Molly's Millions

by Victoria Connelly

  ‘OK,’ she said, knowing she’d probably regret the decision sooner rather than later. ‘As long as we’re not round there all day.’

  Tom had never been interviewed on radio before but, he’d reasoned, Bradford was too big a place to find Molly Bailey in without a little bit of help. It wasn’t as if he could just go into a pub and stumble over a local who’d met her. He wasn’t in Swaledale anymore so the idea of an appeal by local radio had occurred to him. He wasn’t sure if it would work but it was worth a go.

  It was quite exciting, really. Flora was allowed to go with him too and he kept glancing at her as she sat, eyes wide in excitement, as DJ Dan Dooley ran through his questions quickly.

  ‘We don’t normally do interviews in the lunchtime slot,’ he said in a tone of voice that heavily implied he was doing Tom a huge favour, ‘but your story does sound rather interesting.’ Dan Dooley was talking over a tuneless love duet that reminded Tom why he never listened to local radio.

  ‘I really appreciate your time,’ Tom said, quite willing to butter him up even though he was greasy enough already.

  ‘You’re very welcome, young man. Very welcome.’ Dan Dooley turned away as the record ended. ‘“A Love Supreme” there, requested by Mrs Patricia Forbes from Shipley. Hope that brought back some of the old memories for you, Patricia,’ he said in a voice like out-of-date syrup. ‘You’re listening to Dan Dooley Daily.’

  Flora giggled, causing Dan to give her a reprimanding look. Tom also gave her one of his own but was finding it hard to suppress the giggles himself.

  ‘It’s not every day you meet a millionaire,’ Dan Dooley began, ‘and it’s even less likely that you meet a millionaire whose mission seems to be to give her entire fortune away, but that’s exactly what happened to my next guest, Tom Mackenzie. Welcome to Dan Dooley Daily, Tom.’

  Flora giggled again, her cheeks flushing pink with hysterics.

  ‘Thank you,’ Tom said, trying desperately to curb the laughter in his voice.

  ‘You’re a freelance reporter, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, currently working for Vive!,’ Tom said, scoring an instant point for his current employer and not doing himself any harm in the process.

  ‘Vive! I think we’ve got quite a few Vive! fans listening today, haven’t we?’ Dan Dooley said, his thick lips hovering over the mic like an insistent lover. ‘So tell us what it is you’re up to at the moment.’

  ‘Well, I got wind of a possible story a few days ago. Up in Cumbria, a farmer came across five thousand pounds in his honesty box.’

  ‘Five thousand pounds?’

  ‘Yes. Not the sort of thing you hear every day.’

  ‘Certainly not round here,’ Dan Dooley chortled into his mic.

  ‘So, I asked around a bit and it turns out that a local girl, Molly Bailey, seems to have come into quite a lot of money.’

  ‘You mean won the lottery?’

  ‘We’re not absolutely sure at the moment but one thing’s for sure: it’s not been inherited from her family.’

  ‘So why would this Molly Bailey want to give her money away?’

  ‘Again, that’s something we’ve got to find out but the last lead I had told me she was heading to Bradford. I don’t know what her plans are or where she’s heading next but there’s one clue: when she leaves money for people, she has a rather unusual calling card.’

  ‘What’s that, Tom?’

  ‘A single yellow gerbera – it’s like a very large daisy.’

  Dan Dooley nodded. ‘And that’s where you come in, listeners. If any of you out there have been left a sudden windfall in cash, with a single yellow—’

  ‘Gerbera. It’s like a large daisy.’

  ‘—large daisy, give us a call. You know the number,’ Dan Dooley said, repeating it twice, ‘we want to hear from you and try to track down this modern-day Robin Hood.’

  Bastard! Tom thought. He’s stolen my line.

  ‘So get calling,’ he said, as he began playing another God-awful love ballad.

  As soon as the music started, the phones started too. Tom looked across at where a little lady in a white blouse covered in strawberries was scribbling on a piece of paper and nodding into the phone. What was going on? Was this a hoax? Were these people attention seekers or had they really encountered Molly?

  Dan Dooley nodded over to the little lady as the song ended.

  ‘I have a Mrs Esther Cobbs on the line. You’re through to Dan Dooley Daily.’

  Flora giggled.

  ‘Where are you calling from, Esther love?’

  ‘Moor View, Bradford.’

  ‘The flats?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And would you like to tell the listeners what happened to you?’

  ‘Well, I wus just doing a bit of ironing when I heard a rattle at the letter box. I thought it wus one of those leaflet people messing me flat up again and I was just about to have a go at whoever it was when I saw the envelope.’

  ‘Was it addressed to you?’

  ‘No, it weren’t. It wus completely blank. And it wus far too good quality to have any of them begging letters in, so I opens it.’

  ‘And what was inside, Esther?’

  ‘Five hundred pounds – in fifty-pound notes.’

  ‘And you’ve no idea who left it?’

  ‘Well, I thought I’d see if I could spot someone but there didn’t seem to be anyone around so I knocked on my neighbour’s door to see if she’d seen anything and she’d been left an envelope too.’

  ‘With the same amount of money in it?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘Was there anything else inside the envelope?’ Tom asked.

  ‘Yes, there wus as a matter of fact. A flower.’

  ‘Yellow?’

  ‘Yeah!’

  Dan Dooley glared at Tom, obviously not liking his slot being taken over. ‘That’s all we’ve got time for, I’m afraid. Esther – thank you for your call. Keep tuning in to Dan Dooley Daily.’

  Flora giggled.

  Before they left the studio, the little woman in the strawberry-print blouse came up to Tom and presented him with the A4 sheet of paper she’d been scribbling on. ‘I don’t know if this is of any use to you, but there was another woman who rang in from the Moor View flats who thinks she might have seen this Molly Bailey. I’ve highlighted the number there. She said she’d be happy to talk to you.’

  Tom looked down at the name and number. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  ‘And here’s a little something for your girl,’ she said, presenting her with a large red, yellow and blue sticker with Dan Dooley Daily written on it.

  Flora giggled.

  They walked down the corridor away from the studio, their faces pulled tight from the exertion of not laughing but it all became too much when they saw a life-sized cardboard cut-out of Dan Dooley in reception. The Dan Dooley Daily Roadshow – coming to you this summer!

  Tom and Flora looked at each other and immediately broke out into uncontrollable laughter.

  ‘Vive! Who brought that rag into this house?’ Granville Bailey barked from his winged chair.

  ‘It was cheaper than the others,’ Marty’s father, Magnus, explained. ‘I only wanted it for the TV guide.’

  A likely story, Carolyn smirked. Everyone knew that Vive! had more gorgeous girls than The Sun and more gossip than a women’s glossy. Bored to tears by the men’s conversation, Carolyn picked up Vive! and flicked through it, her eyes soon out on stalks at the amount of flesh on display. It was like taking a trip to the local deli.

  She was just about to toss the paper onto the floor in disgust when she saw a familiar name. Tom Mackenzie. Was that the same Tom Mackenzie who’d paid a visit to their home asking about Molly? So he was a reporter after all, not a stalker as she’d first suspected.

  Carolyn read the short article. Five thousand pounds. Gilt View Farm. A single yellow gerbera.

  Mrs Bailey, has Molly come into any money recently?

&nbs
p; Carolyn blinked as she remembered Tom Mackenzie’s question. But this story couldn’t be connected with Molly, could it? What possible motivation could she have for giving five thousand pounds to a complete stranger? And then she remembered something. Carolyn had visited The Bloom Room a few weeks ago and Molly and she had gone out for a walk and she distinctly remembered how sad Molly had been. It wasn’t surprising really. Molly had always adored the countryside, and it was heartbreaking to see most of the local footpaths closed off due to foot and mouth. The fields had become like ghost towns without the sheep and cattle, and Molly and Carolyn had had to stick to the roads for most of their walk.

  ‘I wish there was something I could do,’ Molly had said.

  I wish there was something I could do. That was just so Molly, Carolyn thought, but she knew her sister-in-law didn’t have five thousand pounds even to help herself, let alone somebody else. Or did she?

  Chapter Seventeen

  Molly looked down at the absurdly small mobile phone and frowned. How hard could it be? She pressed a few buttons and smiled. Action! It certainly beat phone boxes and, after her recent disaster in Swaledale, there was one person she owed a call to now: Carolyn.

  But there was no answer. Funny, she thought, she could have sworn Marty said they’d booked leave for this week. Maybe they were out. Or maybe they were paying a visit. She tapped in Old Bailey’s phone number and waited.

  ‘Hello, Dad?’

  ‘Molly! How are you?’ Magnus said sounding unusually cheerful.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘I’ve not seen you for a while.’

  ‘I’m away at the moment – taking an impromptu holiday.’

  ‘Oh. Where?’

  ‘Just around, you know,’ she said, not wanting to say that she’d just visited Moor View flats in Bradford. Her father wouldn’t have been happy with that. ‘Is Carolyn with you?’

  ‘Yes, she is. Hang on a minute.’

  There was a pause as Magnus put the phone down and Molly could just make out Old Bailey muttering something in the background about the price of whisky at his local convenience store.

  Finally, Carolyn came to the phone. ‘Molly?’

  ‘Hi, Caro! Sorry about yesterday. I ran right out of change but I’ve got a mobile phone now.’

  ‘Moll – I’ll just take the call in the back room, OK?’

  ‘OK,’ Molly said, picturing Carolyn moving through the tiny flat to the dark room at the back. The land of lost photographs.

  ‘Molly? Just a minute,’ Carolyn said, and then there was a click. ‘Right, we can talk now. I just wanted to make sure the other phone had been put down before I told you what happened yesterday.’

  ‘Have you and Marty made up?’ Molly asked, thinking that they must have done in order for Carolyn to be round Old Bailey’s during her holiday.

  ‘Not exactly, but listen, Moll,’ Carolyn said urgently, ‘there was a reporter here yesterday evening – asking all sorts of questions about you.’

  ‘A reporter? What did he want?’

  ‘I’m not sure. He seemed to think you’d come in to some money? Said he wanted to catch up with you.’

  ‘To interview me, you mean?’

  ‘Well, I guess so.’

  There was a pause whilst both women wondered what to say next.

  ‘Molly?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you come into some money?’ Carolyn asked quietly. ‘Moll? Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes. I’m still here,’ Molly said, chewing her lower lip and wondering how she could break her news.

  ‘Come on then,’ Carolyn pushed.

  ‘What would you say,’ Molly began slowly, ‘if I told you I’d won the lottery?’

  It was typical that the only person to have seen Tom’s Robin Hood lived in the highest place in Bradford. You could have wrung the pair of them out and got at least a couple of pints of sweat from them by the time they’d reached the fourteenth floor. Poor Flora was pink in the face and Tom dreaded to think what he looked like. On entering the flats, they’d been about to hop into the lift but had thought better of it on first smell. Far preferable to risk a heart attack, Tom had thought.

  Finally, they reached the flat of Ms Amanda Gunton, and Tom, not wanting to waste any more time, knocked loudly.

  After what seemed an interminable wait, the door was answered by a woman with bottle-blonde hair and a cough like a sick hyena.

  ‘Ms Gunton?’

  ‘You the reporter?’

  ‘Tom Mackenzie,’ he said, holding out his hand to have it shaken by her stubby yellow fingers. ‘And my daughter, Flora.’

  ‘Hello,’ Ms Gunton said without smiling.

  ‘Hello,’ Flora said shyly, eyeing up the woman’s jewellery: a nasty gold ring on every finger.

  ‘Come on in. I’ve got the kettle on, but you’ll have to excuse the mess. The bloody washing machine’s just flooded the kitchen.’

  Tom and Flora followed her into the dark, narrow hallway and were shown into a living room with a carpet covered in hypnotic swirls and wallpaper with more flowers than Gardeners’ World.

  Ms Gunton disappeared into the adjacent kitchen and Tom watched her through the Seventies serving hatch as she coughed into the sink before stubbing out her cigarette on the draining board. He turned away in disgust and noticed the line of photographs on the fireplace.

  ‘Are these all your children?’ Tom asked.

  Ms Gunton came back through with two mugs of tea and an orange juice on a tray.

  ‘The rogues’ gallery,’ she cackled. ‘Jen, Cath and Jane. If you want to take any of them off my hands, you’re welcome. I can’t seem to shift any of them. Oh, sorry, you’re married, right?’

  Tom blushed but didn’t bother to explain his marital situation in front of Flora.

  ‘So you’ll be wanting to ask some questions, right?’

  ‘Please. If you don’t mind,’ Tom said, sipping the tea and trying not to grimace at the mug which tasted of cigarettes.

  ‘Here’s the envelope,’ Ms Gunton said, producing it from a coffee table covered in old tabloids open at the racing pages. ‘I’ve put the money somewhere safe.’

  ‘And it was all in fifty-pound notes, was it?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And the flower?’

  Ms Gunton nodded into the adjoining kitchen where the beautiful sunshine daisy was stood in a miniature vase of water, its happy face doing its best to jollify the gloom.

  ‘The lady at the radio station said you’d seen something?’ Tom said.

  Ms Gunton nodded again. ‘I did that,’ she said. ‘I heard the letter box go and when I saw what was in the envelope I thought I’d have a look around. Thought there’d been some mistake.’ She paused to give her hyena cough, the wrinkles round her eyes deepening into ditches. ‘But I couldn’t see anything. So I hung around, figuring the person couldn’t have gotten far. Then, I thought I’d take a trip down to the bins in the basement. You wouldn’t believe the amount of rubbish we make here. And that’s when I saw her.’ She paused for effect, edging up to her big moment.

  ‘What did you see?’

  ‘A young woman with dark curly hair and a little white dog – some sort of terrier, I’d say.’

  ‘Did you speak to her?’

  Ms Gunton shook her head. ‘No. She got into her car so fast, I didn’t have time.’

  ‘What kind of car did she have?’ Tom asked, trying not to get too excited.

  ‘One of them old VW Beetles. A bright yellow one.’

  Tom’s eyebrows raised.

  ‘She had a bit of trouble starting it, but managed to get it going before I could get over to her.’

  ‘So how do you know this was the woman who delivered the envelopes?’

  Ms Gunton reached down the side of her chair and produced a packet of cigarettes, offering one to Tom before she lit up. ‘I don’t,’ she said, ‘but you get to know the people who come and go round here and the girl in t
he Beetle was definitely a stranger. Never seen her before.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you got the registration number?’

  Ms Gunton chuckled. ‘You must be joking. I’m useless when it comes to things like that. Can’t even remember my own phone number. But it was a bright yellow car – just like that daisy, in fact.’

  Tom nodded. ‘Well, thank you very much for your time.’ He glanced at Flora, who was just finishing her orange juice. ‘Can I just ask you what you’ll be doing with the money?’

  Ms Gunton almost spluttered on her cigarette. ‘That’s all spent ten times over already. Debts,’ she said. ‘But it’s a help, that’s for sure. Whoever that girl is, we could do with more of her in this world. I only wish she’d stopped long enough for me to thank her.’

  ‘Daddy, I smell horrible,’ Flora said, her little nose wrinkling in disgust as they left Ms Gunton’s flat.

  ‘This whole place smells. Come on,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  Tom led the way quickly down the stairs and back out to where he’d parked the car. A group of boys were kicking a football nearby and Tom did his best not to glance round his car to check if they’d helped themselves to any spare parts.

  ‘A yellow Volkswagen Beetle,’ he said as they got back in. ‘At least that’s fairly conspicuous but how are we going to find her?’

  ‘The radio was fun. We could go back there,’ Flora suggested.

  ‘But that was only any use when we knew where she was – it was local radio, you see, but we don’t know where she’s gone. She could be anywhere by now.’

  Flora frowned. Tom frowned too. And then he had an idea.

  Grabbing a pad and pen from the glove compartment, he wrote the following words which he planned to use as his next headline:

  Where’s Molly? Can you help find her?

  Chapter Eighteen

  Carolyn gasped and then burst into hysterical laughter, which wasn’t a good idea because Marty came rushing through to the bedroom.