A Dish Served Cold

by Diney Costeloe

  “Tell me what she was like.” Justin put an arm round her and she snuggled against him, trying to visualise the woman with the winning ticket.

  “A woman,” she repeated, “middle-aged. Sort of ordinary you know? Frumpy…wearing a blue fleece jacket – with a hood.”

  “And she came in to say she’d won?”

  “No, she came in for a Chronicle, and when she was getting her money out, she pulled out this ticket and asked if there was anything on it. I ran it through the machine, and the numbers came up…all of them, from a couple of weeks earlier.”

  “Did she buy the ticket from you?”

  “I don’t know. She didn’t say.”

  “What did she do?” asked Justin with real interest now.

  “She sort of squeaked, and asked if I was sure. Then, when I said I was, she grabbed the ticket and ran out of the shop.”

  “So we don’t know if she’s local then.”

  “Well, it depends what you mean by local. I mean, she’s not one of our regulars, I didn’t recognise her, anyway. She could’ve bought the ticket anywhere.”

  “But would you again? Recognise her I mean?”

  Emma considered. “I don’t know. I might if I was watching specially for her. I will if you want me to.”

  “She might come in again to check on this week’s ticket,” suggested Justin, “or to buy another ticket.”

  Emma gave a shout of laughter. “To buy another ticket?” she hooted. “Would you, if you’d just won eight million quid? Anyway, she weren’t buying a ticket for this Saturday, she just snatched the winning ticket out of my hand and dashed out of the shop.”

  “Was there anyone else in the shop?” asked Justin, his mind racing to see if there was some way he could identify the lucky winner.

  “Mr Patel came in just as she left. He was as surprised as I was when she pushed out past him.”

  “Did you tell him she’d won?” asked Justin.

  “Course I did,” Emma said. “You can’t keep something like that to yourself, can you?”

  Justin sighed. “No,” he agreed, “I don’t suppose you can.” He emphasised the word ‘you’. “Still I wish you hadn’t told him.”

  “Why ever not? What’s he going to do about it?”

  “Well, it’ll get round, won’t it?”

  “Does that matter?” Emma was puzzled.

  “No, not really I suppose,” Justin said, knowing she would never understand about an exclusive story. He’d just have to hope that old man Patel hadn’t rung one of the London papers with the news.

  “When was this?” he asked her.

  “I told you. Last Monday.”

  “Monday!” echoed Justin in dismay. “Oh Em! Why the hell didn’t you tell me before?”

  “Haven’t seen you, have I? You cried off Wednesday, remember?”

  Justin ignored her petulance. “Would you recognise her again, Em?” he asked again.

  “Justin, you keep asking me that,” Emma said, annoyed. “I told you, I might. I don’t know. She was, like, very ordinary, you know? D’you want me to keep an eye out for her?”

  Justin pulled against him again. “Certainly do,” he said, “and if you do, you’ll ring me straight away, won’t you?” He nuzzled her neck. “Promise?”

  Emma murmured something unintelligible and Justin nipping her ear with strong white teeth, said again, “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  It was enough for the moment and they gave their attention to other things.

  It was almost a fortnight later that Emma was able to keep her promise. She was on a step-ladder tidying up the magazines on the top shelf of the rack by the door when she happened to glance out into the street. Two women were passing. One of them was Miss Durston, who’d taught Emma history at school. Emma quite liked Miss Durston. Though Emma thought history was a waste of time, Miss Durston hadn’t made her feel stupid as so many of the other teachers had. Emma was about to wave in her usual friendly way, to attract her old teacher’s attention, when she noticed the woman with her. Her heart lurched. Surely, it was the woman with the winning ticket. She didn’t look quite as frumpy as she had, but she was wearing a blue fleece jacket with a hood and Emma was certain that it was the same woman. The girl gave a squeak and jumped down from the little ladder. As she did so she caught her foot against the bottom of the shelving and she tripped. Pulling the ladder sideways as she grabbed at it to stop herself from falling, she ended up on the floor with the step-ladder on top of her. By the time she had disentangled herself from it and run out of the shop, the two women had disappeared. Emma ran in the direction they had taken, but when she reached the corner of the street they were nowhere in sight. Not daring to leave her counter unattended any longer, she turned back. It was a good thing she had, as there were two people in Neighbourhood News, leafing through magazines and no one to keep an eye on them. By the time she had dealt with them and the other customers who chose that moment to stream through the shop, it was a while before she could phone Justin. At last a time came when she could punch in his mobile number. She got his voice mail.

  “I’ve seen the lottery lady,” she said breathlessly. “I’ll tell you all about it if you come round the shop.”

  Justin was with her within half an hour.

  “She was walking past, with my old history teacher, Miss Durston.”

  “Did you speak to her?” asked Justin.

  “No, by the time I got out of the shop they’d gone. I did go as far as the corner, but I couldn’t see them. I had to come back to the shop, didn’t I?” she added defensively as she saw he was going to comment. “I was on my own. Anyway, you can probably find her through Miss Durston. I mean, she’ll know who she is, won’t she?”

  Justin nodded. “So where does this Miss Durston live?”

  Emma shrugged. “I don’t know, but I expect she’s in the phone book.”

  She wasn’t. It only took Justin a couple of minutes to discover that Miss Durston was ex-directory. He wasn’t really surprised. If he worked at Crosshills Comp he’d be ex-directory, too. So, he’d have to find out where she lived some other way.

  “She drives a posh blue car,” Emma told him helpfully.

  “So do hundreds of other people,” sighed Justin. He gave her a peck on the cheek and promising to take her out the next evening, went in search of Miss Durston in her posh blue car.

  Electoral roll, thought Justin, pulling out his I-phone. Ten minutes later with Miss Durston’s address in his pocket, he was on the road to Stone Winton.

  St Jude’s Cottage wasn’t easy to find. He didn’t want to ask in the village, didn’t want her to hear he’d been looking for her, so, pulling out his phone again, he tapped into Google Earth and discovered that the cottage was at the end of a cart track just outside the village. Driving slowly along the road, looking for the track, he was overtaken by a smart blue Saab, which turned off almost immediately. ‘A posh blue car’ Emma had said, and Justin knew he was in the right place. He didn’t follow the Saab, but parked in a farm gate further along the lane and walked back. By the time he reached the cottage, the woman was unloading a box of groceries from the car. She looked up as he approached the gate and came forward to meet him.

  “Good evening,” she said. “Can I help you?” She rested the box on the gate, effectively barring his way into the garden.

  “Good evening,” Justin smiled. “Miss Durston?”

  “Yes, that’s right.” She didn’t move away from the gate, but she looked enquiringly over it.

  “I wondered if you could help me, I’m trying to find someone.”

  “Oh, and who’s that?”

  Justin kept his smile in place. “That’s the problem,” he said. “I’m not quite sure. I work for National Lottery and we’ve reason to believe a jackpot winning ticket was bought in Belcaster a couple of weeks ago. We can tell from the computer you know.” As he spoke he looked over her shoulder towards the cottage. The front door stood open, but h
e could see no one else.

  “I’m afraid I don’t buy lottery tickets,” Sylvia told him. “So it isn’t me, sorry.”

  “No. Well, the thing is, we’re trying to locate the person who did buy the winning ticket, and…”

  “I’m sorry, Mr…Whoever-you-are, but I don’t quite see how you think I can help you.”

  “I was told you were seen in town this afternoon, with the winner, and I wondered if you knew where I could contact her.”

  Sylvia looked him firmly in the eye and said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I’m afraid I can’t help you. As you can see, I’ve just been to Sainsbury’s. I don’t know anything about the lottery, I’ve never bought a ticket.” Her eyes held his for a moment and she added, “And I don’t think you’re from the lottery either. Show me some ID.”

  “I…” began Justin.

  “As I thought,” snapped Sylvia, “you haven’t any. I don’t know who you are,” Sylvia said pulling a mobile phone from her pocket, “but I suggest you leave. I’m calling the police.”

  “No need for that,” Justin said with a placatory gesture, “I’m going. I was only trying to find this other lady…”

  “Well there’s no other lady here,” Sylvia said firmly. “Good evening.” She turned and carried her groceries to the front door, where she waited, watching, until Justin had disappeared down the track.

  When he reached his car he got in, but didn’t start the engine. He was intrigued by his encounter with Miss Durston, and he sat there for a moment, turning things over in his mind.

  Something’s going on here, Justin thought. I’m sure Em wasn’t mistaken when she said she’d seen Miss Durston in town. She could have been wrong about the other woman, but she couldn’t miss someone as striking as Miss Durston, especially if she knows her as well as Em does. She’s hiding something. If she had admitted to being in town, but not knowing the other lady I might have believed her. Might. But Em definitely seen her with someone, so, why lie? She was quite determined that I wasn’t getting inside that gate, either, Justin thought. So perhaps the prize winner is actually in the house. Now, there’s a thought.

  He got out of the car and closing the door softly, went back towards the cottage, circling round through the fields to approach it, this time, from the back. It was still full daylight, but by keeping in the shelter of the hedgerow he was able to come up close with the hedge that surrounded the back garden. Light gleamed in one of the windows, and as he edged nearer, Justin could see into the kitchen where someone was standing at a cooker, stirring something. Not Sylvia Durston, she wasn’t as tall, and her hair was much fairer and short. So, he’d been right, Miss Durston had been lying. She did have a friend with her in the house, and though she didn’t look quite as Emma had described, the friend was probably the woman he was looking for. Even as he watched, Sylvia Durston came into the kitchen and he could see they were talking. He was too far away to hear what they said, but was afraid that if he went nearer he was liable to be caught.

  Term starts again on Monday, Justin thought, so maybe I can come back when the Durston woman is at school and catch the other one on her own.

  Why did Sylvia Durston lie? he wondered again as he drove back to Belcaster. If the friend didn’t want to talk to the press he could understand that, even if he was determined that she should in the end, but he felt there was more to it than that. It looked as if she was in hiding, as if Sylvia Durston were protecting her. Why? Justin’s curiosity was aroused; his journalist’s nose sniffed a story. Surely it wasn’t simply that she’d had a lottery win. Something else was going on and he would make it his business to find out what.

  Chapter 15

  Justin would have been fascinated if he could have heard the conversation going on in the kitchen of St Jude’s.

  “But Sylvia, who was he?” demanded Arabella.

  “I don’t know,” Sylvia replied. “Not for sure, but I imagine he was press, perhaps from the Chronicle. Someone must have tipped him off about your win and he wants an interview and a photo and things. It’s probably the first major win there’s been in this area.”

  “But you didn’t tell him…” began Arabella.

  “No, of course I didn’t,” Sylvia assured her, “but he may well come back to poke around. I don’t imagine he’ll be put off that easily.”

  “Then I must get away,” Arabella said. “I can’t stay here, specially not now.”

  Sylvia nodded. Arabella’s fight with Roger had changed things and it was even more important now that the press didn’t get wind of her prize.

  “You’re probably right,” she agreed, “but you really need to wait another couple of days to let your bruises fade a bit more.”

  “I daren’t, suppose he comes back?”

  “Stay indoors and just don’t answer the door or the phone while I’m at school,” Sylvia said and when Arabella began to protest about being shut in Sylvia added, “You can’t afford to blow it now, Pam.”

  “Arabella,” she was corrected. “My name is Arabella.”

  When Arabella had woken again on Saturday morning, Sylvia had presented her with the brown envelope and watched with amusement as she ripped it open and studied its contents. She had extracted a paper with the bold heading Deed Poll and handed it to Sylvia. Sylvia read, ‘By this Change of Name Deed, I the undersigned, Arabella Agnew….’

  Sylvia read it through and then looked across at Arabella. “Well,” she said wonderingly, “it really is that easy!”

  Arabella, who was looking through the help pack that accompanied the deed, glanced up and said, “All I have to do is sign it and get you to witness my signature and I’m a new person.” She grinned suddenly and said, “I like this bit… ‘Do hereby absolutely renounce and abandon the use of my former name….’ I certainly do! And I renounce and abandon Roger as well.”

  She took the deed back and taking a pen from the desk carefully filled in the date and signed, with a flourish, the new signature she had been practising. Then she handed the pen to Sylvia who filled in her part of the form.

  “Are you sure you don’t have to register this anywhere?” she asked.

  “Positive,” replied Arabella. “I just have to send it back for certified copies for the passport office and the DVLA and I’m away.” She held up the completed form and said triumphantly, “There now, Pamela Smith doesn’t exist anymore. I’m Arabella Agnew till the day I die.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Sylvia cried and opening a bottle of wine passed a glass to Arabella.

  “Here’s to you, Arabella.”

  They clinked glasses and discussing the various practicalities that had to be sorted with regard to a bank account, driving licence and passport, not to mention the claiming of the lottery money, they worked their way through the bottle of wine well-pleased with their plans.

  Monday morning had seen Arabella in Belcaster again. Armed with the signed Deed, she went in search of Sylvia’s bank. Arabella had decided not to use Nat West where she and Roger had their joint account. There was no reason to link a woman called Arabella Agnew, opening an account in Belcaster with Pamela Smith, joint account holder in Bristol, but she had decided that everything must be different from now on.

  At first she thought there might be some difficulty, but as well as the Deed, she had a letter from Sylvia, well-known at the bank, stating that she had known Pamela Smith/Arabella Agnew for thirty years and that the said Arabella Agnew was now living with her. Arabella presented the letter to, Andrew Gardner, the bank manager, explaining that she had nothing but the letter to prove she was now resident at St Jude’s Cottage, but she could produce her old picture driving licence and the deed poll to confirm her identity.

  “Although I’m sharing household expenses with Sylvia,” Arabella told him, “my name isn’t on any of the utility bills, so I hope her letter will do.”

  Mr Gardner knew Sylvia both through the bank and as the history teacher of his daughter, and having read her l
etter and scrutinised Arabella’s other documentation, he accepted her deposit of five hundred pounds now, and congratulated her when she mentioned, discreetly, that larger funds would be coming from a lottery win in the near future. Thus, when she emerged into the sunshine she was the proud owner of a temporary cheque book in her new name and the promise of a debit card for the first private bank account she had ever had.

  When she got home again she posted off the signed deed so that the certified copies could be made, ready to apply for a new driving licence and her first passport. She then spent a happy afternoon looking up property on the Internet. Within a week or two she would have all the evidence she needed to claim her win, and one of her first projects would be to buy herself a home of her own. Sylvia had allowed her to use St Jude’s as address for the time being for all her official documents and Arabella was grateful, after all she couldn’t be of no fixed abode, but she was longing to start her new, independent life.

  Sylvia’s encounter with the strange man at the gate this evening, brought her down to earth with a bump. Sylvia was looking grave as she told her what had happened.

  “Look, Arab,” she suggested, “why don’t we go to London this weekend? If we go up on Friday evening and stay till Sunday we can have some fun and do some thinking about what you’re going to do next.”

  Anxious to get away from prying eyes, Arabella agreed and allowed Sylvia to ring the Sylvester Hotel where she always stayed to make the arrangements. It would be nice to have a couple of days in London, and they didn’t have to follow Sylvia’s normal London routine.

  Arabella watched from the landing window as Sylvia drove away next morning, but when the car had disappeared round the corner she didn’t return to the kitchen to clear away breakfast as she usually did, she stayed tucked behind the curtain watching the lane. She was afraid that the reporter, whoever he was, would be back. However, no one turned into the lane nor approached the house on foot, and by the end of the morning she gave up her vigil and having finally cleared the kitchen she took the newspaper and a sandwich into the garden and spent a peaceful hour in the sunshine. The quiet of the garden remained undisturbed and by the time Sylvia came in from school, Arabella’s anxiety had faded somewhat and she was able to tell Sylvia that the reporter hadn’t come back after all.