Money Never Sleeps

by Whitelaw, Stella

  Fancy knew what she was talking about and she knew how to communicate her enthusiasm. It was not long before ideas were coming fast from the delegates, inspired by her words and guidance, remembering to use her pink pen. She was surprised how quickly the hour went and it was time to troop out, to the chapel on the hill, if so inclined, to pray for success.

  She gathered up her notes and switched off the equipment. She had not said half of what she had prepared. Still, it was better to have too much rather than too little. The rest of the day was hers. She could relax. She would go to some of the other talks. It was never too late to learn something new.

  ‘Hear it went well,’ said Jed, leaning against the doorway. His back hunched in a way that seemed familiar. It broke her dream. She had dreamed of him last night. How strange when she had only just met him.

  ‘You didn’t come.’

  It was a statement not a rebuke.

  ‘I might have asked awkward questions or damned your police procedure,’ he grinned. ‘Come and have a drink. You deserve it. But be prepared. There will be a dozen hopefuls in the bar waiting to ambush you for some private advice. Don’t agree to read anything they have brought with them.’

  ‘Thanks for the warning. I might read short stuff. No novels.’

  ‘They’ll devour you if you give them half a chance. You’re on the menu at Northcote; they’ll all want a bite.’

  Jed seated her in a far corner and went to queue up at the bar. There was already a stampede from the other course lectures. She wondered about numbers. She reckoned there had been about seventy at her lecture. There were over three hundred delegates and five courses, but the maths was beyond her. The novel and short stories would take the biggest audiences. Non-fiction and poetry were the smallest. She would be somewhere in the middle, even if some delegates went to nothing.

  The feeling came to her without warning. One moment she had been happy and relaxed, waiting for her drink, and the next she was washed over in fear. It was like an electric shock, only it was a cold shock.

  She shivered violently, almost dropping her notes.

  ‘I’ll shut that window,’ someone said. But it wasn’t just the window. It was more than that. She knew she was being watched. Watched by someone with evil intent. It was 12.39 p.m. Not a time that meant anything.

  Jed came back to their table, doing his two drinks in one hand trick. He put them down, only spilling a little. He looked at her quickly.

  ‘What’s the matter, Fancy? Seen the ghost?’

  She shook her head, trying to shake off the feeling. ‘Is there a ghost? No, I haven’t seen it. But is there one here?’

  He pushed the glass of red wine towards her. ‘There are two ghosts, so they say. A lady in blue who stands at the bottom of the main stairs in the old house, next to where the grand piano used to be.’

  ‘How should I know where the grand piano used to be?’ she said.

  ‘And the other is a German prisoner of war who escaped from what was the Garden House before they pulled it down.’

  ‘Now that really does make a lot of sense,’ said Fancy, sipping the wine. It trickled down her throat and began to warm her. ‘A piano that isn’t there any more and a Garden House that has been pulled down.’

  ‘All true. I’ll tell you all about them one day. It’s quite a story.’

  ‘We only have six days,’ said Fancy. ‘And yesterday has gone already.’

  ‘Why were you shaking when I came back from the bar? Was it a biscuit tin moment?’

  ‘You could call it that.’

  He was observant. But then he was a policeman. He hadn’t got to detective chief superintendent simply pushing paper on a desk. If she got a chance to get into the computer room, she’d see if he was on Google.

  ‘You won’t find me there,’ he said, reading her mind. ‘Because I’m on cold cases. That’s why I emailed you on MM. I thought we could be mutually helpful. I could write another case for you, and you might solve the odd case for me.’

  ‘Are you serious about this? I do need help and I do need quality material. I only publish the best.’

  ‘I know. I read it. It’s a fascinating magazine. And I’ve read some of your books. Not all of them because I don’t have time, but I like a good crime novel to help me get to sleep. Some of your police procedure is a bit wobbly.’

  ‘And mine send you to sleep?’

  ‘Isn’t that the purpose of a good book?’

  A woman was hovering by the table, anxiously looking at Fancy, clutching her big A4 memo pad. ‘Terribly sorry and all that, Miss Jones, but do you mind if I ask you something? I was at your talk this morning and it was great, but I wondered if you might help me. You see, I’ve got stuck.’

  Fancy nodded and indicated the spare seat at the table. ‘Sit down and please call me Fancy. Tell me all about it.’

  She escaped from the committee table at lunch time. It had been too easy. The evening’s guest speaker had arrived plus unexpected wife, so there was no place for her. Fancy slid away quickly and joined one of the rectangular tables.

  As she was late, she found she had the last place, at the top and so had to serve everyone. She served the chicken fillets with style, making sure everyone got some of the sauce. The apple pie was also easy to serve, each portion being already cut. A portly gentleman got two portions as a pastry-conscious girl, thin as a stick, opted for some grapes. Frozen grapes.

  ‘I feel sure I was a serving wench in a previous life,’ Fancy said, dishing out the food. ‘In a tavern, in a low-necked blouse. This comes quite naturally to me.’

  The custard was a lurid orange. She had never seen such strange custard. Her criminal mind immediately wondered if it was poisoned with some exotic Peruvian concoction. But everyone had the same. No one fell about, clutching their stomachs, at least, no one in the dining room.

  ‘It’s industrial custard,’ said the portly gentleman, shirt buttons bursting. Fancy discovered later that he wrote poetry and got it published. ‘Everything has a purpose, you know. One of us will write an Ode to Orange Custard and it will be quoted a hundred years hence.’

  ‘Not much rhymes with custard.’

  ‘Mustard.’

  ‘Bustard.’

  The table rapidly dissolved into giggles and absurd rhymes. All thoughts of biscuit tins vanished. Fancy enjoyed herself. It wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

  She spent the afternoon going to other people’s workshops and talks. Some knew what they were talking about and others quite obviously hadn’t a clue. She wondered why they had been asked to speak. Perhaps they volunteered. There was not much the committee could do to discourage a willing volunteer. And they had a timetable to fill.

  She began making notes with her pink pen. She put down all the times of the incidents: the Underground, the rucksack, the lump of concrete, the biscuit tin and two chilling moments. Maybe she was wrong to attach too much to the timings.

  Two notes had been put under the door of room 425. They were cheerful pictorial invitations to parties, Monday and Tuesday, both at 6 p.m. One was also in Lakeside but the other was in ABC, and she had no idea where that was. RSVP had been crossed out. ‘Just turn up,’ they added.

  Fancy sat on her bed. She hadn’t been to a party for ages, nor did she have any party clothes. What she had with her would have to do. She’d take a bottle, bought from the bar. That would make up for the lack of sequins.

  She had a whole hour before supper. A whole hour to stretch out on her bed and relax, think through the day. She made a cup of coffee but didn’t drink it all. She set her alarm in case she fell asleep and missed everything.

  Something was wrong somewhere – she knew it. Her sixth or seventh sense told her so. Someone wanted to kill her or warn her off. Warn her off what? Her next crime novel? That was a laugh. She never knew what she was going to write till she wrote it. Nor did she ever have more than the vaguest idea how it would end.

  She closed her eyes, glad to have a momen
t to relax.

  She awoke to a banging on her door. It sounded as if an elephant was trying to barge in. Several elephants.

  ‘Fancy! Fancy! Are you in there? Answer me immediately or I shall get the housekeeper. They have spare keys.’

  It was a man’s voice but she didn’t recognize it. The room was dark, which was strange. She couldn’t see anything. She groped about for the switch to the bedside lamp but couldn’t find it. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and tried to stand up, but her legs refused to take her weight. They crumbled beneath her.

  ‘Coming,’ she mumbled.

  ‘Fancy? Is that you? Open the door at once.’

  Some part of her befuddled brain then recognized the voice. It was Jed Edwards.

  ‘Jed?’

  ‘Open the door.’ His voice had quietened and was more persuasive. ‘It’s only me. I want to make sure you’re all right. It’s very late.’

  Fancy staggered to the door and opened it. The room was wavering. She blinked at Jed. ‘Late?’

  ‘It’s nearly ten o’clock. You’ve missed supper and the speaker. I was beginning to get worried. You couldn’t be that tired.’

  ‘Come in,’ said Fancy. She staggered back to the bed and sat down on a corner. ‘I must have fallen … asleep.’

  ‘And slept through your alarm.’ Jed switched it off. ‘You set it in time for supper. It’s been bleeping for three hours.’

  ‘Surely not? I don’t remember.’ Fancy tried to shake off the muzziness. ‘I feel very strange.’

  Jed sat on the chair opposite the bed. ‘Did you have any lunch?’

  Fancy nodded. ‘Orange custard.’

  ‘Tea at tea time?’

  ‘Cup of tea.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  Fancy tried to remember. ‘I made a drink here, I think. A coffee or something. Yes, I made a cup of coffee.’

  ‘Where’s the cup?’

  ‘Over there. I don’t know.’

  Jed filled a glass with water from the tap. ‘Drink this. Now put on a fleece and we’ll go for a walk. Have you got a fleece? It’s late and it’s turned cold.’

  ‘Have I missed everything?’

  ‘Yes, the speaker was good. He writes for radio. He knew what he was talking about for once. No going to sleep in that one.’

  Jed made her walk down the three flights of stairs. It was hairy and scary, the dizziness kept returning in waves. Fancy kept her eyes on the broad back ahead of her. He seemed to change direction as the stairs twisted downwards. They were Hogwart stairs. Her free hand gripped the banisters.

  Someone told her at lunch that one of the speakers, many years ago, broke her ankle on the dance floor in the small conference hall. Fancy did not want to add her name to the list of casualties. It was late at night and someone was bound to think she had spent all evening in the bar.

  The night air was cool and starlit. Some stalwarts were still on the lawns talking, wrapped in ponchos and cashmere stoles. The smokers’ gazebo was full of hazy laughter, smoke eddying on the disturbed air. Jed steered her away.

  ‘We’ll walk round the lake,’ he said. ‘It’ll be quieter there. And you can tell me what all this nonsense is about.’

  ‘It’s not nonsense,’ said Fancy, her voice still slurred.

  ‘I’ll decide where I hear your story.’

  Jed was in his chief super mode. He must have been fearsome to work for. His eyebrows, which were darker than his silvery streaked hair, had a way of drawing together when he was puzzled or angry. They changed his face.

  He was taking her to the lake. Fancy did not want to go to the lake. People drowned in lakes. Her victims often drowned in lakes. Supposing Jed was the person trying to kill her? He could push her in and no one would find her till the morning.

  She had quite forgotten that she could swim. She could swim rather well. Holidays in Polzeath, Cornwall, surfing all day, had made her a strong swimmer. Padstow Bay with miles of sand to run along was another fond memory.

  ‘We are going to the old lake,’ he went on. ‘It’s in the original sunken garden. It’s very beautiful, with weeping willows and water lilies and swans. There a bench by the lake, dedicated to Jill Dick, the Treasurer of the writers’ conference for many years. We’ll sit there and perhaps her bright mind will help us sort this out. She always loved a puzzle.’

  He didn’t sound as if he was planning to push her in the lake.

  ‘Is there a new lake, then?’ Her mind was beginning to emerge from the fog.

  ‘Yes, didn’t you see it when you drove in? The new lake is square, with a path all round it, a verge and a fence. It also has planted water lilies but as yet, no character. The swans won’t go near it. Careful, this bit of lawn is steep.’

  The path down to the lake was through trees and shrubbery and clumps of flowers. She could smell the heavy scent of an evening primrose. It was a lover’s path, the perfect setting for a romantic scene. But she was not with a lover. She was with an interrogator.

  The moon came out from behind clouds, on the shy side, and the lake was lit with a silvery gleam. The trees were whispering secrets. The water lilies were closed but their perfume still lingered. It was magical. Writers could write reams here. Poets would be inspired; non-fiction would be lost, wondering how to use the magic in an article.

  ‘Let’s sit here,’ said Jed, leading her to a polished wood bench. ‘Hi, Jill.’

  ‘Did you know her?’

  ‘Everyone knew her. She was very efficient and she loved cats. If you liked cats, she was your friend for life.’

  ‘What did she write?’

  ‘Non-fiction, like me. She was a newspaper journalist.’

  Fancy’s mind was clearing. She knew she had been drugged. Not seriously enough to put her out altogether or land her in intensive care, though. Some sleeping pill or tranquillizer. Seroquel XL was an anti-psychotic drug they gave to depressives.

  ‘They probably injected a carton of milk,’ said Jed. ‘They could hardly add something to coffee granules or a tea bag, but it would be simple enough to inject those little cartons with a syringe. You had better throw them all away. Better still, I’ll get them all tested and see if the experts come up with anything.’

  ‘You think I was drugged?’

  ‘Classic symptoms. But not enough to kill you.’

  ‘How reassuring,’ she said bluntly. ‘Just another warning.’

  ‘Tell me about these warnings,’ said Jed. ‘Take your time, Fancy. Start at the beginning.’

  ‘I don’t know when the beginning was,’ said Fancy, trying to think. ‘I might not have noticed the first signs. Lots of things happen which mean nothing, till suddenly they start to mean something.’

  ‘A very lucid explanation, especially from a writer.’ Fancy ignored the sarcasm. She could remember the time of each happening clearly. But there was no logic to remembering the exact time, to the second, almost. Unless one day some explanation leaped out at her.

  ‘I think the first one I remember happening was on the London Underground, Circle line, at 17.16 p.m.’ She went on to describe what had happened or not quite happened. She told him about the rucksack incident on the bus. And the lump of concrete through her bedroom window the night before she left for Derbyshire.

  ‘They got the saint and the lambs,’ she added, though he didn’t understand.

  ‘Then last night the biscuit tin and this evening, some sort of sleeping pill or tranquilizer,’ said Jed.

  ‘I think they’re warnings that someone is going to kill me if I do something or don’t do something.’ Fancy tried not to sound shaken. ‘Why should anyone want to kill me?’

  ‘You tell me. A rival author? Someone who thought you had stolen their plot? Plagiarism? A rejected lover? A revengeful husband?’

  ‘None of those. No husband, no lover, no rivals. A disgruntled ex-agent, worried publishers, but that’s nothing new in these cashless days. I can’t think of a motive, even with my imagination.’
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  ‘I’m glad you’ve told me. I was beginning to think you were a bit weird, one of those eccentric writers who imagine disasters round every corner. Let’s go back now and I’ll collect the milk cartons for testing. I’ve a pal in Derby who owes me a favour. He won’t mind.’

  Jed helped Fancy to her feet. She was stiff and cold, needed warm arms. If they were lovers, thought Fancy, this could have been such a romantic moment. She had almost forgotten what romantic moments were like. It had been so long ago.

  ‘Your hair’s nice like that, all loose, instead of that frigid topknot,’ he said, his voice changing. There was an unexpected sweetness.

  Her hand flew up. She had been unaware that her hair had come loose and was down to her shoulders, tumbled and untidy. His good hand went to touch a dark strand and she leaped back, pushing him away.

  ‘Don’t you dare shove me in the lake,’ she cried out. ‘I can swim. I won’t drown. I can swim very well.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Fancy, calm down. I wasn’t going to push you into the lake. Let’s get you back to your room before you wake the entire neighbourhood with your shouting. I don’t want to get a reputation.’

  ‘S-sorry.’ Fancy was tired now, a genuine tiredness, nothing induced. ‘Yes, back to Lakeside.’

  Jed took her arm and guided her round the darkened path towards the other side of the lake and the quickest way back to Lakeside. It was tranquil but some of the magic had gone. The swans had retired to rest, probably on the little island in the middle of the lake. They would get peace there. Maybe there was a nest.

  Jed stopped suddenly. ‘Don’t move,’ he said. He left Fancy on the path and went carefully down the slope, holding on to an overhanging branch of the weeping willow. The reeds stirred.

  Fancy watched his sudden alertness; suddenly she was wide awake. The clouds drifted away from the face of the moon again and the lake took on its magical silver sheen. But it was not so magical now. On the surface of the water was something white, slowly turning as it floated. It was a pale feminine arm and around it swirled yards of sodden chiffon.