Money Never Sleeps

by Whitelaw, Stella

  ‘So far? That’s hardly reassuring.’

  ‘What else can I say?’

  ‘But I was in the lake, half-drowned. If you hadn’t come along … I might have been in the Derby morgue this morning in a box. It’s a nightmare.’

  ‘But you’re not and that’s what’s important ,’ said Jed firmly. ‘Be positive.’

  ‘I’ll get your coffee. You can trust me,’ said WPC Richmond. The sturdy officer had a glimmer of warmth in her eyes. Perhaps she was starting to bond with Fancy. ‘Black?’

  Fancy nodded. ‘All right, thank you.’

  ‘I started reading one of your books last night. It’s good. The heroine, the Pink Pen Detective, is a lot like me. Same kind of thinking.’

  Fancy and Jed said nothing as WPC Richmond joined the queue at the coffee trolley. They exchanged the shadow of a smile.

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘You’ve another fan.’

  ‘I’ll give her a pink pen.’

  ‘She’ll treasure it.’

  Jed told Fancy nothing about his meeting with Rupert Harlow. The man seemed resigned to the situation, slumped in a chair, his face grey with fatigue, as if he knew Grace would be murdered one day. All traces of the London solicitor, the prospective MP, had long gone. He was all farmer in tweeds and waterproof, without the mud.

  At first he was difficult to pin down to a meeting, was uneasy. He gave Jed a dozen reasons why he was too busy.

  Jed did not give up. He was relentless. ‘We are trying to find out what happened to your wife. It doesn’t help if you won’t talk to us.’

  ‘I knew this would happen one day,’ Rupert said. ‘It was a disaster waiting to happen. Thelma hated Grace. Even when they were children, they were always fighting. Thelma was jealous of Grace, of her beauty, of her brains.’

  ‘But Thelma was beautiful too.’

  ‘It was a different sort of beauty. Brassy, more glamour, superficial. Grace was really lovely.’

  ‘I’d like to know everything, right from the beginning,’ said Jed. He had his laptop open. ‘This is an informal meeting between you and me. No tape recorder, no caution. I am helping DI Bradley who’s in charge of the case.’

  ‘Once upon a time I wanted to be a Member of Parliament,’ said Rupert Harlow, in a resigned, bedtime story sort of way. ‘A foolish dream. I wasn’t cut out for politics. But I did meet Grace at constituency meetings and that was the best thing that ever happened to me. She was a press officer and most efficient at her job.’

  ‘And you fell for her?’

  ‘Not exactly. I was always a slow mover in that department. I admired Grace tremendously but she was so busy, she didn’t have time for romance. I felt it was important to establish my career first, so that I had something to offer her.’

  ‘Then you met Thelma?’

  Rupert’s face relaxed momentarily. ‘I can’t explain what happened. It was at a pre-election party on the Terrace at the House of Commons. A party for new prospective candidates. Thelma blew in like a display of fireworks. She was dazzling, her hair like spun gold. So glamorous with such confidence. I even remember what she was wearing – a sort of white Grecian thing with high-heeled gold sandals. I’ve no idea what Grace was wearing. Her usual black, I think.’

  ‘And you were bowled over?’

  ‘She bowled me over. She made a beeline for me, stayed with me all evening, on my arm, made it look as if we were an item. It was heady stuff, I can tell you, especially for someone like me who had had little success with women in the past. As I said, I was a slow mover.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘In no time, we were engaged. Don’t ask me how it happened, but it just did. Looking back, I think she was seeing an illustrious career ahead for me and for herself as my wife. She loved the glamour of politics, being photographed with me everywhere, nightclubs, parties. And she was putting Grace in the shade. That was the real motive. She wanted to snatch me away from Grace. And I let her.’

  Jed made his notes discreetly. ‘So you got married?’

  ‘Before the election. She wanted to make sure of me. She knew that once I was elected, I might become a very eligible bachelor MP. And Grace would still be working with me. It was a very posh wedding, at St Margaret’s, Westminster. Thelma looked like a dream in white satin, flowing veil, tiara. That dress and the honeymoon cost me a fortune.’

  ‘Was Grace a bridesmaid?’

  ‘No, I don’t think she was asked. Thelma left her in the shade. Grace would have looked lovely, might have stolen some of the bride’s limelight.’

  ‘But you didn’t get elected.’

  ‘No,’ Rupert let out a long sigh. ‘I had neglected my electioneering, too busy going out to nightclubs with Thelma and being photographed for the tabloids. My constituents decided I was a playboy, not serious about their problems and worries. They voted with their feet, in the other direction. I came second in the polls.’

  ‘A disappointment for your new bride?’

  ‘She was furious. I’ve never seen anyone so angry. She screamed and yelled at me. We’d bought a new house in Surbiton and I thought she would wreck it. But eventually she calmed down when I said I would stand again at the next election, and work a lot harder. Next time I would get in. Meanwhile I had a job with a reputable firm of solicitors, and the money was coming in – for her to spend.’

  ‘You had lots of nice holidays?’

  ‘Lots of nice holidays. Crete, Barbados, the Seychelles.’

  ‘But you were still seeing Grace?’

  ‘Of course I was still seeing Grace. I was working with her. She was helping me with my new campaign, when she had time. She had been promoted to Tory Head Office in Great Smith Street and was making a name for herself there. The girl had brains as well as beauty.’

  ‘Thelma didn’t like that.’

  ‘I made sure that Thelma didn’t know. She would not have been pleased. She was always very jealous of Grace. It wasn’t even about the money; they both had an inheritance, left to them by their father. They were neither of them short of money.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  Rupert looked uncomfortable. He was restless in his chair. ‘Do I have to say any more? Why do you have to know?’

  ‘I would remind you that your wife, Grace, has been found drowned. It was not suicide. She had been drugged. And that is murder. If you want us to find out who did it, then you have to cooperate, Mr Harlow.’

  ‘I’m not proud of it but I suppose I had always loved Grace, right from the beginning, and then Thelma came along and bowled me over. And they both looked alike. It was uncanny and so confusing. Sometimes when I was with Thelma, I would half close my eyes and imagine I was with Grace.’

  ‘So you began an affair with Grace,’ said Jed, getting Rupert back on track.

  ‘Yes. I couldn’t stop myself. Grace was the one I had really wanted. She was bright, intelligent, good company, as well as looking so beautiful. And she seemed to like me. I couldn’t believe it. Stupid old me, who married the wrong sister.’ Rupert seemed to slump even further into the chair.

  ‘Would you like to stop now?’ asked Jed. ‘Have a cup of coffee or something? We can take a break.’

  ‘No, thank you. It wouldn’t help. Grace has gone now. I don’t know how I’ll manage without her.’

  Jed gave Rupert a few moments to recover himself. ‘Then what happened?’

  Rupert wiped his face. ‘Thelma found us together, Grace and me. She went berserk. I thought she would kill us both. She had a knife in her hand and Grace did get hurt. Those blood marks on the stairs. Grace was running down the stairs, out of the house, her cut hand smearing the wall.’

  ‘So Grace got away?’

  ‘Yes, she had her car. She drove off, leaving me to deal with Thelma. Her presence only made Thelma more furious. I don’t remember much more of the evening, except that it was one row after another, shouting, yelling. The next morning she had gone, completely disappeared. The wall was still smeared w
ith blood.’

  ‘She took nothing with her?’

  ‘No. She wanted it to look as if I had killed her. But I knew that I hadn’t. The police thought otherwise.’

  ‘Why didn’t you report her as missing?’

  ‘I thought she had gone off in a huff. Gone to stay with one of her model friends, or with her mother. I was glad she’d gone. I wasn’t going to make any moves to get her back. I didn’t want her back. Look, I’ve had enough of this.’

  ‘So it was her mother who reported her missing?’

  ‘Yes, that was my mistake. I should have done it. I was so glad to get a bit of peace and quiet. I had my job, a busy office, something to get on with, no domestic conflict at home. Peace and quiet.’

  ‘Did you see Grace during that time?’

  ‘Not on a personal basis. But during pre-election work, occasionally. We let it cool down. Can I go now?’

  ‘What happened after that?’

  ‘When I was charged with Thelma’s murder, of course I was dropped as a candidate. You could hear the clang all the way to Surbiton.’

  ‘And you went to court?’

  ‘The Old Bailey. It was a scary experience. But there was no evidence. It was all circumstantial. Thelma wanted it to look as if I had murdered her, but I hadn’t. Even the blood streaks were not conclusive. No body was ever found. The case was dismissed for lack of evidence.’

  ‘Did you take up with Grace again, after the court case?’

  ‘Not straight away. She was upset about our affair and upset about her sister disappearing. But eventually after the trial, we got together again, though quietly at first. It was inevitable. And that was when we decided to make a new start to our life in Cornwall. It was the best decision we ever made.’

  ‘What about the money?’

  ‘The money?’ Rupert looked surprised as if the money had nothing to do with it. A sort of curtain came down over his face.

  ‘Yes, the brewery money. The fortune left to both sisters.’

  ‘Grace had her half and part of it went towards buying our farm in Cornwall. She was tired of politics by then, and only too happy to get away. Thelma’s half was untouched until seven years had passed, and she could be legally declared dead. Although the money then passed to Grace, she did not touch it. She felt it was tainted. It’s still in an account, earning a bit of interest. Not much these days.’

  ‘But still a lot of money?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so, a great deal of money.’

  ‘Who gets it now?’

  ‘Me, I suppose. I don’t know. I suppose Grace left a will. It’s not something we talked about. I never thought it would happen.’

  Jed closed his laptop and stood up. ‘I should watch your back, Rupert Harlow. Someone is out there, determined to get to that money. Money is always the root of crime. Money and revenge. Be careful. Have you any children?’

  ‘No. Couldn’t have any. Grace only had half an ovary.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll be in touch. I’m really sorry about Grace. Really sorry.’

  Jed found Fancy on the lawn, talking to a group of writers. She felt safer out in the open air, among colourful flower beds and trees and a quilt of mist. Her coffee had gone cold beside her. Her group surrounded her. She was safe with them.

  ‘Have you got a moment, Fancy?’ Jed stood over the group, dark and tall and authoritative. There was no arguing with the man.

  ‘Okay, folks, see you all again later. It’s time you went away and did some writing. A day without writing is a day wasted.’ Fancy turned to Jed. ‘What is it?’

  ‘We need to look at Grace’s room. I’ve got the key.’

  ‘Let’s go, then.’ She didn’t ask why.

  She followed him into the main house, the mansion that had brought up the Victorian coal-owner’s big family. It all seemed vaguely familiar. Fancy remembered the curving staircase and the wide corridors and then the bedroom with the six beds. But Jed was not taking her there. He was taking her to the room opposite.

  The bedroom was on the other side of the shared luxury bathroom Fancy would have been sharing with Grace.

  ‘This was Grace’s room, or Melody as we knew her. She had a room in the main house because she was the conference hostess.’

  It was a pleasant room with large windows on two walls and facing views of the garden and the fields. It had a double bed, made up with quilt and cushions and modern cedar wood furniture and fitted beige carpet. Grace’s personal belongings were strewn around. Lots of make-up, a portable radio, lots of files about the guest speakers who needed to be escorted.

  ‘I was supposed to be in the room opposite,’ said Fancy. ‘But I refused it. I didn’t like it.’

  ‘What a difficult speaker you are.’

  ‘Very awkward. A pain.’

  Fancy opened the double wardrobe door. The first few hangers contained long, floating dresses and skirts, pale pastel colours, very Melody. But on the last few hangers were plain skirts, navy and brown, with blouses and a couple of plain jackets. A very different style of dressing.

  ‘And look at these,’ said Fancy. There were three wig stands on a shelf with different wigs arranged on them; a golden one, a dark-brown short-cut and a wiry grey.

  ‘Three wigs,’ said Jed. ‘What does all that mean?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. But Grace was a complicated person. Two kinds of clothes and three wigs. She was playing a part.’

  ‘Amateur dramatics? Perhaps she was in the end of conference show.’

  ‘Maybe. We need to find out.’

  By the side of the bed, on the nightstand, were several manuscripts. Grace had brought some of her children’s stories to work on. Fancy was full of admiration for anyone who could get a children’s story published. It was well known that it was the hardest of all the writing genres. People thought it was easy because of the shortness of the stories and because they were for children but those were exactly the reasons for the difficulty in getting published.

  Fancy scanned a couple of title pages and gasped. ‘Good heavens,’ she said, echoing Jed’s amazement. ‘Listen to this. Her heroine is a girl called Pinkie. The blurb is that she is a pen-pushing girl detective. Look. Pinkie, the Pen-pushing Girl Detective.’

  ‘But you write the Pink Pen Detective books, don’t you?’

  ‘And Grace was writing something quite a bit similar. I’ve had eight Pink Pen crime books published. I don’t know if these Pinkie stories have been published or are newly written. Maybe Grace thought I had somehow pinched her idea, but quite honestly it looks as if she had … well, adopted a form of my idea, but written it for children.’ Fancy tried to word it diplomatically.

  Jed thumbed through the manuscripts. ‘Why bring them to the conference, though, if they have been published? It looks as if she was hoping to meet a publisher here or find an interested agent.’

  Fancy turned the pages, reading the odd paragraph.

  ‘Perhaps she was trying to get rid of me, put an end to my books, so that her stories could have a clear run. It’s possible. Writers can be incredibly paranoid about their work.’ It was difficult to believe; Melody had been such a pleasant woman.

  ‘Paranoid enough to push you under a train? A sheep farmer from Cornwall?’

  ‘Grace had money. She could have paid someone to do it. Given them some other reason. I don’t know. But it is possible. It’s the first link we’ve found. The first possible reason for the attacks on me, however odd it may seem.’

  ‘But the attacks have continued long after Grace was drowned.’

  ‘I don’t know. But the police could look into Grace’s bank accounts. See if she has recently paid someone a large sum of money to get rid of me in London. Maybe some criminal who owed her a favour. Perhaps the attempts were meant to injure me, not kill me, so that I couldn’t write any more. Remember, there were three attempts. It’s a possibility.’

  ‘Does this discovery make you feel any better about the recent events?’ said Jed, still
half-reading another manuscript, flipping over the pages.

  ‘In a way, yes. It’s a reason. Some writers go to great lengths to get their work published. Grace may have thought it unfair that I got published and she didn’t. I don’t know. We can’t ask her.’

  ‘Or we could ask her husband, Rupert Harlow.’

  ‘He’s not likely to know. Writers keep their feelings closely to themselves.’

  Jed closed the pages. ‘So I’ve noticed.’

  SEVENTEEN

  Thursday Afternoon

  Lunchtime at the conference that last day was buzzing with excitement. All the main courses had finished, wrapped up. There were no more talks or workshops. It was time for fun and relaxation, cementing friendships. Also time for packing, making arrangements and phoning home.

  Officer Richmond and Fancy sat at a corner table where Fancy could have her back against a wall. It seemed the safest place. Dorothy had a good view of the whole room from her seat beside Fancy. They let someone else do the serving for a change. Lunch was lasagne and salad and new potatoes.

  The discoveries in Grace’s bedroom had shaken Fancy. No one had stolen her ideas before, as far as she knew. Pinkie indeed. It was a blatant lift of her themed crime books. But it was not an offence. She could hardly sue. There was no copyright on ideas or titles.

  Before lunch they had made a brief visit to the IT room and looked up Grace’s website on the internet. It was pretty bare of details, not even a grainy photograph. Nothing about writing or publishing Pinkie books. She had had two children’s books published. One called Jumping Bean and the other Hedgehog with Hiccups. And both published some years back by a reputable house, about the same time that Fancy’s first Pink Pen mystery came out. There was nothing more recent.

  Fancy’s detective books had generated a lot of publicity, daytime TV sofa shows, reviews in the newspapers. Even a couple of magazine articles with touched-up glossy photos. It had been a heady time. Fancy had thought for a while that she had arrived. She soon discovered that she hadn’t. She had merely touched fame with the tip of her pen.