Della.
Wonder what is making her ask that, thought Della. ‘Hardly at all,’ she answered, appearing uninterested by the subject matter.
‘I would not have thought they were a couple,’ sniffed Ivanka. ‘She is very fat and ugly.’
Della found that she had to bite her lip to stop herself jumping to Connie’s defence. She’s not fat, she’s definitely not ugly and she’s a damned sight more decent than you are, you horrible girl tart, she wished she could have yelled at Ivanka. Instead she said, ‘I can’t say I’ve ever taken much notice of her. Why do you ask?’
‘No reason,’ said Ivanka. ‘I thought I saw her yesterday.’
‘Oh. Where was that then?’ Della made herself appear more interested in the stamp she was sticking on an envelope than the conversation.
‘In town centre. Maybe it wasn’t her.’
Ivanka wasn’t sure why she had lied to Della. Her instinct had made her do it and she had to ask herself why that was.
Della had volunteered to go to the post office later that afternoon, the office junior duty. Whilst she was out, dotty Mrs Cotton rang again and Ivanka took the call.
‘Oh hello, can I speak to Hilda please. It’s Ida Cotton.’
‘I’m sorry, Hilda does not work for us any longer,’ said Ivanka.
‘Can I speak to Lady Muck then?’
‘Lady Muck?’ repeated Ivanka. ‘What is Lady Muck?’
Jimmy, who was just coming round after his second dose of Nurofen, listened in on Ivanka’s half of the conversation.
‘Are you Lady Muck?’ asked Mrs Cotton.
‘No, I am not Lady Muck.’ Ivanka was affronted.
‘I forgot to leave Hilda’s payment out for her. I must set up this direct debit. What’s Lady Muck’s account number?’
‘I don’t know what you are talking about. Hilda has left us so how can I help you?’
‘Have I got the wrong number?’
‘Obviously you have got the wrong number.’
Jimmy decided that he really would have to put Ivanka on a customer service course. She had the telephone manner of the Gestapo.
‘Oh I’m sorry. Goodbye then,’ said Mrs Cotton.
‘Silly old witch,’ said Ivanka, after putting down the phone.
‘Who was that?’ asked Jimmy, popping his head out of the door.
‘Mrs Cotton. She was one of Hilda’s clients.’ Ivanka drew a circle in the air next to her head. ‘She is ninety-nine pences short of a pound.’
‘What was that bit about Lady Muck?’ asked Jimmy, his interest sparked.
‘She wanted the account number of Lady Muck so she could set up a direct debit.’
‘What or who the hell is Lady Muck?’
‘Jimmy, I have no clue and I don’t care. I am busy trying to find cleaners to replace your idiot work force.’
Jimmy slunk back in his office, switched on his PC and looked for Lady Muck on the internet. He couldn’t find anything local or relevant. He might, though, after some further digging, he decided. He’d ask Della to do some detective work when she came back.
Chapter 87
Something had been niggling Jimmy since Mrs Cotton’s phone call earlier that day. It wasn’t his imagination either that Della had reacted strangely when he asked her if she could find anything out about someone called Lady Muck.
‘Lady Muck?’ she said, running the name through her brain. ‘Never heard of them.’
Just for a moment then she had looked jumpy, nervous and then overcome it as fast, but it was enough of a reaction to flag up an alert in Jimmy’s head.
Ordinarily, Della could find needles in haystacks blindfolded with big padded gloves on, but she couldn’t discover a single thing about
Lady Muck. She said that she had rung Hilda to ask who she was, but her call wasn’t answered. And another thing, why had Della said that she had never heard of them, before Jimmy had clarified that they were a cleaning firm?
‘Ring Wenda then, she and Hilda are as thick as thieves,’ Jimmy told her.
Apparently Wenda hadn’t picked up either, nor Sandra nor Ava.
‘This is all a bit odd,’ said Jimmy, starting to smell something in the air which was rat-scented.
‘I don’t see what’s odd about a group of women not wanting to talk to someone after they were thrown out of their jobs,’ humphed Della.
‘They walked,’ corrected Jimmy.
‘They had their reasons for going,’ re-corrected Della.
‘Well a couple might have; the others followed like bloody sheep. Oh, I know what I meant to ask, how come Ruth Fallis is back working with us?’
‘I set her on,’ said Ivanka, proudly.
‘Why?’ asked Jimmy.
‘What do you mean why? She is good worker.’
‘Ruth Fallis?’ Jimmy laughed, noting that Della hadn’t jumped in to offer her opinion. It was not like Della to hold back.
‘Yes, her name was in the file of people who were recommended.’
Della realised she ought to react hard and immediately to that. She had the most awful tingly feeling that Jimmy might be onto her.
‘What file? There’s no file recommending her. She’s a trouble-making thief. When did she get a job back here?’
‘Last week.’ Ivanka threw open her desk drawer, pulled out the red stripey file and threw it on her desk. Della picked it up and flicked through it.
‘No, no, no, this is all wrong,’ she said. ‘These are the names of people who should, under no circumstances, be employed. The Clamps? What on earth . . . Where’s the reject file?’
‘On the shelf,’ Ivanka pointed. Della pulled it out and opened it.
‘These are the girls who are recommended and waiting,’ she said, knowing that quite a few of them were now employed by Lady Muck. ‘Someone has switched them.’
‘My God, Roy Frog,’ gasped Ivanka. ‘The bloody bastard.’
‘Bloody bastard indeed,’ said Jimmy. ‘Wait till I see him.’
Roy Frog seems to have caused an awful lot of damage in the short time he was in my office, thought Jimmy. Or maybe this Frog was more of a convenient red herring.
Chapter 88
John Oakwell was on duty so he couldn’t stay for a coffee, he told Cheryl when he made an impromptu visit to her house that evening. He merely wanted to drop a present off for her. He handed over a plastic bag, apologised for the lack of gift-wrapping, kissed her and left her in a whirl of smiles and quivering nerve-endings. She couldn’t remember Gary ever making her feel like that when he kissed her. She could have quite happily glued her lips to John Oakwell’s and snogged him for ever.
He had bought her a book, that was obvious from the shape and size of the gift. She pulled it out of the carrier and found a large coffee-table volume of The Life and Works of Vincent van Gogh. She flicked through to find there were as many glossy pictures as there were words. Her heart sighed at his thoughtfulness. He had written on the title page:
To Cheryl, who should be as proud of owning a VVG as the VVG should be proud of being owned by Cheryl – John XXX
God, he is fantastic, she thought to herself, wondering how plain old Cheryl Parker had managed to hook a beefcake like John Oakwell. Owning a Van Gogh was something else, but it didn’t make her insides soup like the thought of the big, strong detective did.
Cheryl turned to the first page; there was a quotation from the great man himself.
What would life be if we had no courage to attempt anything?
It was as if he had spoken directly to her and she knew it was a sign that she’d done the right thing.
*
Thankfully Jimmy wasn’t back from the office – or wherever – when Connie set off for Brandon’s house that evening. If he had been, she would have put her old coat on over her smart black dress and told him she was going shopping, but it removed the complication now that there was no need to lie to his face. She had left him a cottage pie on a low heat in the oven and wondered what she would do with all her spare time when she didn’t have his meals to make or his shirts to iron.
Brandon greeted her effusively at the door.
‘Come in, come in. I’m so glad you could make it, Marilyn.’
Box House was thickly scented with chocolate. In the doorway, a hint of citrus featured which was traded for buttery caramel at the bottom of the stairs.
‘Very glam,’ he said, indicating her black dress when she had taken off her coat.
‘Yeah, right.’
‘I mean it.’
‘It wasn’t my intention,’ laughed Connie. ‘I was trying to appear a bit of a servant and blend into the background.’
‘Well, you failed,’ smiled Brandon. ‘You look great.’
So do you, thought Connie. He was wearing dark grey trousers and a pale blue shirt: casual but smart. He’d had a recent hair trim, and a close shave, but still managed to appear more slightly rough artisan than the smooth corporate man look that Jimmy achieved so effortlessly.
Connie followed him first into the dining room where a towering chocolate fountain on the table was the focus of attention and then into the kitchen where platters of chocolate filled every available surface amid trays set with empty wine glasses.
‘I’ll be circulating as well,’ he said. ‘But another pair of hands would be good and no doubt my sisters will dive in if they have to. You’ll easily spot them, they’ll have their mouths full,’ he chuckled. ‘Louisa has been chief tester for the Goddess range. Her favourite by far is the Marilyn. Madeleine has a penchant for anything with salt and caramel. My brother, alas, won’t be here. That means there will be some wine left for other people.’
Connie noticed little cards on the trays – ‘Greta Garbo’, ‘Lana Turner’ – and ‘Marilyn Monroe’ sat in the middle of the quirky hearts.
‘Help yourself to anything,’ said Brandon, throwing his arms wide.
‘Wonderful. I have my eye on that lovely writing desk in your study,’ smiled Connie.
Brandon wagged his finger at her. ‘Cheeky,’ he said and winked at her and Connie’s insides turned as runny as the soft toffee in the Greer Garsons.
The press arrived with the first few guests to take pictures of Brandon in various poses: holding a tray of chocolates, standing by the chocolate fountain, looking wistfully out of the window, which was by far the most awkward of the poses he had to make. He pulled a face at Connie when the photographer asked if he would mind standing at the bottom of the stairs with his elbow resting on the newel post, staring pensively up at the ceiling. He breathed a very large sigh of relief when that part of the evening was over.
As the photographer left, two women gushed into the house and towards Brandon. They had to be his sisters, thought Connie, watching them embrace and smile and chat. Then in strutted the horribly familiar figure of Helena, followed by an even slimmer blonde with similar features and a portly man in a very loud knitted jumper. Connie watched as Helena made a bee-line for Brandon, proffering both cheeks to him and pulling over the woman who must be the sister Brandon had told her about, but he bobbed his head at her without kissing her, then shook Helena’s husband’s hand politely but briefly. He made his excuses and went off to greet more new arrivals.
Connie headed towards them with a tray of wine. Helena swept up a glass of red without any acknowledgement or thanks. As she moved off, Connie heard Helena say in a loud voice, ‘That’s the one I was telling you about.’ Connie swapped her tray of drinks for one of chocolates. She tried to appear as invisible as possible as she wove between the people but it was with more than a little dread that she approached the part of the room where Helena’s party posed.
‘Here, let me help you,’ said a voice behind her in the kitchen. It
was Brandon’s sister. ‘Bran tells me you’re his inspiration for the Marilyns. They are my absolute fave. Nice to meet you, by the way, Connie. I’m Louisa.’ The pretty, smiling woman held out her hand to Connie. ‘I’ll send Mad over to say hello to you when she stops flirting with the reporter from the Express.’
‘Thank you, that’s very kind of you.’
‘I’ve promised Bran I won’t eat everything, but I had my fingers crossed when I said it,’ she grinned, picking up a tray of honey and apple truffles and gliding off into the dining room with them.
Connie poured some more wine into glasses. She noticed that Brandon’s other sister Madeleine was carrying a tray of empties towards the dishwasher.
‘You all right?’ asked Brandon, suddenly appearing at her side. ‘I didn’t expect everyone that I invited to turn up, but it appears they have.’
‘I’m fine, you go and do your thing,’ said Connie.
‘You’re a diamond,’ he said. She would have laughed at that, if she hadn’t been so busy.
Connie picked up a tray of Marilyn Monroes and circulated. They seemed to be very popular. Brandon was talking to a woman who was taking notes. Everyone looked as if they were having a great time. Connie could barely keep up with the wine distribution and was happy to have the help of his sisters, and a male friend of Brandon’s stepped in to remove all the empty bottles to the recycling bin outside.
‘Over here, wine woman,’ called Dominic above the tops of the guests’ heads. He was swaying as if he was standing on the deck of an unsteady ship. Connie could feel Helena’s unrelenting stare on her profile as she replaced yet another of Dominic’s empty glasses with a full one.
‘Chocolate?’ Madeleine held a tray of Marilyns out towards the party.
‘Don’t like those ones,’ Helena said to her sister. ‘Disgusting.’
‘I do,’ said Dominic and grabbed a handful, sending a few cascading onto the floor.
As Connie walked back into the kitchen for another tray of wine, she heard Brandon calling her. His shirt had a chocolate smear on it and he had a red imprint of lipstick on his cheek.
Afternoon Tea at the Sunflower Café Page 36
