by DH Smith
Five bloody minutes, he thought. That’s all he’d been in there. You can’t leave anything. He knew, though, that if he’d been alone, he wouldn’t have left the door on top of the van when he went in the house. Carol had distracted him.
Fucking sex.
He ran up the road in the hope of seeing them somewhere. Couldn’t have been long. They were not in sight. He glanced down a side turning.
Nothing.
One hundred and fifty quid’s worth of door snatched. He leaned against his vehicle deflated.
‘What a screw up.’
He shrugged. There was nothing he could do. It had happened. And he began taking the timbers off the van roof. He leaned them against the side, and went in the back and sorted out his toolbox. He could at least repair the doorpost. And think about getting another door later. Though it had been hard enough getting the cash out of Joanna in the first place.
What would he say to her this time?
He took the timber into the hallway, then went back for his toolbox and planes. And in two journeys took them upstairs to the landing. He could hear mumbling inside, the door was slightly ajar for him.
‘The door’s been nicked,’ he said as he entered.
Carol and Dan were on the bed. She with the clipboard, he munching crackers.
‘That’s a real downer,’ exclaimed Carol.
‘Sorry, Dan,’ he said, ‘I thought it’d be alright on the van roof for a few minutes.’
Dan shook his head. ‘Not round here, mate.’
‘Bollocks.’
‘What you going to do?’ said Carol.
‘Fix the doorpost,’ said Jack wearily. ‘At least I can do that. Look – it’ll take me maybe three quarters of an hour. Why don’t you two go off to the café down the road? And I’ll join you when I’m done.’
‘Fancy some hot food, Dan?’ asked Carol.
‘Too right.’
Chapter 36
‘When can I get my bloody house back?’ exclaimed Joanna.
She had moved from a chair to the sofa where she was laid out with half a dozen women’s magazines.
‘Clean clothes, a shower. Is it much to ask?’ she went on.
‘You can have a shower here,’ said Donna.
‘Thank you for the offer, but the thought of having to put these sweaty knickers back on afterwards…’ She sighed heavily. ‘It’s enough to get you watching daytime TV.’ She stopped and reflected. ‘My husband has been murdered. And I’m a callous bitch. Which I presume makes me a prime suspect. Are you a suspect, Donna?’
Donna, who’d been looking out of the window at the police movements, turned to her.
‘Why should I be, Mrs Ward?’
‘You do seem rather nervous.’
‘I’ve an important phone call to make.’
‘Don’t mind me,’ said Joanna. ‘Go ahead.’
Donna had rather hoped Joanna would offer to go outside and leave her to her call.
‘It’s rather private,’ said Donna.
‘I won’t listen,’ said Joanna.
And of course she would listen, thought Donna. How could she not in this small room? And might she not be intrigued and want to know more?
‘I’ll do it outside,’ said Donna.
‘And I’ll have a look through your bookshelf if you don’t mind…’
She crossed to the sideboard, where a dozen or so books were held in place by wooden elephant bookends.
‘Help yourself,’ said Donna as she went to the door.
Outside she clutched the phone. She had to do it. Everyone pushed her around. She was too easy. She must do it. Take control for once in her life.
A policewoman was standing sentry at the front door of the house. Four cars were in the curved drive, one of them Joanna’s, the others presumably police. The sun was out, bringing up the colours in the yellow and red roses in the half moon bed.
Donna walked down to the gate, as far as she could get from listening ears. She had slept badly last night, if sleep you could call it. Over and over she had conversations with Ward and with the social worker until she could bear it no more. And now Ward was gone, she must talk to the social worker.
She’d been cheated, lied to, her rights as a mother denied, as if she were one of those poor Irish girls whose babies were taken from them by nuns and who were then forced to work in a laundry overseen and bullied by the very same nuns. How cruel women could be to women. Men surprised her less. She had entered willingly into her servitude. Taken a tied flat next to her master’s house.
Damn him.
The social worker though was alive. And so was her son, and if she were to see him, she must phone the she-devil.
Donna squeezed against the brick gatepost as a car came through. And then ambled back up the drive ruminating, keeping her distance from the policewoman.
She could do nothing until she made this call. It had taken her over. She might have asked Carol to help, or Jack. Not Joanna. Never Joanna. But she was on her own this morning – and she must do it herself.
Must. It had to be done.
She went into the contacts on her phone. And selected Heather Kennedy. All she had to do was press the green button.
And say what?
She knew what to say. A hundred times she had said it through the night. The words needed no writing down. They were scratched into her brain.
She pressed the button. Put the phone to her ear as it buzzed away, breathing heavily, hoping it would not be answered. Then she could at least say she tried. Would not have to say the waiting words.
‘Hello, Social Services. Heather Kennedy.’
A voice. Her. Horror.
‘Hello?’ said the voice again.
‘It’s me, Donna Jones,’ she said meekly.
‘I’m sorry, Donna. I’ve nothing to add to our last conversation. These phone calls are pointless.’
‘This one is not,’ said Donna energised by the attempt to fob her off, ‘I know what you’ve been up to.’
‘I beg your pardon. Be careful what you say, these calls are monitored.’
‘I’m glad of that,’ said Donna. ‘Mr Ward died last night. And I’ve got his emails to you and from you. And I know he’s been paying you to stop me seeing Eric. What do you say to that?’
At last. Out. The accusation.
‘I don’t know what you mean, Donna.’ A humbler voice now.
‘I’m sure your boss will understand well enough,’ said Donna, on her roll. ‘I’ve been in touch with my solicitor,’ she lied. ‘You will be sacked, you will be struck off and you will go to prison for what you have done to me and my son.’
There was a long pause. Donna knew this was it. She had made it plain enough. Though she didn’t have the emails or a solicitor. Either Heather would call her bluff and ring off, or come to heel.
‘What do you want, Donna?’
‘I want to see my son. Today.’
‘I’ll see to it.’
‘You most certainly will, Heather Kennedy. I shall be at your office at three o’clock. If you don’t take me to my son, Eric, I shall send the emails to your boss and the police.’
‘I’ll take you to Eric,’ said Heather. ‘And let’s discuss the other matters, Donna.’
‘I’ll see you at three. At your office.’
Donna rang off. And at once she was staggering, the energy sucked out like a punctured tyre. A car on the drive pulled up sharp and she fell to the ground. The policewoman ran in from the door.
‘Are you alright, love?’
She helped Donna to her feet.
‘Sorry,’ said Donna with a weak wave to the man in the vehicle. ‘I feel a bit faint.’
The policewoman led her to the side of the driveway and the car drove out.
‘These things suddenly hit us,’ said the policewoman, her arm round Donna. ‘Did you know Mr Ward well?’
‘For a long time,’ she said. ‘I live just over there. I’m the housekeeper.’
‘I know, love,’ said the policewoman. ‘You make yourself a cup of tea. I’d do it for you, but I have to stay here. It’s a crime scene.’
‘Thank you for your concern,’ said Donna. ‘But I’m perfectly alright now.’
Chapter 37
‘How many properties do you own?’ said Carol.
Jack and Carol were in the main office of Ward Properties in Stratford. The suite was part of a block of offices with central reception. The room they were in was new with large windows, the Olympic stadium was just in sight along with Anish Kapoor’s metal structure, nicknamed the coat‑hanger by Bob. The furniture was new too, with a bank of filing cabinets against one wall. There were a couple of rooms off, one Ward’s office. There were two occupants present, Mr Timms and his assistant, a rotund woman, aptly named Mrs Ball, who couldn’t make up her mind whether to scowl or disappear. Timms on the other hand was small and thin, his suit loose on his frame. His black shoes were very shiny, as was the top of his head with a greyish fringe like a reef of rocks surrounding the island dome.
‘I don’t own any,’ replied Timms with a thin lipped smile. ‘Except the one I live in.’
Giving away as little as possible, Jack registered, while wanting to know more about his inquisitors, as if Ward were still alive. Catch up, catch up, this new morning world.
Timms was seated at a large desk, no doubt to give him presence – and possibly protect him.
‘How many does Mrs Ward own?’ said Carol a little wearily.
Jack was a bystander, happy to watch Carol operate. But he wondered whether she had overstepped the mark. As far as he knew Joanna was most likely the owner, but it was too early to say for sure. Might there be a will somewhere?
‘Is it certain Mrs Ward is the beneficiary of Mr Ward’s property?’ said Timms as if reading Jack’s mind.
‘Yes,’ said Carol, so definitely, Jack almost believed it.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Do you want to talk to Mrs Ward?’ said Carol holding out her phone.
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Then why so secretive?’ said Carol.
‘No reason,’ said Timms.
‘Then give me, as Mrs Ward’s representative, a list of her properties.’
Timms chewed his knuckle, watched by Mrs Ball, her desk at right angles to her boss’s. Their average weight would be about the national standard, Jack mused, watching the assistant, frowning this time, her lips pressed closely together. What didn’t she like, thought Jack: Carol having a go at her boss or what Carol might find out? For that matter, Mrs Ball must know plenty. The office was too small for Chinese walls. There were only these two and the collectors employed. And currently in dispute about who was their new number one.
‘Are you, or are you not, going to give me a list of the properties?’
At last, with great effort, he said, ‘I shall need written authorisation.’
‘And I,’ said Carol, ‘shall recommend you for the sack.’
‘I am simply preserving confidentiality,’ he protested.
‘From the owner?’ She thumped the desk with her fist. ‘Let’s get this straight. You work here, Mr Timms. You have a new boss, and it would pay you to start your relationship positively. What on earth am I to say to her about your obstruction?’ She turned away for a second, and then snapped back. ‘Would you like to begin again, Mr Timms? And rethink your position.’
Jack felt sorry for him, though he was certain Timms deserved no sympathy as a lynchpin of this murky empire. But the regime had changed overnight and Timms needed to realise the stupidity of defending a dead dictator. Carol though was a surprise, quite a bruiser. He wondered how he would match up in a fight with her.
He’d lose.
Carol crossed to Mrs Ball who fearfully watched her approach. Carol, above her, leaned in close, almost speaking in her ear.
‘Mrs Ball,’ she said with controlled politeness, ‘I’d be obliged if you would fetch me a list of Ward’s properties.’
The woman threw up her hands in alarm and appealed to her boss.
‘Mr Timms, Mr Timms! What shall I do?’
Timms seemed to be holding his breath. There was no doubt to Jack there were guilty secrets in abundance here. But the King was dead. His courtiers had better look to themselves.
‘Get the list for her, Mrs Ball,’ he said at last, having calculated that he couldn’t hold out.
‘And while you are at it,’ said Carol to Mrs Ball who had risen, ‘I should like to see the accounts for tenants’ loans.’
‘They’re computerised,’ said Timms. ‘We don’t print them out.’
‘Then give me them on disk,’ said Carol.
Mr Timms waved his hands fervently. ‘We never do that. Never.’ And shook his head in case he was misunderstood. ‘Security.’
‘Get up to date!’ shouted Carol, two arms on his desk, leaning forward into his face. ‘Your boss wants them. It is not in your remit to refuse.’ She backed off. ‘That’s if you want a boss, Mr Timms. For this is the last time of asking. If I have to come back here with Mrs Ward, make no mistake, you are fired.’ She looked to Mrs Ball. ‘Both of you.’
Jack watched the little man wilt under the onslaught. No doubt Mr Ward must’ve given him a battering in his time, or why this last ditch defence? As if Ward’s ghost would walk in the door to give him hell. But then ghosts can be exorcised. And Carol wasn’t leaving here empty handed.
‘Give her whatever she wants,’ said Timms.
Jack saw his chance.
‘One more thing,’ he said. They all looked at him in surprise; he hadn’t said a word up to now. ‘A new internal door is needed for 72 Francis. Your collectors smashed it in.’ Seeing Timms hesitate, he added, ‘I’m a builder. I’ll do it. I need one fifty.’
‘Take it out of petty cash, Mrs Ball,’ said Timms, with a weak wave of his hand.
Carol shone Jack a bright smile.
Chapter 38
Joanna had given in and showered at Donna’s. Dressing, she’d thrown her knickers in the bin, and tied her hair back with an elastic band. When she came out of the shower, Donna was set to go out. For a few hours, she said, without telling Joanna where. And Joanna was not curious enough to enquire where.
Donna left.
At least, thought Joanna, she had some space to herself. But not her own space. How she hated the disruption: the enforced inactivity, the problems dumped in her lap, the cops who had taken ownership of her house. She had watched them leaving with bits and pieces, and protested when she’d seen her laptop being carried out, but it had done her no good. She was politely stonewalled and the laptop went.
A nuisance, but it was all backed up on the Cloud. She should go out and buy another laptop, but couldn’t remember what model it was. She wanted Carol here, she would know, or at least know what to buy. Her desktop diary was upstairs, her smartphone wasn’t so smart; most of her working life was up in her den.
Bugger it.
She phoned Carol, who told her she was looking at houses – and would be back in an hour or so. And so Joanna played patience, laying the cards out on the coffee table. A game for old ladies on rainy Sundays. She would not turn on the television. Daytime TV was death to brain cells.
Having won a game (beating whom?) she took a breather and made a cup of tea. And while she was at it, explored Donna’s kitchen, wondering how much of the food and china she, Joanna, had paid for.
And shrugged it off. So what if a little tea went? Then rethought, so long as it was just a little tea. But didn’t pilfering grow? First a little tea, and if you had no hassle, the sugar – and then who knows what else?
It was not a good idea to keep household servants too long. They developed tricks. They outsmarted you. Leon had always been protective of Donna, but why should she be?
Her phone rang. She didn’t recognise the number.
‘Joanna Ward?’
‘I’m Joe Litt from the Daily Post,’ said the caller. ‘I’m sorry
about your husband’s death.’
‘Thank you,’ she said curtly.
‘I am investigating his property portfolio. I’m just outside your gate, I wonder if you’d like to do an interview.’
‘No, thank you.’
She closed the call.
The phone rang back. Same number. Joanna cut it off and put the number on her blocked list. In a few minutes, the phone rang again.
‘Mrs Ward,’ said Joe Litt, ‘this is your opportunity to put your side of the story.’
She said nothing and cut him off. And blocked his second number.
Joanna phoned Carol.
‘I’ve just been phoned by a journalist. He’s investigating Leon’s property…’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Carol. ‘Or rather surprised it took this long.’
‘Get back as soon as you can, we need to talk this through.’
Chapter 39
‘We thought it best for Eric,’ said Heather.
‘Shut up,’ said Donna.
She was seated next to the social worker in the car as they drove to Eric’s in Chadwell Heath, her handbag in her lap. Donna had taken a taxi to Redbridge social services and Heather was waiting for her. Donna brushed off her apologies and explanations.
‘Let’s go,’ said Donna, knowing the less she said the better. For she hadn’t any emails and it was not too likely she could get them now.
Let the bloody woman think she had them. And would use them. Let the cow stay scared.
As she drove, Heather tried several times to mitigate what she’d done; each time Donna cut her short, and then blew up.
‘I want no more of your lies, Heather Kennedy. You have no excuses. You were paid off by Mr Ward for years. You are a despicable member of the human race. I’m only in your car on sufferance. Please don’t speak to me. I hate you. For what you’ve done to the relationship between me and Eric. However did you get to be a social worker? Don’t tell me. You are an expert in lies. All I want is for you to take me to Eric. Then go away, get out of my life forever. You are not his social worker anymore. Do you hear me, Heather Kennedy? Get that sorted.’
