by Diana Hunt
‘I don’t know. But we don’t want to hang about. There’s not much point’. Before I went to bed the conversation invariably turned to Max and me. They were naturally curious, but I didn’t want to discuss it. As far as I was concerned there was nothing further to say. But Penny did say one more thing: ‘A girl at the building society did see the picture in the Telegraph of you and your Max. He looks very distinguished, doesn’t he?’
‘He is: you don’t think I’d marry someone who wasn’t, do you? He’s a brilliant artist, very wealthy, and’ -just to shock them - ’lovely to sleep with.’
‘Diana!’
I thought about the little incident of my coming nuptials as I wandered round the town with Penny on Saturday afternoon (Peter of course was at a football match, watching the Linnets, the local team), and from the occasional glances I got from her it was obvious she was still intrigued; even more so when we stopped for coffee (the same cafe where Melanie and I used to visit). Penny asked, ‘What do his family think about all this?’
‘All I can say is that they seem to have accepted the situation.’ Penny stirred her latte and sucked the spoon. ‘That sounds like a not very auspicious start, Diana.’
I shrugged. I didn’t want to continue the conversation. ‘Max and I feel the same way.’
Then I looked up and saw Melanie and her mother and a young man; so we both had returned to the scene of the crime. I’m sure Mel’s mother had seen me, but she gave no indication of it; and Mel seemed to be too busy talking to - presumably - her boy friend. Penny and I had finished our coffee, so we got up and I led the way. Right, I thought - let’s see what’s happening. So I bore down in full flight.
‘Mel, darling! How are you?’ I kissed her, then kissed Mrs Pearson on the cheek. ‘How lovely to see you both! And who’s this handsome man?’ Melanie and her mother were speechless, and the boy was embarrassed. I glanced at my watch: ‘Whoops, sorry must dash.’ Penny followed me, weaving through the tables; at the entrance I turned and waved to them. ‘Happy Christmas!’
Nobody snubs me. Penny said, ‘What was that all about? Who were they?’
‘Just some people I used to know - haven’t seen them in ages.’
‘Oh.’
And that, I decided, was all one could say - ’Oh’.
For the next few days over the holiday period I hardly moved out of the house; spent my time reading and being a couch potato in front of the TV. I was left on my own on Boxing day. (Christmas day, we went to Penny’s parents, a placid and hospitable couple who accepted me without question.) But there was one visit I wanted to make before I returned to London. That was on the Wednesday. Peter and Penny dropped in the town centre that morning on their way to the supermarket (where did all that food go to over Christmas?). As I walked across the car park I noticed that the fountain wasn’t working (frozen pipes?). I also noticed that the far corner of the hotel was crowded with builders’ trucks.
As I approached the reception desk, I noticed Sandra bent over the booking VDU and Jim Morrison in his office, behind her, sitting behind his desk, speaking on the telephone. Above me and at the entrance to the restaurant, festive decorations hung loosely, looking rather tired. I said:
‘Good morning. I would like ten rooms for six months.’
Sandra looked up quickly. ‘Wha...? Oh, God it’s you. Diana.’
‘Hello, Sandra. How’s tricks?’
‘Well, this is a nice surprise. Home for the hols? Gosh, I never thought we’d see you again. How are things in the wicked city?’
‘It suits me nicely.’ I glanced over her shoulder. ‘Do you think I could have a word with Jim Morrison?’
I knocked on his door, and walked into his office, then sat opposite him in the customer chair, undid my coat and crossed my legs. Jim placed the handset on the cradle, stared at me and said:
‘God almighty, if it isn’t Miss Trouble. Whatever the question, the answer is ‘No’.’
‘Nice to see you, Jim. How are things?’
‘Very good until two minutes ago.’ Then he stood and so did I and we shook hands. He pointed the inevitable cafetiere on the corner of his desk. ‘Coffee?’
‘Yours? No thank you very much.’ He poured himself another cup. ‘You’re still as rude as ever.’ Jim leant back in his chair and gave me the once over. He said:
‘You look well off. On the game, are we?’
‘Bloody cheek! I’m a housekeeper who’s going to marry his boss.’ I waved my left hand.
‘I did notice. Just here for Christmas?.’
‘Yes. Were you busy? I noticed the builders’ vans. How is it going, Jim?’
‘Very well. Booked out over the holiday - even got the rugby club on New Year’s eve (that’ll be a nightmare). Building work is on schedule.’ He stared at me. ‘Your little love-nest has gone for a burton.’
‘Love-nest? What can you mean?’
‘Remember? Where you and Mike used to have your cosy little suppers.’
‘Mike? Is he still here?’
‘No. He left shortly after you. Doing a Master’s at Norwich in medieval history. Which seems to me to be a complete waste of time. What did you do to him, Diana? I should have fired you at the time, except you were so good at your job.’ I stared at him as he drew breath and drank more of his horrible coffee. He continued:
‘I knew you were a bit ruthless when I hired you, but I didn’t think you were that unscrupulous. I ‘ve been in the hotel business a long time, and I’ve seen it all - but you really are something else. What did you think you were doing? Turning my hotel into a knocking shop? I only hope that you don’t treat your future husband like you treated Mike.’
I pushed my chair back and slipped on my coat. ‘Goodbye, Mike.’
‘Yes, Diana; goodbye. And please don’t come back.’
I ran from the building, then slowed down to get my breath and wipe the tears, then ran again until I reached the harbour. I stared into the grey water. It seemed to move hynotically against me. I was distraught, angry and filled with self-pity. I walked away from the Ouse - and walked and walked. Eventually I stopped, and made a decision and a promise. No more, Diana Hunt. No more.
I felt exhausted, so I stopped at a cafe and ordered a pot of coffee and some smoked salmon sandwiches, suddenly finding myself ravenous. So, that was it. Time to return.
PIMLICO, NEW YEAR
THE HOUSE, OF COURSE, WAS CLOSED AND EMPTY. Max wasn’t due home until tomorrow, so I had make it look livable again, check the heating, and the remainder of the chores. I ate late and went straight to bed. I hadn’t opened Richard’s gift. It was heavy and felt like a book, which it was. But was delighted to hold a leather-bound edition of Dante’s Divine Comedy, the first 31 cantos, in Italian. There was a note inside:
Dear Diana:
I think you will find this an appropriate gift. I also think that it is time for us to cease seeing each as we used to. It wasn’t ‘just one of those things’ to me and I am sure the same was for you. But we were getting nowhere, and you are going to make more and more of a commitment to Max.
I am sorry to tell you like this, but I can only now wish you well.
Truly
Richard
Well: what did I expect? If the gods were sending me hints they were laying it on with a trowel. OK, boys; I get the message. But I didn’t sleep well (developing a conscience, Diana?), so I climbed out of bed early, took a shower, spent all morning cooking - very therapeutic.I didn’t know what time Max would be home so I ate a late lunch with a green tea, and lounged on the sofa with Dante.
Max got home about tea-time, preceded by a noisy Laura and her mother. ‘Diana, Diana! We’ve come home with grandpa!’
‘So I noticed.’ She plonked herself next to me. ‘And Mummy said I mustn’t forget to say thank you for the lovely
books you gave me for Christmas.’
‘You’re welcome. Do you like them?’
‘They’re lovely. ‘specially Alice when she fell through the looking glass.’
Max came through and I hugged him. ‘I hope you have been behaving yourself, Mr Gilbert. Hello, Patricia. How are things.’ She smiled in a friendly enough way. ‘Oh, we’re all all right. Apart from a certain person who thinks a certain little girl can have anything she wants.’
I said, after this fraternal exchange, ‘Anybody for tea.?’ As I walked to the kitchen, Laura said, ‘Can I come too?’
‘OK.’ She ran ahead of me. She was a crafty little devil, and I could guess what she was after. But I instructed Laura to lay out the cups and saucers and plates. Then she clambered off the kitchen stool and looked at me expectantly. I said, ‘Can you find the red and green tin box?’
‘Yes! Do we have cake, Diana?’
‘We do.’ She ran out of the kitchen; I heard her in the sitting room. ‘Diana made a cake!’ And ran back into the kitchen (I wondered why children of her age always ran, and not walked). She sat on the stool again, watching me slice the cake. Suddenly, she said, ‘Are you going to marry my Grandpa?’
‘Yes.’
‘Does that mean you are going to have lots of babies?’
I was startled by the question. ‘Never you mind, miss nosey parker.’
Laura giggled. ‘Go on, scoot,’ I said. ‘Carry the cake through - and don’t drop it.’ This time she walked into the sitting room, singing, ‘Nosey parker, nosey parker, nosey parker!’
When Patricia and Laura had left (taking half of the cake with them) Max and I now had time to catch up on the time we had spent away from each other. During these gentle domestic exchanges, I said something without hesitation. ‘Max: let’s get married as soon as possible. Run away - elope.’ Max laughed.
‘What has brought this on?’
‘I don’t really know, darling man. I - well, I suppose - just wanted to show you how much you mean to me.’ (What I was doing, of course, was proving to myself that my past was well and truly over.)
He laughed again. ‘I’ve left two newspapers on the hall table. I’ll get them.’ Max opened The Times and Daily Telegraph at the personal columns. They had the same announcement:
The engagement is announced between Mr Max Gilbert, CBE, RA of London and Miss Diana Hunt of King’s Lynn, Norfolk.
He held my hand. ‘Is that satisfactory, my sweet?’ I started to weep (what happened to the hard-boiled tart I thought I wanted to become). ‘Oh, Max, you lovely man.’ So we were on smooth path for our plans - a register office wedding, a family lunch, and a honeymoon to Italy. ‘There is only one way to reach Italy, said Max,’ and that is by train. First class, of course - Florence! Verona!. But we shall try to avoid Rome; vastly overrated.’ I went along with all this. Even when we both signed the pre-nuptial, that did not dampen our mood.
But ten days after New Year’s eve, something caught up with me that threatened my brave new world. I was on a high; all the plans were in place: dates, times, planning our lunch; booking our travel to Italy. All this I could do for Max and me - I was being thorough and efficient, as always. I was sat at the desk in the library, when the front doorbell rang.
I opened the door and facing me were two uniformed police constables - a woman and a man - who smiled and said, ‘Good morning, am I speaking to Miss Diana Hunt?’
‘Yes. What can I do for you?’ He flipped open a notebook. ‘Look: why don’t you come in - it’s freezing out there.’
‘Thank you, Miss Hunt.’ He said, ‘Are you the owner of flat...’ Then I heard Max’s voice. ‘Who is it, Diana?’
‘The police.’
‘The police! Good heavens, what’s happened?’
‘There’s been a break-in at my flat.’
I said to the policewoman, ‘ Is there much damage?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. Would you come with us, please, Miss Hunt?’
‘I’ll get my coat.’ Max interrupted: ‘Do you want me to come with you, Diana?’ I touched his arm. ‘No, darling; I’ll do this. I promise I’ll phone you on the mobile.’ I donned my long black wool coat with the fur collar and fur hat. As I sat in the rear of the police car, I thought: Just what I needed - my flat wrecked. Sod them! But when we walked down the corridor of the block and reached my flat the first thing I noticed was that the door had been unscrewed from its hinges and was leaning against the lintel: what the hell had happened? The first person I saw was Monique Barre. Beyond her, another woman (a police officer? She was dressed in a trouser suit). Monique turned when she heard us enter. ‘Diana!’ Without thinking, she spoke in French; I did the same.
‘Monique: what has happened?’
‘I do not know, Diana. This woman is a detective.’ Then she realized what she had done. I spoke in English to the detective. ‘Sorry about that. I’m Diana Hunt. I’m the owner.’
We shook hands briefly. ‘Detective Sergeant Lois Foyle, robbery squad.’ I looked round the living room. It was intact, clean. Sergeant Foyle asked:
‘What is missing, Miss Hunt?’
‘I don’t know.’
I explained. ‘Look, Sergeant. Let me make an inspection, and you follow. OK?’
‘Sure.’ We went into the kitchen. It was impeccably clean, like the living room. I looked in the cupboards; all the crockery seemed to be in place. I pulled at the kitchen drawers; cutlery and tools all seemed to be there. Neither was there any signs of food ever being stored. But under the sink, two cupboard doors were lying on the floor, unscrewed from their hinges. Under the sink it was impeccably clean - but there were no cleaning materials. Why on earth would anyone want to steal a carton of Ajax or bars of soap or bottles of bleach?
We moved into the bathroom. There no signs of it ever being used - no soaps, shampoos, make-up, lavatory paper - not even the toilet brush I had supplied. In the master bedroom the situation was the same; the bed didn’t look as if it had been slept in, there were no sheets, duvet, or pillows. I said:
‘I don’t understand it - it looks as though my tenant never occupied the flat.’ Then I spotted something. It was caught under a leg of the bed against the wall. I lifted the bed and drew out a small torn packet. I showed it to Sergeant Foyle. ‘At least,’ I said, ‘she wasn’t celibate.’ Though torn, the wording was plain: ‘DUREX.’ The detective smiled. ‘Our first piece of evidence that Dawn Hope was here - or was it her?’
‘Well, I hope she wasn’t using it as a knocking-shop, that’s all.’ We completed our inspection then returned to the living room. Monique was still there. She said, ‘Diana: there are more items missing?’
‘None really. Monique; tell me. Are the rent and bills up to date? We can’t find any invoices for electricity or phone, which has also vanished.’
‘Miss Hope paid six months’ rent plus the usual damage deposit; there is three months left.’
‘Right; now how did you hear of the break-in?’
‘It was the caretaker. He vacuums all the floors twice a week. When he approached your door he noticed it was open; unusual at six a.m., he knocked. No answer, so he phoned the police and they eventually contacted me.’
‘It’s all very mysterious, Monique. But to my relief all seems to be OK.’
Before I could ask any more questions I heard voices at the end of the hall - the WPC’s and another. Puzzled, I looked, then went cold, when I saw who it was. He was wearing the same light tweed suit, shown under his raglan overcoat, unbuttoned; highly polished brogues. Duncan Maddox. I couldn’t move - what the hell was he doing here?
But he gave no sign of knowing me, but instead introduced himself to Seageant Foyle by showing her his ID. She frowned and said. ‘Commander: what is a Home Office official doing here? This is a Met call. By the way this is
Diana Hunt, owner of the flat.’ Maddox turned to me and said, ‘I see. I’m sorry to intrude, Miss Hunt. May I have a word with Sergeant Foyle in private?’
They wandered off down the hall. Monique looked at me, puzzled. I shrugged, but said, ‘Look, Monique: you get back to your office. I’ll contact you later, ca va?’ Then I called Max, just to reassure him. As I finished, I noticed that Sergeant Foyle and Maddox were still talking. I was getting fed up with this; my flat had been robbed, and they were chatting like old friends: How dare they! I stode across. ‘Now look - what’s going on.’
Maddox attempted to use his ‘officer-and-gentleman’ approach (which I remembered only too well). But Foyle saw my expression and interjected. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Hunt, there’s more to this than a robbery, but there is no need for you to be alarmed. Commander Maddox will explain fully.’
‘He better had.’ So I was left alone with Maddox in the flat. And this was the second time in as many years that we had met under dangerous (or so it seemed to me) circumstances. I said, ‘So what’s going on, Mr Maddox. What are you doing here? The last time we met you were clearing up after your Russian pal met his end in a hotel staff cloakroom. Are you responsible for this?’
Again that reasonable tone. ‘I am sorry, Diana: our paths crossing again is pure coincidence.’
‘You didn’t answer my question.’
‘Then I’ll come straight to the point. Dawn Hope worked for the Department.’
‘Go on.’
‘We couldn’t contact her for a couple of days. That did not concern me immediately. Then yesterday, after a week had elapsed, I sent a search team to all the places she frequented - health club, hairdressers, etc. Yesterday I had someone search your flat...’
