by Ann Granger
I knew I was being played like a fish on a line, but there wasn’t a thing I could do about it. I told her I’d be back, and left.
Sister Helen wasn’t around when I passed the office. I was rather pleased about that. I wandered down the drive with my hands in my pockets, planning my next move. I should, I supposed, at least have another shot at going to Kew. I could hang around and I might catch sight of Nicola. Flora needn’t see me. I’d be careful. I’d be very careful. Next time she might come at me with a knife. I still couldn’t believe it had happened. Flora had looked so – so frail and dainty, like a bit of Dresden china. That’d teach me to make assumptions.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ I muttered. ‘Even if Flora doesn’t get me, someone will. That’s Neighbourhood Watch territory. If a stranger hangs around there, it’ll be noticed. Someone will phone the cops.’
I’d reached the end of the drive. There was someone there, a man. He stood with his back to me, staring at the road. But as I reached him, he turned round. He stepped forward and to one side, blocking my progress. The pale face and straight dark hair, brushed back flat from a high forehead, were somehow familiar.
‘Miss Varady?’ he asked politely. ‘I was hoping you’d come today. In fact, to be honest, I was counting on it.’
‘You,’ I said, identifying him suddenly, ‘nearly ran me down in your car the last time I was here! Why don’t you just get out of my way?’
‘But I didn’t know it was you,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry if I caused you a fright. Not, of course, that I’d aim to run down anyone,’ he added hastily. ‘I’d had some bad news and wasn’t paying sufficient attention, I admit. If I had known it was you I’d have stopped, because we really do need to talk.’
‘Do we?’ I said discouragingly. ‘Not that I can see.’
‘My name is Jackson,’ he said. ‘And all I want is half an hour of your time. I think you can guess what it’s all about.’
Chapter Ten
‘I don’t want to talk to you,’ I said, attempting to step round him.
He barred my way. ‘I really think it’s in the best interests of everyone.’ His voice was soft but determined.
‘I don’t even know who you are, and a surname certainly doesn’t tell me,’ I said sourly. ‘So how can I tell if it’s in anyone’s interests or even know what the hell you’re talking about?’
‘I’m an old family friend of the Wildes,’ he said. ‘I’m acting on their behalf.’
‘You’re a lawyer?’
He gave a tight little smile. ‘Hardly likely, is it?’
No, it wasn’t. The Wildes wouldn’t want the law in any form interfering in their particular problem. But there was another profession, not the law, but travelling parallel to it . . . and occasionally around it.
‘I hope,’ I said with sinking heart, ‘you’re not another private eye.’
‘Good Lord, no!’ he exclaimed, as if I’d made an indecent proposal.
‘That’s something, then. Go on,’ I told him. ‘Let’s have it. What’s the message?’ I might as well hear what he’d got to say.
‘Not here,’ he said quickly. ‘We can be seen from the building. That matron or whatever she is, I could do without her watching us.’
I told him that no way was I going anywhere with him. Specifically I wasn’t getting in a car.
He rubbed his chin and studied me. ‘All right, fair enough. You’re suspicious. Of course you are. Look, a little further up the hill is Royal Holloway College, part of the University of London. It’s got extensive grounds. What do you say we walk up there and stroll round the grounds. You look like a student. No one’s going to question you if you wander round showing a visitor, me, the layout.’
Reluctantly, I agreed. I have to say, I had a shock when I saw the college. It was a monster of a place, all red brick and white decorative bits like icing. The whole thing appeared to be modelled on one of those French chateaux. There were funny little turrets, balustrades and oddly shaped windows everywhere. Jackson and I walked through the gates and, turning right, began a slow perambulation around the place. There were plenty of other people about and no one took any notice of us.
Jackson could see I was fascinated by my surroundings. ‘It was built by a pill-manufacturer turned banker turned philanthropist by the name of Thomas Holloway,’ he said. ‘Aided and abetted by his wife, Jane. He intended it to be for middle-class women students. There were plenty of institutions looking out for the poor, and the daughters of rich families could look out for themselves. Holloway targeted the in-betweens.’
‘There seem to be plenty of men around,’ I said.
‘They’ve had male students here as well for some time.’
He seemed to know the place well. But we were getting away from the purpose of our being there at all.
‘Miss Varady,’ he said, ‘I know you went to see Flora Wilde. It really wasn’t a good idea. Now you’ve seen her, you’ll know that she isn’t very robust.’
I opened my mouth to tell him that the not very robust Mrs Wilde had floored me with a single well-directed punch. But I decided to let him talk on uninterrupted.
‘The Wildes are devoted to their daughter,’ he was saying. ‘Nicola is a very bright, happy girl. She’s gifted, musically gifted. She has a brilliant future ahead of her. Any parent wants to protect a child. You can imagine how determined the Wildes are to protect Nicola, and especially as the threat in this instance is based on a completely false premise.’
‘What?’ I snapped.
His voice was soothing, like before the nurse sticks a needle in your arm. ‘Eva Varady is given to flights of fancy. Naturally, she’s your mother, and your instinct – and your wish – is to believe her. So you haven’t questioned whatever story she’s told you. I’m suggesting to you now that perhaps you should. Have you any idea how much trouble you can cause by following the wishes of a woman who has always been very unstable?’
‘No one’s suggested my mother is or ever was off her rocker,’ I interrupted angrily. Other than Flora Wilde, who wasn’t exactly an impartial observer.
‘There are degrees of being, as you put it, off one’s rocker,’ he was saying in a judicious way. ‘Eva Varady had a baby. It died. It’s enough to unbalance anyone. Mrs Wilde was in the same hospital at the same time. Somehow Eva took it into her head that the babies had been switched. She’s pursued the Wildes ever since.’
So he was going to repeat Flora’s story. She must have told him that was what she’d told me.
‘So you say,’ I replied angrily. ‘Well, in my opinion, if anyone is wonky in the top storey, it’s Flora Wilde!’
He flushed. ‘Listen to me, Miss Varady. You’ve got to stop all this. Whether you like it or not, what I’ve told you now is the truth. That’s why you’ve got to stop trying to do whatever Eva Varady asked of you. Eva’s crazy, she always was. Do you really want to destroy the happiness of an entire family, ruin Nicola’s life, because of the ramblings of a dying woman whose mind was always scrambled?’
‘I’m not going to ruin Nicola’s life,’ I said, meeting his gaze. ‘She’s my sister, isn’t she? Why should I do anything to harm her?’
He flinched. ‘She is not your sister! How many times do I have to tell you? Can’t you get it into your head, or are you a fruitcake, just like your mother?’
‘And are you asking for a bust nose?’ I snarled. I’d had it with this bloke. He was seriously annoying me.
‘All right!’ He held up his hand placatingly. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have said that. But you’re making this very difficult. It’s so important and you are being, frankly, irresponsible. Can’t you see it?’
In fact, I could see that what I was doing might be construed as irresponsible. What I couldn’t do was get my mother to see it. He’d noticed my indecision, probably because I hadn’t come back with a lippy reply.
‘The Wildes have asked me to ask you not to go to the house again, or to try and contact Nicola directly. Can I tell them y
ou agree?’
When I still didn’t reply at once, he urged, ‘Miss Varady?’ The anger was breaking out in his voice. He couldn’t hold it all together for much longer. I was glad we were in a public place. This was one very jumpy man and I really didn’t want to get into a scrap with him, for all my fighting talk.
‘I don’t like being called Miss Varady much,’ I said. ‘I’m usually called Fran.’
‘Well, then, Fran—’ he began.
But I interrupted. ‘And your name?’
‘My name? Oh, my first name, I see, it’s . . .’ He hesitated.
‘Don’t bother,’ I told him. ‘I know it. It’s Jerry, Jerry Wilde.’
I thought he might deny it. I think he thought about it. Then he shrugged his shoulders. ‘All right, I’m Jerry Wilde. I thought it would be better if I told you another name, but I suppose you were bound to guess.’
We’d turned the corner and were at the back of the building, where steps ran down from a balustraded terrace. I leaned back on the balustrade and stared up at the fascinating but crazy building before me. The architect seemed to have run amok.
‘Whose idea was it?’ I asked.
‘To say I was Jackson? My own.’
‘Actually,’ I said, ‘I meant, whose idea was it to build this place looking like this?’
He glanced carelessly at the pile. ‘Holloway’s. He visited Chambord in the Loire Valley and wanted the same sort of thing, but when the building was well underway, he made a trip to Cambridge and took a fancy to the Gothic architecture there. So he came back and told the architect to add Gothic bits. Must have nearly driven the poor guy mad. He also had a sanatorium built in the area, same kind of thing.’
Two girls and a young man came clattering up the steps from the grounds below. We waited until they’d gone round the comer of the building.
‘Just now,’ I said, ‘you used the word “frankly”. But this Honest Joe business doesn’t wash. You tried to give me a false name. You gave the same false name to Sister Helen when you made an attempt to see my mother. You didn’t get to see her because she was asleep. You waited for a while, then went outside and made a call on a mobile phone. Then you left in a heck of a hurry, nearly knocking me over. I fell in the rhododendron bush.’
‘You’re very well informed,’ he said coldly. ‘And I’ve explained, I didn’t see you. I’d had some bad news.’
‘Sister Helen saw you. That’s why I’m well informed. Why were you coming to see my mother? What did you want from her? Don’t tell me you were there out of concern for her. You’ve made it all too clear how you feel about her. And here’s another thing. The way you’ve been talking, you’ve made it sound as though you’re here because I went to Kew and saw your wife. But you were trying to get to see my mother before that. So what’s going on? How did you know my mother was in the hospice?’
‘Will you promise me that you’ll stay away from my family?’ he almost shouted.
‘I don’t make deals with people who hold out on me.’
For a moment I thought he might do as Flora had done, take a swing at me. His fists clenched. But he remembered someone could be watching us from one of those many windows.
‘I heard that someone was asking about us,’ he said quietly, head lowered. ‘Did you and your mother think I wouldn’t?’
‘I suppose Mrs Mackenzie told you,’ I said. I should have expected that either she or Ben would get in touch with the Wildes and warn them about me, and allowed for it. I hadn’t. My mistake.
‘I don’t know what she was thinking of, giving out our address like that,’ he grumbled. ‘She must be going gaga.’
‘Not a bit of it!’ I snapped. ‘She realised it was an emergency.’
He snorted. ‘It became an emergency after she put you on to us! Of course, I knew that behind it all must be Eva Varady.’ He looked depressed. ‘I thought we’d seen the last of her. It’s been a nightmare since Dorothy contacted me. I didn’t want my wife to know. She’s a very nervous person, delicate. I wanted to sort it out myself and told Dorothy not to breathe a word to Flora. I hoped you’d get in touch by letter first. I watched the mail. I rushed to answer every phone call. I didn’t imagine you’d just turn up on the doorstep like that. You’ve ruined everything and you don’t care one bit. You and Eva both. You just don’t want to know how much damage you’ve done.’
He looked up then and there was hatred in his eyes. But I was wondering just how far he’d been prepared to go to protect Flora, to keep her from knowing the hunt for Nicola was on. Enough to take out Rennie Duke?
I thought my reply out carefully. ‘I promise I won’t call at your house again. I promise that if Nicola does find out the truth, it won’t be because I’ve told her.’
‘Truth!’ he shouted at me. A girl walking past turned her head curiously. Wilde paused, flushed and added in a low, husky voice, ‘I’ve told you the truth and you can’t or won’t accept it! My little girl is not your sister! Stay away from my family! If you don’t – if you don’t, I’ll make you wish you had and you’d better believe it! Don’t underestimate me, Fran Varady.’
I watched him stride away around the corner of that brainstorm of a building. My mind was in a whirl. I didn’t want to believe him because I didn’t like him and I didn’t like his dinky little wife. But that wasn’t reason enough for him to be lying. After all, what did I know about my mother and her state of mind? For all I knew, she might have been having some kind of nervous breakdown when she left home, ditched Dad and me. Perhaps her child had died. Perhaps the notion that Nicola Wilde was really her baby had been just the fancy of an unhinged brain. Now that she was dying and on medication, had that fancy returned to haunt her – and through her, to haunt me?
I came nearer then to deciding to tell Ganesh all about it than at any time. I thought about nothing else during my journey home, and by the time I got back, I’d all but decided to take Gan into my confidence. I desperately needed to talk to someone. I even went to the shop, to ask him if we could go down the pub when they closed up so that we could discuss something. But when I went in, someone was there ahead of me.
‘Ah, Fran,’ said Janice Morgan. She was leaning against the counter with her hands in the pockets of yet another dreary jacket. I was in my usual jeans, boots and puffa jacket. I suppose I hadn’t the right to criticise anyone else. But Morgan must have the money. She didn’t have to shop at Oxfam like me. I set aside these thoughts. Right now wasn’t the moment for me to be worrying about Morgan’s dress sense. She’d really meant it about keeping up the pressure on me. However she was turned out, she was a copper and a good one.
Ganesh was on his own. Where Hari had got to I hadn’t a clue, nor how long Gan had been fending off the inspector. He looked like a drowning man just coming up for air for the last time. His expression, when he saw me enter, was that of one of the shipwrecked characters in that painting of Norman’s, seeing the lifeboat heading their way. I half expected him to raise a hand and shout ‘Ahoy!’
‘I was just asking Mr Patel if he knew where I could find you,’ said Morgan amiably.
‘You found me!’ I said, avoiding Ganesh’s accusing eye. I was now thoroughly fed up. While I felt the need to confide in someone, it certainly wasn’t, and wouldn’t ever be, the police. ‘I’m not volunteering to go to the station with you. You made your pitch yesterday. Nothing’s changed since then as far as I’m concerned.’
She managed to look reproachful and innocent. ‘I’ve not come to take you in again. I thought I’d just drop by and have a word informally, while I was on my way home. This is in my own time, Fran.’ She managed to make it sound as if she was doing me a favour.
I didn’t buy it. Everyone wanted to talk to me, even off-duty coppers, and everyone wanted something.
Ganesh asked nervously, ‘Do you want to go up to the flat? Only my uncle is up there sorting out some orders, and he—’
Morgan declined the offer, to Ganesh’s obvious relief. ‘No, no.
Fran and I will go and have a cup of tea somewhere. Right, Fran?’
I told her I’d been to see my mother and was tired, but it didn’t do any good. I was wasting my breath. I trailed out of the shop in her wake.
She took me to a little place she knew which turned out to be a fancy cake shop with a café in the back. She was playing Grandma Varady’s trick, softening you up with chocolate torte. I went along with it because I had no immediate plan of action, and just drifting with the tide until I saw what was bobbing along next seemed the best idea.
‘I don’t come here too often,’ confided Morgan. ‘The temptation is too great.’ She stuck a fork in a lump of pastry the size of half a brick.
‘Yeah,’ I mumbled. My chocolate cake was all right, not as good as Grandma’s. Still, I wasn’t going to turn it down. On principle I acted cool for a moment or two, drawing lines in the frosting with my cake fork, until the empty feeling in my tummy asked what the heck I was wasting time for. I tucked in.
