by Liz Fielding
‘Maybe I just don’t get a buzz from co-ordinating soft furnishings.’
‘Maybe not, but what about photographs, a decent sound system, a pile of your favourite videos?’
‘You’ve already pointed out that I don’t have a television.’
‘You know what I mean. This place is about as homey as a dentist’s waiting room.’ She shook her head. ‘No, it’s worse. A dentist leaves a few magazines about to brighten the place up.’
‘I seem to have bypassed the excitement of browsing through magazines. Have I missed much?’
‘I’d have thought they’d be basic research tools for a man in your line of work.’ As much as she’d tried to ignore Sky’s note, it had awakened her curiosity. She hadn’t, she thought, been anywhere near curious enough about her mysterious knight errant. Or maybe she hadn’t wanted to enquire too deeply in case she didn’t like what she heard. He’d come up with a pretty convincing reason for his lack of journalistic credentials, but she wanted more. Much more. ‘It looks like the temporary home of a man who’s been stripped of everything he’s ever possessed by an asset-stripping ex-wife.’
‘The mortgage was pulled on my apartment. Part of the treatment. I had a choice to make. Sell my home, or sell my soul. I didn’t want to bring any of that life with me.’
‘But there’s not a single thing that’s personal. There isn’t even the usual stack of junk mail, for heaven’s sake.’
‘Junk mail goes where it belongs. In the bin. Unopened. Am I making a mistake?’
‘Probably not.’ She didn’t look at him, but concentrated on the vegetables. ‘Not since your idea of light reading appears to consist of a treatise on investment law or banking history. Or fraud.’ She glanced at him, thought about the filing cabinet hidden in a cupboard and bolted to the floor. ‘Are you still hoping to expose them?’
‘I suffer from insomnia. Those books are more effective than anything prescribed by a doctor. Pass me a couple of glasses from that cupboard, will you?’ She reached up, hesitated. ‘On the other hand, maybe it would be safer if I did it.’
He reached over her head, not quite touching her, but the movement was close enough to stir her hair and her skin shivered as if he’d stroked her.
She watched him pour the wine, his hand rock-steady. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe he wasn’t getting the same reaction from their closeness… ‘That would explain your clothes, then,’ she said. Anything to distract her from the thickness of his wrist, the way the light caught and shone on the hair of his forearm. She’d bet he played tennis like a champion.
‘My clothes?’ She jerked herself out of the fantasy her mind was running and realised that he was looking down at the jeans he was wearing. ‘They’re scarcely worth a mention.’
‘I was referring to all those beautifully tailored business suits in plastic covers hanging up in your wardrobe.’ She added the rice to the pan, then glanced at him. ‘I was pretty sure that hack journalists don’t wear chalk-stripe.’ She wasn’t expecting an answer so she didn’t wait for one. ‘Or handmade shoes. Or shirts with Jermyn Street labels.’
‘You have been making yourself at home.’
‘Making myself useful. I shook out your dinner jacket—it was covered in sand and could do with a trip to the dry cleaners, by the way—and hung it up along with the clothes I brought with me.’
‘Was there enough room? From the weight of your bag, I imagine you brought an entire wardrobe of instant disguises with you.’
‘Since you won’t let me go back to my own place, I had to improvise. There are some places a little black dress simply will not take a girl. Much like a chalk-stripe suit.’ She flashed him a smile.
‘Was there some point to this conversation?’ he asked, not much amused.
‘No.’ She added a little liquid to the saucepan; it steamed and sizzled noisily. When it quieted down, she carried on. ‘I just wouldn’t want you to think I had been entirely taken in by your adopted persona, Crosby.’
‘It’s just as well I came clean, then.’
‘Did you? Entirely? You asked me to trust you, and against all the evidence—and until I’m proved wrong—I’m inclined to believe you have my best interests at heart. That’s about as far as I’m prepared to go.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’ She reached out, took the glass from his hand and clinked it against his. ‘Cheers.’ He remained silent. ‘This is going to take a little while, but it only needs one of us. Why don’t you go on through to the living room and check out Sky’s list?’
Nyssa continued to stir the risotto, carefully adding small quantities of the liquid and, Matt thought, just as carefully avoiding looking at him. He, on the other hand, couldn’t take his eyes off her wrist as it turned the spoon. Her economy of movement, the stillness of every other part of her, caught at his heart, kept him pinned to the spot.
After a while she glanced sideways at him. ‘I thought you had a hot date with a laptop.’
‘It’ll keep.’ He and the laptop had all night to get cosy; he wasn’t going to be getting any quality sleep on that sofa. ‘Right now I’m deriving pleasure from the unexpected sight of you getting domestic.’
She raised her expressive brows a fraction. ‘You don’t get out much, do you?’
‘This has been an exceptional week,’ he admitted. ‘And I still have ahead of me the doubtful pleasure of breaking into a derelict cinema.’
‘It isn’t derelict. And you volunteered to be my minder,’ she reminded him.
‘I must be crazy.’
‘I’m hoping that’s the reason.’ She looked at him again, her blue eyes suddenly thoughtful.
‘You can count on it,’ he said.
‘Then relax, we’re not breaking in to the cinema, or anywhere else.’ She continued to add liquid to the rice.
‘How do you propose to get inside?’ he asked, when she left it at that.
‘We’re going to walk up to the security guard and ask him, very nicely, to let us in.’
‘We’re both crazy.’
‘Not at all. You and your chalk-stripe suit are going to prove very useful. You’ll look like a prosperous businessman. Who will dare question your authority?’ She smiled, every bit like a cat that had got at the cream. ‘Hmm?’
‘Forget the chalk-stripe. That’s City wear.’
‘Is it?’ She glanced sideways at him. ‘Pity.’
‘Tell me, when I use my one telephone call, who shall I ring to bail us out?’
‘It isn’t going to happen.’ She grinned. ‘Trust me,’ she said. Yes, well, he probably deserved that one. ‘And, if it does all go pear-shaped…’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ll ask if we can share a cell and you can pass the time by telling me the whole story of your fall from favour. I have the feeling that might just be worth getting arrested for.’
‘I’d advise you to wait for the movie.’
‘Ah, but will there be a cinema in Delvering to screen it?’
It was time to move before his stupid mouth got him into trouble…more trouble than he was already in. ‘How long will that be?’ he asked, nodding in the direction of the pan.
‘Twenty-five minutes—’ she waggled her free hand ‘—or thereabouts. If you’re staying you might as well start grating that parmesan.’
‘I’ll pass, thanks. Can I take this?’ He didn’t wait for an answer but picked up her laptop, retreated to the living room and, while he booted up his own, more powerful machine, retrieved Sky’s e-mail from the ‘trash’ bin. He wanted to know exactly what she’d said about him.
Not much. Just that if he was a journalist, he was a singularly unsuccessful one but that probably Gil could find out more. So Nyssa still didn’t know anything about his dealings with Parker.
It didn’t take long to check out the bona fides of the people who’d come to the meeting. The genuine journalists were easily excluded; the internet instantly threw up stories they’d written in the pa
st two or three years. That was why he’d been so simple to spot as a fake. He hadn’t had time to set up that kind of cover; but then he hadn’t anticipated the necessity.
The public officials and other interested parties didn’t take much longer to cross off the list of possible suspects. They were real people living ordinary lives. Everyone checked out. Which meant just one thing. The four names he was looking for weren’t on the list.
‘It’s ready.’ Nyssa looked around the door. ‘Oh, bless. His-and-hers laptops. Are they networking?’
He made no comment, simply moved them out of the way in silence, and while she set the plates on the coffee table he fetched the wine and refilled their glasses, before picking up a plate and retreating to the safety of an armchair made for one. It wasn’t particularly comfortable, the springing was of the random variety, but it was a lot safer than sharing the sofa with Nyssa in her present mood.
‘This is good,’ he said, after taking a mouthful of the risotto.
‘Then why are you frowning?’
‘Was I? It wasn’t anything to do with the food, I promise.’
A fork halfway to her mouth, she paused. ‘Have you found something?’
‘No. Everyone checked out.’ Which wasn’t as reassuring as it sounded. ‘I was thinking,’ he said, before she could work that out for herself. ‘What your campaign needs is a celebrity to go into bat for you, someone to catch the public’s imagination. Do you suppose Doris Catchpole, star of the silver screen, could still be with us?’
‘Doris Catchpole?’ she repeated. ‘Don’t be silly, you made her up.’
‘Only the name. I’m willing to bet that back in the golden age of cinema some glamorous starlet got her picture in all the papers when she opened Delvering’s wonderful new picture palace.’
Nyssa frowned. ‘Sky’s got all the research files, but I do recall a photograph of someone in a slinky dress…’ Then she shook her head. ‘She’d have to be ninety at least.’
‘It’s a long shot, I know, but worth checking out. If she’s still alive she might enjoy a chance to relive her glory days, or find a publisher for a ghostwritten memoir. If she became really famous that might be enough.’
‘Brains as well as brawn. I love it.’ She left him to deal with the plates while she set to work, hunting down information on the web. He returned to find her staring at the screen in disbelief.
‘What is it?’
‘Meet Doris Catchpole.’
He glanced at the screen. ‘Good grief, that looks like…’ He stopped because it plainly couldn’t be.
‘It’s Kitty’s great-aunt. She was quite a star in her day.’
‘But that’s…’ He was going to say terrific, but stopped himself just in time.
‘It’s a pity. She’s the one person in the world I couldn’t possibly expect to help me. The one person I couldn’t ask.’
He thought she was wrong. He thought that Kitty would do anything in the world to make Nyssa happy—short of divorcing her husband.
The cinema at the centre of all the fuss was boarded up, fly-posted and, from the café on the far side of the road, didn’t look much like an architectural gem in need of saving for the nation. In fact the whole area was run down, and Matt said so.
‘And you think a supermarket will improve things?’ She put down her cup and leaned across the table. ‘See that newsagent? That will be the first to go. Then this place, then the greengrocer. The supermarket will kill off all the small businesses in the area. The cinema, if it’s restored, will revitalise the area. It’s happened in other places.’
‘I’m sure you’ve done your homework.’ He finished his coffee. ‘It’s smaller than I expected.’
‘Too small for the multi-screens to be interested, but it’ll make a perfect arthouse cinema.’ Nyssa’s face glowed with enthusiasm. ‘Have you seen the pictures of the inside, when it was new?’
‘I saw some at your presentation, but surely it’s all fallen to pieces? The place has been everything but well cared for in the last few years.’
‘That’s what Charles Parker wants everyone to believe: that there’s nothing worth conserving. So why hasn’t he knocked it down?’ When he didn’t answer, she said, ‘Shall we go and find out?’ She began to rise, but he put his hand on her arm, restraining her.
‘No, stay here. Let’s see if the security guard accepts that card at face value before you get involved.’ He glanced down at the slender-heeled shoes she was wearing to go with the distracting sex-kitten image she’d adopted as her persona for the morning. Shoes that displayed her feet and ankles to perfection. ‘You won’t be able to run very fast in those. Or in that skirt.’
She grinned. ‘I’d kick them off and hike my skirt up if I had to run.’
‘Then you’re definitely staying here. I’m not prepared to be responsible for a major traffic pile-up.’
‘My hero.’
Not exactly. He had a very good reason for not wanting Nyssa with him as he crossed the road and approached the security guard’s hut.
‘My name’s Crosby,’ he said. ‘I’m a security consultant for Charles Parker.’ He gave the man his own card instead of the one Nyssa had produced from a large collection she kept for use in such circumstances.
The guard put the card by the phone and pushed the visitor’s book towards him. ‘No one will get in here,’ he said. ‘This place is locked up tight as the Tower of London.’
‘Then we’ll need the keys,’ Matt said gravely, as he signed the book.
He grinned. ‘Yeah, right. I’ll just have to call the office to check, then I’ll show you around,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘It’s an amazing place. You wouldn’t believe…’ He was beginning to get the idea, Matt thought, as the man put through a call to Parker’s office, then held out the phone to him. ‘Mr Parker would like a word, sir.’
Aware that Nyssa was watching him from the safety of the café, Matt ignored it. ‘Tell him I’ll ring him later. When I’ve completed my report.’
The guard blenched, but relayed the message, then said, ‘You’ll have to wear a hard hat. Health and Safety.’
He wasn’t arguing; the place was undoubtedly falling to pieces. ‘Make that two. I have my assistant with me. If she ever finishes her coffee.’ He turned and gave Nyssa a hurry-up wave—every inch the impatient businessman.
Nyssa, looking like the kind of PA every man had ever dreamed about, teasingly took her own sweet time in sauntering across the road, clearly intent on proving a point.
The security guard couldn’t take his eyes off her, and Matt was convinced he must see through the curly blonde wig, the grey contacts she was wearing to tone down her vivid eyes.
He’d have known her anywhere. But though she walked right up to the man, flashing him a blazing smile as she took the safety helmet, the poor bloke was too busy admiring her accentuated cleavage to connect her with the troublesome Miss Blake.
They donned the white hard hats emblazoned with Parker’s logo as they were let in through a side door. ‘You’ll want all the lights, I expect?’
‘Give me everything you’ve got.’ Gradually the lights came on all over the building, illuminating the foyer, the stairs and curving mezzanine floor, cantilevered above them. Matt had expected broken light fixtures, dirt, rubbish, the cobwebs of ages, but there was only a film of dust to dull the old magic. Beside him Nyssa gasped, and she was right. The run-down exterior belied the inside of the building. It was a long way from derelict.
‘Do you want me to show you where everything is?’
‘What? Oh, no, we’ll find our own way round—’ he glanced at the man’s identity badge ‘—Gary. You don’t want any of that Save the Gaumont crowd sneaking in while your back’s turned, do you?’
‘You were born to this, Matt,’ Nyssa said, when the security guard had gone.
‘I have the uneasy feeling you mean that to be a compliment.’
But she was too busy looking around to respond. ‘Would you
say this has all been cleaned up pretty recently?’
‘I guess so. Is that a problem?’ He’d have thought she’d be pleased, but she looked concerned.
‘Parker’s plans don’t involve restoration.’
‘I’m sure he hasn’t gone to all this trouble just to rip it out and dump it in a skip.’
‘No. More likely to ship it to America, or Japan, or Germany, where it will be appreciated. This has been done so prospective buyers can see what they’re bidding for.’
‘Is there really much of a market for this stuff?’
‘Are you kidding?’ She turned back to him when he didn’t immediately respond. ‘There’s a huge market for art deco interiors, but this was designed all of a piece. Once it’s split up, it’s lost. Here it’s…well, it’s perfect.’
‘Why don’t you give me the guided tour?’
She needed no second invitation, but grabbed his hand and set off in the direction of the elegant sweeping staircase. At the foot she stopped, took out a handkerchief and wiped the light film of dust from the black and gold figure of an Ankara dancer holding a lamp aloft. ‘Isn’t she beautiful?’
‘Stunning,’ he said.
‘The whole interior is special, Matt. Unique.’
‘What’s up there?’ he asked.
‘Come and see.’ She ran up the stairs and held her arms wide as she spun around. ‘At one time this was the place in Delvering to take afternoon tea. Silver teapots, cucumber sandwiches, exquisite fancies, and waitresses in black dresses with white lace aprons and caps. Just look at those wall lamps!’ She groaned. ‘He’s going to rip the heart out of this building, isn’t he? Sell it off bit by bit to collectors unless we stop him.’
It certainly explained why Parker hadn’t saved himself a lot of trouble by simply bulldozing the lot months ago. ‘And through there?’
‘The balcony seats.’
He pushed open one of the polished swing doors and she followed him into an auditorium fitted out in the art deco Egyptian style favoured by big cinema chains in the thirties. It made the modern multi-screens look very ordinary. ‘I can see how you might get caught up in the magic,’ he said.
