Molly's Millions

by Victoria Connelly

  ‘What’s going on?’ he glowered, dark-eyed, from the doorway.

  Carolyn glowered back at him. ‘Marty, I’m talking to Molly – this is a private conversation!’

  He hovered for a moment as if he hadn’t heard her.

  ‘We’re not talking about you, if that’s what you’re worried about,’ she added.

  His forehead furrowed in consternation. ‘Well, don’t be long. We’ll be wanting some tea on soon,’ he said before pulling the door behind him.

  ‘Gosh,’ Carolyn sighed into the phone, ‘your brother is a real master at pushing his luck.’

  Molly giggled. ‘You don’t need to tell me that.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Carolyn whispered excitedly. ‘You were joking, right? This is some kind of April Fool, only in July, isn’t it? You haven’t really—’

  ‘Won the lottery?’ Molly interrupted. ‘I jolly well have.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Caro, listen, you must swear not to tell anyone. Anyone!’

  ‘Why? What are you up to? How much have you won? Where are you?’

  ‘Hang on!’ Molly laughed. ‘I’m in Bradford. I’m not sure where I’m going next. I’m just concentrating on having fun – spending a little money if you know what I mean.’

  Carolyn gasped again. ‘Then it was you who gave that money to the farmer?’

  ‘How do you know about that?’

  ‘Moll, I told you – that reporter’s on to you. It was in Vive! today.’

  ‘Vive! I’m in Vive!?’

  ‘Well, he obviously didn’t know your name in this report but he’s got you now and I think he’s following you. He was asking all sorts of things about you. He had that sharp, hunting look about him that those guys have. You know? Like he knew he was on to a good story.’

  There was a moment’s silence.

  ‘So come on – how much did you win? And what are you up to?’

  Molly laughed, and it sounded like pieces of rainbow falling from a clear sky. ‘It was quite a lot. Just over four million.’

  ‘Jeeeeeeeee-pers! You’re kidding!’

  ‘No. And that’s why you must promise me you mustn’t breathe a word, Caro.’

  ‘You’ve not told anyone?’

  ‘No. No way! You know what the Bailey men are like. I wouldn’t have a penny left if they got wind of it – you know that.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right.’

  ‘But don’t worry,’ Molly added, ‘I am being sensible about this. I’ve put a goodly sum away for everyone; enough to keep us all comfortable, but I don’t see the point of excess, really I don’t.’

  ‘But you don’t want anyone to know about that?’

  ‘Definitely not. Not until I’ve got rid of it.’

  ‘Moll,’ Carolyn interrupted, ‘has this got something to do with your mother?’

  There was a pause at Molly’s end of the phone. ‘Money does strange things to people.’

  ‘I know,’ Carolyn said. ‘So what are you going to do?’

  Molly laughed again. ‘I’m going to have a little bit of fun.’

  Tom and Flora had left the Moor View flats with no particular direction in mind. They were Molly-less. There was no way of knowing where she was until he got some feedback from the next day’s plea in Vive!.

  Pulling into a pizza parlour car park, he got his map out and opened it.

  ‘OK,’ he said, motioning to Flora to pay attention. ‘She started off in the Eden Valley, here, just east of Carlisle. Then we caught up with her here, in Swaledale and today she was here, in Bradford.’

  Flora nodded.

  ‘There’s a definite route emerging, isn’t there?’

  Flora’s eyes widened. ‘Is there?’

  ‘Look,’ Tom said, his finger tracing Molly’s route from Carlisle through Swaledale towards Bradford. ‘South. She’s heading south, isn’t she?’

  ‘So far,’ Flora said. ‘But she might go over there,’ she said, pointing to the east.

  ‘What, to Hull?’

  ‘She might.’

  Tom frowned. ‘It’s possible, but if she keeps on heading in the same direction, then I reckon the next place we’ll catch up with her will be somewhere around Sheffield.’

  ‘What’s in Sheffield?’ Flora asked.

  ‘I have absolutely no idea but I think we’re about to find out.’

  When Carolyn put the phone down, she gave herself a few minutes to compose herself. If she went back through to the living room straight away, she just knew that her excitement would spill out in front of the Bailey clan and that wouldn’t be doing Molly any favours. Oh no. But my goodness, it was so tempting to say something.

  She could just imagine the look on Old Bailey’s face if he knew his little granddaughter was out throwing money as well as caution to the wind. His very own granddaughter, for whom he’d bought a piggy bank when she was just five. Marty had told her the story of how Molly had dared to ask for a ballerina’s tutu and had been given a piggy bank instead. It wasn’t as if it was a pretty pink piggy bank either. It was a fat, ugly, grey one that looked more like an army vehicle than a pig, and which would have taken an eternity to fill if Molly hadn’t dropped it on the quarry-tiled kitchen floor before she reached her sixth birthday. But that hadn’t mattered; Old Bailey had replaced it on her next birthday. Carolyn smiled as she tried to imagine Molly’s face when she’d unwrapped the present.

  Walking across the room, she picked up the photo of Molly and Marty on the little chest of drawers by the window. It was one of the few photos in the room that had merited a frame. It must have been taken close to Molly’s piggy bank birthday because she didn’t look much older than five or six. A head full of dark, rebellious curls and a naughty twinkle to her eyes, that was Molly. It was as if she could see ahead to her lottery winning. And Marty beside her: beautiful and brooding. How was it that brother and sister could be so different? Most people had optimism and pessimism in fairly equal parts, didn’t they? But with Molly and Marty, it was as if all the optimism had been tipped into Molly and the pessimism poured into Marty. Perhaps that was why Molly didn’t want Marty to know about her spending spree. She knew what his response would be.

  Money does strange things to people. Carolyn agreed with Molly, but was giving it all away stranger than wanting to lock it away in bank accounts? Tom Mackenzie obviously thought so. There weren’t many stories centred around people who won the lottery and put all the money into tidy little bank accounts, were there? There was no fun in that.

  Carolyn looked out of the window onto the back of the terraced houses opposite. She’d never known anyone who’d won the lottery before. Fancy her own sister-in-law now scooping the top prize. Excitement churned around in her stomach at the mere thought. What on earth must Molly be feeling, she wondered, and how had she kept it a secret for so long? Carolyn just knew that she’d be blurting it out to everyone if she won, but she mustn’t do that with Molly’s news. Absolute discretion was what was required here; that’s what she’d promised Molly.

  Gathering herself together, and bidding her smile goodbye, she walked back through to the living room.

  ‘You were a long time,’ Marty said.

  ‘Yes. Just catching up with Molly.’

  ‘Any news?’

  Carolyn’s bright eyes widened and she felt the beginnings of a giggle wiggling inside her. ‘Er – no – not really. Just gossiping.’

  Marty nodded.

  ‘Isn’t anybody hungry yet?’ Old Bailey barked from his winged chair.

  ‘Funny you should say that,’ Carolyn said with unusual cheer, ‘because I was just going to start tea.’ And she tripped into the kitchen, pushing the door behind her just as the tears of laughter began to run down her face.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Tom loved early morning silence. There was something about the stillness of a morning that wasn’t quite the same as any other time of day. Evenings never quite worked their magic for him because, prior to leaving his job, he
was normally shattered with boredom by then, but morning had a stillness full of promise. Mornings were even more beautiful now that he was self-employed and didn’t have to report in to anyone and he was particularly enjoying the presence of his mate’s laptop. He’d sneak out of bed whilst Flora still slumbered, and place the portable on his thighs, running his hand across the lid, smooth and perfect as a sea-washed pebble, before opening it up and letting his fingers tap lightly over the keyboard. The lightness of touch was almost mesmeric and, twice now, he’d found himself startled out of his writing reverie by Flora bidding him good morning.

  At home, he’d sometimes get up early to practise a few songs on his guitars. When he’d first moved into his house, after the split with Anise, he hadn’t realised how thin his walls were until he’d had his ear bent by the mean old lady next door who didn’t appreciate being woken at half past six to the strains of ‘Hound Dog’. So he’d taken to playing in the bathroom as it was the only room with no adjacent walls. It was a bit odd strumming a guitar on the toilet but the acoustics were good.

  Funnily enough, he wasn’t missing his early morning strumming session, not with the laptop at his disposal. The words were flying out of his mind straight onto the screen; work was fast becoming something enjoyable.

  By the time Flora woke up, he’d got a few hundred words down. It probably wasn’t anything he’d use in his forthcoming articles but he was trying to work things out in his mind about Molly, and she was making a very interesting subject. What was her motivation? Why would anyone in their right mind want to give away so much money? It didn’t make any sense to Tom. Nobody was really that selfless, were they? Not in this day and age. If Molly was like other women Tom had met, she had to have an ulterior motive for being so generous, and what he had to do was find out what that was.

  Leaving the hotel later that morning, Tom and Flora wrinkled their noses.

  ‘I don’t like it here,’ Flora said. ‘Can’t we go back to Swaledale?’

  ‘There’s no story there now.’

  ‘Does that mean we have to stay here?’

  ‘Until I get some feedback from today’s article. I’ve put out a plea for help from the readers – hoping they’ll spot Molly’s yellow car and let me know where she is,’ Tom explained. ‘Come on,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘Let’s go and get a paper.’

  Five minutes later, Tom had a great fat smile on his face. Not only had he managed to leapfrog to page five but the editor had gone for his idea of making a public plea as to the whereabouts of Molly, printing his email address at the end of the article as so many reporters did nowadays.

  His Monday report had been a vague, impersonal story – interesting, yes, but there was nothing the public could sink their teeth into. Now, Tom had given them a name, a focus and, in return, he was hoping they’d be able to help him. All he had to do now was sit back and keep his fingers crossed.

  When Molly had ended her call to Carolyn, she’d visited the nearest newsagent’s and bought a copy of Vive!. It was all very vague, she’d thought. There was nothing linking the story to her, even if Marty, Magnus and Old Bailey did stumble across it. But that couldn’t be said of the article on page five of Tuesday’s edition. Molly’s eyes were out on stalks.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ she swore beside the supermarket newspaper stand. It was all there in black and white. Whitton Castle. Lord Henry Hewson. Moor View flats. Yellow gerbera.

  He knew who she was and what she’d been up to. He’d found out, and it could only have come from Lord Henry. Molly sighed as she read the words again.

  ‘Bare legs up to her armpits and a bosom to die for.’

  She rolled her eyes to the heavens. How could he have said that? How could he have done that to her? He’d seemed such a sweet man. But then something occurred to Molly. Maybe he was still a sweet man and that it was this reporter, this Tom Mackenzie, who was the villain here. Reporters were notorious at getting the worst out of people, and this peeping Tom had definitely done that. He’d probably bribed him with money, and Molly knew Lord Henry could little afford to turn it down. But why did this reporter insist on dwelling on what she looked like? As if that had anything to do with her mission. It was just tabloid titillation, and she could murder him for it!

  She read the rest of the article.

  ‘“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,” Ms Gunton said. And, indeed, it begs the question why somebody would leave five hundred pounds to a complete stranger. Is this the act of somebody desperately seeking attention?’

  Molly’s mouth dropped open. He’d never met her before and yet he was making all these assumptions and daring to put it all down in print for the nation to read. How dare he do that? And what was Carolyn going to make of it all? It was one thing having a girly gossip about hot lovers, but quite another to have your private life splashed across the tabloids before you got a chance to explain things yourself.

  Molly’s eyes stung with tears of frustration. She wanted to find this man and punch him but would that actually achieve anything? Wouldn’t she be better running away from him? And what was all this about him asking for people to contact him as to her whereabouts? He’d even found out what car she drove, and that she had a dog! Molly shook her head in anger. How dare he drag Fizz into this ugly business?

  For a moment, she stared at the accompanying photograph of the reporter.

  ‘I hate you, Tom Mackenzie,’ she said but, even as she said the words, she couldn’t help admitting that there was something about the face that was strangely likeable. He looked almost handsome but how was that possible? He was the lowest of the low and deserved nothing but scorn.

  Paying for the newspaper at the checkout, together with a sandwich and a tin of dog food, she left the supermarket, her fingers grasped angrily round her copy of Vive!.

  Getting into the car and slamming the door, she growled unhappily at Fizz. He looked up at her, his eyes so dark under the whiteness of his fur. How sweet he looked. She ruffled his fur and, as he closed his eyes in pure contentment, she tickled his chin. She was starting to calm down a bit and put it down to pet therapy.

  ‘I’m going to rise above this,’ Molly told a bemused Fizz. ‘He’s not going to have the pleasure of ruffling my feathers. Oh no!’

  She turned the ignition and revved the engine. Then, cursing loudly, she crunched her gears and drove out of the car park.

  No, her feathers weren’t ruffled at all.

  Tom waited until eleven o’clock before checking his email, his face creasing with a smile as no less than eight messages downloaded.

  ‘Wow!’ Flora smiled.

  ‘Let’s not get too excited,’ Tom said, ‘there are a lot of cranks out there.’

  Sure enough, the first two messages were from idiots.

  I think your articles stink! Can’t you leave the poor girl alone? the first one read.

  Tom opened the second one. Have you ever considered treading the path to spiritual enlightenment? He shook his head and deleted them before opening message number three, reading it to himself quietly. Then message number four, five, six, seven and eight.

  M1 south of Wakefield.

  A61 at Whitley, south of Chapeltown.

  A57 towards Ladybower Reservoir.

  Flora was getting impatient. ‘What do they say, Dad?’

  ‘I was right, Flo!’ Tom grinned. ‘She’s in Derbyshire.’

  Chapter Twenty

  It was such a relief to venture into the Peak District after getting lost in the urban sprawl of Sheffield. It was yet another area of the country Tom knew little about but he liked what he saw: hills in green and bronze, dotted with copses and sheep; stone cottages and riverside pubs, and numerous walkers thudding through the fields in tank-sized boots. The only thing that puzzled Tom was what on earth Molly was doing here. There weren’t any high-rise flats so where was she planning to unload her money? Perhaps she wa
s having a break or maybe she was looking to buy a mansion. Tom got excited at the idea. He hadn’t thought about that yet but maybe Molly wasn’t so selfless after all?

  They stopped at the next village store and filled a basket with bread rolls, crisps, apples, chocolate, tissues and the local paper.

  ‘OK, Flo. I’m promoting you to head researcher,’ Tom said. ‘Molly must have got here some time yesterday and I want you to look through that paper and tell me if you see any stories involving money. Now it could be anywhere in the paper: a full-page story or just a few lines tucked away somewhere, but I want you to read out anything to do with money, OK?’

  ‘All right,’ Flora said, opening the paper as they walked back to the car.

  ‘Anything?’ Tom asked after a few minutes.

  ‘There’s a pensioner who sold some antiques and made over fifteen thousand pounds.’

  ‘Doesn’t count,’ Tom said.

  Flora turned the page. ‘A man has got three thousand pounds.’

  ‘Go on. Did he find it anywhere?’

  Flora’s mouth set in a straight line across her face as she struggled to read the rest of the piece. ‘It says—’

  ‘What?’ Tom asked, beginning to sound anxious.

  ‘I can’t read it.’

  Tom took the paper from Flora and scanned it. ‘Oh,’ he said at length.

  ‘Isn’t it the person we’re looking for?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. This man won his money through a court case.’

  ‘And that doesn’t count?’

  ‘No. What we’re looking for is someone who finds money. Or maybe is given money – quite unexpectedly,’ he said, handing the paper back before opening a bag of crisps.

  ‘A woman found an envelope stuffed with money on her doormat.’

  ‘Read that one out in full.’

  ‘Widow, Mabel Spriggs, of Castleton, woke up to find an envelope stuffed with fifty-pound notes on her doormat yesterday morning. “I couldn’t believe it,” the eighty-four-year-old said. “I’d just been talking about what a struggle I was having the day before and then this happens!”’