Not Quite Nice

by Celia Imrie

  ‘What’s a Monégasque?’ asked Faith.

  ‘A person who lives here in Monaco.’

  ‘A tight-wad tax-dodger, you mean,’ said Zoe.

  The lavish cheese trolley was wheeled to the table.

  ‘Isn’t it sad?’ said Faith. ‘I couldn’t eat another thing.’

  Theresa was still admiring the casino, with its tri-umphant verdigris statues, its shiny glass doors and blue-suited bellboys. Then she saw someone she recognised coming out of the shining doors.

  ‘I say, Faith,’ she said, pointing towards the casino steps. ‘Isn’t that your son?’

  ‘Alfie’s in Switzerland,’ said Faith.

  ‘It is him,’ said Sally rising and waving in his direction. ‘Alfie!’ she called loudly, making the bored child at the next table sit up and stare at her.

  But Alfie seemed preoccupied and dejected. He slumped down the steps and into the street, squeezing past the closely parked Bentleys and Ferraris.

  ‘I’m going to get him,’ said Sally, throwing down her napkin, and running back through the restaurant.

  ‘But he’s away on business, in Switzerland, Zurich,’ Faith called after her.

  ‘Well, Faith,’ Zoe peered out into the crowded square, scrunching up her face to focus. ‘It certainly looks like him.’

  Sally ran through the lobby of the hotel and down the marble steps into the square.

  She could see Alfie, heading round the side of the Opera House, on the wide curving pavement which sweeps down to the Condamine.

  She followed.

  About halfway down Alfie flopped on to a bench and sat gazing out to sea.

  Sally came and sat next to him.

  He looked up with a weary shrug.

  ‘It’s your mother’s birthday, today, you know.’

  Alfie made a face as though to say ‘OK, you win, I surrender.’

  ‘She saw you. We all saw you, coming out of the casino. And let’s put it this way: you didn’t look as though you’d broken the bank.’

  ‘That’s putting it mildly,’ said Alfie.

  ‘Ah, I am understanding now, Alfie? I realise that you could easily prove where you were at the time your mother was attacked, because you were here, and they had registered your passport. Am I right?’

  ‘What do you want?’ said Alfie savagely. ‘Why won’t you ever let up?’

  Sally took a deep breath. ‘Because I am very fond of your mother, and I have a interest in her well-being.’

  Alfie was puzzled. He turned and looked at Sally but said nothing.

  ‘You need money from her to pay for your addiction to gambling. The big question is, how far are you prepared to go, to get more money?’

  ‘I have borrowed from some pretty mean people,’ he replied. ‘I keep thinking that if I win more I could get myself out of the hole.’

  ‘But you never will, though, Alfie, will you? Not this way.’

  Alfie slumped forward and put his head in his hands. ‘All I need is just a little luck.’

  For a moment Sally left him to his thoughts.

  ‘You still haven’t explained why you wanted her to buy that house, which, as you know, is way too big for one person. Why couldn’t she simply rent somewhere? Somewhere smaller? It would have left more money . . .’

  Alfie sat up and turned to face Sally.

  ‘Do you really want to know? You read the papers. We all know that old people are fleecing us, the young. They’re all frittering away our inheritance.’

  Sally winced. ‘What you like to think of, Alfie, as “your inheritance” is in fact your mother’s life savings. Why can’t she have a bit of life now that she’s old? You are fit and healthy and have a whole life ahead of you, and if you stopped wasting your time and money at the gaming tables, you could have a bit of a nest egg too. If your mother’s lucky, she’s got twenty years . . . maximum.’

  ‘She tried to write me out of her will,’ Alfie interrupted. ‘But, over here, she can’t do that. Parents have to leave the house to their children, it’s the law.’

  Sally smiled, and wondered whether she should tell him, or keep Faith’s secret to herself. She decided she would tell him how his mother had kept all her money in an English bank and that she herself had actually bought the house in Bellevue-Sur-Mer. But not today. In a few days’ time, calmly and privately, once Alfie had taken steps to control his urge to gamble, Sally would tell him the whole truth.

  ‘We’re all enjoying a birthday party for your mum,’ she said. ‘I think you should come and join in the toast to her life.’

  She stood and held her hand out to him.

  Sheepishly, he too rose from the bench.

  Sally linked arms with Alfie, ‘The other thing you should do is talk to William and Benjamin, they might have a few ideas to help you deal with your addiction.’

  ‘I don’t have . . .’

  Sally grabbed him by both wrists and said calmly: ‘You do, Alfie. You are addicted to gambling, and you act like a little baby, always running to your frail mother for money. No more faked suicide bids, please.’

  ‘But I—’

  ‘I know exactly what you did, and it’s unforgivable, Alfie. It’s nothing but a pathetic form of blackmail, the kind that only little kids can get away with. Be a man, for God’s sake. Now, come back with me to the restaur­ant and tell her you came here to Monte Carlo on purpose, looking for her, to celebrate her birthday with her. She adores you. Now go on and deserve it.’

  27

  Detectives Thomas and Wilton were waiting on the terrace of the bar for Theresa to come home.

  Despite the fact that she was tired from the excitement of the day in Monaco, also from eating and drinking so much, she went over and sat down with them.

  She wanted some answers.

  ‘We were in the dark till that newspaper article came out,’ said DCI Thomas. ‘One of the lads saw the photo and recognised Ronald Arthur right away.’

  ‘And that’s why we’re here,’ said DI Wilton.

  No, they had not yet located Stewart McMahon, but had spoken to people here who had had dealings with the man. They had also put the local police on alert. Having gone through various files with them, much evidence pointed at Ronald Arthur and Stewart being responsible for the serious attack on Mrs Faith Duckworth. There was a bloody fingerprint. The MO was the same as another case they were working on back in the UK. It also appeared that the pair had used the new smartphone, stolen in the second raid, for calls to one another.

  Theresa remembered Faith having talked about buying the phone for Alfie. She also remembered Brian holding a brand-new green phone that afternoon, just before he ran off with Carol, which must have been shortly after he had attacked Faith. Stewart was holding an identical phone – probably the same one – when she accosted him in the bar in Nice.

  Theresa told them.

  ‘It’s in the newspaper photo,’ said DI Wilton. ‘Look! He’s holding it.’

  ‘We reckon that that photo of you all was taken minutes after the attack on Mrs Duckworth, while Stewart McMahon was still in the house.’

  Theresa’s stomach flipped.

  ‘But Brian, er, Ronald seemed so calm and affable that day. To think that he’d just . . .’ She put her face in her hands.

  ‘Mrs Duckworth was lucky,’ said DCI Thomas. ‘Their last victim, a lady in Chelsea in January, wasn’t so fortunate.’

  Theresa gave an enquiring look.

  ‘Murdered,’ said DCI Thomas. ‘In her bed. She surprised them. They didn’t want to be recognised. They’d done work for her previously. Looked at the plumbing or something. They’d copied the keys and, when they thought she was away, they let themselves in. But she had had a cold, and stayed home.’

  ‘They’d attacked Faith for a phone?’ It really didn’t seem possible.

  ‘They’re a pair of chancers. They were after her jewellery, but she hasn’t got much but a wedding band. They like living the high life, those two, but they prefer other p
eople to pay for it.’

  She told the officers about Carol.

  ‘We’ve already put out an alert with Interpol,’ said DI Wilton. ‘Her credit card was used to empty her account in Naples night before yesterday, and the Jaguar he stole was sold for cash yesterday morning in Palermo.’

  ‘Palermo, Sicily?’

  The detectives nodded.

  ‘Did the car dealers see Carol?’

  The detective shook their heads.

  ‘But they did give a perfect description of him. He was alone.’

  Theresa saw from their faces that they did not think this was in any way good news.

  ‘We have the Italian authorities searching the sea on the ferry route.’

  Theresa understood what they were implying: that Brian had killed Carol and thrown her overboard.

  She asked a question that had been nagging her.

  ‘Do they usually work together, Ronald Arthur what’s his name and Stewart?’

  ‘They always work together.’

  ‘So if Stewart is still here, in Nice, why isn’t Brian, sorry, Ronald Arthur, here too?’

  The detectives exchanged a look. ‘We believe there’s been a falling out among thieves, so to speak. Ronald Arthur Tate seems to have had a plan to work alone and keep all the takings for himself. From what we gather, Mr McMahon isn’t a very happy bunny. All he got was the smartphone.’

  Back in the flat, Theresa made some tea, and lay on her bed to think.

  But after a sleepless night and the heavy lunch, she quickly fell asleep.

  When she woke, it was dark and the cup of tea on her bedside table was cold.

  She wanted to get up and get herself some water, but felt heavy and tired and unable to rouse herself.

  She fretted about poor Carol.

  Theresa prayed that Carol was OK and not floating face-down in the Tyrrhenian Sea.

  She rolled over, facing the window.

  All the lights in the Hôtel Astra were out.

  The whole town was asleep.

  Theresa sighed.

  Then her sigh came to a stop.

  The strange thing was that the sound of her sigh seemed to continue.

  It was as though there was another person in the room with her, breathing quietly, inches away.

  She turned back to face the room, and she saw, standing above her in the ghostly light, the man who had robbed her – Stewart McMahon.

  They caught eyes.

  There was no way she could pretend to be still asleep.

  He had seen her.

  In the micro-second in which he raised his fist, Theresa sprang forward, using her shoulder to knock the man off-balance. He staggered slightly, while she scampered out of bed.

  Her mouth opened but she could not utter a sound. All her attention was focused on getting away from this lethal man, getting out of the house, surviving.

  She took a few strides towards the living room, but, before she crossed the threshold, Stewart had grabbed her by her hair and yanked her back into the bedroom, flinging her on to the bed.

  Theresa writhed around as Stewart punched and kicked her, grabbing at her arms to keep her under control.

  He tried to twist her arm behind her back. She kicked backwards like a donkey, and managed to catch him where it hurt. He staggered backwards into the wall, yelping.

  Then, in the total darkness she leapt from the bed and ran forward with all her strength, into the black-dark living room, making for the front door.

  She was only a few feet away from the handle when she unexpectedly bumped into something.

  What could be in the way? It felt like a man. But Stewart could not have outrun her.

  A strong pair of arms flung around her, gripping her so tightly that she was unable to move at all.

  ‘Where is it?’

  It was Brian’s voice, but that voice was cold and rough and there were no shades of the suave charm he had always used before.

  She peered up in the darkness and could see the outline of his face.

  He raised his fist and gave her a hard slap across the head.

  She felt the bones in her neck crack.

  He slapped her next on the other side with the back of his hand.

  His breath was hot, damp and rancid on her face.

  ‘Where the fuck is it. Tell me NOW!’

  Theresa’s heart thundered. Her voice came out in painful gasps.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  He took her by the shoulders and shook her, while leering into her face.

  ‘The painting. The Dufy. Where have you put it?’

  Theresa’s heart thundered. ‘I sold it,’ she whimpered.

  ‘No you didn’t.’ Brian shook her violently. ‘You wouldn’t.’

  His eyes flickered up and he stopped shaking her.

  Theresa’s heart was beating so hard she felt it might burst through her ribcage.

  Calloused hands slid round her neck from behind, and she smelled the familiar scent of stale tobacco. She could feel the bristles of Stewart’s moustache against the skin of the back of her neck.

  Stewart whispered into her ear. ‘If you can’t tell us, where the fucking painting is, bitch, we can just dispose of you. Then we’ll have all night to look for it.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ she said, her voice coming out in a wavery whisper. ‘Let go of me and I’ll show you.’

  Brian nodded.

  She took a step towards the back of the flat. The hands round her neck tightened.

  ‘It’s OK,’ said Brian. ‘There’s no other way out.’

  ‘The door?’

  ‘Just a place to put the bins.’

  The hands slipped away from her neck.

  Theresa turned and faced the bedroom.

  Brian gripped one forearm, Stewart had her wrist.

  She staggered forward.

  ‘Through here,’ she said.

  It felt terrible, giving away the picture her mother had left to her, giving it to these vile men, but she wanted so desperately to live.

  As she reached the doorway of her bedroom Theresa remembered what the detective had said about killing that woman because she had seen them . . .

  She realised with a jolt that if she showed them the hiding place they would take the painting, and kill her anyway.

  They had no respect for her or anyone.

  They killed the woman in Chelsea.

  It was a miracle that Faith survived.

  Why did she think she was so different?

  Theresa’s mind was set.

  She was damned if they were going to kill her.

  She was going to put up a fight.

  ‘Through here,’ she said, walking past the bedroom towards the back door. ‘I have a safe box out here.’

  ‘No you don’t,’ said Brian.

  ‘I do, Brian. I bought it after what happened to Faith,’ she said calmly. ‘I hide it behind the bins – where no one would look.’

  The two men shoved her roughly against the back door.

  ‘Show us,’ hissed Brian.

  ‘You’ll have to let go of my hands,’ she said, ‘or I cannot unlock the door.’

  Brian stood behind her, blocking her way back into the house as Theresa pulled open the door and led them out into the tiny yard.

  ‘I need the key to the safe,’ she said. ‘It’s hanging up in the kitchen.’

  She turned to go back in, and Stewart hissed, ‘Oh no, you don’t.’

  He ran in front of her, leaving her alone with Brian.

  Theresa pointed to a pitch-black corner. ‘The safe is down there.’

  As he stooped, to crawl behind the bin, Theresa kicked him hard in the backside and then opened her mouth and screamed for all she was worth.

  ‘HELP! HELP! MURDER! MURDER! AU SECOURS! HELP! HELP ME! M’AIDEZ! HEEEEELLLLPPPP!’

  Above, in the Hôtel Astra, windows were flung open.

  Brian and Stewart lurched towards Theresa, shovi
ng her into the dark corner.

  As she was slammed back, hitting the stucco wall, a whistling sound came from above, and, seconds later, a naked man landed in their midst.

  He had jumped from the hotel window above.

  The man battered the surprised Stewart and Brian, kicking and grappling with his fists. He then grabbed both men by their hair and slammed their heads together. Brian and Stewart collapsed into a heap.

  ‘Get yourself outta here, gal,’ the naked man yelled to Theresa. ‘Get gone before they come round – the nasty scumbags!’

  It was Ted.

  ‘They’re both out for the count. Come on.’ Ted grabbed Theresa by the hand and looked up to the window from which he’d jumped. ‘Bugger me, that’s a long way up. Hey, Marianne,’ he called. Have you called the plods?’

  As Ted hauled Theresa into the house she caught a glimpse of Sally’s daughter, Marianne, leaning from the window, holding a phone to her ear and nodding frantically.

  28

  Sally was woken in the early hours by frantic banging on the front door. She opened up. It was Marianne.

  ‘Ted just saved Theresa’s life.’

  Sally rubbed her eyes.

  ‘Marianne? Are you drunk? It’s the middle of the night. And Ted is in Australia.’

  ‘No, Mum. He’s with the police in Theresa’s flat.’

  ‘Slow down.’ Sally shut the front door and shuffled into the house. ‘Is Theresa all right? Should we go there?’

  ‘They have it all under control,’ said Marianne. ‘Thanks to Ted.’ She paused and said, ‘He’s my lover.’

  ‘Ted? But he’s married.’ Sally could see that once again she was in for revelations. She sat Marianne down. ‘You’d better explain.’

  ‘Pour us a glass of something, Mum.’ Marianne looked down into her lap and started her explanation. ‘It started months ago when I came down for an interview with Sian. She put me up in the Hôtel Astra.’

  ‘You could have stayed here . . .’

  Marianne held up her hand. ‘After the interview I was planning to give you a surprise, but there was no reply – you were out. While your number was ringing there was a bleep on the line and it was Sian telling me the job was mine. So, while I waited for you to come home, I sat in the hotel bar and treated myself to a drink. A friendly Australian bloke came to my table. I was on cloud nine and he seemed ever so sweet. Well, one thing led to another and we ended up in my room in the Hôtel Astra. An hour or so later, Sian took it upon herself to arrive at the hotel with a portfolio of work for me to start work on. Ted recognised his wife’s stentorian tones, barking into her mobile phone as she came along the corridor towards my room, and then, to use his own words he jumped down “bollock-naked” into Theresa’s backyard for the first time.’