by A B Morgan
‘Ella?’ Konrad called to her and she halted in the doorway. ‘I know this is a lot to ask of you, but something very sinister goes on in the world of the Nithercotts and they keep getting away with it. We need to get to the truth of what has happened in that family, before anyone else gets hurt.’
Ella nodded, tears not far from spilling over her lower eyelids. What he said was correct.
‘That agency nurse - Isla Renfrew – she was Abigail’s cousin, and she didn’t have an accident like they said in the newspapers, did she?’
Konrad pursed his lips. ‘No. I suspect not. And she wasn’t the first family member to meet a dubious end; we just need to find out why. The probate information goes a long way to providing a huge motive for Guy Nithercott to bump off his parents and get his hands on the money earlier than expected. But it’s nothing new and what we really need is cold hard evidence to present to the police about murder and about Abigail being Logan Peplow’s stalker. You and Clare both know things about Abigail that no one else does.’
‘If they’re to be believed.’ Ella allowed the door to swing back in Konrad’s face.
CHAPTER TWENTY
When is a hairdresser not a hairdresser?
Clare’s heart plummeted as she turned the corner of Draycott Street and took in the scene that greeted her. No wonder it had been easy to book an appointment. Pearls and Curls hadn’t updated their front window display since women flicked their fringes and used Harmony Hairspray. It was impossible to see inside.
‘This can’t be right,’ Clare scrabbled around in her handbag to retrieve her phone and dial Dr Niall Jameson’s personal number, not knowing who else to seek advice from.
‘Clare. What’s the news? How’s your Barnet looking?’
‘Hi, Niall. My appointment’s not until eleven, but I think I’m at the wrong place.’
‘Pearls and Curls.’
‘Yes, I’m on Draycott Street looking at it. The place is nothing but a deserted old workshop. There’s no real salon. All I can see is a big window and a shabby door. They both need repainting before the whole lot rots and the glass in the window falls out.’
‘Doesn’t sound like the sort of place a woman of Abigail Nithercott’s social standing would bother with.’
‘Exactly. You should see the display in the window, a living testament to the nineteen-seventies. In one corner there’s a monochrome photograph of a woman sporting a curly perm and beside her stands a pyramid of hair products I’ve never even heard of before. All tastelessly enhanced by flashing coloured lights and a black screen no less. Shall I go in?’
She wanted him to tell her to forget the whole idea, that it was ill-conceived in the first place and that she could find better ways of digging around to confirm Abigail Nithercott’s state of mind and level of risk to the public. However, Niall must have found the situation amusing.
‘Are you wearing your flared trousers and a kaftan top?’
‘Very funny.’ It was then she looked down and stifled an ironic snort. She’d gone to such trouble to dress herself up to look the part; wrongly assuming she would be mixing with the rich and famous. She’d gone so far as to introduce her face to the delights of make-up again, dusted off her most flattering summer dress, which had last seen the light of day at a wedding the year before, and put on a pair of glittery toe sandals. Now she wondered why she’d bothered.
‘You’ve got nothing to lose,’ Niall continued. ‘Besides, I’m dying to know what Abigail Nithercott gets up to in there. Apart from seeing you on a regular basis, it’s about the only other place she goes to. And hairdressers are the best source of gossip. With their ability to encourage the sharing of personal troubles, the NHS could save a fortune on counselling services by sending people for a hairdo instead. Phone me as soon as you finish.’
‘Well, I’m here, so I may as well go in. What harm can it do?’ She was about to find out.
Pushing the door open, dreading what she was to find, a waft of strangely perfumed astringent chemicals made her nostrils prickle, doing nothing to allay rising fears about the quality of the service she was about to receive. Why would Abigail Nithercott come here? It made no sense. The woman was rich. Loaded. Why come to a second-rate backstreet hairstylist?
When she stepped inside, a shrill bell sounded, announcing her arrival in a boudoir style reception area. She stared about her, a bemused grin making an appearance. She couldn’t help it. Gold flock wallpaper abounded and on one wall there were mirror tiles giving the impression of a larger room. Areca palms in plastic Romanesque planters, either side of a crimson chaise longue, lent a certain tasteless slant to the décor, as did the matching velvet curtains, drawn theatrically into swags and tails by plaited silken tiebacks.
She was alerted to the fact that she was not alone by a scuffling noise which occurred just before a man popped up from behind the gleaming reception desk as if he’d been hiding there. For a reason known only to himself, he wore a gaudy tie bearing a peacock design on the outside of his bright yellow V-neck tank top. The ensemble was pulled tightly over a rounded belly.
Why anyone would choose to wear a tie outside a jumper was beyond Clare. It was held in place by an expensive looking tiepin, thus creating a waterfall effect as the tie dangled over the apex of his abdomen. Perhaps the tie was the star of the piece as was the tiepin and should not be hidden, but why a tank top on a hot summer’s day?
Taking in the unnerving sight before her, she quietly gasped as a rictus grin spread across his lips revealing oversized rodent front teeth. The small rounded man put her in mind of a fluffy mouse and made for such an arresting sight that she chuckled involuntarily, deciding that this couldn’t be the right salon. She must have the wrong place altogether.
Embarrassed at her mistake, she was about to make excuses and leave when he enquired, ‘Are you for upstairs or downstairs?’
‘Pardon?’
‘First time is it?’ The man spoke intently with an airy effeminate voice and he nodded as if his neck were a tightly coiled spring. A large curl of white hair wafted and waved at Clare, mesmerising her. His hairline, which began halfway back on his shining pate, was almost vertical and it rolled at the crest into a bizarre quiff, held in place by gold-rimmed half-glasses, matching his tiepin. He slid the glasses to his nose and consulted the appointment diary hidden below the counter. From where she stood, Clare could only see the bottom of the page he was pointing to with a neatly manicured forefinger. His badge bore the name Derreck. An unusual spelling for an unusual man.
‘Clare.’
‘That’s right.’
‘You’re booked with Edwina in our ground floor salon, my dear.’
Someone could be heard clumping down a flight of stairs. Then, without warning, a cleverly disguised door on Clare’s left opened out into the reception area. Hidden by the flock wallpaper, it was like a secret door. Derreck touched his cheeks with trembling fingers and immediately apologised to the person Clare couldn’t see. The open door obscured her view.
‘Sorry, Mr Oliver, I should’ve buzzed. Not for you,’ Derreck said, nodding in Clare’s direction. ‘She’s for down here.’
‘Keep these unnecessary interruptions to a minimum if you would, Derreck. Rosie is late again and I’m too busy to keep running up and down these damned stairs. Shout if you really need me but not otherwise. I’m up to my neck in fibreglass this morning.’ With that unexpected statement, the mystery man with the lilting accent of a Geordie, disappeared again.
Holding her ground within a few feet of the entrance, Clare said, ‘I did ask to book with Quentin, but I understand he no longer works here.’
Derreck frowned at the mention of the name Quentin. ‘That’s right. He’s moved on. Edwina is much more experienced and, dare I say, more discreet.’ A quizzical look came Clare’s way. ‘Who recommended Quentin to you?’
‘A friend of a friend.’
‘Oh, yes? They all say that.’ His dainty silver eyebrows shot upwards and his r
atty features sharpened.
Suddenly she felt unwelcome and gathered herself to answer with a partial truth as she stepped forward. ‘Una from the doctors’ surgery in Oliver Street recommended you.’
Derreck looked suitably satisfied with the reply. ‘Yes. She would. We do the best wigs for those in need.’ He clasped his hands together. ‘Is that your own hair?’
She spluttered. From what Derreck had said, it seemed Pearls and Curls made wigs for medical conditions. Given the reference to the local GP practice, Clare wondered if he’d made an assumption about her, and without thinking she reached up to her hairline and patted it.
‘Wigs are upstairs.’
Oh brilliant, thought Clare, now the man thinks I need a wig. Her thoughts gradually became more complicated as the possibilities filtered into her mind. Did Abigail Nithercott wear a wig for some reason? Did she have cancer? Alopecia? Maybe trichotillomania.
Trichotillomania was the right word at that very moment: one of her favourite words – the irresistible urge to tear at one’s own hair and remove it from the scalp, or elsewhere. With these mad musings whirling around her head, she was indeed struggling not to pull out her own hair.
‘This is my hair,’ she explained hesitantly, trying and failing to run open fingers through the tangles of her lacklustre locks twirled into a large clip at the back of her head. Not being one of those women who spend hours with heated rollers and the like, she would habitually scoop up her rather lank and uninteresting hair and tie it well away from her steaming menopausal neck. ‘I’m just here for professional advice on style, that sort of thing,’ she finally mustered.
Derreck looked her up and down before she was rewarded with a twinkle of his little raisin-like eyes and a benevolent grin. ‘I quite understand. You could not have come to a better place. This way, my dear. Follow me.’
He led her to the right, between the velvet curtains and down three sweeping steps into a steamy bright salon where the pop tunes of the nineteen-eighties were playing at a volume considerate enough not to offend, but loud enough not to be ignored.
On the far side of the room she spotted an elderly lady, hair in curlers, sitting underneath the white plastic dome of a hooded, full-head, hair dryer; the sort that could convince a small child their granny was an alien. Besides herself, there were only two more customers in the place, and one was being shown the back of her head in a hand-held mirror wielded by a tall purple-haired woman, in mightily unfashionable silver ankle boots.
Derreck whipped a charcoal coloured nylon cape from a stand and indicated for Clare to take a seat in front of a mirror and console table. He wrapped the cape around her, tied it in a bow at her neck before freeing her mousy brown tresses from the clip at the back of her head. He handed it to Clare with a wide grin, treating her to a close up of his enormous front teeth. For some reason Derreck smelt of fresh parsley.
‘Edwina will be along in a second. Cup of something to wet your whistle?’ he asked then bustled off to sort out her request for tea. She needed to quench a sudden thirst; her mouth was quite parched with nerves. Although why she was so anxious, she couldn’t say. It was only hair. Even if it turned out to be a bad cut, it would grow again. She could wear a ponytail. Who would know?
When a new voice greeted her, she almost jumped.
‘Alright there, darlin’? You must be Clare.’
Using the mirror, taking in the woman standing behind her, Clare smiled rather timidly. The woman spoke again, the gravelly edge of sloppy diction jarring Clare’s ears. ‘Welcome to Pearls and Curls, darlin’. Cut and blow job?’
Eyes popping, Clare stalled. Had the stylist really uttered the words “blow job”? And there she was expecting to be asked where she was going on holiday this year. Gathering her wits, Clare nodded and smiled back, a shaky nervous smile. The hairdresser patted her own tumbling vibrant curls, leaving Clare in no doubt that the startling aubergine colour was a personal choice, not a gift from nature. Having preened herself to her satisfaction, the stylist flashed thick eyelashes and through pursed burgundy lips she spoke again.
‘Don’t look so worried, darlin’. It was a joke, innit.’
Gulping, Clare managed to choke on saliva, which sent her throat into spasm and caused her to cough violently into her hands. She felt so foolish. It took ages to recover and then she laughed, a silly girlish titter by way of nervous reaction.
This place was like a set from a sad TV sit-com and Clare had landed in a poorly scripted scene. Catching the smell of cigarettes, and noting the voice of a heavy smoker, she suddenly felt trapped in a mediocre hair salon, with a brassy stylist from at least three decades previously, and she’d woven an absurd half-truth about why she was there. More than anything she wanted to forget the whole stupid idea, but instead sat in a black vinyl swivel seat, sweating in a nylon cloak, an inane grin on her face.
‘Yeah, I do the same thing. I always get the giggles, me, when I’m somewhere new, you know what I mean, darlin’?’ Edwina placed firm hands on her customer’s shoulders to steady her, long gaudily painted nails curving towards Clare’s clavicle. ‘Anyway, Derreck tells me this is your first time and that the doctors’ surgery recommended us. Now then, darlin’, what style do you ’ave in mind?’
It was difficult to concentrate on what she was saying, Clare was still absorbing the surroundings, and part of her could not let go of the fact that Abigail Nithercott had been going to the very same tawdry salon.
Why for God’s sake?
Edwina was waiting for a response to her question and yet Clare had no answer. Looking about in desperation, she checked the photographs on the walls of the salon for inspiration. A bob? A choppy fringe? Big curls?
‘What would you suggest?’
Edwina bent forward. ‘My darlin’, I think with such natural fine hair and your face shape, such a strong jawline, you could take a fringe, but honestly, for the future please think about extensions and a weave. Like it or not your hair is thin. You get me?’
‘Is it?’
‘Yeah. No worries. Only a few of us girls are lucky enough to have our very own luscious thick locks. Ain’t that the truth.’ Edwina was pulling at strands of Clare’s hair as she chuckled away to herself. Without warning, she stopped with a gasp, staring wide-eyed into the mirror. ‘Sorry, my darlin’. I should’ve asked. Are you pre or post?’
Forced into a lie about cancer treatment she’d never had, Clare replied, ‘Oh … post. Hence the … you know.’ With no idea what she was talking about, Clare stumbled over her words and shrank into the chair at her shamefaced invention.
‘Of course you are, darlin’! You look so amazing! Amazing.’ Edwina made a great deal of what was her favourite word. Amazing. ‘Oh, my days, and thank the Lord for that. I thought I’d dropped myself right in it. Your make-up is really good by the way. Amazing. If you’re interested, we do eyebrows, lash extensions, fillers … all the remedial work,’ she laughed. Not a musical symphony of happiness, this was the rasping, claggy sound of a woman with a forty-a-day habit who’d had a misspent youth in pubs and clubs. ‘Your secret is safe.’
What secret she thought she was hiding was lost on Clare, who sank even deeper into the chair and the despair at what she’d done in allowing both Edwina and Derreck to believe she had a medical condition requiring remedial hairstyling and sympathy. The lies, the subterfuge and the deceptions made her uncomfortable. And it continued.
‘You did a great job on my friend’s hair,’ she said, trying to sound nonchalant. Finding a way to bring Abigail Nithercott into the conversation was now high priority. She would endeavour to get away with minimal damage to her hair, and in the process gather as much information as she could about Abigail before hightailing it back to her car, covering her face should anyone from the real world see her.
‘Your friend comes here a lot, does she?’
‘Yes. She really raves about the place.’ One more lie. ‘Abigail.’
Edwina was puzzled for a moment be
fore the name registered with her. ‘Oh, you mean our very own Fab Abi.’
For a second Clare was under the distinct impression Edwina was about to embark on a full-blown conversation about Abigail Nithercott, but she didn’t. She stopped herself, and Clare spotted the exchange of glances between Edwina and another stylist walking by, who caught her with a steely look, a warning.
Hoping by demonstrating familiarity with Abigail’s habits would engender trust, Clare asked, ‘does she bring her knitting in with her?’ It worked, to a degree. Edwina seemed to relax a little as she tried to brush the knots from Clare’s straggly hair. Tugging.
‘Oh God. Does she ever. The housekeeper taught her when she was little, so I heard. Still… that’s probably one of the most normal things she does. Know what I mean?’
Clare desperately wanted her to expand further, as she didn’t know what Edwina meant. Not really. Not in detail. Abigail had been tight-lipped about her home life, choosing to brush over most facts. She never mentioned a housekeeper of any description and Clare was eager to know more, however, Edwina returned to the safe subject of knitting.
‘I put in an order for a Christmas jumper, one with a snowman and a carrot, but I’m not holding my breath.’
If there was one thing for certain, Edwina shouldn’t hold her breath. The wheezing and coughing would suggest she needed as much oxygen as she could suck in. Clare guessed her to be in her early forties, but the damage to her skin from smoking and a life led to the full, made it hard to be accurate. A thick layer of foundation and hefty use of other cosmetic enhancements made the job of working out her age all the harder. Anyhow, it wasn’t relevant to the mission, just helpful in knowing where to aim conversation. Trying not to lose momentum, Clare asked, ‘did Abi seem her usual self the last time you saw her?’
‘She was fine.’ Full stop. As the smile ebbed, Edwina made it clear she would not be imparting any further personal information about her client. No wonder Quentin got the sack if this was the level of care taken to maintain client privacy.
