Money Never Sleeps
Page 21
‘Sorry, is that wrong? I can take them back.’
‘No, they’re perfect,’ Fancy said quickly. ‘I’m sure everything will fit and I’m very grateful. It was thoughtful of you.’
Jed finished his tea. ‘I’ll see you downstairs when you are ready. Then we can talk. Take your time. By the way, that mine is called Pennyroyal. It closed twenty years ago. A lot of history down there.’
The bath was a luxury too. She wallowed in the warmth, washing the scented water over her skin with a big sponge. There was only a shower at Lakeside and only a shower at her converted church home. Both seemed a million miles away, a million years ago. It was if neither existed any more.
She washed her hair, rinsing out the reek of canal water. She must have smelt awful. Poor Jed. She dried herself and her hair with big towels, again blessing the generosity and kindness of her hosts. The underwear and tracksuit fitted, more or less. They were baggy and made for any shape of person. The sky-blue was a change after a week of wearing nothing but black and white.
No make-up. Her hair hung loose down her back, drying in the warm air. Socks on her poor feet. The cuts and scratches still hurt but the socks were big and comforting. She came down the stairs gingerly, hanging onto the hand rail, not wanting to slip on the polished treads.
‘Good morning, everyone,’ she said, tentatively, wary of her welcome.
‘What a transformation,’ said Fred. He was busy cleaning the bar. ‘Did the early beer delivery wake you?’
‘Never heard a thing.’
‘We’ve laid a table over here for you in the corner. Privacy, if you’ve got things to talk about. Breakfast menu on the table. We can rustle up anything you want.’ Betty was already busy, bustling about.
‘What are you going to tell me?’ Fancy asked Jed after ordering simple scrambled eggs and coffee. ‘About last night?’
‘There’s an awful lot to tell you,’ said Jed. ‘You’ll have to wait. We’ll find a quiet spot. Then we’ll go back to the centre and collect your things. They will have cleared your room out this morning. Room 425 is no longer yours. The girls will have done it for you.’
‘Good heavens. Has everybody gone home now?’
He nodded. ‘They’re getting ready now for the next influx of students.’
‘How awful. I never said goodbye to anyone.’
‘They have a website – perhaps you could post a message on there.’
‘That’s a good idea. I don’t want them to think I just walked out.’
‘You were dragged out.’
‘I had already packed everything except toiletries and night things. I don’t know what I’m going to do. The drive back to London is out of the question at the moment; my feet are too sore.’
‘Don’t worry about that. If you definitely have to go back to London, I could drive you, any day. Then you could collect your car later.’
‘There’s no reason to go back just yet. I could stay here for a few days,’ said Fancy, the idea taking hold. ‘I like Castleton. It feels very safe.’
‘There’s Peveril Castle to look at on the edge of town. Henry II built it. A Norman church, big caverns open to the public. Then there’s the Town Ditch, although you’ve probably had enough of caverns and mines.’
‘No caverns. But a castle in the open sounds good. Yes, I’ll ask Betty if I can stay for a few extra days. I could give her a hand, washing up or something.’
‘Pubs have dishwashers.’
‘Shows how ignorant I am.’
‘But I’m sure she would enjoy your company.’
The toast arrived, hot and freshly crisp, no brown roof tiles. The butter melted on it quickly. Marmalade came in a lidded pot, not fiddly little packets.
‘So, Mr Detective Man, aren’t you going to tell me anything?’ said Fancy, her mouth full of hot toast. ‘I’m the victim here, remember?’
‘It’s all your own fault,’ said Jed, pouring himself another black coffee. ‘You brought it on yourself.’
Fancy gasped, then remembered to close her mouth. ‘What? Me?’
‘Yes, you, Miss Jones. I had a look through a couple of back copies of Macabre Mysteries and I found the cold case of The Missing Cover Girl that I wrote for the magazine. You may remember it.’
‘It was very well written,’ said Fancy in a small voice.
‘But someone, and maybe it was you, had added a footnote. It said: “This cold case is getting warm. Perhaps there will be further developments in the case of The Missing Cover Girl. Watch this space.”’
‘Oh yes, that was me,’ said Fancy, trying to remember why she had put the footnote. ‘There was an empty space at the bottom of a page. It needed filling up. And I thought there might be more DNA evidence surfacing. You never know. And, of course, it was a plug to make people buy more copies of the magazine.’
‘Well, you did more than that. You alerted someone that quite soon the case might be blown open. So they decided to either scare you off, or kill you off. They nearly managed to do both.’
‘A sobering thought,’ said Fancy. ‘Do we know who it is?’
‘We’re getting close. But the DNA database came up with something interesting. They had a Jane Doe on ice. Jane Doe is an unidentified female body.’
‘I know that.’
‘She’d been in a road accident earlier in the year. No identification and no one came forward with a missing person. Eventually a Jane or John Doe will be disposed of, usually cremated, but a DNA record will be kept, or some small piece or organ, just in case.’
‘No one claimed this accident victim?’
‘No. But computers are wonderful. Her DNA print matched that of Thelma Marchant, the twin who disappeared all those many years ago, when Rupert Harlow was charged but acquitted of her murder.’
‘So he hadn’t murdered her.’
‘No, he was innocent.’
‘And then she was declared dead seven years later and Grace inherited her sister’s half of the brewery millions. Grace had it all. Grace also married Rupert. She had the man and the money.’
‘But Thelma wasn’t dead at all. She was living out her own life. We don’t know where or how, but she must have been furious. Firstly, she had wanted Rupert Harlow to be found guilty of her murder, and sentenced. I can’t remember if the death penalty was around then. And she wanted her rightful share of the inheritance. Instead of which, she got neither. Which made for one very angry woman.’
‘Why didn’t she come forward and claim her share of the inheritance?’
‘Perhaps she thought she would be charged with wasting police time by letting Rupert go to court on the murder trial. She may have thought she would go to prison or that Rupert would sue her for false evidence, the bloodstains.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Fancy, absorbing all these new facts. ‘It sounds like the plot of one of my books.’
‘Far too fanciful and far-fetched. Real life can be even more astonishing. Let’s go back to the conference centre and fetch your things. You wouldn’t want to lose your lecture notes. They might impound them. And I need you to make a statement of everything that happened last night, everything you can remember.’
The landlady, Betty, was delighted that Fancy wanted to stay on. ‘Of course, we shall be pleased to have you around. Stay and recuperate. Castleton is a pretty place. When you feel better, you’ll be able to explore. People walk for miles.’
‘I could give you a hand. Make sandwiches or something.’
‘Are you any good at bar work?’ Fred asked.
Fancy looked blank.
‘Pouring a pint?’ Jed whispered.
‘I could collect glasses, wipe tables, stack the dishwasher,’ Fancy offered.
‘Done,’ said Fred. ‘You’re hired. When you’re wearing shoes again.’
Fancy met Jed outside the pub. She had plaited her hair, having nothing to pin it up with. No combs or grips. All lost in the canal. She eased herself into his low-slung car. Jed had forgotten to buy a to
othbrush. She wanted her things.
‘I was glad it wasn’t your car boot,’ said Fancy.
‘You thought it was me?’ Jed hid his bewilderment.
‘By then I didn’t trust anyone. And you were always disappearing.’
‘It’s called work. Remember that funny word beginning with W?’
‘You told me you were retired.’
‘Semi-retired. There’s a difference. I didn’t want you to think I was watching you.’ He put the car in gear and eased away from the roadside.
He drove slowly through Castleton, pointing out sights to Fancy. ‘That’s another good pub. That’s a good café. That’s where I bought your tracksuit.’
‘I like this place,’ said Fancy contentedly. ‘I like it more and more. And all these great stretches of hills, rising everywhere, all around, so very green.’
‘Spoken like a true townswoman. They’re called dales.’
‘Now you’re making fun of me.’
‘Not everyone is in awe of being with a famous crime writer, especially when she hasn’t any shoes on and her plaited hair is coming undone.’
‘Perhaps someone ought to have a look at my feet,’ said Fancy, still feeling the soreness. And one felt swollen. Perhaps she had broken a metatarsal. They were such tiny, bird-like bones. ‘And I’m covered in bruises.’
‘I agree. A trip to A&E is on this morning’s agenda.’
‘Thank you. I don’t want to be a nuisance.
‘You’re not a nuisance.’ He was reading her reluctance. ‘They don’t do plaster these days for foot bones. They do strapping. The police surgeon should have a look at them, too. It’s all evidence. I do have to get a statement from you, if you can cope with going through it all again.’
Fancy nodded. ‘I’ll try to remember everything.’
The journey back to the conference centre was nothing like her previous journey. She had Jed with her and she was overwhelmingly happy in his company. She had never felt so completely at home with a man before. She remembered the tender way he had looked after her last night, removing her sodden clothes with every thought for her modesty and comfort.
Again sponging her sore feet, wiping the blood off her face and crusted nose. He had helped her into Betty’s voluminous flannelette nightdress, never a hand straying to the wrong place.
‘Thank you,’ she had said, touching his limp arm, forgetting he couldn’t feel it.
‘Thank you for trusting me again,’ he said now, not taking his eyes off the road.
She began to recognize where they were. Soon they would be back at the conference centre. As they turned into the driveway, Jed crawled over the speed bumps, careful not to jolt her. The entrance was deserted. No cars, no people. Everyone had gone bar a few staff cars in the furthest area, some delivery vans unloading boxes.
‘This feels very strange,’ said Fancy. ‘As if the life has gone from the place.’
‘A different sort of activity. Cleaning. Preparing rooms. Getting ready for the next influx of people. Another conference about to start.’
There was a steady hum of vacuum cleaners and floor polishers. Trolleys of cleaning products stood about. Foyer flowers were being changed. Windows wiped down and polished. It was a mammoth spring clean.
They went through the entrance hall into the vinery, not expecting to see anyone they knew. A woman was perched on a stool by the noticeboards, taking down the dozens of notices, AGM minutes, instructions to do this and that, photos of speakers and details of the courses.
She almost fell off the stool when she saw Fancy, her mouth open.
‘Good heavens, Fancy,’ she said. ‘We all thought you’d gone home.’
‘No,’ said Fancy. ‘A slight delay. Call it technical research.’
The woman got off the stool and gathered the fallen papers and her wits. Drawing pins had scattered everywhere. She took her time collecting them. Fancy did not move to help. Jed seemed to be searching in his pockets with his good hand.
‘Well, that’s all right, then,’ said Jessie, the conference secretary. ‘We thought it funny, you not saying goodbye to anyone. Someone handed in a pearl necklace, by the way. They found it on the lawn at the dregs party. It might be yours. We all thought you had gone off to a private farewell party.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Fancy.
‘A private, fond goodbye,’ said Jessie with a wink. ‘Well, you know. You and the dishy detective. It wasn’t exactly a state secret.’
TWENTY-TWO
Still Friday Morning
‘We’ve come to collect Fancy’s case and her lecture notes. Her car is parked on the upper level, above Lakeside,’ said Jed easily. ‘Probably the last car left.’
‘Oh, that’s fine,’ said Jessie, still flustered and red-faced from bending over. ‘Take your time. The luggage may be in the manager’s office. I don’t really know. So much stuff gets left behind, especially hanging behind bathroom doors. You’d be surprised. I’m just clearing up all the odds and ends. The dining room is still open and the hot water heater’s working. You can make yourself some coffee, if you don’t mind a packet of instant Nescafé and those fiddly milk cartons.’
‘Thanks,’ said Fancy. ‘That would be lovely.’
‘That’s fine. No need to hurry, is there?’ Jed asked. ‘Such a lovely morning. We can enjoy the gardens by ourselves.’
Jessie flashed a smile. ‘Sorry, gotta go, folks, got a hundred things to do before I go home. I want to be leaving soon. Hope you can find everything you need. Like the tracksuit. Different,’ she flashed at Fancy, as if she had just noticed.
It was indeed strange. All the vibrant life had been drained from the conference centre. Empty dining room, now cleared of breakfast debris and nothing set on the bare tables for lunch or dinner. The next conference would not start until the next day, Saturday. The bar was closed, shutters down. No one in the shop or foyer. In fact, no one around at all. Except the domestic staff.
The gardeners were busy mowing the lawns. Walking on the soft grass was bliss for her feet. Fancy and Jed had the gardens to themselves, sat on the bank of the sloping lawn, mugs of coffee in their hands, watching other people work. The local birds had returned, chirruping happily in their tall trees. They saw a squirrel hopping across the grass. The itinerant tabby looked forlorn and wandered over to them for company. He meowed hopefully for some breakfast sausage.
‘What are we waiting for?’ Fancy asked nervously. ‘I want to get my things and be gone from this place. It’s so creepy.’
‘Not long now, Fancy. And it isn’t creepy. That’s your writer’s imagination working overtime. Look at the sunshine and the lovely gardens. Be patient, Fancy. I’m with you. Nothing can happen to you while I’m here.’
‘The place is deserted.’
‘So is the Sahara desert. And Northcote is not deserted. You’d be surprised how many people are here, all working.’
Fancy tried not to think. The horrors of the previous evening were returning. The journey in the car boot, being dragged down the steps to darkness and nowhere. She knew it would be a long time before the nightmare receded. Castleton might help. It was a lovely place. She really liked the sprawling village.
Surprising thoughts were coming into her mind. She had never really enjoyed living in London, all the fumes and noise and traffic. The lodge seemed unnatural. Neither a proper church, nor a real home. A sort of halfway house, suitable for an eccentric London writer in limbo, but not forever. And the endless litter, mindless street furniture, rutted roads, the yobs trawling the streets looking for trouble.
On the drive through Castleton she had seen several House for Sale signs. No harm in looking around. She could write just as well in the depth of the Dales. What was email for? Snail mail still existed, too. Derbyshire was not exactly the other side of the world and the views were beautiful. And she fancied somewhere with a proper bath. She wanted to spend years, soaking away the bad memories.
‘Is there a
nything else you’ve forgotten to tell me?’
‘Yes. We discovered there was an extra person at the conference. Someone who had no authority to be here, but nobody noticed, of course; who was wearing a white badge like a lot of other first-time delegates; who ate in the dining room, drank in the bar, but went to nothing. No talks, no lectures. Not a writer. It took a long time to track him down.’
‘The invisible delegate. So who was it?’
‘We think it was his car that was set on fire. And it had a French number plate. The plate has been traced through the vehicle licence records. Bless all those databases.’
‘Who to?’
‘A man called Leo Cousseau. Address: unknown.’
‘But I thought it was Grace’s husband’s car that was set on fire? The farmer from Cornwall.’
‘He was never contacted and has never been here. I’ve had it checked. He knew nothing about his wife’s death and never drove up here. He’s still in Cornwall, with his sheep.’
‘Poor man. So he didn’t know?’
‘No, not till last night. Local CID had to go round to tell him.’
‘Who was supposed to phone him?’
‘The conference secretary, Jessie Whytely. Bad news is her unfortunate responsibility. She phoned from the conference office, or so she told everyone she had. Then a man, apparently from Cornwall, arrived, so everyone thought it was the husband, Rupert Harlow. But the farmer didn’t arrive. It was instead a man called Leo Cousseau from France.’
‘But I thought you interviewed Rupert Harlow.’
‘So did I. But I actually talked to this Leo Cousseau. He’s a consummate actor. I was taken in. But later, I thought, where’s the remorse, the grief? His wife has been found dead and he shows no emotion. He knew all the facts and his story was word perfect.’
Fancy stood up, unsteadily, putting down the coffee mug. Her head ached. ‘I want to collect my bags and notes and be gone from here. Everything freaks me out. I’m nothing, nobody, only a hard-working crime writer. I don’t mean to harm anyone. None of this is anything to do with me.’
‘Money never sleeps,’ said Jed.