Molly's Millions

by Victoria Connelly

  ‘No, thanks. I’m afraid I’ve got to hit the road.’ Mrs Steele frowned. ‘But they’d love to meet you.’

  ‘Be sure and say hello for me, won’t you?’ Molly said, fishing her car keys out of her jacket pocket. ‘I’m really sorry I can’t stay.’

  ‘You’re going right now?’

  Molly nodded. ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘I don’t know how to thank you.’

  ‘You don’t have to. I didn’t do it so that I could be thanked.’

  Mrs Steele crossed the room and surprised Molly by wrapping her arms around her. ‘You’re an angel,’ she whispered, and then pulled away quickly and hurried through to the kitchen.

  Leaving the house and cranking up Old Faithful, Molly took a last look at the old Victorian building. She’d have to ring a builder and decorator before she left the area if she was really to be of help to Cedar Lodge but that was easy enough to arrange with a couple of phone calls. She’d also make sure that Mrs Steele received the biggest bunch of flowers the very next day for being such a dear and it would, of course, include half a dozen yellow gerbera.

  But there was another phone call she had to make: to the Marie Celeste Detective Agency. At school, she’d been known as ‘no-mummy Molly’ but it had never occurred to her to try and find her mother. Until now.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Carolyn watched as Marty crossed the road back towards the car, shaking his head. It didn’t look good. She sighed. They’d already tried at least half a dozen bed and breakfasts in the area, and all with the same message: no vacancies. But what could they expect during high season? It wasn’t as if they’d done anything rational like booking ahead or anything.

  Getting into the car, Marty started the ignition. ‘They’ve only got two doubles left,’ he said.

  ‘How much?’ Old Bailey barked from the back seat.

  ‘Thirty-five per person per night.’

  Old Bailey shook his head. ‘It’s a bloody rip-off but it’s the cheapest so far.’

  ‘But they’ve only got doubles left, Granddad. I’ve just said.’

  ‘So? I can share with Magnus,’ Old Bailey harrumphed.

  Marty turned the ignition off and screwed up his face in alarm. ‘Share? With Father?’

  ‘Come on, let’s get in there before someone else books it,’ Old Bailey said, winding his scarf around his neck before opening the car door and making for the boot.

  ‘Marty?’ Carolyn said as Magnus got out of the car in resignation of the night ahead.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Isn’t it just a little bit early to be checking in for the night?’

  ‘Five o’clock? You know what Granddad’s like – he’s a creature of habit. Five o’clock is time for a drink and a snooze before teatime.’

  Carolyn grimaced. Although she felt she could sleep too after being squashed in a car all day with the Bailey men, she didn’t fancy being trapped in a bed and breakfast with them.

  ‘Can we go out later? See a bit of the Peak District before it gets dark?’

  ‘I’m shattered, Caro. I feel as if I’ve been driving all day.’

  ‘OK,’ she said, resigning herself to an evening with her book.

  ‘We’ll see,’ he said, obviously feeling bad, which, in turn, made her feel bad. He looked absolutely drained; his face that peculiar white that comes from hours of concentrating on traffic.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘don’t worry.’ And then she thought of something. She had something to do; something she hadn’t been able to do all day with so many pairs of beady eyes on her: ring Molly.

  The Marie Celeste Detective Agency might have had the best reputation in the Greater Manchester area but it was nothing more than a single office behind a tatty launderette which looked as if it could do with a good wash itself. It had also been incredibly difficult to find. Molly felt sure she was going to be late for her five o’clock appointment but perhaps that had been half of the test. If clients could find the agency, it would prove that they had some wits about them and might have actually tried to find their particular missing person.

  Taking a deep breath, Molly pressed an intercom to the side of an enormous shiny black door and was buzzed through to be greeted by a dark entrance hall. It took a couple of seconds for her eyes to adjust, but when they did she saw a plaque on the wall that pointed the way to an office door. Molly walked forward, Fizz trotting alongside her, and knocked.

  ‘Come in!’ a husky voice sounded from the other side.

  Molly opened the door and stepped inside. The room, like the hallway, was dark despite the large window at the back of the room but, as it overlooked other buildings over a narrow alleyway, it wasn’t that surprising that there wasn’t much room for light.

  ‘Mrs Bailey?’ the owner of the husky voice enquired.

  ‘Miss. Molly.’

  ‘Miss Molly?’ he said, making her sound like a character from Gone with the Wind.

  ‘Just Molly.’

  ‘Molly.’

  ‘Yes. And Fizz the dog.’

  ‘I’m Malcolm McCleod,’ he said, acknowledging Fizz with a nod.

  Molly extended her hand and, resting his cigarette on the side of an overflowing ashtray, he shook it. She’d half expected him to get up from his chair but he remained seated.

  ‘Please, sit down,’ he said, motioning to a cracked leather chair.

  ‘Thank you,’ Molly said as she sat down, Fizz flopping down beside her.

  ‘Now, let me find your notes,’ he said, sifting through some papers on his desk. ‘They’re here somewhere. I thought they were…’ He tutted, losing himself in an avalanche of paper.

  Molly glanced around the room but it wasn’t very easy to see anything with the lack of light and the smoke which filled it with an ugly fog, so she turned her attention to Malcolm McCleod instead. He had tight red curly hair and was wearing a hideous tartan shirt, making him look as if he was about to play a round of golf and do the Highland fling at the same time.

  ‘Ah! Here we are,’ McCleod declared at last. ‘Cynthia Bailey, née Percy.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Your mother.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why do you want to find her?’

  Molly’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘Why? She’s my mother.’

  ‘I know, but I must know if this is to be an amicable reunion.’

  ‘You mean you won’t help me if I’m out to kill her or something?’

  McCleod cleared his throat. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Do you get many clients who want to commit murder, then?’

  It was McCleod’s turn to give a wide-eyed stare. ‘We’ve had one or two incidents in the past, yes, which is why I’m asking you this now.’

  Molly felt the beginnings of a small smile. ‘No, I don’t want to kill my mother.’

  McCleod squinted at her across the table. ‘Good. Then I should be able to help you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘So when was the last time you saw your mother?’

  Molly’s mouth dropped open a fraction. When was the last time she’d seen her? It was so long ago.

  ‘When I was eleven. Sixteen years ago.’

  ‘And you’ve not kept in touch?’

  Molly shook her head, her dark curls knocking against the side of her face.

  ‘Did she leave a note? Did she phone?’

  ‘No. She only left a cardigan.’

  ‘A cardigan?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t think that’s very important though. To you, I mean.’ But it was important to Molly. Her mother’s baggy woollen cardigan known as the cardigan of many colours. It was a collection of squares she used to knit whilst watching television, which she’d then joined together into a ginormous patchwork cardigan. When she and her brother were small, they could get lost in it for days.

  ‘You don’t think the cardigan is relevant?’

  ‘No,’ Molly said. ‘I think it was just meant as a token of comfort or
something.’

  ‘So why did she leave?’

  Molly sighed. ‘I think she just got tired of my father.’

  ‘Were there marital problems?’

  ‘More monetary problems, I think. She liked to spend money and he didn’t. It sounds silly but he was a constant nightmare.’ Molly watched as McCleod made some spidery notes with a black fountain pen.

  ‘And do you think she wants to be found? Have you planned what it is you’ll say when you find her?’

  ‘Gracious!’ Molly exclaimed. ‘I haven’t, no.’

  ‘Well, you should. Start thinking about that now. We’ve been known to find people very quickly and it’s advisable that you’re prepared.’

  ‘We? You mean, you don’t do all the work yourself?’

  McCleod smiled a strange smile and then pushed himself away from the desk. It was then that Molly saw he was in the biggest, brightest wheelchair she’d ever seen.

  ‘Legs,’ he said.

  Molly frowned. ‘What?’

  ‘Legs – he’s my sidekick – ha!’ He laughed at his own joke. ‘He does all the hoofing. I’m mostly office-based now, thank God. The brains behind the desk.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘You’re surprised.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Trust me. Legs is the best guy for the job. You can trust him with your life. Or your mother, at the very least.’

  ‘So what’s the next step?’

  ‘Give me your mobile phone number.’

  Molly did as she was told. ‘And what do I do?’

  ‘Keep in an area where your mobile phone works. We’ll get in touch if we have any news.’

  Molly nodded. So that put paid to her trip into the Welsh mountains, then.

  ‘And you don’t need anything else from me?’

  ‘Did you bring the photo?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Molly said, digging in her pocket and bringing out a tiny photo she’d carried around with her for sixteen years. She handed it over.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, examining the photo closely. ‘You look just like her.’

  Molly gave a little smile. ‘I guess that’s normal.’

  ‘But she won’t look like this now, will she?’

  ‘I guess not.’

  ‘And that’s something else you should prepare yourself for.’

  When Molly left the Marie Celeste office, her eyes blinked at the harsh light outside.

  What had McCleod said? Keep in an area where your mobile works. Molly patted her pocket, not even sure if the phone was switched on. She took it out and looked at it. No, it was definitely on.

  Suddenly, it began to ring.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Molly! Thank goodness.’

  ‘Caro? What’s the matter?’

  ‘It’s the Bailey boys, Moll. They’re on to you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We’re in Derbyshire. They’re trying to catch up with you. They know about the money, Moll.’

  ‘What? How?’

  ‘They got hold of a copy of Vive!.’

  ‘You’re joking!’

  ‘I’m afraid not. They’ve been following that reporter, Tom Mackenzie.’

  Molly bit her lip to prevent herself from swearing. So, she’d been found out, had she? The Baileys were on to her, were they?

  ‘Caro?’ she said. ‘Are you with me on this?’

  ‘Of course I am. That’s why I’m ringing.’

  ‘OK,’ Molly said, ‘here’s what I want you to do.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Since the disagreement over Tom’s Susanna interview, Flora hadn’t uttered a single word to her father. Instead, they’d driven in stony silence, their faces etched with fury. God, he thought, she was so like him sometimes that it was frightening but, he supposed, he’d rather have it that way than her taking after her mother. He couldn’t think of anything worse than being trapped in the car for the duration of the summer with a mini-Anise. But, what was even more frightening was that Flora really did have a point. What if he’d taken the wrong angle on his story and this Molly Bailey was just a genuine do-gooder? He shuddered at the phrase. He was sure that nice people and good deeds didn’t sell as many papers – there had to be another angle if he was to make his story the biggest this summer.

  For a moment, he thought about his victim. What was she really like? He only had that photograph he’d found of her on the Internet the day before, winning some florists’ award, and the rare physical description with which to try and pin her down. He brought to mind Lord Henry’s ardent observation of her: bare legs up to her armpits and a bosom to die for. Tom grinned. Then there’d been the big, black, bouncy curls like I’ve never seen before. Yes, this Molly Bailey sounded as if she might be a real corker. In fact, she sounded rather like the kind of woman Tom himself went for.

  Realising that he’d best find somewhere to park so he could check his email for any potential Molly sightings, he pulled off the main road and headed into a sleepy village. There was no telling what Molly might have been up to or where she might have headed since he’d gone to Manchester for his television appearance.

  Parking on a quiet street, he unclipped his seat belt.

  ‘Can I go and get some sweets?’ Flora asked. Tom looked up in surprise. It was the first thing she’d said in ages.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘There’s a shop over there,’ she said, her voice subdued and sulky.

  Tom looked across the road at the village shop. ‘OK,’ he said, ‘but don’t be long, and, here,’ he added, handing over a five-pound note, ‘buy us a copy of all the tabloids.’

  ‘Vive! too?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He watched as she looked both ways before crossing the road, and then he sighed. He hated it, really hated it, when they fought. It always seemed such a huge waste of energy: energy they should be spending in having fun and making the most of their summer together. It wasn’t often that he got to see so much of her. He really shouldn’t be wasting time fighting with her.

  As Flora disappeared into the shop, Tom turned his attention to the laptop and watched in amazement as it downloaded his emails. Thirty-two in total. Wow! He was becoming popular. He opened them up, one by one, and a huge smile soon filled his face. He had fans! Real-life fans from all corners of the country. He’d been expecting some up-to-date sightings of Molly but most of the emails were about his very recent appearance on Susanna.

  Hi there, Tom. Fancy tracking me down? Rebecca Collins from Bristol had written, signing off with six kisses and attaching a photo. Tom opened it, his eyes widening at the voluptuous redhead that greeted him. Not bad, not bad.

  He opened the next message. I didn’t notice a wedding ring on TV, so thought I’d drop you a line, Faye Asher had written in a dark-red font. Tom could feel his face heating up as he trawled through the messages. He’d never had so much attention before.

  For a brief moment, he flirted with the idea of replying to red-haired Rebecca from Bristol. How far away was Bristol? He quickly got the road atlas out and realised that it was quite a stretch. Still, if Molly headed down that way, what harm would a quick hello do? He felt as if he deserved some fun.

  ‘I’ve got them,’ Flora said, opening the back door of the car and interrupting her father’s thoughts of extra-curricular research in the West Country.

  ‘Thanks,’ Tom said, quickly flicking through Vive! to check that his stuff was still being prominently displayed.

  ‘It’s on page three,’ Flora said.

  Tom grinned. ‘Is it?’

  Flora nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what did you think of it?’

  ‘’Sokay,’ she said, reaching into a white paper bag for a strawberry bonbon. ‘But I still think you’re mean to Molly.’

  ‘You don’t even know her,’ Tom pointed out.

  ‘Doesn’t mean you can say horrid things about people just because you don’t know them.’

  Tom swallowed hard.
He was torn between clouting her and hugging her and, remembering his resolve not to waste any more energy in fighting with her, he grabbed hold of her and planted a fat kiss on her cheek, which was swollen with the undissolved bonbon.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘You’re Daddy’s little philosopher, aren’t you? To keep me on the straight and narrow.’

  ‘Aw! Daddy!’ she yelped, pushing him away before he could kiss her again.

  ‘Just keep an eye on me, won’t you?’ he said, brushing a strand of her fair hair out of her eyes.

  ‘Daddy,’ she said, looking up at him with wide eyes.

  ‘Yes?’ he said, loving how adult she could sound.

  ‘You’ve still got your make-up on.’

  It had been easy for Carolyn to slip out of the bed and breakfast. She’d told Marty she was just popping down to the local convenience store for some moisturiser and he hadn’t asked any questions. As soon as she was out of the B & B, she rang Molly from her mobile.

  And that’s when Molly had asked her. Carolyn still couldn’t quite believe it: her and Molly in cahoots: the Bailey women against the Bailey men. It was naughty, it was exciting, and it was really rather stupid.

  Carolyn sighed as she sat down in an old Lloyd Loom chair in their rather tatty, chintzy room. Marty was sprawled out on the bed, snoring sonorously. She bit her lip as she watched him. What if he was to find out? First, she’d lied to him about knowing Molly had won the lottery, and now she was going to hide Molly’s whereabouts from him whilst feeding him duff information. Was Molly sure she was doing the right thing? Carolyn had warned her about Tom Mackenzie’s column in Vive! and how he had the whole nation looking out for her.

  ‘Shouldn’t you think about trading Old Faithful in?’ she’d suggested.

  ‘There’s absolutely no way I’m parting with my car over this. Why should I? Anyway, Caro, don’t worry. He can’t possibly predict where I’m going next or what I’m going to do. He’s always going to be one step behind me.’