‘We don’t know that it was,’ she pointed out. ‘Even if we assume that Babs is dead — and I’m beginning to think she is — we certainly don’t know that the body that Iris found is hers. There’s nothing except your famous hunch to connect the two.’
Bruce grinned. His faith in his hunch was obviously intact.
‘You crime writers are all the same! Every little loose end has to be tied up!’
‘Our readers would give us a hard time if they weren’t! Anyway, everyone knows journalists invent what they don’t know. There’s the difference between us.’
‘I prefer to think about the things we have in common,’ Bruce said softly.
‘Did you say something about dinner?’ retorted Melissa, avoiding his eye. ‘I’m starving.’
‘So am I. Let’s go.’
They drove for several miles to a country restaurant where Bruce had reserved a table. From their seat in a window alcove they had a rolling view of pasture and woodland rising to the distant ridge of the Cotswolds. The slanting sun picked out a stone farmstead or two and painted long shadows at the feet of grazing cattle and horses.
‘Lovely part of the world, isn’t it?’ remarked Bruce as they tucked into roast duckling. ‘Aren’t you glad you came to live here?’
‘In some ways,’ said Melissa pointedly.
He grinned, but did not bite. ‘Have you decided yet to make an assignation with Gorgeous George?’
‘If Gloria can stop giggling for long enough to arrange it, I shall shortly be a member of the U.P. Club, whatever that may be. I’ve made her promise to keep it a secret but if it gets out, every eyebrow in the village will go up and Mrs Calloway will draw aside her skirts every time I pass her. It’s going to cost me a fiver,’ she added.
‘Only a fiver! That’s a spit in the ocean out of your royalties!’ he retorted cheekily. She gave him an icy stare. ‘All right, only kidding. When’s the performance?’
‘Every Tuesday afternoon, so Gloria says. I haven’t quite made up my mind to go.’
‘Of course you’ll go, you’re burning with curiosity,’ he taunted her. ‘How else can you make your background authentic? You will go to Petronella’s first, won’t you?’ he added, turning on a smile similar in quality to that which had turned Rowena to jelly.
Melissa determined to show that she was made of sterner stuff. ‘I’ll let you know in due course,’ she parried.
Bruce reached out and took her hand. ‘Melissa, let’s be serious. We know for sure that huge quantities of drugs are coming in, and I honestly believe there’s a connection with Babs’s murder . . . all right, her disappearance,’ he corrected himself as she opened her mouth to contradict him. ‘Petronella’s is ideally set up to provide cover for a dealer. All I’m asking you to do is have a very discreet look around. There’s no risk to you . . . there’s a perfectly genuine business being run there, with plenty of genuine, ordinary clients . . . and it’s quite a decent, clean-looking place, not at all scruffy or down-at-heel . . . ’
Melissa put her hands to her forehead and groaned. ‘Oh Lord, what am I letting myself in for?’
‘You could be doing something really fine,’ he persisted. ‘There are a lot of nice kids out there, destroying themselves, and their families, so that a few ruthless, greedy bastards can live off the fat of the land.’
Melissa felt the last rags of her resistance falling away. ‘Oh, very well!’ she said. ‘I’ll go to Petronella’s . . . but I draw the line at the model agency.’
Bruce raised his glass. ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ he promised. ‘Here’s to good hunting . . . and another bestseller from Mel Craig! Now, what sweet would you like?’
Melissa drank, and was committed. It was such a pleasant evening and the good food and wine lay comfortably in her stomach. She felt relaxed, uninhibited and a little reckless. But later on, when she was once more alone in the quiet, isolated cottage that had still not quite accepted her, she became aware of something else, something that quickened her pulse-beat and sent a frisson across her nerve-ends.
It was excitement, spiked with fear.
Fifteen
Despite Bruce’s assurances about the standards of cleanliness at Petronella’s Vanity Box, Melissa preferred to make up her own mind. On her next shopping trip into Gloucester she went along there to reconnoitre.
The salon occupied the ground floor of a house in a gaunt Victorian terrace a short distance from the Cross. A similar row on the opposite side was still awaiting renovation but a board outside indicated that the site had been acquired by developers and would in due course be converted to shops and flats. It was an area which, after years of going downhill, appeared to be on its way back.
Petronella’s, sandwiched between a driving school and a launderette, had a bright modern shopfront. A huge basket of artificial flowers in varying shades of pink occupied the centre of the window, looking rather like a galleon in full rig on a sea of billowing carmine gauze. Glimpses of girls in pink overalls flitting to and fro in the interior emphasised, in a subdued but decided fashion, the essential femininity of the clientèle. Melissa studied the price list placed discreetly to one side: the range of services was extensive, the charges seemed reasonable and the place certainly looked wholesome enough. She decided to take the plunge and pushed open the door, setting off a dainty musical-box tinkle.
Inside, the pinkness extended remorselessly to every detail. Walls, ceiling and paintwork were pale rose; in varying shades, the theme was echoed in lampshades, chairs, towels and wash-basins. Piano music from concealed speakers floated in the scented atmosphere like trails of candy floss.
The slender young man at the reception desk, who appeared to be the manager, had evidently chosen his candy-striped shirt to blend with his surroundings.
‘A facial treatment and make-up, followed by a restyle and manicure . . . certainly, madam! Next Tuesday morning? Shall we say half past ten?’ The faint lisp and effusive manner were wholly in character. ‘What name is it?’
‘Mrs Collins.’
He wrote the time of her appointment on a pink card and bowed from the waist as he handed it to her. ‘Thank you, Mrs Collins. We look forward to seeing you next Tuesday. My name’s Justin.’ He scuttled round the desk to open the door for her.
The question of a name had arisen in discussions with Gloria, who had expressed no surprise at Melissa’s desire to join the U.P. Club incognito.
‘They all does it . . . just so’s their husbands never finds out!’ she explained, shaking with laughter. ‘Some of the names they thinks up is ever so fancy. Why don’t you call yourself Meryl . . . that’s a lovely name . . . the surname don’t matter really . . . so long as it’s not real!’ she added with an explosive giggle. In the end they had settled on Meryl Collins and the very act of giving the assumed name lent to Melissa’s appointment at Petronella’s a tinge of excitement. At the same time it seemed rather ridiculous, like wearing a cocktail dress at a children’s party.
When she got home she wrote the appointment on her kitchen calendar and copied Petronella’s telephone number into her diary. To her surprise, she found that she was writing down her own number. She looked more closely and realised that she had inadvertently transposed the first two figures.
Was this how Clive had come to dial her number . . . by retaining the correct digits but recalling them in the wrong order? Was it Petronella’s number that he had been trying to call? Since Babs had once lived above the salon, it seemed likely. If she had no phone of her own, she might have had an arrangement with someone there to take messages for her. In that case, if that person was still there, Melissa might be able to glean something about Babs’s relationship with Clive.
It crossed her mind to phone Bruce and tell him of her discovery but she decided against it. He would read all kinds of sinister possibilities into what was probably no more than a bizarre coincidence. One of many that had dogged her recently, she reflected.
When she presented herself
for her appointment the following Tuesday morning she found Justin arranging bottles of shampoo on a stand. He treated her to one of his brilliant smiles and summoned a girl in a white overall with “Petronella’s” embroidered in pink on the collar.
‘Debbie, Mrs Collins is here.’
‘Thank you, Mr Justin. Will you come this way please?’
Debbie had red hair, a pale skin dusted with freckles and a wooden expression. In a tiny room at the back of the salon, Melissa was helped off with her dress, swaddled in a soft blanket, installed on a couch and had her make-up removed with cool, fragrant lotions. It was a long time since she had been pampered in this way and she decided to make the most of it. She relaxed and closed her eyes, then reminded herself that one of her reasons for being here was to do a little gentle sleuthing and that she could begin by questioning the young beautician who was doing such blissful things to her face.
‘Have you worked here long, Debbie?’ she asked.
‘Since last October,’ the girl replied. ‘Your skin’s inclined to be dry.’
‘Yes, I know. Do you like it here?’
‘It’s all right. What cleanser do you use?’
‘Cold cream. Are you kept busy?’
‘It varies. Cold cream’s too greasy, it clogs the pores.’
‘I’ll get you to recommend a cleanser, then. Is Justin a good boss?’
‘He’s all right. You can have a free sample.’
There was no hint in the girl’s flat monotone that she had seen the funny side of this exchange and Melissa suppressed her inclination to giggle. It was plain that Debbie was not going to be a mine of information; in any case she had not been here while Babs was living above the shop so there was a limit to what she might know. Moreover, the warmth, the soothing creams being expertly massaged into her skin and the soporific, all-pervading music were having their effect. A face-mask was applied, pads laid over her eyes; Melissa drifted away on fluffy pink clouds.
She awoke while the mask was being sponged off with warm water. She was allowed to get dressed, wrapped in a pink gown and given coffee in a mug with pink roses on it while Debbie laid out her range of make-up colours for inspection. When, after a brief consultation, she set to work, Melissa watched in astonishment as her face was transformed.
‘I don’t think my own son would recognise me!’ she exclaimed when it was finished.
‘Don’t you like it?’ asked Debbie tonelessly. If she was disappointed at Melissa’s reaction, one would never have guessed.
‘I like it very much . . . it’s just the effect I was hoping for,’ Melissa assured her and a barely perceptible smile fluttered over the pale, sharp features.
‘That’s good. You’re ready for Dawn now.’
‘Is Dawn going to do my hair?’
‘That’s right.’
Dawn had a pert, pretty face, an impish smile and a hairstyle like a sweep’s brush. She took handfuls of Melissa’s shoulder-length locks, manipulated them this way and that, and asked her what style she wanted.
‘Of course, you could have it cut short,’ she said hopefully.
‘I prefer it long,’ said Melissa firmly. ‘Normally I tie it back with a ribbon or else let it hang loose. What else can I do that’s easy to manage?’
‘You could try wearing it up.’ Dawn coiled the hair round her fingers and held it in a tapering mound.
‘It looks rather like a walnut whip,’ said Melissa.
Dawn tittered. ‘It suits you,’ she said. ‘Don’t you like it?’
‘Yes, I think I do. Can I do it myself, though?’
‘Dead easy, I’ll show you. You need a trim. I’ll do that after your shampoo.’
Dawn was only too ready to chat as she wielded her scissors. She had done her apprenticeship at Petronella’s and stayed on after qualifying. It wasn’t always as smart as it was now, she said; quite scruffy in fact when she first went there but it was the only place she could get at the time. The new shop front and all the new decorations and fittings had been done about two years ago. Yes, she liked working there, Justin was a good boss, never pestered the girls and always shared the tips out fairly. Dawn wound Melissa’s hair up in huge rollers, encased them in shrimp-coloured net, sat her under the dryer and summoned Julie, the manicurist.
Julie was equally communicative. From her, Melissa learned that business had been so bad before the renovations that everyone was expecting it to close down. Instead, the proprietress had spent ‘loadsamoney’ on a complete refit and taken on extra staff.
‘Dunno where she got the cash,’ Julie whispered, tucking Melissa’s hand into what looked like a sandwich toaster to dry the first coat of varnish. ‘There was a time when you’d think she bought her clothes at a jumble sale. Now she swans around in a fur coat like Lady Muck!’
The salon seemed to be doing a brisk trade. Justin was kept busy answering the telephone, receiving customers and supervising his staff. Several times he received deliveries of parcels which he handed over to an apprentice to unpack and check, except for one, delivered by a motorcyclist in black leather, which he stowed carefully under the desk.
A stout, heavily made-up woman in a simulated leopard-skin jacket came in. Julie bent her head over Melissa’s hand and whispered, ‘That’s Mrs Farrell, the owner!’ as Justin personally installed the newcomer at a wash-basin and began shampooing her pale yellow hair.
‘You pay extra for Justin,’ Julie explained, massaging cream into Melissa’s hands. ‘Except for her . . . she gets hers done for free. That’s your manicure done.’ She checked the timer on the drier. ‘Another ten minutes and you should be ready.’
While Dawn was removing the rollers, Melissa asked casually, ‘Did you ever know a girl called Babs who lived over this shop?’
‘Babs Carter? I used to do her hair.’
‘Have you seen her lately?’
Dawn shook her head, setting the sweep’s brush aquiver. ‘Did a bunk, didn’t she? Never said a word to anyone.’
‘Did you know her well?’
‘We used to chat a bit. She did modelling so she had to have her hair done regular.’
‘Did anyone here ever take phone messages for her?’
‘Now and again. It was usually one of her boyfriends.’
‘Would that have been Clive Shepherd?’
‘His name was Clive, yes . . . I didn’t know his other name. Is he a friend of yours?’
‘I’ve met him,’ said Melissa cautiously.
‘He was nice,’ said Dawn with a rush of warmth. ‘He talked a bit posh but he was ever so friendly. Babs treated him rotten.’ Her mouth formed an angry little pout.
‘Oh?’
‘Sometimes, when he called round for her, she wouldn’t answer her bell. We knew she was in, and we knew he’d arranged to come round because we’d taken the message, but if she didn’t feel like seeing him she just didn’t open the door. You’d see him out there, looking up at her window, and then he’d go away looking miserable. When he found out she’d gone away for good without telling him, he was shattered . . . it was ever so sad. I liked him a lot.’ The last words were hardly necessary.
‘Do you think Babs tried to pack him up before she left?’ Melissa asked.
‘Don’t know really. She’d say one thing one day, another thing the next. She went out with him quite a few times . . . went round to his flat once.’ Dawn winked into the mirror. ‘Nothing happened though. She told me afterwards, she didn’t think he knew how!’
‘She liked him, then?’
‘I think she really preferred older men . . . but she liked the idea of his father’s money.’
‘His father’s rich?’
‘So she said . . . but he told her they’d quarrelled so he probably wouldn’t have got any money out of him. You’ve seen Clive lately?’
‘I went to visit him in hospital . . . he’s very worried about Babs. That’s why I asked if you’d seen her.’
‘Clive in hospital? Is he ill?’ Dawn’s
mobile face registered acute concern.
‘Hadn’t you heard? He had a bad car accident two days after Babs dis . . . went away.’
‘Oh, no!’ The voice was a breathless squeak of shock and distress. ‘I didn’t know. He’s been in hospital all this time? He must have been hurt pretty bad.’
‘He nearly died. He lost his memory but it’s coming back slowly.’ In the mirror, Melissa saw the girl’s eyes fill. ‘He’s out of danger,’ she added gently.
‘That’s good.’ Dawn sniffed and dabbed her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘I wonder if that’s why that copper came round . . . trying to find Babs to tell her.’
‘A policeman? Did you speak to him?’
‘No, he didn’t come in here. We saw him at the side door . . . the one that leads into the house. I expect he saw Mrs Farrell.’ Dawn dropped her voice. ‘That’s her . . . Justin’s doing her hair. She owns the shop and lives upstairs . . . we thought perhaps her son had been in trouble again.’ She finished brushing out Melissa’s hair and began building it into a glossy whorl on her crown. ‘You’d better watch this so’s you can do it yourself,’ she advised as her fingers twisted and manipulated and pushed hairpins into place. ‘How does that look?’
‘Smashing!’ The transformation was complete. Melissa hardly recognised herself. ‘Thanks very much.’
‘Pleasure!’ said Dawn but her eyes were still full of anxiety. ‘When did you see Clive?’
‘Last week.’
The girl hesitated before saying, ‘Do you think I could go and see him?’
‘I don’t see why not,’ said Melissa, thinking that this might be a very good idea and a possible way of taking Clive’s mind off Babs. ‘I don’t think he gets many visitors. He’s still quite poorly . . . you’d better ring first. It’s a private clinic. I can give you the address but you’ll have to look up the number.’ She tore a sheet from her notebook and wrote down the details.
Murder at Hawthorn Cottage_An absolutely gripping cozy mystery Page 15
