The Victim

by Jane Bidder

  THE VICTIM

  Jane Bidder

  A kindly voice from the ‘Lost or Stolen’ option at the other end of the phone confirmed that no one had taken money from her cards in the short time they’d gone missing. Thank heavens. She decided there was no need to cancel them …

  When Georgie Hamilton’s car goes missing and then reappears outside her house hours later, her family is convinced she must have left it there – after all, her handbag is still on the back seat. But as her bank accounts start being emptied, and her husband’s and clients’ funds are raided too, it’s clear someone has stolen her identity and is playing fast and loose with it. Her marriage under strain and her business suddenly in tatters, Georgie is forced to confront her past. It’s time to face up to what happened to her over twenty years ago … time to face up to the real Georgie Hamilton.

  WINDSEA GAZETTE

  Police warn against new spate of car thieves. Owners urged to lock doors and report any suspicious activities.

  Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FORTY-EIGHT

  FORTY-NINE

  FIFTY

  FIFTY-ONE

  FIFTY-TWO

  FIFTY-THREE

  FIFTY-FOUR

  FIFTY-FIVE

  FIFTY-SIX

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  FIFTY-NINE

  SIXTY

  Also by Jane Bidder

  ONE

  Portfolio. Check. Wallpaper swatches. Check. Fabric samples. Check. Mobile phone. Check.

  Georgie prided herself on being organised. You had to be in this business, if you were going to be taken seriously. There were already too many ‘mothers-turned-interior-designers’ in this wealthy part of Devon. Anyone who wanted to be someone had to stand out from the crowd.

  So far, Georgie told herself, swinging her legs out of the Volvo while clutching her various bags, she’d managed to do that. Touch wood. Feeling rather stupid, she looked around for something wooden. The security fence around the Hon. Mrs David Romer-Riches’ extensive front garden was made of metal but there was a tree by the gate where you had to press a button to announce your arrival.

  Blast! In an effort to press the button and hang onto her things, she’d gone and dropped her handbag and portfolio. Papers were flying everywhere. And it was raining. Her purple reading glasses (a regretful nod to early middle age) lay on the verge. Those notes for today were already getting damp. The rain, as if in conspiracy, became heavier. Georgie put her hands over her hair (how lucky to still be a natural blonde after all these years!), hoping the weather wouldn’t mess it up. The damp always made it frizz slightly.

  Two magpies flew past, just above the head of a youth in a maroon hoodie, hands in pockets. A middle-aged man cycled by on the other side of road, eyes straight ahead. Then a young mum with a pushchair bent down to hand her one of the pages that was flapping in the breeze.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Georgie gratefully, glancing at the little bundle in blue inside with a globule of snot running down its nose. Then she dashed down the road in pursuit of the rest of her notes. It took her a few minutes to gather them up.

  How annoying! One or two had got muddy. Still, a quick wipe with the Wet-Ones that she kept in her handbag – something she always carried even though Ellie and Nick were way past that stage – and they’d just about pass muster.

  Just as well. Mrs R-R, as Georgie privately called her for brevity’s sake, was a new client and, judging from local gossip, hard to please. The other rival interior decorators in town had been trying to get hold of her ever since she moved here from London. Knightsbridge – or so it was rumoured.

  Georgie pressed the button by the gate to announce her arrival, as instructed.

  ‘Yes?’

  The voice at the other end was tinny. Matter of fact.

  ‘Georgie Hamilton.’

  Why, every time she said her name, did she feel like a fraud? Everyone’s like that, her childhood friend Lyndsey used to say. No one really likes their name.

  ‘Enter.’

  It was a command rather than an invitation. Why did she have to park outside the gates instead of driving up, she wondered as she made her way up the gravel drive. Still, clients could be very odd. Especially new ones, until they’d got to know you better. Besides, she didn’t want to annoy this one: it would be awkward for Sam who had, in effect, got this commission for her.

  A warm feeling went through her despite the rain which had become more of a drizzle now. Her husband had been incredibly supportive since she’d told him that if she didn’t find something now the children were virtually grown up, she’d go stark raving mad. In fact, she’d gone perilously close to it. Until then, she’d ignored women’s magazine articles about empty-nest syndrome, dismissing them as histrionic. But when Ellie and Nick had sauntered off to university with a year between them, she’d felt completely lost – especially as her son was due to start a sabbatical term in the States in the spring.

  ‘How about doing a degree yourself?’ Sam had said in a tone which suggested that if he was her, that was exactly what he would do. Her husband’s one fault was an inborn conviction that if only the rest of the world thought as he did, everything would be all right. Still, after everything he had done for her, it seemed a small price to pay. Even so, a degree …

  ‘My brain isn’t what it was,’ Georgie had replied, recalling, with a slight pang, how she might have gone to uni if she hadn’t been so keen to do a post-A-level gap year. ‘I can’t even do the crossword any more, let alone remember the minutiae of the Thirty Years’ War.’

  Sam had bent his head quizzically, pushing his hands deep into his pockets as he often did when making a point. His hands had been one of the first things she’d noticed about him. Strong, capable hands to match the strong, capable jawline. The second thing she’d noticed had been his height. Six foot two and a half inches, he’d informed her when they knew each other better. Tall enough to look after her. The third thing had been his hair. Over the years it had thinned somewhat, although he was still an attractive man judging from the heads which turned when they walked down the street. Thank goodness, Georgie often thought, that she’d married a man who would never look at anyone else. A man whose only concern was his family and how to help each one fulfil their potential. At times, she couldn’t help feeling that it was all a bit too much. The children certainly did.

  ‘You’ve always been good with colours,’ Sam persisted. ‘What about Fine Arts?’

  ‘Like everyone else, you mean?’

  It was becoming a joke in the local dinner party circle that other
empty-nest mothers had applied for mature degrees in History of Art, a course made popular by the young Royals.

  Sam had given her a warm cuddle. He was good at that. Sometimes she felt it was nicer than sex. Less demanding. Easier, especially when one was tired. Comforting, too. Joly had never cuddled her. Instead he had …

  ‘Look at all this!’ Sam waved around their sitting room, indicating the Designer Guild curtains with their rich blues that set off the pale yellow sofas and matching carpet.

  ‘What about it?’ said Georgie, frowning in case anything was out of place. At times, it was hard to live with a perfectionist. At other times, it was comforting. As long as she was with Sam, nothing could go wrong again.

  ‘Remember how you used to do up people’s homes when we first got together?’

  So much had happened since then. With two young children and a busy ex-pat life – Australia, Singapore, the Cayman Islands – there hadn’t been time to work.

  But now, thanks to head office, they were back in the UK – something she still wasn’t happy about. ‘It’s a no-brainer,’ Sam had said. ‘The money’s good so the kids can go to decent schools and we can afford a nice house.’

  ‘Only if it’s nowhere near Yorkshire,’ she’d insisted.

  Sam had shot her a knowing look. ‘You still feel that way?’

  She’d nodded.

  ‘The south-west would work: many of my clients will be in Exeter and Plymouth.’

  So Devon it was. They’d bought a large, rambling, white-bricked Victorian house with a beautiful garden (stuffed with peonies, lupins, Canterbury bells, and old-fashioned roses) that ran down to the river which ‘fed’ the sea a mile down the road. Georgie – finding it hard to adjust to the UK after so many years away – had diverted her fears by becoming a dedicated homemaker.

  When the children were at school, she’d spend hours scouring local auctions and newspaper columns for antique fireplaces to replace the original tiles that had been ripped out. Her greatest coup was finding a second-hand navy-blue Aga through eBay and then discovering rich terracotta flagstones from a house that was about to be pulled down round the corner. Instead of employing decorators, she took a painting course and did everything herself.

  The result was stunning. One of their new neighbours, who freelanced for a glossy homes magazine, had even featured it as House of the Month.

  It all helped to obliterate the demons.

  ‘If you can do this to our house,’ said Sam, cutting into her memories, ‘you can do it to others.’

  And so Gorgeous Georgie’s was born. The name was Ellie’s idea. (‘You need something catchy, Mum!’) and although at first she’d thought it was a bit tacky, it had taken straight off. Word of mouth helped, when she’d started to meet people through the tennis club and a local ‘Women in Business’ group. Then, after a chance meeting with a journalist at a dinner party, she was featured in a local upmarket glossy magazine. Her flattering profile was picked up by Tatler, which resulted in almost more work than she could handle.

  Apparently it was the Tatler profile which had swayed the Hon. Mrs David Romer-Riches. ‘I showed it to her husband,’ Sam had said the other week. ‘He came to me for tax advice, said he wanted to bring his business locally now he’s down here. Nice man. although he did say that his wife was very “particular”.’

  He’d given her a quick, warm squeeze that smelt of the expensive cinnamon after-shave which she’d put in his stocking last Christmas. (In turn, he had hidden Chanel No. 5 in hers; a luxury he had introduced her to in the early days.) ‘I know you’ve got a lot on but you can’t turn this one down. And don’t be worried about the “particular” bit. You’re more than capable of holding your own.’

  Was she? Georgie looked cool and confident on the outside though; the local magazine picture had certainly inferred that, with its shot of her sitting on the edge of a sofa, facing the camera with her newly blow-dried blonde bob neatly in place and classic pearl earrings. Georgie was a classic kind of girl.

  Or so, she thought uncomfortably, everyone said.

  ‘Mrs Hamilton. Thank you for coming.’

  A tall, slightly haughty-looking woman stood on the doorstep, her left hand held out in greeting. She was younger than Georgie had expected from Sam’s description. Roughly her age, in fact. Handsome, rather than pretty, with short, dark hair (cleverly feathered); the country trademark upturned powder-blue shirt collar, and soft-looking creamy flats. Despite the loosely cut linen trousers, it was clear she was painfully thin. Georgie, who worked hard in the gym to maintain her size-ten figure, couldn’t help thinking her new client would benefit from a few extra pounds.

  From her icy grey eyes, it was clear she was taking in Georgie’s damp appearance. There was almost a hint of amusement. ‘I hope you found somewhere to park in the lane. It’s a new drive, you see, and the builders advised us to let the stones settle.’

  Really? In her experience, the more you crunched down on a drive, the quicker the bedding-down process took place, but Georgie wasn’t in a position to argue.

  ‘Do you mind taking off your shoes?’

  Her new client eyed Georgie’s little red suede summer boots with disdain. ‘We’re a shoe-free zone inside. Much more hygienic, don’t you think?’

  Clearly, Georgie told herself, following her new client in, the Hon. Mrs R-R was one of those fussy types. No shoes in the house. No ‘clutter’ in the front drive although there was – wow – a gypsy caravan in the back garden, next to a small water fountain. Now that was unexpected.

  ‘It was a wedding present from my father. Do you have family nearby?’

  Georgie was taken aback for the second time in as many seconds. Normally, clients didn’t get to the personal level so quickly.

  ‘No,’ she replied crisply.

  ‘I gather you have a step-daughter.’

  What relevance did that have? Briefly, she felt slightly cross with Sam for having talked about his family with a client.

  ‘I do, although to be honest, I don’t see her that way. I’ve brought Ellie up since she was small.’

  ‘You have a son of your own too?’

  On paper, such a conversation would sound friendly, but on the strength of a two-minute acquaintance it felt like an interrogation.

  ‘Yes. What about you? Do you have children?’

  A shadow passed across that impeccably made-up face. ‘No.’ There was a brisk irritated gesture of the hands, suggesting the personal conversation had been Georgie’s initiative and not hers. ‘Let’s not waste time. What would you suggest for the morning room?’

  She looked around. First impressions were crucial; both of the house and the client. The latter, it had to be said, was odd. There was something about the Hon. Mrs R-R that she couldn’t put her finger on it. But the first was stunning.

  Georgie loved classical Georgian houses like this, with big square rooms and wide picture windows which let in lots of light. But there was no getting away from the fact that it was boringly bland with all those cream walls and beige carpets that were crying out for colour. Even the sofas were off-white.

  ‘I thought I’d start with a blank canvas but it hasn’t quite worked out the way I thought.’ The Hon. Mrs R-R was standing now, her arms folded and those cold, grey eyes focussed on Georgie as though she was about to interrogate her. ‘What are your views?’

  ‘Actually,’ said Georgie brightly, getting out her pad and pen, ‘I need to see the rest of the house first.’ She fixed her client with a mirror gaze – a phrase she’d learned from a psychology book on how to start up in business. ‘Be respectful but at the same time don’t be afraid to show your experience. If faced with a challenging look, return it or else you could be seen as ineffectual.’

  ‘Then,’ Georgie added with a smile that she didn’t really feel like making, ‘I think it would help if we got to know each other better. That’s important if I’m going to come up with the kind of home that would work for you and your husband. It
might be helpful if I could meet him too.’

  Two small, vertical frown lines between the eyes suddenly sprang to attention. ‘Not possible.’ The tone was crisp, as if Georgie had asked whether she could go through the Hon. Mrs R.-R’s underwear drawer. ‘David is away a lot and besides, he wouldn’t want to be consulted on something so trivial.’

  A home is not trivial, Georgie was about to say before stopping herself. It took all sorts. Just because she didn’t warm to this client didn’t mean she had to scotch a lucrative business connection. ‘Do you see it as trivial too?’ she found herself asking.

  ‘No.’ For the first time since meeting, a trace of uncertainty crossed the other woman’s face. ‘Otherwise I wouldn’t have asked you here, Georgie.’ Her eyes took on another challenging look. ‘May I call you that?’

  It was exactly the opening she needed. This Mrs Hon. David R-R business was ridiculous. ‘Certainly. And do you mind if I call you by your first name?’

  ‘Actually, I do. Now, let’s go into the kitchen, shall we? I’d like some advice on that too. I’m thinking of changing the colour of the Aga. At the moment, it’s the wrong shade of cream. I favour buttermilk, myself.’

  Three hours later, Georgie was drained. She never wanted to see any shade of beige again. Talk about unimaginative! Then again, any woman who wore cream linen trousers without so much as a crease or mark on them was no candidate for a kindred spirit in Georgie’s view. Although she tried to draw a line between clients and friends, it made it so much easier if she got on with them.

  Clearly this wasn’t going to happen with the Hon. Mrs R-R. ‘I’ll be in touch with sketches and swatches for each room within the week,’ she promised, hoping that her gurgling stomach wasn’t too audible. The woman hadn’t even offered her so much as a coffee.

  ‘Better make a date now.’ Crossing to the table, she picked up an iPad Georgie recognised as the very latest model. ‘I can do Tuesday at 11 a.m. but that’s it, I’m afraid.’

  Georgie gritted her teeth. ‘I’ll re-arrange my diary to fit that in.’

  ‘Good.’ There was a curt head nod. Apart from the gypsy caravan – providing that initial brief insight into her new client’s life – she had gleaned absolutely nothing about the woman, thought Georgie walking down the drive. In fact, for two pins, she almost felt like turning down the job. The money was important but not as much as the prestige, that feeling she was doing something worthwhile with her time, instead of playing tennis four times a week like some of her friends.