The Getaway Girls: A hilarious feel-good summer read

by Dee MacDonald

  ‘Have you seen Roger recently?’

  ‘No, but I hear he’s bought himself a smart little flat within walking distance of the bloody golf club. Anyway, I’ve gone on about myself for far too long, so time for a refill of vino, I think!’

  Fifteen

  NOT SO NICE

  Connie woke early the following morning and idly flicked through the pages of Larry’s Times as she drank her coffee. The edition was a week old, but she didn’t mind; it was just good to read an English newspaper. And then the headline caught her eye. ‘Criminal Gang Rob Bluett’s Bank’ it proclaimed, and underneath in smaller print, ‘Police are seeking “Ringer” Bell’. Scarcely able to believe her eyes, Connie read that three of the gang had already been apprehended, and the fourth, Ringer Bell, their leader, had escaped and was believed to be on the continent.

  Connie’s hand was shaking so badly she had to put her mug of coffee on the table as it was spilling everywhere. She double-checked the date of the robbery; it would have been the night before they all left England. Did Maggie know? Surely Maggie knew? The gang had got away with over a million pounds from this bank in the City.

  Connie felt a cold chill deep inside. Scratch-card indeed! He’d given Maggie that money! Stolen money, which they’d been blithely spending day after day! She could contain herself no longer. ‘Maggie!’ she yelled.

  A few minutes later a dishevelled Maggie tottered through. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘This is what’s wrong!’ Connie snapped, thrusting the newspaper under Maggie’s nose. ‘And I’d like you to tell me that this money we’ve been spending like water was not given to you by Ringer.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t given to me by Ringer,’ Maggie answered truthfully as she read the article.

  ‘What’s all the fuss about?’ Now Gill had appeared on the scene, rubbing her eyes. ‘Any tea in the pot?’

  ‘Never mind tea, I think you should read this article, Gill,’ Connie said.

  Gill peered over Maggie’s shoulder. ‘Oo-ah,’ she said.

  ‘I want Maggie to tell me that this money was not given to her by Ringer,’ Connie went on.

  ‘No, it wasn’t,’ Gill said cheerily. ‘She found it in the oven.’

  There was a moment’s horrified silence before Maggie snapped, ‘Well, thanks very much for that, Gill!’

  Connie felt sick. ‘Am I the only person who doesn’t know what’s going on here?’

  Maggie sat down opposite Connie. ‘I was going to tell you today anyway,’ she said. ‘You were so honest and truthful with us last night that I thought it was only fair you should know.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Connie.

  ‘Well, what Gill says is true. It was stashed in the oven overnight and he was snoring his head off in the spare room, so I helped myself.’

  Connie glared at Gill. ‘And you knew?’

  ‘Only ’cos I found out from Raoul that Maggie had asked him to let her know if a man came looking for her.’

  ‘Raoul!’ Connie was becoming angrier and angrier. ‘That was ages ago! And nobody bothered to tell me!’

  ‘We thought you might go to the police,’ Gill said.

  ‘Damned right I would! Let me get this clear: we’ve been spending money that you, Maggie, stole from Ringer, which Ringer stole from the bank?’

  ‘That’s about it,’ Maggie admitted. ‘But don’t go off your trolley, Connie, because that man owes me! He’s never been generous with his money and, God knows, I’ve covered up for him and looked after him year after year after bloody year. And what thanks do I get? He finds himself a blonde bimbo and it would only have been a matter of time before I was shown the door.’

  ‘That’s not the point,’ said Connie, wiping her brow. ‘The point is that you have stolen money.’ Her eye caught the picture of the idyllic French village scene on the wall. And then she thought about the five hundred euro dress hanging up in her cupboard. And what about the taxis, the site fees, the countless meals…? Dear God, what was she to do?

  ‘And,’ Connie continued, ‘what’s all this about him being on the continent?’

  ‘He’s after his money,’ Maggie said bluntly.

  ‘You mean he’s trying to find us?’ Connie wondered if she was going to faint. ‘But surely the police will be on the lookout for him over here? Will he be in his own car?’

  ‘Probably, but he’ll have had the number plates changed. Let’s face it, there must be thousands of maroon-coloured Lexuses on the roads. Don’t worry, Connie, we’ll be able to dodge him. Raoul told Ringer he’d never seen or heard of us.’

  ‘He found Raoul’s campsite?’

  ‘Well, he probably tried all the sites in the area. And I think he was tailing us that time on the autoroute, which is when I dodged past the gendarme and managed to lose him.’

  ‘And I think that might have been him chatting me up in Avignon,’ Gill added.

  ‘Oh my God!’ Connie was rendered speechless. Then, after a minute, she asked, ‘But how could he have known who you were?’

  ‘Well, that’s the thing, see, Connie,’ Maggie said. ‘My friend Pam forwarded on those pictures to him. You know, the ones of the three of us outside Bella?’

  ‘But you’ve had your hair cut,’ Connie said, turning to Gill. ‘You look quite different.’

  Gill shrugged.

  ‘He’s got a photographic memory, has Ringer,’ Maggie said. ‘He’ll have memorised your faces. And of course Bella’s registration was as clear as day in those photos.’

  ‘So that’s why you’re always looking for out-of-the-way places to park!’ It’s all coming together now, Connie thought. ‘Why didn’t you tell me, Gill?’

  ‘Because Maggie told me not to.’

  ‘Please, Connie,’ Maggie begged. ‘Try to see it from my point of view. Look, it’s a City bank and they’ll be insured to the eyeballs; a million’s nothing these days!’

  Connie was still trying to make sense of it all. ‘There were four of them,’ she said, to no one in particular.

  ‘They would have come away with around two hundred and fifty thousand each,’ Maggie said. ‘And I reckon I’ve got two hundred thousand of Ringer’s share.’

  ‘Two hundred thousand! But you said you’d won one hundred thousand on the so-called card!’

  ‘I’m afraid I was lying,’ Maggie admitted ruefully.

  ‘So, we’ve got two hundred grand hidden all over Bella! Tell me you’re joking!’

  ‘We have spent a wee bit of it,’ Maggie said.

  Connie had no idea what to do. Should she go to the police here in France? Should she chuck Maggie and her wretched money out?

  ‘Connie, the police are going to be looking for Ringer, not us,’ Gill said.

  ‘Are you telling me you approve of all this, Gill? Surely you could have gone to the police?’

  Gill shrugged. ‘It’s not a case of approving, is it? It’s done now. And Maggie didn’t pre-plan any of this; it was a spur of the moment thing just as she was going out of the door. Anyway, I’ve had my hairdos and my dresses and you’ve done all right out of it too, so are the police likely to believe we didn’t know?’

  Connie tried to collect her chaotic thoughts. It was highly unlikely the police would believe them, with two hundred grand hidden all over the vehicle. And, as they’d all been happily spending it, what did that make them? Or her? Receivers of stolen goods? Aiding and abetting? The list was endless. And her dad had been a policeman! What would he think if he were alive now? Connie shuddered.

  Nick and Lou were right. She should never have set off on this trip with two women she scarcely knew. She must have taken leave of her senses. They could all be arrested at any minute!

  Maggie moved over to sit next to Connie and put an arm round her shoulder. ‘Connie, we’re going to be OK, trust me. Let’s stay here today, have a lazy day in the sun, and we’ll set off for Italy tomorrow. If the police over here are at all interested, they’re looking for him, not us. And I expect they’ve got en
ough criminals of their own to keep them busy.’

  The thing is, Connie thought, how could I abandon Maggie? I really do like her, and I like Gill too. And I’m loving our trip and how well we all get on together, against the odds. And we’ll soon be halfway to Amalfi, so surely another week or two won’t matter? Then perhaps we can go our separate ways and Maggie can decide what she’s going to do and where she’s going to go with that money. Sometimes you do just have to turn a blind eye.

  They spent the rest of the day treating Connie like some kind of invalid, insisting she sat down while they did the cooking, the tidying up, the making of tea, the pouring of wine. Connie caught up with her emails – ‘having a wonderful time on the Côte d’Azur’. If they’d any idea of what she’d got herself into she’d be snowed under with shedloads of ‘I told you so’s. And she got out all her Teach Yourself Italian stuff, because they were going to be needing that very soon.

  It wasn’t until they were eating dinner that it occurred to Connie twelve hours had passed since she’d learned the awful truth. And somehow things didn’t seem quite so bad.

  Sixteen

  VIVA ITALIA

  It was time to bid adieu to France. As they prepared to leave, Amélie, who spoke little English, made it plain that they were welcome to use her salle de bains to shower and wash their hair. They’d paid well for their stay, bought eggs and peaches and olives, and wine of course. Now Jean-Paul and Amélie insisted on giving them extra provisions for their onward journey, helping them to fill up their water supply and dispose of the waste into the outside toilet.

  As they went about their tasks, Connie noted with wry amusement how very considerate the other two were to her this morning still, as a result of yesterday’s conversation no doubt. There were lots of sympathetic smiles and remarks like, ‘Don’t worry, Connie, I’ll do that,’ and, ‘You have a coffee, Connie, I can do this.’ It wouldn’t last, of course. But it made them feel better. Poor old Connie, who’d not only lost a son, but a husband too – even if she hadn’t wanted him. And poor old Connie, who’d been kept in the dark about these criminal activities. Well, soon they’d be on their way and, doubtless, the everyday banter would continue. Thank goodness.

  * * *

  The road snaked its way round the rocky shorelines and tunnels, with tantalising glimpses of the sea and the mountains. The traffic was heavy, but orderly, and there were few hold-ups. Maggie had offered to drive again – probably part of the ‘be kind to Connie’ effort. Then again, she liked being at the wheel and she was a good driver. However, today was special, because they were going to Italy, and Connie wanted to be back behind the wheel.

  Maggie sat in the passenger seat trying to make out the road signs from Connie’s Italian phrase book, while Gill sat behind, leafing through a copy of Elle, which Amélie had given her. Occasionally she’d peer over their shoulders to see where they were going and admire some of the stunning scenery, before returning to study and duly report on how long or short skirts should be this year.

  And there was no sign whatsoever of a dark red Lexus. Connie had never before even noticed Lexuses, dark red or otherwise, but now found herself studying every car on the road.

  They bypassed Monaco and headed towards Menton, which, Connie remembered from family holidays of long ago, was a delightful place with a wonderful food market. It would be a good place to stock up on groceries.

  ‘Are we still in France?’ Gill called from the back.

  ‘Yes, but only just,’ Connie replied.

  Menton was busy and, as usual, it was hard to find any parking space, far less one that would accommodate Bella’s dimensions.

  ‘Let’s keep going,’ said Connie. ‘Perhaps we’ll have more luck in Ventimiglia.’

  The scenery was less attractive and less dramatic along the stretch of coastline as they crossed the border into Italy at Ventimiglia. Connie, as always, felt a little thrill at being in Italy again. She’d always loved the country, even before she knew of her Italian grandmother. There was something about the language, the music, the scenery, the history – or was it some distant ancestor calling out to her? Somehow or other she’d always felt she belonged here.

  Andrea Bocelli was singing ‘O Sole Mio’.

  Gill peered over Connie’s shoulder. ‘Haven’t you got any other CDs?’

  ‘Yes, of course I have. What would you like?’

  ‘How about Rod Stewart?’

  ‘Well, I’ve probably got one of his in there somewhere,’ Connie replied.

  ‘I love Rod Stewart,’ Gill sighed. ‘I dreamed once that I met him at a party and my eyes met his across a crowded room. Like in the films, you know? And I was so excited! We got closer and closer towards each other and I just knew we were going to end up in bed together.’

  Connie smiled to herself, trying to imagine Gill’s beehive (that was) and Rod’s upward spikes sharing the same pillow.

  ‘And then I woke up,’ Gill said sadly.

  ‘I should think Rod was much relieved,’ said Maggie.

  * * *

  Ventimiglia looked a little shabby, with litter blowing around, unlike the pristine Menton. But at least there was a parking space, which was fortunately down a side road and which, Connie hoped, would not be noticeable to anyone – i.e. Ringer – driving through. There was a market which, according to what Larry had told them, the French came to in droves because everything was a little cheaper, particularly alcohol. It was a hot day, overcast and humid, and the market was uncomfortably crowded. The prices weren’t quite as wonderful as they’d been led to believe but, nevertheless, Gill spotted a pink leather handbag which she had to have. And they filled up with some vegetables, wine and Limoncello.

  What was interesting, Connie noted, was the fusion of languages along this coast. In Nice, although most people naturally spoke French, you could also hear a fair amount of Italian spoken, and the waiters and shop assistants could switch from one language to another effortlessly. And speak English as well. Not for the first time Connie thought what an insular lot the Brits were, those few miles of water separating them from day to day contact with their neighbours and the incentive to speak their languages.

  Now, here in Ventimiglia, the reverse was taking place, with French popping up periodically amidst the buzz of emotive, melodic Italian. She must concentrate on learning more of the lingo as, after all, if she were to find any relatives down in Amalfi, it would be an advantage to be able to converse with them.

  Larry had instructed them, when he knew of their route, to follow the river down to the beach at Ventimiglia, where they would get a spectacular view back along the French coastline, and of Monaco in particular. But, as they got back to Bella under an ever-darkening sky, the heavens opened and so they decided to give the view a miss. Perhaps on the way back…? They decided to head for San Remo where, according to Maggie’s literature, there was a large camping site. Connie felt sure they’d lost Ringer, if it was him in Avignon, but Maggie was still twitchy, particularly because there seemed little chance of finding a private, out-of-the-way spot around in which to park.

  It rained non-stop until they arrived on the outskirts of San Remo when, suddenly, the sky cleared and the sun reappeared. They made their way through dense traffic to the camping site, which, Maggie said, was on the east side of the city. They discovered that senso unico meant ‘one-way street’, after a short, bald man waved his arms around while shouting at them.

  The campsite was, fortunately, easy to locate and, even better, they had space available. It was well screened from the road by hedges and pines, so they wouldn’t be very visible to passing traffic.

  ‘It still early,’ the woman in the office informed them. ‘You come in August – no room.’

  Connie was feeling, not for the first time, that they must reach their destination before these dreaded August holidays, when most of France and Italy seemed to shut down. In another week it would be July but, even if they dawdled everywhere, there was still time t
o get down to Amalfi by the end of the month. And then what? Would they drive all the way back again? Would they leave Bella behind and fly home? It was, as always, not spoken about because, Connie suspected, none of them really wanted this journey to end. And, one way or the other, they had to do something about all this money before they even contemplated driving back.

  It could have been a disaster, it should have been a disaster, and it could still be a disaster. But at least they were having fun.

  * * *

  The campsite was quiet and, apart from one German family with teenage children, appeared to be child-free. They spent the evening quietly, eating a cassoulet of the vegetables they’d bought and using the laundrette facilities.

  The following morning Connie studied herself in the mirror. ‘My hair’s a mess. It needs cutting and it needs colouring.’ They’d been reliably informed that there was a bus into San Remo every half hour. ‘Do you two fancy coming into town?’

  Gill was painting her toenails and Maggie was fiddling with her phone.

  ‘Tomorrow, maybe,’ said Gill.

  ‘I’m feeling lazy today,’ Maggie said, without taking her eyes off the little screen. She seemed very concerned about her phone of late.

  Connie pulled a strand of hair with distaste. ‘Any further messages from dear Ringer?’ she asked.

  ‘Not for some time now,’ Maggie replied shortly.

  Connie turned away from the mirror. ‘I can’t see how he can possibly know where we are. He’d probably never have thought of going to Grasse and, if he did, he’d never have spotted us tucked away behind Claude’s farm buildings. And the same in Cannes.’

  ‘He’s probably miles back, or miles ahead,’ Gill added, replacing the top on the varnish bottle. ‘He’s most likely given up and gone home, and hopefully we can forget him now.’