No Escape

by Hilary Norman

  ‘I should never have agreed to go out with him,’ Susan ended her tale.

  ‘He doesn’t sound like your usual good taste,’ Lizzie agreed.

  ‘He sounds like a prize pillock,’ Robin Allbeury said, and grinned. ‘If you don’t mind my saying so.’

  ‘I don’t mind a bit,’ Susan said. ‘It’s exactly right.’

  ‘Poor you,’ Christopher said.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Susan said. ‘A ghastly evening like that makes you incredibly grateful to get home.’

  ‘Like escaping in an interval of a Wagner opera,’ Allbeury said.

  ‘God, yes,’ Lizzie agreed fervently.

  ‘You always say you don’t mind Wagner,’ Christopher said.

  ‘I lie out of kindness,’ Lizzie said.

  ‘You’re fond of Wagner, are you, Christopher?’ Allbeury asked.

  ‘Extremely,’ Christopher replied. ‘And Richard Strauss.’

  Lizzie threw him a very swift, very cold glance, then smiled at Allbeury. ‘We went to see Ariadne auf Naxos a few weeks ago. My birthday present to Christopher.’

  ‘Gruesome,’ Allbeury said.

  Memories of the night that had followed the opera flashed through Lizzie’s mind.

  ‘Indeed,’ she said.

  ‘That soup was unbelievable, Lizzie,’ Susan said.

  ‘This is my “homage to Escoffier” night,’ Lizzie told her. ‘I’m glad you liked it, though I’m not sure he’d have approved. I based it on his bisque de crevettes, but I made ordinary chicken stock instead of a real fonds blanch.’

  ‘Why did you do that?’ Robin Allbeury asked severely.

  ‘Because it was easier,’ Lizzie said.

  ‘Shameful,’ he said, then grinned again. ‘Bet I liked your soup more than I’d have liked Escoffier’s.’

  ‘Actually,’ Susan said, ‘he was all for people adapting his recipes.’

  ‘I’m very impressed,’ Christopher said, ‘that anyone other than an obsessive cook should have the slightest idea what Escoffier was all for.’

  ‘Do you enjoy cooking, Susan?’ Allbeury asked.

  ‘Not really,’ Susan said. ‘But Lizzie’s books have turned me on to cookery reading. I lie in bed late at night and salivate.’

  ‘Sounds interesting,’ Christopher said.

  ‘Time to clear the soup plates,’ Lizzie said, and stood up.

  The phone rang while she was in the kitchen, Gilly reporting – because of their agreement about passing on important information regarding the children, no matter what Lizzie or Christopher were in the midst of – that Edward now had Sophie’s cold, and that both were running temperatures.

  ‘How high?’ Lizzie asked, ready to shed her apron and run.

  ‘Thirty-eight point four,’ Gilly said. ‘Nothing to get upset about.’ She paused, knowing Lizzie well. ‘Definitely nothing to make you drop everything and come roaring out of town for, either.’

  ‘Can I speak to them?’

  ‘Both sleeping,’ Gilly said. ‘Slight headaches and scratchy throats, but no sickness, no stiff necks and no rashes. Just feverish colds.’

  ‘And Jack’s all right?’ Always the question that shot right to the front of her mind, occasionally, she realized, at the expense of the other two.

  ‘So far, so good,’ Gilly said. ‘But I’ll keep checking on him too, even if it does annoy him.’

  ‘Bless you, Gilly,’ Lizzie told her.

  She told Christopher, asked him for his opinion, felt she had to agree with him that kicking out their guests because of a pair of colds would be a massive overreaction, and prepared to serve filet de boeuf Saint-Germain.

  The atmosphere was strained after that. Lizzie felt it, knew it was her fault, but could not seem to lift herself sufficiently to overcome it. The food, at least, was, she had to admit, very good, and she noticed real pleasure in Allbeury’s dark eyes as he ate, but still her mind kept returning to the children, and, pointlessly now, to the fact that if it weren’t for Christopher, she would have been with them now.

  Allbeury’s eyes, in fact, and the rest of the man, too, were the only aspects of the evening after Gilly’s call that really made any impact on Lizzie. Christopher had said how generous he’d been to HANDS, but he had not mentioned how attractive the solicitor was, or how warm and interested those melted-chocolate eyes.

  In me, Lizzie thought, unexpectedly, and grew a little warmer.

  It was true, though, she realized. Easy-going and attentive to everyone, Allbeury seemed, she thought, just a little gentler with her, as if he knew that her heart was no longer in the evening, but took not the least offence.

  ‘It’s been wonderful,’ he said, later, at the front door, having insisted on driving the by-now decidedly tipsy Susan home. ‘What a very lucky man you are, Christopher.’

  ‘I know,’ Christopher said, and put his left arm around Lizzie, who found it a considerable effort not to pull away, and who thought – though it might have been her imagination – that Robin Allbeury had noticed her discomfort.

  Nothing much, she decided, escaped that man’s notice.

  ‘Did you and Lizzie know each other pre-Vicuna?’ Allbeury asked Susan as he drove his Jaguar XK8 towards Battersea Bridge. ‘Only you seem more friends than colleagues.’

  ‘If I had to choose,’ Susan answered warmly, ‘I’d say our friendship’s been one of the very nicest things to happen to me in publishing.’

  ‘She does seem lovely,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, she is,’ Susan confirmed.

  ‘The call about the children clearly upset her.’

  ‘It would. Lizzie’s not one to overreact, but she can’t help worrying – about them all, obviously, but mostly about Jack catching bugs.’

  ‘Why Jack in particular?’ Allbeury asked.

  Since Jack’s DMD was no secret, Susan saw no reason not to tell him about it, and after that it seemed only natural to talk about the run of far more minor bad luck – comparatively – that the Wades had run into lately: first with Edward’s nasty accident and the abandonment of the Lizzie Piper Roadshow, and then, more recently, Lizzie’s illness.

  ‘Though Christopher dropped everything to look after her at home, so I suppose you’d have to class that as quite good luck,’ Susan added.

  ‘What was wrong?’ Allbeury asked.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Susan said. ‘She was really vague about it.’

  Allbeury felt his curiosity unaccountably piqued.

  ‘Probably just a touch of flu,’ he encouraged.

  ‘Actually I think it was a bit more than that. Gilly let slip one day when I called that she was in the Beauchamp, but when I phoned they said she wasn’t there.’

  ‘Odd,’ Allbeury said, lightly.

  ‘Oh, dear.’ Susan felt suddenly embarrassed. ‘I’m not sure she’d want me to have told you that.’ Bloody booze. ‘Not that I’ve really told you anything.’

  ‘Nothing at all,’ Allbeury said, and smiled at her.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  On Monday morning, a little later than usual, Tony was just finishing his morning fry-up when the phone rang.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ Joanne said from the sink.

  ‘If it’s Eddie Black, I’m here,’ Tony said. ‘Anyone else, I’ve gone.’

  Joanne dried her hands and picked up the phone from the wall near the oven. ‘Hello?’

  From above, in Irina’s room, Tony heard a series of small thuds.

  ‘Yes.’ Joanne tilted her face, listening too, in case her child was in trouble.

  Who is it? Tony mouthed at her.

  ‘It could be a bit difficult,’ Joanne said.

  Tony heard another thump from above, shrugged, picked up his last bit of bacon and put it in his mouth.

  ‘Okay,’ Joanne said. ‘Bye.’

  She put the phone back on its hook. ‘Was that Irina?’

  ‘Who else?’ He swallowed the remains of his coffee. ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Do you want another
cup?’ Joanne asked.

  ‘No.’ Tony looked at her. ‘You all right, Jo?’

  She turned back to the sink. ‘Course.’

  ‘Who was on the phone?’

  ‘Just this woman I met at the library.’

  Library. Joanne stared into the sink, biting her lip, wishing she hadn’t said that, but it was the first, the only, thing that had popped into her mind.

  Doesn’t matter, she told herself. He never listens anyway.

  ‘What did she want?’ Tony asked.

  ‘She wanted to get together this morning, have a coffee.’

  ‘Why should that be difficult?’

  ‘Difficult?’ she echoed.

  ‘You said it might be difficult.’ He sounded quite genial.

  Does listen sometimes.

  She ran the hot tap, struggled not to sound flustered. ‘I’ve got ironing to do, and shopping.’

  Tony stood up, picked up his plate, brought it over and put it into the sink. ‘Might do you good to get out and meet a friend for a change.’ He put out his hand and stroked her hair. ‘You’ve been a bit wound up lately, Jo.’

  Blood rushed to her face in a guilty flush.

  ‘PMS,’ she said.

  There was another thump from upstairs.

  ‘Better see to her,’ Tony said.

  Chapter Forty

  Shortly after nine-fifteen, Lizzie was already well on her way to Marlow in the sporty Japanese coupé she enjoyed driving when she wasn’t using the family’s wheelchair-modified Range Rover, when her mobile rang.

  ‘It’s Susan. Okay to talk?’

  ‘Fine,’ Lizzie said. ‘On the road, but hands-free.’

  ‘Gorgeous dinner,’ Susan said, ‘though I drank much too much. How are the children?’

  ‘Not too bad, Gilly says.’ Lizzie paused. ‘How was your drive home?’

  ‘Very nice man,’ Susan said. ‘Dishy, too, even if he only had eyes for you.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ Lizzie said.

  ‘Robin certainly didn’t want to talk about anyone but you all the way to Clapham.’ Susan sounded merry enough about it. ‘No need to sound so surprised about another bloke fancying you.’

  ‘Robin Allbeury does not fancy me.’ It was starting to rain, and Lizzie switched on her windscreen wipers.

  ‘You honestly don’t realize how attractive you are, do you?’

  ‘Get real, Susan.’ Lizzie laughed. ‘This is a miserable Monday morning. I didn’t get enough sleep last night, and I feel about as attractive as a pair of wet boots.’

  ‘Join the club,’ Susan said. ‘If you don’t believe me about Robin, just ask your husband.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just that I’ll bet he noticed.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ Lizzie said briskly.

  ‘Nice man, though, you’d have to agree with that,’ Susan said.

  ‘I suppose he was,’ Lizzie said.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Shipley attended Hendon Magistrates Court to hear John Bolsover being remanded in custody for a second month not because she had to, but because she felt compelled to see him again.

  She wanted to look at the man and feel he was guilty.

  Which did not happen.

  She had also made a point of being there because Mike Novak had made contact again, and she’d agreed to have a drink with him after the hearing.

  They found a corner table in The Harp, where the private detective bought her an orange juice and a half of draught for himself. For a matter of about five or so minutes, Shipley relaxed, glad, like Novak, to be away from the oppressive atmosphere of the court, but then her tensions returned.

  ‘So what can I do for you, Mr Novak? First time you called, you said you were in my area. Then you were just returning my call back.’

  ‘Both true.’

  ‘So where did you happen to be going this morning? Sailing on the Welsh Harp?’

  Novak said nothing for a moment. ‘I’m just . . .’ He stopped, started again. ‘I feel connected to the case.’ He shrugged. ‘Responsible, in a way.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Because I failed Lynne Bolsover, I suppose.’

  ‘Not you, surely?’ Shipley said. ‘If anyone failed her on that score, I’d guess it was Mr Allbeury.’ She paused. ‘Is he as concerned as you?’

  ‘We haven’t discussed it lately.’

  ‘Out of mind then,’ Shipley said.

  Novak leaned forward, then shook his head and leaned back again.

  ‘What?’ Shipley asked,

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You looked angry.’

  ‘Not angry, Detective Inspector.’ Novak paused. ‘I was going to say that, for a person in your position, you make a lot of assumptions.’

  It was Shipley’s turn to shrug. ‘I try not to, on the whole.’

  ‘You’ve assumed things about Robin Allbeury.’

  ‘Have I?’

  They were silent for a moment or two.

  ‘You’re not sure it was Bolsover, are you?’ Novak’s eyes were intent.

  ‘He’s been charged.’

  ‘Off the record?’

  Shipley drained her juice and glanced at her watch. ‘Time I was going.’

  ‘We know he hit her. You found the weapon.’

  ‘No secret.’ Shipley stood up. ‘Thanks for the drink, Mr Novak.’

  He was staring up at her. ‘But you still really aren’t sure, are you?’

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Novak.’

  Novak thought about Helen Shipley as he joined the traffic at Staples Corner, his old Clio chugging a bit. Allbeury had once offered to buy him a new car, and Novak had been sorely tempted, but Clare had frowned when she’d heard about the offer, had thought that a step too far in a direction she’d never been keen on.

  ‘He only suggested it because he wants me to have a reliable car when I’m working for him,’ Novak had told her.

  ‘Then let him lend you one when you’re working for him,’ Clare had said.

  ‘He’s not interested in owning me,’ Novak had gone on, still defensively.

  ‘You’re such an idealist,’ his wife had told him.

  She was right about that, of course, he reflected now, entering the tunnel. His idealism had been a big problem in the police. It was okay, just about, to be that way when you joined, but after that you had to drop most of it and join the cynics, or go on floundering about at the bottom. DI Shipley was a case in point. An intelligent, highly motivated, he guessed, woman who had, Novak was now certain, some strong doubts about John Bolsover’s guilt – of murder, at least – but had no real alternative but to toe the line.

  Novak would have been hopeless in the same circumstances. As, he thought – surprisingly for such a sophisticated man in such a cynical profession – Allbeury would be too.

  Though like Helen Shipley, he realized, Clare would probably not believe that about Robin. Even now, after asking for the lawyer’s help on the Patstons’ behalf, she still harboured doubts about him.

  Then again, he mused, still crawling along, life was filled with doubts for everyone, wasn’t it?

  Most things, most people.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Lizzie was squeezing oranges back in her Marlow kitchen when Allbeury phoned to thank her for the evening.

  ‘Just one snag,’ he added. ‘Now that I’ve tasted the real thing, I don’t think I’ll ever dare try out my Lizzie Piper recipes.’

  His voice, Lizzie decided, was mellow and warm. A good voice. ‘Christopher mentioned you had one of my books,’ she said.

  ‘I have three.’ Allbeury paused. ‘I look forward to the Roadshow book.’

  ‘On hold, I’m afraid.’ Lizzie threw orange peel into her rubbish bin.

  ‘Susan mentioned something about that on the way home.’

  ‘Did she?’ Lizzie poured juice into a glass jug. ‘I’m glad you enjoyed the evening. I think I was a bit distracted after Gilly rang.’

  ‘Understa
ndable,’ Allbeury said. ‘How are the young ones today?’

  ‘Not too bad, thanks.’

  ‘Happy to have their mum back, I daresay, and who can blame them?’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll be back on form very soon.’

  ‘I know you must have your hands full,’ Allbeury said, ‘so I won’t keep you now, but as and when you and Christopher have a free evening, I really would very much like to return the favour. Or we could do lunch, one Sunday?’

  ‘Sounds lovely,’ Lizzie said.

  The solicitor thanked her again. ‘I really did feel very guilty for keeping you away from your children when they were poorly.’

  ‘Just colds,’ Lizzie said, quite briskly.

  ‘But you’d like to have seen that for yourself right away, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Lizzie said. ‘I suppose I would.’

  She thought, making her way upstairs with the juice and glasses, that Susan might be right about him. He really did seem quite genuinely nice.

  Case No. 6/201074

  PATSTON, J.

  Study/Review

  Pending

  Action

  Resolved

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Shortly before five o’clock that afternoon, Sandra Finch, starting to become anxious about her daughter, telephoned her son-in-law at his garage to ask if he knew where Joanne might have got to.

  ‘Isn’t she home?’ Tony, who’d had heartburn since breakfast, had just decided he’d done enough work for the day, and was in the midst of cleaning himself up for the pub.

  ‘No, she isn’t.’ Sandra managed not to add ‘obviously’. ‘It’s just that she brought Irina over to me this morning.’

  ‘So you’ve had her all day?’ He felt annoyed.

  ‘Joanne said she’d be back for her at around lunchtime, but I haven’t heard a word from her since, and I’m starting to get quite worried. I’ve tried her mobile, but it’s turned off.’