Ellie turned the main power switch on the wall to the ‘Off’ position.
Now, suppose the teenaged Fiona had not been alone in the gym on the day she died. She might have known . . . whoever it was, and let them in. Or they might have thrust their way into the gym after her. In those days Fiona probably hadn’t bothered to lock the door after her. Why should she?
So, let’s recreate the scene.
Fiona comes in, turns on the power at the wall. Switches on the treadmill. Steps on to it and turns up the speed. The police theory was that she turned it up high in order to give herself an ultra fast workout. The speed was too much for her, she tried to jump off, which ought not to have been difficult, but instead . . . Perhaps she caught her heel, swivelled round, got stuck in some way? Then spun off and . . .
Was that realistic?
How did the speedometer work? Ellie bent over the machine. It looked as if you pressed a button and kept your finger on it, to make the track run faster.
Suppose there’d been another person there, either invited in by Fiona or uninvited.
Wait a minute. Would the girl have continued to work away on the treadmill with a stranger present? Wouldn’t she have switched it off and stepped away to deal with – whoever it was?
Most likely she knew – whoever it was.
If so, he or she might have been standing by the treadmill and turned the speedometer up themselves.
What was to stop Fiona turning it back down again?
Well, suppose that another hand had been placed firmly over the button? A hand belonging to someone who was too strong to be shoved out of the way.
Then the spin off. Ms Milburn had said something about Fiona being helped on her way with a boot to her rear end. Ugh. She’d have crashed into the wall, head first. She might have lived after such an incident, but she hadn’t.
The killer hadn’t touched anything, except for the speedo button, which he – or she – then wiped clean of all prints, his or hers. He or she hadn’t bothered to turn off the treadmill at the machine, or at the wall, before leaving.
Ellie shuddered. Man or woman?
Unknown. It might have been a school friend of Fiona’s, perhaps? Mm. Wanting to have a turn on the treadmill and getting into a spat with Fiona over it? Then a pettish action, a depression on the button which turned up the speed on the treadmill, and a refusal to let it be turned down.
Possibly. But would a school friend have kicked Fiona in the rear? Not likely. No.
The conservatory was filled with light, though the day had become dull. White muslin blinds – very expensive – were draped from rods across the ceiling, to reduce the glare on sunny days. It would be a pleasant place to sit and relax. Ellie imagined comfortable chairs, a low table or two. A rank of ferns here, a stand of geraniums there, perhaps a palm or two in big tubs?
She wondered what would happen to all the expensive gym equipment when Angelika moved out. She wondered how long it had taken Angelika to work out that she was in danger so long as she stayed in the house. Or perhaps even after she’d left it? After all, the second wife had departed years ago but had still met an early death.
Someone was pounding on the front door knocker and ringing the bell. Another telephone was ringing somewhere in the depths of the house.
Ellie went back into the kitchen, where Vera was making headway against chaos. She’d already set the dishwasher to work.
Flash!
A man’s head appeared at one of the kitchen windows, and another flash half blinded Ellie. ‘What the . . .!’
Vera blenched. Someone was crashing around in the garden, making their way round the kitchen . . . and there were French windows at the end, leading on to the garden.
‘Vera, pull the blinds down! I’ll see if the French windows are locked.’
Vera, hands slopping soapsuds, said, ‘Who is it? Reporters?’ She pulled the blinds down in front of her while Ellie checked the French windows. The doors were locked, so she pulled the blinds down . . . and then did the same to the last window on the other side.
They stood still, listening. Someone was still moving around outside. They could hear the crackle of footsteps on a gravel pathway.
Ellie decided not to go back into the conservatory. Anyone in there would be exposed to view.
The key to the conservatory door from the kitchen was in the lock, and she turned it.
Someone was still pounding on the front door and ringing the bell. A telephone continued to ring. Not the one in the hall. Another one.
Vera dried her wet hands, which were shaking. ‘Mrs Quicke, this isn’t very nice, is it?’
‘Agreed. Let’s find Mr Hooper.’
Back in the hall, the pounding on the front door continued. Vera was breathing hard, but didn’t lose her nerve. ‘I threw up the window in the snug. I’d better attend to it.’ She disappeared into that room.
Ellie hesitated. Should they go right round the house, making sure that all the doors were locked, pulling down blinds, drawing curtains? She tried to laugh. This was ridiculous. It felt as if they were under siege. She replaced the phone in the hall on its receiver, and it rang again.
She picked it up. Heavy breathing.
Feeling slightly hysterical, she said, ‘Harrods. What department do you want?’
The man – she was pretty sure it was a man – put the phone down. Before it could ring again, Ellie dialled nine nine nine. Then thought it would have been more sensible to call Ms Milburn. But that number was in her handbag, and she’d put it down somewhere. The phone went on ringing in another room. Come on, come on!
Vera came out of the snug. Her colour had risen, but she had herself well in hand. ‘I’ve shut the window and pulled the curtains across, but there’s two of them with cameras trampling all over the garden. They saw me and must have thought I was one of the Hoopers, because they took my photo and started calling me, asking me for a quote. What do we do, Mrs Quicke?’
‘Can you find my handbag? I’ve put it down somewhere . . .’
At last someone answered the phone. ‘What service do you require? Fire, police or ambulance?’
‘Police, please.’ More ring tones.
A stir at the back of the hall, and Evan Hooper hove into sight. ‘Who’s pounding on the door! This is a disgrace!’ He spluttered with fury. ‘Call the police!’
‘What do you think I’m doing?’
Vera tugged on Ellie’s arm. ‘You’re wearing your handbag.’
Of course. How silly of her. Still holding on to the phone, she delved into her bag with her free hand, looking for the card with Ms Milburn’s number on it.
More shouting at the front door. Camera flashes. A girl screamed.
Freya, returning from her run?
Ellie dropped the phone. ‘Freya! We must let her in.’
Vera had the wits to pick up the phone Ellie had dropped. ‘Yes, yes; I’m holding. Mrs Quicke, did you dial nine nine nine, or one oh one, because that’s the new number for the police.’
‘Heavens, is it? I can’t think.’
Angelika appeared at the top of the stairs, towelling her hair dry. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Reporters back and front,’ said Ellie. ‘Vera, you keep trying to get the police. Evan, help me get Freya inside.’
He gaped. ‘What? Hadn’t we better wait till the police get here?’
Useless man. ‘Angelika, can you help?’
Angelika dropped the towel and ran down the stairs as Ellie fought to master the catch which opened the front door.
Vera attempted to help them, but the cord on the telephone wouldn’t stretch far enough. ‘Bother! Yes, I’m still holding . . . but hurry!’
‘One, two, three . . .!’ Ellie found the trick of the latch and opened the door just wide enough for Angelika to pull Freya inside. Flashbulbs went off. Freya crumpled to the floor. A turmoil of voices, all yelling for attention.
Ellie and Angelika pushed the door to. Angelika dropped the catch and
, with hands that shook, manoeuvred the chain into place.
Vera’s voice wobbled. ‘The phone’s just gone dead. Do you think someone’s cut the line?’
There was a crash. A window breaking at the back of the house? In the conservatory? The door from the conservatory into the kitchen was locked, but how long would that hold them?
Surely the press wasn’t supposed to break into people’s houses?
Ellie said, in a voice she tried to keep steady, ‘If the landline’s cut, we can use a mobile.’
Vera searched her pockets. ‘I’m all fingers and thumbs.’
‘Oh!’ Freya was in tears, hair escaping from her plait, red marks on her upper arm.
Evan tottered around, waving a cut-glass tumbler. Drinking, at this hour of the day? ‘This is preposterous! What do we pay the police for?’
Angelika was ashen, but still controlled. ‘Shall I take Freya upstairs?’
Vera had her mobile out, but was looking at her watch. ‘I’m going to try the one oh one number, which I’m pretty sure is just for the police. Perhaps we can get straight through.’
‘I thought it was still nine nine nine for emergencies.’
‘I think I’m through. Hello? Is that the police? Yes, non emergency? At least, it really is an emergency but . . . Yes, I’ll hold, but . . . Mrs Quicke, I’m sorry, I know it sounds ridiculous but I’ll have to go in a minute to get Mikey his lunch. Did you say you had a different number to call?’
Ellie helped Freya to her feet. ‘It’s in my bag. I’ll find it in a minute.’
Freya was trembling, trying to brush herself down. ‘What’s going on? Why are they doing this to us? This man kept taking my photo, accusing me . . . yelling at me. Then another of them caught my arm . . .!’
‘Come upstairs where they can’t get at us,’ said Angelika, helping Freya along.
Ellie detained Angelika for a moment. ‘Pack a small bag. Each. Now!’
‘What?’ said Angelika. Her eyes widened. She nodded. ‘Right.’
The pounding on the front door hadn’t ceased, nor the ringing of the doorbell.
Ellie scrabbled in her handbag to find Ms Milburn’s number and her own mobile. Found them both. Punched numbers.
Ring ring. Ring ring. Ring ring. Pick up, pick up!
Vera was still holding on to her own mobile, not yet through to anyone. ‘Mrs Quicke, they’re keeping me on hold!’
Ellie said, ‘Hang on, Vera! Hang on!’
Evan picked up the landline phone and didn’t seem to understand that the line was dead. He said, ‘Hello?’ into it at intervals.
Vera got through. ‘Police? Thank God. We’re under siege at the Hooper house. My name? Vera Pryce. Where do I live? What’s that got to do with it? I’m at the Hooper house . . . What’s the address? I don’t know. Mrs Quicke, what’s the address here?’
Ellie didn’t know, either. ‘Tell them the Inspector knows. He was round here this morning.’
Vera repeated that into her phone. ‘Yes, there are reporters, men with cameras, all round the house, all over the garden. They tried to prevent his daughter getting in. It’s quite frightening. How quickly can you get here?’
The phone quacked.
Vera looked at Ellie. ‘They say that if it’s an emergency, we should dial nine nine nine! Are they joking?’
Ellie took the phone off Vera. ‘Ask Ms Milburn; she’ll confirm that this is an emergency. Get here! Fast! Or there’ll be more blood shed!’ She clicked off Vera’s phone and handed it back.
She killed the call she’d been trying to make on her own phone and rang another well-known number. ‘Manor Cabs? Mrs Quicke here. I need a big car for four or five people and some luggage, urgently, to the Hooper house. No, I don’t know the exact address but it’s not far from my own place. Can you look it up? Bless you. Can you get here in ten minutes’ time exactly? There are some nasty men threatening the women here, and I have to get them away to safety.’
The phone quacked. ‘That is our Mrs Ellie Quicke speaking?’
‘Yes; you recognize my mobile phone number, don’t you? Three ladies, one man and myself. We’ve rung the police, but I don’t know how long they’re going to take. Yes, I know they can take ages. We’re all rather frightened, so . . . Perhaps you could send two of your men in one of the larger cabs . . .?’
‘You are in danger? I send two men, no?’
‘Brilliant. Can you make sure we’re not followed?’
‘I will arrange. Trust me. Ten minutes.’
Ellie turned her phone off. Now, what next?
Evan was still barking into a dead phone, still waiting to get through to the police. ‘Hello! Hello!’
Ellie tried to attract his attention. ‘Evan, I think we should abandon ship, don’t you? I’ve got a cab coming to take us all somewhere safe where we can think what to do next. Just till the police can get rid of the press. Right?’
‘What . . .?’ He put his hand over the phone to give her a moment of his attention.
‘We can’t stay here. The girls are frightened. I’ve ordered a car to fetch us. You too.’
‘What! Don’t be ridiculous! I’m going to speak to the Chief Constable about this.’ He turned back to shout into the phone. ‘Come on, come on! This is a disgrace! I’ve never been so . . .’
Ellie collected Vera with a glance. Together they hurried up the stairs, to find Angelika and Freya rushing around in their different bedrooms, both in tears, neither capable of packing in a sensible manner.
‘Rucksack?’ Vera to Freya.
‘Suitcase!’ Ellie to Angelika.
Vera said, ‘Toilet things,’ and pushed the girl into her bathroom.
Ellie swept all the toiletries off Angelika’s table into a large plastic bag and thrust it into her suitcase. ‘Night things. Underwear.’
Vera shouted, ‘Shoes! Where do you keep . . .?’
Ellie relieved Angelika of an armful of evening clothes. ‘No, you don’t need those now. Sweaters, jeans . . .’
Vera unplugged Freya’s laptop. ‘Homework? Books . . .?’
‘Address book. Mobile phone and charger . . .’
Angelika shrieked, ‘My portfolio!’
‘Handbag. A warm jacket?’
‘Is this your favourite coat? What about some boots?’
‘Your teddy bear? Yes, of course.’
‘Time’s up!’
‘Credit cards, keys?’
Panting, Ellie and Vera took hold of the bulging suitcase and rucksack and steered the two girls, one carrying her portfolio, an evening dress and two large designer handbags and the other her teddy bear and a tote bag, down the stairs.
Evan had at last realized the landline was dead and was now on his mobile. The cords stood out on his neck. His colour was poor. ‘If you don’t get me the Chief Inspector immediately . . .!’
Another phone rang. Ellie’s mobile phone. Best answer it. It might be the police.
Diana.
‘Not now, Diana,’ said Ellie, juggling luggage and the phone. ‘I’ll ring you as soon as we’re safely away.’
‘What!’
Ellie shut off the phone, dropped it into her pocket. Looking at her watch. ‘When I say the word, we open the door and go straight out and into the car that will be waiting outside. Don’t stop to answer questions. Just go for it.’
Angelika whimpered. She was just about holding it together.
Freya pulled on Evan’s arm. ‘Dad! Come with us.’
He flapped his hand at her. ‘Can’t you see I’m on the phone?’
Angelika was disintegrating. ‘Oh God! Oh God!’
Ellie unhooked the chain on the door, opened it a crack.
No sign of the cavalry. What were they to do if the cab didn’t come for them?
There was a loud bang, an explosive bang, at the back of the house.
The door from the conservatory into the kitchen? Once they got through that, there’d be nothing to stop them surging all over the house.
The shouts increased in volume as the press realized the front door was no longer fast shut.
Ellie turned on Freya. ‘Is there any other way out?’
Freya gasped. ‘Only at the back of the house!’
At last a large people carrier nosed its way up the drive and pulled up slowly, very slowly, outside the front door, scattering the members of the press. Two large Asian men were inside. One got out, opening the passenger door wide.
‘Now!’ said Ellie, opening the door to push Angelika and Freya out. One of the handbags slipped from Angelika’s grasp and skittered across the floor. She was in tears, let it go.
Vera thrust Angelika’s suitcase at one of the large cab drivers, who fielded it and flung it into the back of the car. Ellie followed with the rucksack, which was whisked away from her in the same way. She pulled the front door of the house to behind her.
Someone pushed a camera right into her face, but one of the drivers thrust him aside. Ellie found herself picked up and deposited into the car, breathless but unharmed.
‘Fasten your seat belts, ladies!’
The door slammed. More flashes. All the women ducked, including Ellie.
Would the reporters have a car handy, to follow them? Yes, one of them was already running for the road . . .
ELEVEN
Monday noon
Everyone inside the car was shaken, breathing hard.
‘Oh, my good lord!’ Vera’s voice wobbled. She attempted a laugh. ‘Do you realize I’m supposed to pick Mikey up in ten minutes?’
Ellie tried to think. ‘Can you get him on your mobile, say you’re having an adventure and could he have lunch wherever he is and you’ll pick him up later?’
‘An adventure!’ Angelika broke into hysterical laughter.
Freya managed a pale smile, clutching her teddy bear.
‘Check!’ The big man in the passenger seat up front was on his mobile. ‘It will be taking us five minutes, no more.’
Murder in Mind Page 13
