Money Never Sleeps

by Whitelaw, Stella

  Perhaps she could be taken into protective custody. She might be safer in a police cell. She would demand all mod cons: her own shower, television, daily menus, and access to a private gym. Or perhaps inmates got all this already.

  Her last lecture was this morning. Her head had cleared and she could remember what she planned to say and the area she would be covering. A quick look at her notes and she would be nearly word perfect.

  But did she want to do it? It meant getting up, getting dressed, facing the world. It meant addressing a hall full of delegates, any one of whom might be Melody’s killer. She wanted to do a declining lady stunt. Stay in bed for ever.

  Or the killer might be one of the other lecturers. Forsaking the committee table at meal times had not been a good move. She knew some of the other lecturers thought she was antisocial and acting above herself. It was not true. She liked to mix with everyone at the conference.

  ‘Good morning, Fancy. Did you sleep well?’

  Dorothy Richmond had stirred. She was picking up her fallen papers.

  ‘Oh hello, I thought you were asleep.’

  ‘Just dozing. It’s a trick. Not actually asleep. Ears still alert even if eyes closed.’

  ‘You must have been awfully uncomfortable in that chair.’

  ‘Not exactly the Ritz. Do you mind if I have a hot shower? I’m feeling rather stiff and sticky.’

  ‘Of course not. Help yourself to anything. I’ll make some tea.’

  ‘The cups need washing.’

  Fancy did as she was told. Dorothy Richmond was used to being obeyed. Fancy washed the cups and made tea while Dorothy was in the shower. The shower curtain was opaque so all secrets were kept secret.

  Fancy stood at the window, drinking the fresh brew. The jogging brigade were already up and out, keeping fit, running around the misty grounds, wearing regulation jogging gear. Perhaps she should take more exercise. Exercise was supposed to be good for depression. Writing was a solitary occupation; bum on seat for hours, eyes glued to the screen, days and weather passing by in an endless stream of nothing. She only had the clouds for company.

  But this lecture was something she had to do. She decided she would say no to all future invitations, however flattering.

  Her last lecture. She had survived drugging and near drowning. Her appearance had to be stunning. She was a survivor. She peered among her limited wardrobe, looking for something that she hadn’t worn before but everything had had an outing or two.

  She went for the slim black jeans and fitted jacket with a plain white shirt. She did look stunning, the sweeping wings of her dark hair hiding the pain in her eyes. A white and silver scarf tied in a Chelsea knot went round her throat. Maybe someone would try to strangle her with it…. But who? She was suspicious of everyone. Even Jed. He only said he had rescued her. He could have been disturbed by someone and put on the rescue act.

  Maybe Dorothy Richmond was not a genuine police officer at all. Fancy could have been suffocated in her sleep. There had been plenty of opportunity, plenty of pillows.

  ‘For goodness’ sake,’ Fancy told her mirrored self. ‘Snap out of it, girl. You’re becoming paranoid.’

  Dorothy came out of the bathroom. She had dried and dressed again in the same creased clothes. ‘Talking to yourself now, are you?’ she said. ‘That’s a bad sign.’

  ‘It’s a good sign,’ said Fancy, putting on a soft pink lipstick and mascara. ‘It shows I’m still sane enough to talk to myself.’

  ‘Let’s go and have some breakfast,’ said Dorothy.

  ‘Are you going to be my taster?’ Fancy asked. ‘In case someone injects a dose of arsenic into my grapefruit?’

  Fancy knew she was being unnecessarily caustic but she couldn’t stop herself. What was the matter with her? She was not usually so rude.

  ‘Not in my job description,’ said Dorothy, putting on her serviceable lace-up shoes. Her coral lipstick was a quick swipe in the region of her mouth. It was not a good colour for her skin. She needed a make-up makeover.

  The early birds were already queuing outside the dining room, determined to get their favourite table or sit with friends. Fancy never minded where she sat or with whom, usually cruised around to find an empty seat. Now she would have to find two empty seats.

  ‘Let’s take a walk,’ said Fancy. ‘I don’t like queues. I’ll show you around the grounds.’

  ‘There’s no need,’ said Dorothy. ‘The super showed me around after the woman drowned in the lake at the beginning of the week.’

  Fancy stopped, puzzled. ‘You mean you’ve been here before? Detective Chief Superintendent Edwards showed you around? Why didn’t you say?’

  ‘You didn’t ask me.’

  There was no answer to that.

  ‘Looking forward to your last lecture, Fancy,’ said a group of young writers, eager-faced. ‘Everything you’ve said has been so helpful. What have you got in store for us this morning?’

  ‘It’s a surprise,’ said Fancy. ‘Wait and see.’

  ‘So you’re giving a lecture this morning,’ said Dorothy, helping herself to a packet of cornflakes, a packet of muesli and a banana. She piled the lot into one cereal bowl. Fancy, who had pounced on two empty seats like a predator, sat looking at her half-a-grapefruit.

  ‘My last. And my last ever, I hope. You can sit at the back of the conference room and stop anyone rushing in with a grenade or a stink bomb. Also watch out for any irate delegate who thinks I’ve stolen their priceless plot. They may have brought one of those sharp grapefruit knives in with them. I’m not wearing body armour.’

  ‘How many people do you expect at your lecture?’

  ‘Between seventy and eighty.’ This was a slight exaggeration but Fancy was past caring. The numbers always varied. Some delegates were itinerant. They cruised from lecturer to lecturer. And now she was a sort of novelty factor.

  ‘I’ll need six pairs of eyes,’ said Dorothy. ‘Perhaps I should phone Derby for backup.’

  ‘I thought you were backup.’

  ‘There’s a limit to what I can do,’ said Dorothy, going back to the fruit bowl for another banana. ‘I’m not a miracle woman.’

  Dorothy put away a good-sized breakfast, including the bacon, egg and beans fry-up. She passed on the toast. Fancy stuck to half a grapefruit, an apple and black coffee. She had not seen Jed yet this morning. She hoped he had got a good night’s sleep. He needed it.

  The room was crowded for her last lecture. There were some new faces, delegates who had strayed from their original courses, wanting to sample something different.

  Fancy spotted Phoebe Marr, the poetry lecturer, sitting at the end of a row. She was a petite woman, fairy-like, with a halo of fine blonde hair. She smiled at Fancy and waved.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ she said. ‘I’ve brought all of my lot to your talk. I thought they ought to know more about real life for their poems.’

  ‘They are welcome,’ Fancy said. ‘But I’m not sure if they will learn anything useful. My motto is: write plain. Cut all unnecessarily flowery words.’

  Phoebe laughed. ‘We could all learn from that.’

  ‘Perhaps we’ll learn something from you. Better words, brighter images.’

  Fancy launched into her lecture. There was so much to say and so little time left. She was concentrating this morning on how to weave in clues and red herrings and how to resolve all the loose ends. She wondered if there was such a thing as a criminal poem. Perhaps Phoebe would write one.

  ‘We’re now going to do some practical work,’ she said. ‘You’re all going to become detectives. Please go out into the grounds of the conference centre and search for anything you think might be a clue. You can’t go into the taped-off area, of course. That is still, sadly, an out-of-bounds crime scene. Remember the clue must not be contaminated. Either bring it back, untouched by hand, or write a description of it.’

  ‘We’re going to be real detectives!’

  ‘Wow!’

 
‘Ten minutes. That’s all you’ve got. Poets as well. No slacking. Back in ten minutes, everyone, please.’

  There was a scramble to get out. Fancy knew they would be gone fifteen minutes. She sat down, exhausted by the effort. She had not recovered from yesterday’s ordeal as much as she thought she had. She stretched out for a drink. She had brought her own bottle of water.

  ‘Do you want me to go out and search for clues?’ said Dorothy, amused. ‘Uniformed might have missed something.’

  ‘No, you’re supposed to stay here with me. I don’t think they’ve tried poisonous gas yet.’

  ‘I’ll tell you if I sniff anything obnoxious.’

  ‘I hope I don’t smell obnoxious,’ said Jed, coming into the hall. ‘Some of these new aftershaves are pretty weird.’ He walked to the front row and sat down, stretching out his legs. ‘So, come on, Miss Burne-Jones, lecture me.’

  ‘Why aren’t you at your course?’ said Fancy, trying to hide her pleasure at seeing him. He looked fresh and showered, and well groomed, his silver streaks brushed forward tidily. Straight from a senate debate at the forum. No toga; jeans and a sweater.

  ‘My course has run out of steam,’ he said. ‘I thought I’ve give you a try.’

  ‘You are not supposed to do that, change courses.’

  ‘Phoebe’s here.’

  ‘They’re going to write a poem about clues and red herrings,’ said Phoebe quickly. ‘This is work experience.’

  Jed grinned. ‘Neat. Mind if I have a word with Dorothy?’

  ‘Go ahead. Ask her what she had for breakfast.’

  Jed and Dorothy went into a huddle at the back of the room. They seemed to have a lot to say. Phoebe was scribbling on her notepad, inspired by something. Fancy had bought one of Phoebe’s slim volumes of poetry. She could write funny verse as well as the emotional stuff. Almost another Pam Ayres.

  The newly appointed detectives began drifting back with their finds wrapped in paper or a clean handkerchief. The noise was horrendous as they swapped stories.

  ‘Settle down, please,’ said Fancy, going back onto the platform. ‘Now let’s hear what you’ve found. One at a time, please.’

  ‘As I was crawling about in this Peruvian swamp, I found a bent brass hairpin. DNA shows that belonged to the murderer.’

  There was a general groan and laughter. It was the class clown. He could be relied upon for a joke in any circumstance.

  ‘And I found this torn up email, stuffed into a crevice in the wall.’

  ‘This is a tiny screw that has been sharpened. Could be a lethal weapon.’

  ‘My clue is a red one. A map showing where the treasure is hidden.’

  And so it went on. There was general laughter and amazement at what people had found in the grounds. They had a few minutes to translate their finds into writing and a few more minutes to hear some of them read out. Time was flying.

  Fancy then talked about resolving issues, tying up loose ends. One part of her mind was saying: Tie up your own loose ends, idiot, resolve this issue.

  No one wanted to leave, even though they could hear coffee being served on the lawn. There was a charming, eloquent vote of thanks from an articulate writer with good manners and loads of clapping.

  Fancy was touched by his kind words. ‘Thank you, thank you,’ she said. ‘It’s been a pleasure. You are all very talented and I wish you well in your writing careers.’

  Phoebe had taken her group to a corner of the lawn, with coffees, to discuss their thoughts and inspiration. They were all talking non-stop. Definitely inspired. It was good that the poets also found her talk enlivening.

  Fancy surveyed the conference room, now that it was empty of people. Most of them had left their clues behind. There was always some lost property. Cardigans left on backs of chairs, notebooks, bags. She gathered them up to take to the office.

  Jed was rummaging through the clues, not touching, but looking. Someone had found part of a credit card. It had been cut in half. It was the left half with the gold chip that validated the card. The imprint said: Mrs G Harlow. He recognized the bank logo.

  Jed picked it up carefully, using a handkerchief. ‘Look at this, Fancy. I think this means that Grace is here, too. The card numbers are incomplete but I should be able to identify the card from this amount of information.’

  ‘Grace? Thelma’s twin sister?’

  Fancy felt all her elation from the talk drain away. Not the other twin sister here, the serious one who had married Rupert Harlow. It was too much to take in.

  Jed pulled out his BlackBerry and keyed in some numbers. The amount of databases stored on the device was phenomenal. He also phoned the CID room at Derby and waited for an answer.

  ‘Leave all the clues in there,’ he said to Fancy, over the top of his mobile. ‘Dorothy will pack them up. The bent hairpin from the Peruvian swamps might be just what we’ve been looking for.’

  She tried to laugh, but it was difficult.

  He seemed to be a long time on his phone, listening and talking. She didn’t move away. She didn’t want to go out on the lawn on her own. She knew she would be besieged by writers and she really was too tired to talk any more.

  Jed came back to her, his face grave, and took her aside. ‘The pathologist has some interesting revelations. He tells me that the cut marks on the drowned victim’s finger tips were made by a serrated edge.’

  ‘A grapefruit knife?’

  Jed held out the cut credit card, now in a plastic specimen bag. ‘Don’t touch, but I can assure you that edge is very sharp. It’s an excellent defence weapon if you are ever assaulted.’

  ‘Sure, I always carry a cut-up credit card in my pocket when I’m out.’

  ‘You should.’

  ‘So someone tried to destroy Melody’s fingerprints,’ said Fancy, noting this small fact for some future plot. ‘But why?’

  ‘So we couldn’t identify her. The victim’s body had a very faint scar on the lower right abdomen. An appendectomy incision made a long time ago. Probably when she was a teenager. This pathologist is a curious man and he made some enquiries. It took some time to find medical records that went back that far.’

  ‘So Melody had her appendix out.’

  ‘No, Melody didn’t. But Grace did.’

  Fancy felt the cold returning to her body as she took in Jed’s words. ‘Are you telling me that it wasn’t Melody that we found in the lake? Are you telling me that it was Grace, the other twin sister?’

  ‘Yes. The drowned woman was Grace Marchant, known here as Melody, which was her writing name. So is Thelma still alive, or was Grace killed by someone else?’

  ‘And where do I come into all this?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Fancy. We have no idea. I only wish I knew.’

  SIXTEEN

  Still Thursday

  Fancy stood and felt like Alice in a blue gown, looking down a large hole and wondering where it would take her if she fell. It would be cold and dark and hollow, no Red Queen waiting with a chopper.

  ‘Not Thelma?’

  ‘No, she was not Thelma,’ said Jed. ‘It was Grace, the other twin, the serious one. There’s no doubt about it. Even with the damaged fingerprints. The scar is the conclusive identity evidence.’

  ‘Why did Grace call herself Melody?’

  ‘It was her writing name. Melody Marchant, their mother’s name when she was a blues singer. Grace wrote children’s stories. Lots of writers have different names for writing, don’t they, noms de plumes?’

  ‘I use my real name.’

  ‘Lucky you. It’s a nice one.’

  ‘So where does this leave us now?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know. Perhaps Thelma is still alive and out there somewhere, despite the court case and being declared dead. Perhaps it is someone else after the brewery money. The revenge theory is still possible.’

  ‘Do I have to stay here? I’ve done my last lecture. I could go home now.’

  ‘But the mystery will follow you. It had al
ready begun in London – the Underground, the bus, the slab of concrete – before you came to Derbyshire. You’re safer here with me and Officer Richmond.’

  Fancy could see integrity in his eyes. And the concern.

  ‘So who is the farmer who came up from Cornwall saying he was Melody’s husband?’

  ‘We believe he’s Grace’s husband, that is, the writer, Melody.’

  ‘But Grace’s husband is Rupert Harlow.’

  ‘Yes, so this must be Rupert Harlow and it was his car that was set on fire.’

  Fancy collapsed on a nearby seat. ‘This is all too complicated. So Rupert Harlow is now a farmer in Cornwall with a wife who writes children’s stories? My brain has gone into stress mode.’

  ‘Why not? He was sick of Surbiton and being a solicitor. And when Thelma disappeared, he decided to start a new life, miles away, with Grace. They moved to Cornwall, bought a farm with her half of the inheritance, started rearing sheep.’

  ‘Save me,’ said Fancy. ‘From mental overload.’

  ‘I need to talk to Rupert Harlow. Let’s go out and get some fresh air. Show your face. It might worry a few people.’ Jed took her arm and propelled her towards the door. ‘Coffee? You need the caffeine.’

  ‘Yes, but I’ll get it myself.’ She knew he would not like her saying this.

  ‘You don’t trust me?’ He looked appalled.

  ‘It’s not that I don’t trust you,’ she said carefully. She needed him. ‘I think I would feel happier if in future I check everything first myself. It’s not that I think someone would tamper with a big flask of coffee and drug a dozen random innocent people. That would be totally at odds with what has happened to me. It’s always been directed solely at me. Frankly, after all this, I don’t trust anyone.’

  Jed nodded. ‘Fair enough, Fancy. Richmond and I will do what we can to ensure your safety. We’re relieved that everything has failed so far.’