Authors: Judith Cutler
It was my turn to look him in the eye. ‘I just assumed it was wrecked.’
‘Yes. But, Vena, it’s your home. You’re entitled to react. Say something, for God’s sake.’
I thought of all the places I’d lived. Theatrical digs. Bedsits. The superb house I’d shared with Dale, only to lose it. The women’s refuge. My Stratford place was neither the best nor the worst I’d lived in. Did I hold it in any particular affection? The garden, perhaps.
‘I can’t even take you to see it, since you’re officially dying in Warwick Hospital,’ he continued, his smile grim. ‘The fire brigade have managed to rescue some of your things, but not many. And they’re being given the forensic science treatment to the nth degree.’
I nodded.
‘The thing is, there were TV crews sniffing around when I left. There may be pictures of it on the lunchtime news. Your friends may see it too. You may be getting all sorts of phone calls and letters.’
‘I won’t. Karen confiscated my phone.’
‘Of course – so she did. I’ll make sure all your calls are diverted by way of your family liaison officer. Sandra Bond. Nice old-fashioned PC – never wanted promotion because she likes people, not paperwork.’ He fished in his pocket. ‘There. Karen made me promise to get all your contacts transferred.’ He passed me a new mobile in a sleek silver case. ‘I have done.’
I stared without taking it. Would I ever manage to master it? But I’d better say something. I thanked him eloquently, and thought I ought to ask what might be an intelligent question. ‘Do you think they were using my old phone to track her to the house?’
‘No. I think they took advantage of the absence of your car to break in and set up the booby trap. But if they can do that…’ He did not need to complete the sentence. ‘I’ve told your brother to arrange for a different hire car each day, from a different dealership.’
Unbidden, a hoot of laughter erupted. ‘He’ll love that – no discount for longer periods!’
‘You will drop it off at the end of each working day and take a taxi – again a different firm – back here.’
‘Surely, with Ted Ashcroft in charge of security, anything left here would be as safe as houses,’ I objected. And then – as if the word had hit a button – the room swam and I knew, with some dispassionate part of my brain, that I was going to pass out.
Perhaps Martin expected me to pass out again when I saw the regional news, which did indeed show footage of my poor dead house. But Sandra, the liaison officer he sent along to support me when he left, made me a cup of virtually
undrinkable coffee and provided a scurrilous commentary on the private lives of the various officers dodging in and out of the place in their familiar white overalls.
‘What about insurance?’ I said, thinking a sensible question was long overdue.
‘Give me the details. I’ll see it’s dealt with. After all, if you’re at death’s door you can hardly be taking visits from assessors and such. We have a procedure, don’t worry. Credit cards, banks, bills – we’ll sort out the lot. And I’ll get all your mail diverted. You never know if those guys will want to make extra sure by sending you a letter bomb,’ she pointed out.
My nod was perfunctory. When had I ever been so passive? Had to be passive? I told myself it was just another role.
Soon after two, there was a knock on my door. Though I’d have bet my teeth that any visitor would already have had the Ted Ashcroft treatment, Sandra elbowed me aside. And stepped back, mouth pleasingly ajar, at the sight of Toby, effortlessly elegant in a cashmere roll-neck, who raised his left eyebrow in the sort of supercilious way that often made me loathe him.
He might have been nonplussed too, being greeted by a shortish, stoutish woman whom even I would have described as middle-aged, especially as her uniform did her no favours at all.
‘Sandra, this is Toby Frensham. Toby, Sandra’s been assigned to look after me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because my house has burnt down.’
‘Ah. That puts a different complexion on things.’ He sat down on the sofa in a way that would have had an Alexander Technique teacher breaking out into spontaneous applause. ‘Completely.’
‘You’ll see if you watch the next regional news,’ Sandra said, plumping down in the armchair. She’d clearly not been impressed by him so far.
He ignored her. ‘So you’re literally homeless?’
‘What isn’t here,’ Sandra said, waving a strong-looking arm at my cases, the black sack and toppling stack of photo frames, ‘and what wasn’t burnt to a cinder is bagged up ready for forensic examination. So all in all she’s not doing too well.’
‘Especially as officially I’m dying in Warwick ICU,’ I said. The perkiness didn’t last. Karen might well be dying there, mightn’t she? ‘Sandra, how do I get news of that poor child?’
‘Karen? You don’t. I do. And I pass it on to you. You don’t have anything to do with anyone till I’ve cleared it with the DCI. Understand, my girl?’ She turned to Toby. ‘No, don’t you be saying anything to upset her. She’s had a real
nasty shock. Tell you what, Vee, I could make you a sandwich if you fancy one.’
This might have been a tactful way of leaving me alone with Toby while remaining within earshot in the kitchenette. It failed because, of course, there was nothing in there with which to make anything as prosaic as a sandwich, as, with a squawk of protest, she discovered.
‘All you’ve got in here is a few soggy canapés,’ she said with disgust.
Toby got to his feet and opened the front door. ‘If you go across to the house – you see that door over there – you can ask Greta for supplies. Anything you need at all,’ Toby told her. ‘Tell her I sent you.’
With an ironic lift of her eyebrow, she did as she was bid.
‘My poor love,’ he said, turning back and gathering me to him.
It was better to put my face down and cry into his chest than lift my face in the hope of being kissed better. Perhaps I didn’t have much choice. All it had ever taken to make me cry was a bit of kindness.
But at least it didn’t last long. The kindness, that is.
As soon as I’d pushed away from him, he asked, ‘Where are you going to stay?’
I’d thought Toby was a friend. Did friends speak like that?
‘I don’t know yet. The police suggested a safe house but I don’t know where.’
‘You really cooked your goose having that bloke round last night,’ he said, pacing to the window. ‘What the hell did you do that for?’
I stared, which perhaps he took as a sign of guilt. And then it dawned on me. ‘Frederick, do you mean?’
‘I don’t know what he’s called. I don’t care.’
‘You obviously do. He’s called, as far as I know, Frederick, and he’s Greta’s boyfriend – cousin, she calls him. When I went for a stroll last night I saw someone in one of the stables. He scared me rigid, I can tell you. I’d no idea who it might be, dressed from top to toe in black – it was only the glow of his mobile that gave him
away. I hoped he hadn’t spotted me, so I headed back here as quickly as I could and bolted myself in. Even used the old chair-under-the-door-handle trick. And then I went upstairs to see if I could see what happened next. And then I realised how stupid I’d been – it was Greta’s Frederick. Check on the CCTV.’
‘I have. It was clear he was coming here.’
‘For God’s sake! What would a kid like him see in a woman my age? Especially with someone like Greta available? In the next-door cottage,’ I added very slowly and clearly.
Clearly taken aback by such frankness, he hesitated.
‘And I might look OK now,’ I pursued, ‘thanks to Marissa. But I tell you last night I looked rough. No food, of course, and not so much as a tea bag, green or otherwise. So I went to Greta, just as Sandra’s just done, and begged for supplies. She managed to disentangle herself from Frederick and gave me food and drink, including the canapés that so offended Sandra. An unkind person might see them as the price of my silence. Or is Greta allowed gentlemen callers?’
The Victorian term made him smile. ‘We’re not quite that bad. But we would want to know if she had a guest, as it were.’
‘A language student cousin,’ I explained, limpidly. ‘Come on, Toby, why does the idea of
him coming here so offend you anyway?’
‘Breach of security,’ he said promptly. ‘Plus you didn’t tell me that bloody Meredith Thrale had it in for me.’
Who’d kindly told him that?
‘Well, even though I personally didn’t believe a word, I told Ted to step up security,’ I said tartly. ‘Gates and all. And look where it’s got me. An eviction order!’
‘You’re sure it was Greta?’
‘I’m bloody sure something was Greta,’ Sandra declared, making us both jump. She was standing in the open doorway, carrying a cardboard box. ‘One look at me and she drops a whole tray of something. I hope it wasn’t meant for a party this evening. Because she’s going to be working overtime if it was.’
‘If you crept up on her like you did on us I’m not surprised she dropped something,’ Toby said furiously. And possibly wished he hadn’t.
Sandra looked at him as if he was a cheeky five-year-old. ‘I knocked on the back door and waited. She opened it with a baking tray in her hand. I presume it was the uniform that gave her the hysterics, not the loss of the tarts,’ she said. Martin had said that staying a lowly constable had been her decision. I was beginning to believe him. Had she wanted to, a woman of her authority and shrewdness would have surely gone far. ‘So
I asked myself – and then her – why an ordinary constable should scare her so badly. She gabbled a lot of stuff about the secret police, and insisted on waving her papers under my nose. They seem to be in order, by the way. But I’d say she was worried about something else.’
‘The whole household depends on Greta,’ Toby said, as if in response to another observation altogether.
‘I’m sure it does,’ I said soothingly. ‘She’s a wonderful cook and terribly efficient. She even managed to sneak the twins’ clothes into the wash when I’d let them get filthy. I don’t think their misdemeanour was ever detected, was it? As a matter of interest, though, Toby, who told you I’d been shagging the mystery man?’
‘Allyn. Who was very upset. We’d wanted to offer you a safe haven here, Vee, but now it’s clear you have to go. Was clear,’ he corrected himself. He looked at Sandra rather sheepishly.
‘And who told this Allen, whoever he is? And what sort of friend is it who judges your morals and takes no heed of your safety?’
I held up my hands to stop her in mid flow. ‘Allyn is Allyn Rusch, the film star, who is married to Toby Frensham, who’s starring in
Coriolanus
at the Courtyard this season.’ He bowed ironically. But neither name made her blink an eyelid. In fact her jaw might have tightened in
plebeian resentment. ‘They have two children. It was I who suggested I ought not to stay here – I didn’t want to put them at risk. Or their parents, of course. At first Allyn completely overrode my objections, but now she has changed her mind.’
Sandra looked so puzzled I realised she was not puzzled at all. ‘So the only thing that’s changed her mind is the thought that you might be having it away with her housekeeper’s –
so-called
– cousin. Oh, people don’t look so furtive about cousins, Mr Frensham, not in my book. They look furtive about lovers. And why should Greta be furtive about a lover?’
Toby shrugged. ‘I’ll talk to Allyn.’
‘Hang on. Who dobbed me in to Allyn? And why?’ I asked. ‘I know I’m getting paranoid—’
‘As you have every right to be,’ Sandra observed to no one in particular.
‘But it seems to me that someone just wants to get rid of me. I’m happy to leave. I’d hate anything to happen to any of you because I’m here. In fact, I might well be safer elsewhere, if the police can oblige. But even if I never know why I have to go now, I think Sandra and Martin Humpage might want to find out.’
I found myself installed – totally passive, like a chess piece moved by a giant but impersonal hand – in a flat in a low-rise modern block
in Kenilworth. It was in a distinctly better neighbourhood than mine, and the flat itself quite chic, in an entirely anonymous way. I suspected the well-planned kitchen had seen even less use than Greta’s palace. The white goods were all a good make, but the bottom of their range. Cutlery and china for four came from Asda. The set of saucepans still had their labels on. The microwave, on the other hand, although it had been cleaned, still smelt of a hundred ready meals. Correction: ninety-five ready meals. There were still five in the freezer, along with a white sliced loaf. The only thing out of place was the box of Greta’s food supplies Sandra had insisted on bringing along.
The living room sofa and chair were designed for the longer limbed and the selection of DVDs was definitely male orientated. The new carpet was already spoilt by a few cigarette burns.
The bedroom was spartan. The bed was stripped, a pile of clean bed linen in the airing cupboard, where, not one to make the same mistake twice, I found and flicked the immersion heater switch. The mattress was new and unstained. But even in the bedroom there was a lingering smell of stale cigarette smoke. I went to fling open a window, but the grand gesture was somewhat inhibited by metal stays. No one was meant to get in or out through that window.
Suddenly I felt a prisoner. Of the police? Of Toby’s jealousy? Of Greg’s stupidity? Of my own stupidity?
Nonsense. If we had been naïve or slack, the drug dealers were evil lawbreakers. If anything I was their prisoner. I checked my posture in the single full-length mirror, reciting my Alexander Technique mantras. I might not be free, but I could keep my neck free and let my head freely float… There, that was better. The shoulders were straighter, the stomach already flatter. I was no longer being pulled down by the criminals, whatever else they might do to me.
Sandra was still in the living room. She passed me a file with details of the local takeaways, much thumbed, and instructions for the TV, DVD and kitchen appliances.
‘What about leaving here? Going for walks and so on?’ I asked.
‘Well, you look quite different from when you were bombing round Stratford.’ She obviously didn’t notice her black pun. ‘I’d nip out first in your least memorable clothes and buy things to suit the new you. Cash. Don’t use your credit cards just in case. In fact, why don’t you hand them over now, so you don’t forget? And your driving licence.’
‘How do I buy clothes without a card? And hire a car without a licence?’
‘OK, leave that here unless you need to use it. And I’ll sort out a credit card and some cash asap.’
‘Thanks.’ I hoped I sounded more enthusiastic than I felt.
She leant forward confidentially. ‘Tell me, does that Toby have a bit of a thing for you? Thinking you’d been shagging young Frederick really got to him, didn’t it?’
‘And to his wife,’ I mused. But I hadn’t answered her question, and it always seemed to me if you avoided one, people read more into it than you might want. ‘As for Toby, we go back for ever. If we’d ever both been partnerless at the same time, we might have made a go of it. Or we might have made each other very unhappy, of course. Who knows? There are times I fancy him like mad, Sandra, and that’s the truth. Other times he’s so bloody irritating, I could smack him.’
She nodded, assimilating everything, her eyes kind as well as shrewd. ‘So I was right – he really upset you this afternoon.’
‘Only after my misdeeds upset him. Only they weren’t misdeeds. Sandra, I really didn’t so much as touch young Frederick. Why should I want to?’
‘Oh, I believed you from the start, Vena. But as you said, I’d like to find the source – and the
reason – for that particular rumour. Not me, of course. Someone who doesn’t go at things like a bull at a gate,’ she added with a self-deprecating smile that sat oddly on her strong features. ‘Now, are you sure you don’t want me to stay? Because it won’t take me long to nip off and pack an overnight bag. After all you’ve been through—’
I shook my head, willing my lips not to wobble. ‘Nothing at all. Off you pop – you’re entitled to a life too, Sandra.’
She looked doubtful. ‘You’ve got your new phone and I’ve shown you the panic button. Promise me you won’t hesitate to use it.’
‘Promise.’
She stood staring at me a few moments longer. ‘I’ll be in touch first thing. What time do you theatrical types greet the day?’
‘Eight-thirty I should be heading out for the morning paper,’ I declared.
She patted my arm, and went out.
I stood staring at the door she closed firmly behind her.
Perhaps a few of my bits and pieces would make me feel better. So I did what I’d always done in lodgings, and once in a refuge I’d fled to – I laid out my slap on the dressing table and put my cleanser and shower gel in the bathroom, which was decidedly more stylish than the one in the mews cottage. There. It was almost a home
already. I even fished out a couple of undamaged photos from the sack Sandra had requisitioned. The bears approved, at least.
The waitress, a slatternly creature Shakespeare would instantly have recognised, plonked some cups on our table. Ambrose Beech waited until she had slouched away before he leant forward and touched my hair. ‘Actually, darling, rising from the dead suits you.’
‘Ambrose. Please. Don’t talk about it.’ He might be joking, but poor Karen was still on the critical list. And it could have been me.
‘Very well, being shorn suits you. Brings out your cheekbones. And that tan – if I didn’t know better I’d have said you’d just come back from somewhere wonderful. Those contact lenses – that turquoise hint’s dead sexy. What a pity you insisted on meeting me in a cafe, not at my place.’
‘You can roll those lecherous eyes all you want, Am. You’re in a relationship, aren’t you? And I don’t do relationship men, any more than I do married ones.’
He looked somewhere between hurt and smug. ‘How did you guess?’
‘The way you spoke about the art expert at the Barber,’ I said. ‘And it’s she I’m interested in, actually, at least her assessment of the Thorpes’
pictures. Come on, Ambrose, what does she say?’
‘She thinks they’re worth cleaning. Very much so. She thinks the one that originally caught your eye is late Elizabethan, early Jacobean – that the guy is a contemporary of Shakespeare, in fact. She put it through some machine – don’t ask, darling, you know me and technology – and says there’s nothing painted underneath it and it’s not been tampered with since it first saw the light of day.’
‘Is that good?’
‘Very good. Even though she’s sure it’s not Shakespeare himself. It doesn’t fit the description of any of the missing portraits, you see.’
‘I knew that, Am. But anything that old means money, doesn’t it?’ I had a mental vision of the Thorpes, silent for once, sitting on their bungalow patio quaffing champagne and toasting their absent benefactor – me.
‘Probably. But she’ll be able to tell more when it’s clean.’
‘Did she give you a – what do they call it? – a ballpark figure?’
‘A couple of hundred grand,’ he said casually.
He was right not to raise his voice. I kept mine low too. ‘Excellent. I’ll tell them and get their permission to have it cleaned. Or should it go straight to Sotheby’s?’
‘That’s up to them. But I think they should be able to reduce the price of the cottage with that alone. As to the others—’
The waitress was back with a cafetière. Ambrose’s love of fine tea more or less precluded him from drinking it at places like this, somewhere towards the bottom of the food chain.
‘There are more. I haven’t seen them. They may be dross. I’ll call them and see if I can go round.’
‘You’ll have to warn them that you look different.’
I’d better warn them I’d have a new set of wheels, too. I could see all this was going to be very difficult. I’d got one group of friends who knew I was alive, if being kicked, rather than kicking; another group believed I was at death’s door. A third group of people – such as the Thorpes – would deserve a halfway decent explanation of my sudden resuscitation. And I’d have to remember which group was which, and act accordingly – and pray the groups wouldn’t at any point overlap. I’d promised Sandra when she phoned to check on me this morning that I wouldn’t explain even to the friends I could confide in the full reason for all my changes. As for Caddie, how could she promote the career of an actress who might not survive? My career must now be over. If it hadn’t been before, of course.