by CP Ward
The first letter, however, gave her a little tingle of trepidation. A letter from Mavis’s solicitor, it informed her parents that Mavis’s family intended to fight for compensation in civil court. And the second letter was even worse. It was from a private investigation agency, informing the Lemonds that by the instruction of Mavis’s heirs, Grandpa was under suspicion. The police might not be doing much, but if the Lemonds thought they could sit back and relax, they had another think coming.
She left the letters in a tray where she knew her parents would find them, then headed for the door. Kirsten would be waiting for her pick up, and Jessica wanted to be halfway to Scotland by dinner time.
The doorbell rang. Jessica paused, wondering if she should answer it, then figured she might as well. If it was a delivery driver there was no telling when he might catch Molly or Reg at the house, even though the goods were no doubt some unnecessary junk her mother had ordered from the internet.
‘Where should I sign?’ Jessica said, pulling the door open with one hand, already wielding a pen in the other.
The man on the doorstep glared at her from beneath a wide-brimmed hat. Jessica felt a shiver of fear as those dark, shadowy eyes narrowed. The man, hands deep in the pockets of his trench coat, frowned.
‘Emilia Lemond? You’re younger than I imagined. Must be all the expensive facial products.’
Jessica shook her head. ‘No, I’m—’ She paused. ‘—Molly. The … um, maid.’
The man lifted a single eyebrow so high it disappeared under the brim of his hat. ‘Is that so? Well, in that case, could you pass on a message?’
‘Ah, sure. Who should I say called?’
The man withdrew a hand from his pocket which had gold rings across three fingers, none of them his wedding digit. He turned his hand palm up in a sudden smooth motion that reminded Jessica of a magician, and held out a business card.
DICK BURD
Private Investigation Services
Welling Road, Plymouth
No Mystery is Too Deep, No Lie Too Shallow
CALL TODAY FOR A QUOTE
On the back of the card was an atmospheric picture of a man resembling Dick standing on a noir street corner. He certainly played the part, at least.
‘Thanks,’ Jessica said, trying to sound casual. ‘Was there something specific you wanted to talk to them about?’
‘It’s about the death of Mavis Johns. Let me rephrase that. It’s about the murder of Mavis Johns.’
Jessica nodded. ‘Okay, definitely the murder, not the death? The murder. Is that right?’
‘Golden,’ Dick said. ‘You could have a career in the industry yourself if you were prepared to consider giving up folding bed sheets. In fact I wouldn’t be adverse to being part of a husband-and-wife team.’
Delivered in the same deadpan caricature, it took Jessica a minute to pick up on the rather roundabout proposition. Against her better judgment, she found herself blushing.
‘Um, well, I appreciate the offer, but I’m afraid I’m already … betrothed.’
The archaic word came out before she could think of something more appropriate, and Jessica found herself sweating as well as blushing.
‘No betrothal can pass unchallenged,’ Dick said, his face and voice deadpan. Jessica began to wonder if some hidden camera crew were about to jump out of her parents’ expensive porch flora. Perhaps Doreen had set it up because Jessica had refused to go rioting with Mick on a first date.
‘Well, I’d better get back to work,’ Jessica said, forcing an awkward chuckle. ‘I’ll be sure to pass on your card and your message. No doubt M—my employers … will get back to you as soon as is convenient.’
With a satisfied nod, Dick Burd wished her good day with a tip of his hat, then retreated to the street. However, there he stayed, talking into a mobile phone while Jessica peeked out of the living room curtains.
She couldn’t just leave because her ruse would be blown, but Kirsten was waiting and Jessica was keen to get out of her parents’ house. There was no way out through the garden, because it was backed by high walls which bordered other gardens, and the type of people who lived alongside her parents didn’t tolerate people garden-hopping. She would get electrocuted, snared, or have her foot chewed off by a guard dog. She shook her head. The garden was a no go.
Then she remembered her father’s basement garage. It led down a slope under the house, its door shared with the neighbours’ place, which might have confused Dick Burd. Extremely secure from the outside to protect her father’s man-toys, from the inside it was easily accessed through a door in the kitchen. A key inside a teapot shaped like a London bus on the kitchen window ledge opened the door at the bottom of a set of stairs, and Jessica let herself in. Her parents had taken the Benz, she saw, perhaps to leave it in an expensive long-stay car park somewhere in Dover, where they were due to board the cruise ship. The BMW was still there, but Jessica gave it only a passing glance, her gaze fixing on her father’s newest toy, sitting in the third bay, the one usually left empty for guests.
A motorcycle and sidecar. Jessica stared. To the best of her knowledge, her father didn’t even have a license, but knowing him, he had probably bought one online or somewhere else which only rich people could use to get whatever they wanted with the least amount of effort.
She went closer, walking around it. She had seen a few on the road, but never up close. However, back during her late teens, during a brief period of rebellion, she had dated a guy who was into motorbikes, and he had pushed her into taking a test so that they could go riding together. Just like her unwanted nickname, that relationship had turned sour, but it had left Jessica with something she hadn’t even remembered until now.
She slipped her hand into her bag, pulling out her purse. Her drivers’ license was in there, the check in the category box for motorcycles plain to see. It had been nearly ten years, but it hadn’t been that hard … a couple of turns up and down a quiet street wouldn’t hurt, and if she wore one of her father’s helmets she could hide her identity from Dick Burd, if he was still outside. A little spin around town, give him time to get bored and go home … no problem.
She took a helmet down off a shelf and tried it on. It fit perfectly and smelled brand new: it was probably one Benjamin had bought for her mother but she was yet to use. Jessica climbed onto the bike’s seat and rested her hands on the throttle. It felt remarkably comfortable, and the sidecar gave it a stability that a regular motorbike didn’t have. It would be no more difficult than driving her van, just a little windier and a whole lot cooler.
As she pretended to twist the throttle, a sudden thought struck her.
No.
Scotland was a long, long way.
I can’t really be thinking about this, can I?
The bike was a monster, a classic Matchless Tomahawk, built for touring. The sidecar had plenty of room for luggage as well as a passenger. And her tools wouldn’t take up much space….
With the helmet on, she barely heard the roar of the engine as she turned the key, but beneath her the cold lump of metal had become a humming, powerful beast. The bike she had taken her test on had been a mere cow compared to this dragon, but as she turned the throttle and felt the engine’s power, she certainly saw the appeal. And it would be a far more interesting ride to Scotland than her old van would have been.
‘Merry Christmas, Dad and Mum,’ she whispered. ‘Thanks for the present.’
With a grin, she pressed the door control her father had conveniently taped to the bike’s petrol tank, waiting as the huge automatic doors rose up into the ceiling. A minute later she was roaring past a bemused Dick Burd, who was still standing on the pavement outside her parents’ house with his phone pressed to his ear.
In the wing mirror, she watched with amusement as his hat flew off his head and landed in the middle of the road.
9
Road Hogs
Kirsten’s mouth crinkled into a polite grimace. She rubbed at the side of
her eye as though anticipating a tear, and shook her head, a spare helmet Jessica had found in the sidecar held awkwardly in front of her like something alien
‘I’m afraid I don’t think I can do this.’
‘Don’t worry. The sidecar’s even got a fold-out roof if it starts to rain. It’s no different than a car. Not really.’
‘But it’s so flimsy. What if a lorry overturns in front of us? It’ll squash us flat.’
‘I don’t think we’d fair much better in the van,’ Jessica said. ‘Look, these are our wheels. I’ve kind of borrowed them now and can’t take them back.’ It was true; the front door key was still on her parents’ kitchen table and, following a spin on the M32 to see what the bike could do, the door control taped to the petrol tank had flown off and landed in the central reservation somewhere. She had no way back into her parents’ house except to show up and hope Reg or Molly were there. And without being able to get back in, she had no way to check their schedules.
‘I hope you’re insured.’
‘No problem. Dad always puts me on his friends and family plan.’
‘And you’ve ridden before, I gather?’
‘Loads of times.’ Not in ten years, she neglected to say. And then on nothing remotely as powerful as this behemoth.
‘Well, I suppose if we have no other choice….’
After a little more goading, Kirsten got into the sidecar and they set off. It felt incredible to be out on the open road, the wind billowing around her, and with her helmet on she could barely hear the engine, let alone Kirsten’s screams. For the first time in years she felt free.
Just after turning onto the M5 to head north, they saw the first roadworks sign. Ten minutes later they were in standstill traffic. Jessica turned to the sidecar to make some witty comment about the trials of the road, but much to her frustration, Kirsten, leaning on an inflatable pillow, was fast asleep.
‘Oh, I suppose anything, really,’ Kirsten said, lifting her head from the book just long enough to look at Jessica across the table, whose latest attempt to start a decent conversation looked like it was falling just as flat as the others. ‘Whatever I can find.’
‘So, like horror, or mystery? Romance?’
Kirsten shrugged. ‘Whatever I have on hand.’
She looked ready to bury her head back into her book, judging by the atmospheric cover a mystery by a writer Jessica had never heard of called Jack Benton. Jessica, who couldn’t bear the thought of eating in silence while Kirsten read, leaned sideways, trying to get a look at the blurb on the back cover. Something about a man who had gone missing.
‘Do you always read at dinner time?’
Kirsten closed the book and shrugged. ‘No, not always. Mostly just when I’m … nervous.’
Jessica smiled. ‘Are you nervous now? We work together, remember?’
Kirsten gave an awkward shrug, and Jessica wondered if this was how her parents had felt on the few occasions they had taken her out to restaurants as a teenager. ‘But we’ve never really hung out, have we? And, you know, you’re the boss.’
‘But I’m not like a dragon boss or anything, am I?’
It was meant as a joke, but Kirsten just gave a polite smile. ‘You treat me fairly,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t ask for more.’
The waiter arrived with their food. Kirsten closed the book but left it on the tabletop, as though threatening that it could be picked up and resumed at any time. She waited politely for Jessica to pick up her knife and fork, then picked up her own and sat waiting for Jessica to begin eating. As Jessica cut into her first chip, then waited for Kirsten to make a tentative poke at one of her own, Jessica felt something inside her snap. She put her knife and fork down with a sharp crack, making Kirsten flinch.
‘Look,’ she said, ‘We’re in a Holiday Inn in the middle of the Midlands somewhere. We’re not due to arrive at Snowflake Lodge for another week, so if we end up getting drunk and being too hungover to do anything other than fester in our rooms all tomorrow, then that’s fine, right?’
Kirsten looked like her puppy had just died. She gave a brief, bullied nod.
‘Do you know what I did today?’
Kirsten shook her head this time. ‘You ordered battered haddock and chips?’
‘No, Kirsten, not that,’ Jessica said, feeling a strange kind of euphoria coming over her. ‘Something much more important. I escaped from my basket case of a lodger. Do you know what tonight is?’
‘Tuesday?’
‘It’s my first night of freedom. So what if she’s wrecking my flat with her feral mates? I don’t care. I’m on the road, with my, um, employee—’
‘Technically government-appointed trainee—’
‘—and friend. Do you really think I want to let tonight pass me by?’
‘Well, it hasn’t yet. It’s only eight o’clock.’
‘We have to celebrate, Kirsten.’ Jessica lifted a hand in the air and clicked her finger for the waiter, then immediately realised it was something her parents might have done and began to profusely apologise as he came over, a bemused look on his face. She ordered a bottle of Lambrusco with two glasses —because her parents would have ordered champagne—plus a beer for the waiter to drink after his shift. The waiter filled their glasses and Jessica handed one to Kirsten.
‘She might have taken my flat, but she’ll never take my freedom!’
‘Well, that’s something, isn’t it?’ Kirsten said.
They drank, Jessica a little more enthusiastically than Kirsten, but at least something mildly alcoholic passed her young protégé’s lips. She might be able to force a party yet.
With their hotel at the end of a motorway service area somewhere past Wolverhampton, they were literally in the middle of nowhere. The hotel had one onsite bar, which Jessica insisted they visit after dinner. The only other customers were an elderly couple, but Jessica had soon goaded them into a karaoke contest using a dusty setup dragged out from under a sheet in a corner. Her ridiculous crooning was put to shame by their note perfect renditions of various classic continental hits, while even Kirsten, eventually forced to take on a bland Westlife ballad, managed to outdo her. The success was in the pudding, however, with Jessica stumbling back to her room with a sense of achievement unlike any other: she had managed to drink Doreen off her mind.
Kirsten helped her to take off her shoes, then wished her good night. Jessica slumped down on her bed and reached for her phone on the bedside table where she had left it, the colours and numbers blurring as she used her thumb print to unlock the home screen.
She had only wanted to know what time it was—a pathetically unadventurous 11.15 p.m.—but the messages-received icon was lit up. Too drunk to resist what she was afraid of seeing, she immediately winced as Doreen’s name appeared on the screen.
The toilet cistern’s popped off the wall. I think a couple of screws were loose. When Mick sat down it just popped right off. The poor chap nearly face-planted on the back of the door. Seriously, you need to get this fixed. I believe that it’s my right to hold back my rent until you get someone in.
Jessica groaned. She opened the message box to write some sarcastic or borderline aggressive reply, but her creative well was dry. Okay, she typed, then closed her phone, closed her eyes, and went to sleep.
10
Road Troubles
‘Are you sure you’re okay to drive?’ Kirsten said, peering over a plate of salad vegetables. ‘I mean, you don’t look too well this morning. How much did you drink?’
‘Not enough,’ Jessica said. ‘Doreen still managed to get me.’
‘Oh? What’s happened?’
Kirsten nodded while Jessica explained. When she was done, Kirsten said, ‘I suppose you could call someone out to take a look. It shouldn’t be hard to fix as long as the plumbing is intact.’
‘That’s beside the point,’ Jessica said. ‘It wasn’t broken yesterday morning when I left. I should have her evicted, but I need the money.’
�
�That’s too bad,’ Kirsten said, then glanced over her shoulder, through the window at the car park, where the Tomahawk was parked against the curb. ‘Forgive me if I’m speaking out of place, but aren’t your parents quite well off?’
Jessica laughed. ‘Well off is an understatement. My father is the heir to one of the greatest fortunes in show business. And all because my grandfather was clever enough to trademark several of his most famous catchphrases.’
‘So couldn’t they lend you any money?’
Jessica sighed. ‘As soon as I was old enough to understand the situation, I wanted no part of it. Sure, it would be nice to be rich and not have to work, but what’s the point? Your whole life has no meaning.’
Kirsten just gave half a shrug as she chewed on a raw carrot. ‘But it would make things easier.’
‘I stole—I mean, borrowed—that bike. I think they’ve given me enough for one trip.’
‘So what’s the plan for today?’
‘We head on up to Scotland. It might take us a day or two to find the place, because according to the brochure it’s in an internet black spot. Then we’ll have a few days to settle in before we get to work. You know, have a look at the place, check out the other staff and guests, maybe take a few walks or hit up one of the local towns.’
‘Sounds interesting. Like a proper girly trip.’
The way Kirsten said it sounded awkward, as though it was a phrase she had read in a magazine and memorised for future use. Jessica gave her a humouring smile.
‘Yeah, that’s right.’
They packed up and headed out. As Jessica climbed back on to the Tomahawk, she discovered something she hadn’t previously known about riding motorcycles: it took a while for your bum to adjust to the new angles. Sure, the seat felt nice and soft but her inner thighs felt like she had been through a rigorous yoga session and her lower back had a bruise-like pain which flared whenever they went over a bump. Wincing with each jolt in the road, she steered them back onto the motorway.
