Читать книгу The Cinderella Moment - Gemma Fox - Страница 7
2
ОглавлениеA few days later, a Thameslink train slowed to a crawl and pulled into Brighton Station. Cass collected her things together and peered out of the grimy carriage window; she wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but this wasn’t it. Brighton didn’t look at all like a seaside town, more like King’s Cross on a bad day, maybe even grimier. There were the sounds of seagulls, but Cass wouldn’t have been surprised if they were a recording being played over the tannoy.
Pulling up the handle on her suitcase, Cass made her way along the platform towards the exit, looking at the sea of faces as she did. Barney, Barney – what the hell did a bad-tempered artist called Barney look like?
Oh, there, that just had to be him: leaning against a pillar was a small plump man with grey skin, bloodshot eyes, a beard like a bird’s nest, and a lot of hair growing out of his ears. He was smoking a roll-up and wearing a nasty oversized well-stained sweater that would have passed muster on any self-respecting artist from eighteen to eighty.
She was about to walk over to him when a cultured voice said, ‘Cassandra?’ She swung round to be greeted by an elderly man who was leaning heavily on a walking stick. His thick silver-grey hair was slicked back and tucked behind his ears, and he was wearing an expensive, beautifully tailored grey suit and a paisley waistcoat. He looked like a well-heeled country squire.
‘Barney?’
The man extended a hand and smiled. ‘Absolutely. Delighted to meet you, my dear. Bartholomew Anthony Hesquith-Morgan-Roberts. Jake sent me a photo of you; it does you no justice at all.’
His deep, dark brown voice came straight out of one of the better public schools, pure top-drawer, clipped and nipped and terribly posh, and Cass – although she smiled and shook his hand – could feel the chip on her shoulder weighing heavy. David was an ex-public schoolboy too and the most terrible snob, and thought some of what he referred to as ‘her funny little habits’ anything but funny.
‘But do feel free to call me Barney,’ the man was saying. ‘Everyone else does, despite my best efforts to stop them. Still, it’s rather nice to give the whole moniker an airing once in a while. So, what did Jake tell you about me?’
Cass looked him up and down. Barney was tall and nicely made with broad shoulders, a generous mouth and a big hawkish nose that dominated his large suntanned face. She had no doubt that, in his day, Barney had been a total rogue – and most probably still was when he got the chance. He had bright blue eyes, and when he smiled his whole face concertinaed into pleats like Roman blinds and promised all manner of things.
‘That you’re a miserable old bastard,’ she suggested.
He nodded thoughtfully. ‘You know, it’s such a cliché, but sadly it’s absolutely true. I used to be a miserable young bastard, but it doesn’t have quite the same ring to it, does it? For years people – mostly women, it has to be said – have been convinced that I’m complex and deep, a wounded soul who needed saving from a cruel and uncomprehending world, but to be perfectly honest I’ve mostly just been in a foul mood for the last sixtyodd years. I was a dour and grumpy child, spent almost all of my twenties being annoyed about something or somebody, my thirties were worse, and I was absolutely unspeakable in my forties. It was such a relief to get into my fifties; people take it for granted that you’re grumpy then. My sixties have been an absolute dream.’ He paused. ‘I think it would be best if we took a cab. Getting a car in and out of here and then finding somewhere to park would very possibly have given me heart failure. Besides, it makes me swear dreadfully at people – who can, it has to be said, be bloody infuriating.’ He tucked the cane under his arm, grabbed hold of the handle of her suitcase and marched off towards the taxi rank at top speed, Cass having to run to keep up.
‘I thought you’d got a bad back?’ she said, scuttling after him.
‘I have,’ he grumbled. ‘I hate the fact it slows me down. Although my mood’s improved tremendously since the pain eased up. I’m bloody awful at being old. Jake told me that you have a son?’
‘Danny.’
Barney nodded gravely. ‘I hate children.’
Cass tried to work out if he was joking.
‘Is he quiet?’
‘Of course he’s not quiet. He’s six.’
Barney looked thoughtful. ‘Right. I see. And you’re expecting me to let you live in my flat with your noisy son, are you?’
Cass ground to a halt and glared at him. ‘Whoa. Hang on a minute there. Is this some kind of trial by ordeal? Because if it is, I’m not interested. Right now my life is about as messy as I ever want it to be. If you expect me to help you out and work in your gallery, that’s fine. But I don’t need to jump through hoops of fire to prove anything – all right? Is that clear? And being rude and then telling me you’ve always been like that doesn’t cut it as an excuse. Capiche?’
Barney stared at her and then nodded appreciatively. ‘I think we’re going to get along just fine,’ he said. ‘You remind me of my mother.’
Cass carried on glaring at him. ‘How do you really feel about children?’
Barney mulled it over for a few moments. ‘I hate them,’ he said cheerfully.
‘I’m sure, given time, Danny will hate you right back.’
Barney nodded. ‘Sounds like a very equitable arrangement. And you’ve got a cat called Bob and a dog –’
‘Called Milo.’
Barney smiled. It lit up his face like a flare. ‘Oh, that’s wonderful. I adore animals. Now, let’s find a cab. I thought we’d go to the flat first, leave your luggage there, and then we’ll come back into town once you’ve got your bearings.’
‘And look at the shop?’
He nodded. ‘Yes. It’s in the Lanes.’
‘Sorry?’ Nothing that Cass had seen of Brighton so far suggested there were anything approaching lanes within miles.
‘Have you never heard of it? It’s a magical little area, very arty – better than the rest of Brighton put together, in my opinion. You’ll love it. It’s between North Street and the seafront. It predates the Regency rush to Brighton; gives you an idea how the whole place must have looked when it was a fishing village.’
‘And your shop is there?’
‘Oh God, yes. It’s wonderful, whole place is like a North European souk – bohemian, busy, bubbling, vibrant. There are designer shops and hippie shops and gem shops and juice bars, all sorts of amazing little treasures nestled together. And, well, you’ll see – my place has an eye on the commercial; beautiful things designed for broader tastes.’ He paused. ‘We’ve got all sorts of wonderful old tut in there.’
Cass looked along the busy concourse. It certainly didn’t seem the kind of place you’d have problems getting staff. ‘And you want me to work there because…?’
Barney considered for a few moments. ‘Because I trust Jake’s judgement, and mine is bloody awful. Good help is still hard to come by, however old the cliché. I need someone who is versatile, enthusiastic and talented, and who won’t keep moaning about what a pain in the arse I am.’
Cass laughed. ‘Is that what Jake said about me?’
Barney nodded as they stepped up to take the next taxi in the rank. ‘That and the fact that you’ve got the most terrible taste in men.’
Barney’s enormous basement flat looked as if it could easily have belonged to the man on the station, the one with the hairy ears and the well-stained sweater. As Barney guided Cass in through the little outer lobby and then the galley kitchen that ran parallel to an enormous sunlit sitting room, he looked decidedly apologetic. ‘I need someone to take care of me,’ he said miserably.
Cass looked round. He was right. It was the most beautiful room – or at least it once had been – with large windows at street level, giving ample light even though they were below ground. By the enormous open fireplace stood a scarlet linen sofa and two huge armchairs draped with ornate embroidered throws. There was a gilt mirror on the wall opposite the windows, another above the fire catching every last glimmer of sunlight, and waist-height bookcases running all the way round the room, full of everything from first editions through empty milk bottles, cans of paint, cats’ skulls, odd shoes and umbrellas, to piles of what looked like striped pyjamas and a checked dressing gown. On one shelf stood a row of old clocks in various states of disrepair, while below them, on the broad bottom shelf, half on and half off the well-worn, well-chewed wood, lay a grizzled black and white greyhound, sound asleep amongst a nest of old magazines and newspapers, and an enormous ginger cat curled up against the dog’s belly. The cat watched their progress through one rheumy, world-weary eye.
Barney waved towards them. ‘The dog is called Kipper, because that is what he does best, and the ginger menace is called Radolpho. In the world of the brainless dog the one-eyed cat is king, and needs to be saved from himself, prevented from stealing from shopping bags, eating dog food and anything he can prise from the fridge, your plate or the bin. He likes to pee in the sink and the dog likes to have sex with stuffed toys…In fact, they both have very sordid tastes in general.’
The cat closed his eye, stretched and then settled down.
‘I really need someone to help me get the place under control,’ Barney said reflectively, flicking a long tail of cigarette ash into the bowl of a dead pot plant.
‘I can see that, but I’m not a cleaner or a housekeeper, Barney,’ said Cass, setting her suitcase down amongst the debris.
He looked aghast. ‘Good Lord, no – of course you’re not. I wasn’t suggesting for one moment that you were. But you could find one for me. I can’t do any of that kind of thing. I’m completely useless. I get myself into the most terrible muddles, get taken in and hire people who use my credit cards to buy sports cars and then steal my shoes. It’s dreadful.’
Cass looked at him. ‘Barney, you don’t need me, what you really need is a wife.’
He shook his head. ‘No, no, I don’t,’ he said emphatically. ‘No, I’ve had several of those and, trust me, while it sounds all very well and good in principle, it always ends in tears. Besides, my mother invariably hates them.’
‘Your mother?’
Barney nodded. ‘Extraordinary woman. She’s upstairs now, so I don’t have to worry about her quite so much, knowing where she is.’ As he spoke, he looked heavenwards. ‘It’s been a weight off my mind.’
Cass hesitated, wondering if ‘upstairs’ was a euphemism for dead as a stuffed skunk, but apparently not.
‘She used to be such a worry when she lived up in town. She pretends she is as deaf as a post, drinks like a sailor, is built like a wren, and has the constitution of a Chieftain tank. She terrifies me. I keep thinking the only way I’m ever going to get rid of the old bat is to shoot her.’
At which point Cass’s mobile rang.
‘I hate those things,’ grumbled Barney.
‘Is there anything you do like?’ Cass said in a voice barely above a whisper while pulling the phone out of her bag.
Barney considered for a second or two, apparently taking the question seriously. ‘Quite a few things, actually. Strip clubs, blue paint, those nice little cups they serve espresso in. Seasonal vegetables. Oh – that woman on breakfast TV with the fabulous…’ He mimed those parts that he was particularly fond of.
Cass decided to ignore him and looked at the phone to see who was calling.
‘Hi, Jake, how are you?’ she said, pressing the phone to her ear. He didn’t answer at once, which was ominous. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘Well, it depends really,’ he said.
Something about his tone made Cass’s heart sink, although surely it couldn’t be anything too awful; she had taken Danny to her mum and dad’s to stay overnight. If anything had happened to him, then they would have rung her, wouldn’t they? What about the dog? The cat? In the split seconds before Jake began speaking, Cass’s mind was running down a mental checklist that included fire, flood, pestilence and sudden pet death.
‘The police have been round.’
‘What?’ The police featured nowhere on Cass’s checklist. Although hot on the heels of that thought it occurred to her maybe something had happened to David, something nasty and well deserved…
‘You know that phone you found on the train?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, apparently the man it belonged to has disappeared.’
Cass laughed. ‘Of course he’s disappeared – he was going to Rome.’
‘Unfortunately that isn’t what his wife said. Apparently he was meant to be going to some sort of shareholders’ meeting in London, and then going home. He hadn’t got his passport with him, and no one has seen or heard from him since.’
‘You can’t be serious. That was last week – what, four or five days ago?’
‘His wife has reported him as missing.’
‘The one who rung me? God, if I was married to her I think I’d go missing. She was a complete cow. He told me he was going to Rome.’
‘Whatever, they would like to talk to you. I’ve told them you’ll be back tomorrow.’
‘OK, I’ll sort it out when I get there. There’s not much I can tell them. How’s Milo?’
‘Fine – farting and scratching, and sound asleep on my sofa at the moment.’ Jake laughed. ‘He knows we’re talking about him; his tail has started to wag.’
‘And Bob?’
‘Sunning himself on the window sill in your kitchen about half an hour ago when I went round with a can of Felix. How’s Barney?’
Cass laughed. ‘Farting and scratching and –’
‘I’d worry if his tail starts to wag. He’s a good man. Bear with it.’
‘He’s barking mad.’
Jake was quiet for a few seconds as if considering the possibility. ‘Yes, but in a good way. Have you seen his shop yet?’
‘No, we’re going there next. We’re at the flat at the moment.’
Jake laughed. ‘Wait, it gets better. You’ll love it.’
‘I’m sorry. No comment,’ said Margaret Devlin weakly, raising a hand to fend off any questions, while pressing a large white lace-trimmed handkerchief to her exquisitely made-up face with the other. She sniffed, struggling to hold back a great flood of tears. ‘I’ll be issuing a statement through my solicitor later today, but in the meantime I would just like to say that this has been the most terrible time for our whole family. James’s death is a tragedy. I’d like to thank everyone for their tremendous support and help over the last few days. James was so very special, so very precious to us and everyone who knew him. I always saw him as a bright flame in an otherwise dark and uncaring world. Thank you.’
Margaret’s voice broke as she tried out a brave little smile on her reflection in the sitting-room mirror. Not bad at all. Although, if she was going to wear black, she would need a lot more lipstick and maybe some bigger earrings.
She leaned forward and adjusted the brim of her hat so that it framed her face a bit more and emphasised her eyes. Black was so chic, so flattering. She turned to gauge the effect. Perhaps she ought to buy a couple of new suits; after all, she wouldn’t want people thinking that she had let herself go now that she was a widow – and she would be able to afford it, once the insurance paid out. If James Devlin was dead, then Margaret would be a very wealthy woman indeed. Both of their houses paid for, the large endowment policy that had blighted their lives for so long would cough up, and she would finally be able to get her hands on all his assets: the boat, the villa in Spain, the flat in Paris, the plane, the stocks and shares, the Monopoly hand of properties he had bought to let. At last it would all be hers and she would be free of him – the tight, philandering, double-dealing, double-crossing, arrogant bastard.
James Devlin, dashing entrepreneur and man about town, always appeared so warm and affable to everyone else, but Margaret knew the truth; she knew how selfish and cruel and self-centred he could be. But if he was dead, that was a different matter altogether. She would get his pension, his savings, his classic car collection, and lots and lots and lots of sympathy. Death somehow wiped the slate clean and tidied away so many of life’s little misdemeanours.
And Margaret would have no problem at all mourning James once he was gone. Oh no, she would smile bravely and, in stronger moments, joke about what a card he had been. What a lad, what a character, but Margaret of course had always loved him, and James had always come home to her despite the other women and the gambling and the drinking and the string of questionable business deals.
She tipped her head to one side, trying to look philosophical and understanding. James Devlin was a man’s man in a world where such men were rarities. Margaret took another long hard look at her reflection framed in the mirror and made a mental note to practise looking up coyly under her eyelashes.
A flicker of movement caught Margaret’s eye; she swung round. ‘Get that fucking dog off the furniture. Now!’ she shrieked at the au pair, who had just appeared through the sitting-room doors.
‘How many times do I have to tell you that the bloody thing’s not allowed in here? Not in here, do you understand? Not – in – here. Put it outside in the run.’
‘But Mr Devlin, he loves Snoops,’ said the girl defensively, stepping between the dog – a wildly over-enthusiastic springer spaniel – and Margaret, to protect him from her icy glare.
‘Don’t you dare tell me what that miserable lying bastard loves. Put the dog out now. Look at the state of that sofa! Sodding animal, hair everywhere, and it keeps cocking its leg up the standard lamps and making the place stink.’
The girl scooped up the dog in her great big arms. It wasn’t just her arms that were big. She was heavyset and clumsy, with a face as flat and round as a full moon, hands like coal shovels, and a body like a pile of wet sacks. Margaret Devlin had gone to the agency and had personally chosen her from all the girls on file, just in case there was a repeat of the blonde Swede incident or the curvaceous Italian accident, which had resulted in Margaret having to whip a hysterical 23-year-old rabid Catholic off to a private clinic and pay her a year’s wages as hush money before sending her on a pilgrimage to Lourdes. Oh yes, James would be so much easier to deal with if he was dead.
‘And then you can go and collect Alison and Christopher from school.’
‘Yes, Mrs Devlin.’
Margaret checked her appearance again; the police had said they’d pop by to let her know how things were going, and she wanted to make sure she looked the part. Maybe black was a bit premature. She hurried upstairs to change into something navy or chocolate brown and put on a touch more lipstick…
‘Devious little bastard has done a runner. I should have bloody guessed. No backbone, no balls. I don’t like it when people take the piss,’ Gordie Mann said reflectively, almost to himself. He spoke with a soft Scottish accent. He was a businessman and banker of sorts – the sort that don’t offer internet access or radio alarm clocks when you open an account, but do come round and break your legs if you miss a payment.
He leaned across the table and looked vacantly into the middle distance for a few seconds before his attention snapped back to the small man in a beige mack seated opposite him.
‘The thing is, Mr Marshall, in a perfect world I’d like to find him and fix him and get my money back. But the problem is I’ve got to find him first – and that’s where you come in. There’s way too much police interest in this one already. He’s not just shafted me but all his bloody shareholders as well. If I go around shaking anybody’s tree, the Old Bill are going to be down on me like a ton of bricks. That bastard owes me. Him and his fucking “sure bets”. I should have known better. I should have sussed him out. Greedy wee git.’
Mr Marshall nodded. Not that he really understood dotcoms or futures or any of that crap, but he did understand revenge and frustration and a decent fee – unlike Gordie, who, he sensed, was more fluent in pain and fear. ‘So how would you like to start, Mr Mann?’
Gordie thought about it for a moment or two. ‘I thought you’d know.’
Mr Marshall nodded. ‘To some extent it was a rhetorical question. It’s usual in cases like this to start close to home.’ He took out a notebook. ‘You say that you know Mrs Devlin?’
Gordie reddened slightly. ‘Aye, I’ve known Margaret a good few years. Fine woman, is Margaret,’ he added, in a way that Mr Marshall suspected was meant to sound casual.
Mr Marshall tucked a stray thought away so that it didn’t show on his face. ‘In that case, I think we should start by paying Mrs Devlin a visit.’
Jake was right: Barney’s shop had to be seen to be believed. The main doorway was so low that you almost had to stoop to get through it and then immediately step down on to a broad flagstone floor. The windows were unmanageably small with deep sills, and Cass assumed that it would be dark and cosy inside. She was wrong.
Inside, the shop opened up like an Aladdin’s cave in a cavernous space. Part of the upper floor had been cut away, adding to the feeling of openness and light. A spiral staircase, made from what looked like a wisp of twisted silver and steel, led up into the room above, while modern prints hung on the chalky white walls, with long mirrors artfully catching every ounce of usable light. Nothing inside was dark or heavy – instead, jewellery was arranged in elegant discreetly illuminated glass cases set with salt-whitened driftwood and plaits of sea-tangled rope. Across the ceiling and down the walls thin curling bronze lighting tracks lit magical corners and hidden recesses. One was full of sea birds; waders and spoonbills made from seed pods and wire and other found objects, picking their way through a landscape of seashells and creamy white pebbles. In another alcove was a selection of silk flowers, so realistic that when she first walked by, Cass thought she could smell them. In a third was a flutter of butterflies made from crinkled handmade white paper, silver filaments and azure blue beads.
Cass stared; it was amazing and beautiful and impossible to know where to look next.
Behind the cash desk a tall languid blonde wearing manically tight jeans, an off-the-shoulder leopard-skin print top and a creamy fur stole uncurled herself slowly and smiled lazily in their direction. Barney extended a hand to introduce her.
‘Cass, I would like you to meet Daisy. She is a little cow. Between them, she and her bitch of a mother are bleeding me dry. She hates me, but other than that she is quite a nice girl. Although her taste in clothes leaves something to be desired.’ He glared at Daisy with what Cass took to be censure; not that the girl noticed. ‘It’s some sort of gift she has. She always manages to look like a cross between a streetwalker and circus performer,’ he said wearily.
Daisy pulled a face at Barney, although in amongst it all her smile broadened and instantly Cass could see the family resemblance.
‘Actually, we both hate him,’ said Daisy, warming to the subject. ‘He plied my mother with drink and drugs, seduced her, and then left her for a younger woman. It totally ruined her life and broke her heart, you know. She’s never really got over him.’
Barney’s jaw dropped and he stared at Daisy aghast. ‘Is that what she told you?’ he spluttered.
Daisy shook her head. ‘Good God, no. But since she can’t talk about you without swearing and throwing things, I’ve had to read between the lines and make it up. Is it all right if I shut up shop now?’
Barney took a moment or two to regain his composure and then said, ‘Another half hour.’
Daisy’s bottom lip jutted out grumpily. ‘Oh, go on. It’s been really quiet today.’
Barney was unmoved. ‘There may be a lastminute rush.’ Daisy was still not impressed, so Barney continued, ‘You see the opening times on the door, on that little sign? Well, when it says on there that we’re open, funnily enough, we’re supposed to be. Bit quirky, I know, but it’s an idea you can get used to over time.’
Daisy sniffed and carried on looking hard done by.
‘If you’ve got Daisy…’ Cass began.
‘Oh, but that’s just it – I haven’t got Daisy,’ Barney said. ‘Not only is she unreliable, but she’s off soon on her travels, on this gap-year thing that everyone does these days – and she is expecting me to help fund it. I told her she would have to work her passage.’
‘And believe me, I am,’ growled the teenager.
Hate had never looked so affectionate.
Barney turned his attention back to Cass. ‘So what do you think of my emporium, then?’
Cass shook her head. ‘I don’t know what to say. It’s amazing.’
‘I knew you’d like it. Wait,’ said Barney, holding a finger to his lips. ‘There’s more.’ Like a mad pied piper he indicated she should follow him upstairs.
‘Daisy, do the lights, will you?’ he said over his shoulder.
The gallery proper was painted white, the uneven walls with their odd-shaped bricks covered in crumbly flat whitewash, which brought out the beauty of the pale sanded wood floors. The ceiling opened up into a pitched roof space set with skylights and tiny twinkling halogen spots. The current exhibition was of abstract seascapes in the most wonderful soft blues, greens and golds. Cass was enchanted. Even more so when she looked at the current catalogue and realised the work was all Barney’s.
She stared at him. ‘For someone so horrible, you paint like an angel.’
He nodded sagely. ‘I know, it’s a complete bastard, isn’t it? I think we would all prefer to believe that talent is visited on the worthy, the humble and the genuinely deserving.’
Cass raised an eyebrow.
‘But you don’t have to worry,’ said Barney. ‘I’m none of those things. Now, how about I show you the studio, and then we can go and have an early supper? I’m starving. There is this wonderful little Italian place down the road. The staff fight all the time and swear at each other – I feel so at home. We’ll take Daisy so’s she doesn’t have to go home to her poor demented mother on an empty stomach. After you…’ He indicated a small door to one side of the gallery, set back in what should have been an outside wall or maybe the wall of the adjoining property. Barney grunted when Cass mentioned it.
‘The arse ache that’s caused me over the years. It’s a flying freehold. To be honest, I’m seriously thinking about renting somewhere else to work. I’ve got a room in my mother’s place, but I can’t work there – she never shuts up,’ he continued as Cass headed up a set of stairs that twisted round so sharply they were almost a spiral, while behind her Barney struggled and swore, puffing and blowing like a train. ‘Nag, nag nag; the woman is a complete menace. I’m sure my father only died to get some bloody peace.’
The room Cass stepped into had to be above someone else’s shop or storeroom. The roof had skylights and, in contrast to Barney’s domestic life, was almost clinically clean and tidy, practically spartan. Painted white, one wall was shelved from floor to ceiling, each shelf neatly stacked with sketchbooks arranged according to the dates running down their spines; albums, magazines and books arranged alphabetically; labelled boxes, jars of brushes, bottles of linseed oil and turps. There was a set of Perspex drawers filled with tubes of paint; neatly stacked tins of charcoal and pastels; a jam jar full of pencils which sat alongside another full of feathers and a third and fourth with brushes and palette knives. One shelf held a row of pebbles that ran unbroken from one end to the other. Against the wall adjoining the shelves, boards stacked in a metal frame, canvas stretched and ready in another. But all these things were so tidily and methodically arranged that the studio felt uncluttered. An easel dominated the centre of the room, the bare floorboards below it covered with a delicate filigree of spilt gold, blue and red paint.
‘Those bloody stairs play havoc with my back,’ grumbled Barney. ‘I keep thinking it would make a decent storeroom, but I’d only fill it up with crap. If you like it, you could use it – if you want to, that is,’ he added grudgingly. ‘There’s a kitchenette thing through there and a toilet.’ He waved towards another door in the far wall and then pulled a cloth off something fixed on a cantilevered arm to the wall opposite the easel. Underneath was a small television monitor, currently switched off.
‘It’s the shop,’ said Barney in answer to Cass’s unspoken question. ‘In theory, you could work up here and mind the fort, although in practice it is a perfect fucking nuisance. You just get into something and you’re interrupted by some bloody moron wanting to know if you sell T-shirts. And if you don’t go down, they get annoyed. Assuming you’re that quick. People are in and out before you can get down the stairs – nicking the stock, stealing money out of the till…Although I suppose the bonus is that at least you’ve got their faces on video for when you take the thieving bastards to court.’ He looked up at her. ‘So, when can you start? You are going to take the job?’
Cass shrugged. ‘Maybe,’ she said, trying hard to sound noncommittal, while knowing that she planned to say yes.
Once they had closed the shop, Barney, Daisy and Cass walked down to the restaurant, Barney and Daisy bickering all the way. Cass smiled to herself. Jake was right: a summer in Brighton was exactly what she needed.
Margaret Devlin looked at the man on the doorstep and said with genuine surprise, ‘Gordie, how are you?’ He was the last person she had expected to see.
He smiled. ‘More to the point, how are you, Margaret?’
Gordie Mann had a bluff rugby player’s face, broad cheekbones, the skin around his eyes cut and shaped by great swathes of scar tissue, and a nose broken and badly set more than once.
‘Bloody awful,’ she said grimly. He towered above her like a badly constructed crane.
‘I would have been round sooner, but I thought what with the law here and everything, you wouldn’t want any more visitors. I’m so very sorry to hear about James.’ He handed her a bunch of flowers.
Margaret Devlin looked coyly up at him. ‘You know that I’m always pleased to see you, Gordie. Why don’t you come in and have a drink.’
He nodded. ‘Don’t mind if I do, Margaret – only I’ve got someone with me.’ Gordie stepped aside to reveal a small, weaselly-looking man with thinning reddish-grey hair, wearing a mack and dark horn-rimmed glasses. ‘This is Mr Marshall,’ he said.
Margaret Devlin peered at him. ‘Mr Marshall?’ she said, both as a muted welcome and a question. She would have much preferred it if Gordie had been on his own. It wouldn’t be the first time that she had cried on his big broad shoulders.
Gordie nodded. ‘He’s working for me. He’s a private detective. We’re looking for James.’
Margaret Devlin stared at him. ‘But why? I’m not with you.’
Gordie smiled and, sliding a bottle of Gordon’s gin out of the pocket of his Crombie, said in an undertone: ‘How about I come inside and explain it to you?’
Margaret blushed and then stood aside to let him pass. Gordie Mann and Margaret Devlin went back a long way.
‘So, Ms…’
‘Mrs.’
The policewoman nodded. ‘Mrs Hammond, you said that you’d never met Mr Devlin before.’
‘No. What I said was that we’d met on the train before.’
‘Several times?’
Cass glanced at the WPC, wondering why the hell she should be feeling guilty, and at the same time annoyed that the policewoman was asking her the same questions over and over again in different ways, quite obviously and very heavyhandedly trying to catch Cass out.
‘Once. I met him once before. He gave me fruit.’
The woman nodded and looked down at her notes. ‘Peaches?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right. And are you normally in the habit of taking fruit from strangers, Ms Hammond?’
This was ridiculous. Cass stared at the small, dour policewoman trying very hard not to lose her patience, laugh or swear. ‘Well, it’s not something I do every day, no – but then again, on the whole most strangers don’t offer me fruit.’
The policewoman’s expression tightened. ‘Please, Ms Hammond,’ she said between gritted teeth, ‘this is a very serious matter.’
Cass nodded. ‘I don’t doubt it, but I’ve already told you everything I know. I had met this man once before. The second time we met he told me he was going on an adventure to Rome. He got off at Cambridge, told me he was going to catch the Stansted train, and that was the last I saw of him.’
The woman nodded and then said softly, ‘And the phone?’
Cass sighed. ‘What about the phone?’
‘You were handed it by a woman who –’
‘Who found it under the man’s seat, or on it – I’m not sure now. So, I rang his home number and left him a message to let him know he’d lost it, but that it was safe.’
‘And to arrange to meet him and give it back?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘And other than calling his home number, you haven’t done anything else to the phone, subsequently? Edited the phone book or deleted any information regarding incoming or outgoing calls, texts or anything?’
A small sleek silver mobile phone lay on the coffee table between them, all neatly sealed up in an evidence bag. As Cass’s eye moved over it, the policewoman smiled without warmth.
‘No,’ said Cass, wishing the bloody woman would just leave.
‘Mrs Devlin said that your manner on the phone was –’ the WPC read from her notebook – ‘“flirtatious and over familiar”.’
Cass reddened furiously. ‘I’m not sure that’s exactly how I’d put it. OK, he had been very friendly, chatty – very chatty. I didn’t know he was married. I certainly didn’t think I was leaving a message that would be picked up by his wife.’
The policewoman’s expression didn’t change. ‘So, you were attracted to Mr Devlin?’ She didn’t wait for Cass to answer. Instead she added, ‘You know, it wouldn’t be the first time that a woman was taken in by an attractive and plausible man, Ms Hammond.’
Cass stared at her, wondering if the WPC had met David.
The policewoman leaned forward, as if to imply that this was really just a cosy girl-to-girl-chat, and continued in a low conspiratorial voice. ‘And James Devlin is quite a charmer, apparently.’
Cass felt a growing sense of indignation; the insinuation made her skin prickle. ‘Meaning what, exactly?’ she growled.
The woman aped empathy. ‘Oh, come on, Ms Hammond. Meaning that James Devlin has a knack of getting women to do what he wants. He’s got quite a reputation, you know – bit of a ladies’ man, bit of a lad.’
Cass considered the possibility. All that grinning and bumbling boyish enthusiasm for life, she could see how that might work. ‘Uhuh. Your point being…?’
This was obviously not the answer the WPC was expecting. ‘What I’m trying to say,’ she snapped, ‘is that you wouldn’t be the first woman to be taken in by him.’
Cass was fed up of feeling put on, patronised and annoyed. ‘Look, let’s get one thing straight, shall we? I wasn’t taken in by him. He gave me fruit and a mint humbug.’
The policewoman glanced down at her notes. ‘A mint humbug? You didn’t mention –’ she began, the implication being presumably that if Cass had overlooked a boiled sweet, it was quite reasonable to assume that she might have overlooked a secret assignation, an extra-marital affair, or a plan to run away to Rome together.
‘Officer,’ said Cass, as politely as she could manage, which wasn’t very, ‘I think this has gone on quite long enough. I’ve got things to do, I’ve got to collect my son from school. I’ve answered your questions and told you everything I can remember. And I don’t think going over and over and over is going to help.’
The woman nodded and she and the young policeman she had brought with her got to their feet.
‘One more thing,’ the WPC said, while still almost bent double. ‘Your neighbour mentioned the fact that you are thinking about moving to Brighton.’
Trust Jake.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Cass, well aware of how defensive she sounded. ‘Just for the summer.’
The policewoman’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. ‘Right. Any particular reason? I mean, why you’re thinking about moving there now?’
‘Why not now?’ said Cass.
‘You said that your husband is no longer living here with you and your son?’
‘No, what I said was that he had left me for the girl who did our cleaning. And no, I haven’t got any plans to set up a secret seaside love nest, if that’s what you are implying. I just wanted to take a break, think things through – the last few months have been tough.’
The policewoman stared blankly at her. Cass wondered if she was protesting too much, an emotion only equalled by her growing sense of frustration and fury. She made an effort to smile. ‘I don’t really see how this is relevant, but, OK, yes, I am moving to Bright –’
‘To meet Mr Devlin?’ the WPC asked quickly, as if Cass might not notice that she had slipped the question in.
‘No, not to meet Mr Bloody Devlin. I’ve been offered a summer job there,’ snapped Cass.
The policewoman nodded and scribbled something in her notebook. For all Cass knew, it might have been a note to pick up a frozen pizza on the way home. Whatever it was, she had had enough.
‘What sort of job?’ the WPC pressed.
Cass was already halfway across the sitting room, guiding the two of them towards the door. ‘In a gallery,’ she said briskly as she opened the front door.
The policewoman’s eyes lit up. ‘Oh yes,’ she said gleefully. ‘You’re an artist, aren’t you?’ She managed to make it sound like it was a career choice that was up there somewhere between mass murder and self-employed puppy-strangling.
‘Yes, I am,’ said Cass grimly.
‘Um, well, we’ll be in touch,’ said the policewoman. ‘And if you remember anything else in the meantime, or Mr Devlin makes contact, please don’t hesitate to ring.’ She handed Cass a card. Cass slipped it into her pocket; there was really no point in protesting.
Margaret Devlin had the most terrible hangover when she got up, although it could easily have been down to mixing gin with the sleeping pills that the doctor had given her. She hadn’t had that much. Gordie had had quite a lot, although the private detective, Mr Marshall, had had only one – a very small one at that, which probably said it all – explaining that he was driving and wanted to take notes during their little chat. Margaret narrowed her eyes, trying to reconstruct their conversation from the fragments she could remember.
It appeared that James had been involved with Gordie in some sort of business investments and Gordie wasn’t convinced that the police were working as diligently as they might to track James down. And over another G & T, Gordie explained that he had other ways and means at his disposal – things and methods not always available to the law, more direct methods. And then Mr Marshall explained that he was working for Gordie – but Margaret couldn’t remember the exact details now.
She had told them everything she thought might help. Mr Marshall had written down the phone numbers and name of the woman who had rung and left a message for James.
‘And you think that your husband and this Mrs Hammond were having an affair?’
‘Well, she said she had picked up the phone on the train. I mean, what sort of story is that?’
Mr Marshall didn’t say a word. Margaret sniffed; she could tell he didn’t believe her. And then they had all traipsed up to James’s office. At the door, Gordie and Mr Marshall pulled on surgical gloves, then searched the place from floor to ceiling and photocopied James’s diary and address books.
‘You can take them if it will help,’ she had suggested.
Gordie smiled and patted her hand. ‘Thank you, Margaret.’ And then he looked at his companion. Mr Marshall tapped the side of his nose and very carefully slid the books into a plastic carrier.
Now, stone-cold sober, sitting in her bedroom, Margaret cursed her naivety. She ought to have gone through the diaries and the address books and seen for herself if Cass Hammond’s name was in there. Men weren’t any good at that kind of thing. Margaret had a nose for codes and little hints and subtle marks in the margin. She had always caught James out before; she knew the signs. Bastard.
She dropped two soluble aspirin into a glass. The plink, plink fizz made her wince, and she wished for the hundredth time that she’d saved the woman’s answer machine message – all that bloody giggling and flirting. If they’d heard that, the police and Mr Marshall would have understood why she was so sure and so bloody angry.
Cass closed the front door behind the policewoman, laid her forehead against the wood, and closed her eyes. So far it wasn’t proving the easiest of weeks.
The only good thing was that the madwoman hadn’t rung her again, although Cass wasn’t convinced she’d heard the last from the hysterical, dog-loving, Mrs James Devlin.
By contrast, David had been bleakly sane when he showed up, a couple of hours or so after she arrived home from meeting Barney, which was quite a feat for someone red-faced, sweaty, with wet hair slicked slyly over his bald patch, wearing a bright turquoise tracksuit and carrying a squash racquet in a fluorescent green-and-yellow case. Seeing him made her heart lurch miserably.
‘The thing is, Cass, I need a little time and space to think about the future – our future,’ David said, sitting on the sofa, wringing his hands. ‘Well, all right, my future.’
‘Really,’ Cass said flatly. When they had been together she had never realised just how self-centred and conniving he sounded. Pain and the sense of loss made her see him so differently. Was it clearer and truer, or was it that betrayal coloured her vision?
‘There’s no need to be so negative, Cass. You see,’ he said, seizing on the word like a terrier grabbing a trouser leg, ‘to be perfectly honest with you, I think that’s the problem really, isn’t it?’
‘Sorry? I’m not with you,’ said Cass in surprise.
‘Well, you’re always so negative about everything, and so petty. For example, I’ve been here, what? Nearly ten minutes?’ He pulled back the sleeve of his tracksuit and peered at his watch to emphasise the point. ‘And you know that I’ve just walked up here from the sports centre, but you didn’t ask me to sit down and you haven’t offered me so much as a glass of water, let alone a cup of tea. It’s all a bit petty and vindictive, isn’t it?’
Cass stared at him; he was incredible. ‘David, the last time we spoke, you said my relentless optimism was the real problem, that my being so cheerful was driving you mad. Always looking on the bright side, no sense of reality, never taking things seriously – that’s what you said.’
‘I’ve had time to reconsider, since the…get some sense of perspective.’ He glanced round the room. ‘I’m parched. Harry Fellowes and I had a really cracking game. He sends his regards, by the way. Now, about that cup of tea –’
Cass looked at David as if seeing him for the first time; he really was a piece of work. How was it she had never noticed that before?
‘I thought as you said you didn’t want to see Danny, you weren’t staying for long,’ Cass snapped.
What on earth had she ever seen in him? And why, if he was so bloody horrible, did it still hurt so much? Cass watched him as he tried hard to hold his pot belly in, and sighed. Being a woman could be such a pain in the arse at times.
He was still talking. ‘I thought that you’d understand. It seems obvious to me – we really have to look at it from Danny’s point of view, Cass. I think that it’s better if he doesn’t know I’m here. I really don’t want to upset him.’
Cass nearly choked. ‘Upset him? For Christ’s sake, David, you’ve already upset him. You walked out and left us, remember? There isn’t a day goes by when he doesn’t ask where you are, or when you’re coming home. He misses you like crazy. He wants to see you. I’m running out of excuses as to why you don’t want to see him. He adores you, David. You’re his daddy –’
‘You see, there you go again – everything a huge drama. You’re so demanding and difficult, there’s never any room for manoeuvre with you, is there, Cass? You always see the worst in people,’ David growled.
This was not the way Cass saw herself at all. She struggled to keep the sound of tears and hurt and anger out of her voice. ‘Why can’t you come round and see Danny? Tuck him in and read him a story, take him out for the day. You could go to the zoo or the beach – or just take the dog for a walk.’
David avoided meeting her eye. ‘Cass, you have to understand that things are a little difficult for me at the moment.’
Oh, Cass understood, all right. Having a six-year-old around calling you Daddy probably didn’t go hand in glove with David’s new teenage sexgod ethos.
‘I am very concerned about the way you’ve interpreted things, the way you look at life,’ David continued.
‘You don’t think,’ said Cass conversationally, ‘while we’re on the subject of personality traits, that the main problem here is not my doom-laden, overly pessimistic nature, but the fact that you ran off with Abby, by any chance, do you?’
David looked shocked, or at least made a good fist of trying to look shocked, and then shook his head. ‘Is that what you’ve told Danny?’
‘No, of course that’s not what I’ve told Danny. I told him that Mummy and Daddy loved him very much, but that we couldn’t live with each other any more because Daddy had got a new friend.’
‘Oh, Cass, there you go again – you have to be in the right, don’t you? You have to be the good one. And you always jump to the wrong conclusion.’ He managed to make it sound like the summing up in the case for the defence, not to mention everything being entirely her fault. ‘Let’s face it, Cass, this thing with Abby – surely you have to understand it’s a symptom of the problem between us, not the cause?’
‘And what do you think the cause is?’ she prompted.
David looked almost apologetic. ‘Well, we’ve already talked about your attitude –’
Cass felt his words stoking up the murderous rage that had been growing in her belly for the last fifteen minutes. ‘Have we? And what do you think about my attitude?’
‘Well, it’s hard to know where to begin, really. I’m very conscious of not wanting to hurt you – but, let’s face it, you’ve always had a very naïve take on life. I suppose it’s all your creative brainpower –’ He laughed in an unpleasantly patronising way. Thinking about it now, he sounded a lot like the policewoman.
‘Unworldly.’ His expression suggested he was being generous in his description. ‘You know, sometimes I felt that being with you was too big a responsibility, Cass.’
She stared at him, noting the past tense and wondering who the hell he had been living with for the last nine years? ‘And are you saying that Abby isn’t a big responsibility? Please don’t tell me she’s very mature for her age,’ Cass snarled. She saw he was about to speak and held up a hand to silence him. ‘What the fuck are you talking about, David? You’re making this up as you go along. It’s complete and utter rubbish. This is my house. When we first got together you couldn’t get a sofa on tick because your credit rating was so bad. I’ve always paid my way and sometimes yours. Even when Danny was a baby, I worked; I’ve sold stuff, I’ve taught…I don’t know how you dare accuse me of being unworldly. We’ve always got by.’
David nodded and rested his fingertips together as if passing sentence. ‘You see, that’s just it, isn’t it? Scraped through, managed, got by.’ He smiled indulgently, as if these were the worst words in the world. ‘The thing is, Cass, I don’t want to scrape by any more. It’s time to move on, but I don’t want you to feel bitter or unhappy about the past, pet. We’ve had a great time.’
‘Pet? A great time?’ she yelled. ‘We’re talking about a marriage here, David, not a day trip to a bloody theme park. Would you like to tell me what you came round for – aside from letting me know that everything is my fault – if you don’t want to see Danny?’
‘There’s no need to talk to me like that.’ David looked hurt. ‘And I’d be grateful if you kept your voice down. We don’t want to wake him up, do we? I’ve been to see my solicitor today.’
Cass’s eyes narrowed; she could sense a trap.
‘The thing is –’ he said quickly, before she could interrupt the flow – ‘I’ve got a lot of responsibilities and outgoings with the new business. I mean, we’re doing well – but…’ David hesitated. ‘It’s not been an easy year for the firm, one way and another, and I was wondering…well, you’ve got this house…’ He looked around thoughtfully, while Cass tried to work out exactly where the conversation was leading.
‘Your point being?’ she said.
‘Well, for one thing, I’ve come to discuss the idea of maintenance for Danny. I was thinking that maybe we could settle with a one-off payment rather than all this monthly malarkey. I was thinking something in the region of…what shall we say?’
Cass waited with bated breath.
‘I mean, presumably you will remarry at some time.’
‘David, you’ve been gone three months.’
‘Exactly. That’s what I’m saying – things move on, times change. How would you feel about, say, five thousand pounds?’ he said cheerily.
Cass stared at him, not quite able to believe what she was hearing. ‘What?’
‘Well, it seems fair. I mean, if we want to go with the letter of the law, legally I’d probably be entitled to half your house if I wanted to push it. But that would be mean, wouldn’t it?’
Mean? Cass didn’t know what to say, or where to begin, or at least she didn’t trust herself to open her mouth. What a complete and utter bastard.
‘So what do you think?’ he pressed.
‘I think that you ought to leave.’
He smiled. ‘So you’ll consider my offer then?’
‘I had Abby’s parents round over the weekend,’ countered Cass, her tone icy cold.
David paled. ‘Ah, right. And how are they?’
‘What do you mean, How are they? How do you think they are, David? They’re looking for someone to blame for why you ran off with their precious little girl.’
Cass paused, waiting for David to suggest that that, too, was her fault, but fortunately he just nodded. ‘You know, it’s sad really. They simply can’t see that the way they’ve treated her is at least half the problem. She is so, so complex – so fragile. It’s not easy. They’re not easy people to get on with, apparently. Abby has been telling me how they –’
‘David,’ Cass snapped, ‘they are perfectly reasonable people who are worried to death about their eighteen-year-old daughter running off with a man old enough to be her father.’
David flinched as if she had punched him. ‘Hardly old enough to be her father, Cass. Come on now, you have to admit that that’s a bit of an exaggeration.’ He ran a hand back over his thinning blond hair – which, it struck Cass, was several shades lighter than when he had left.
‘David. You’re forty-four –’
‘Forty-three, actually.’
‘All right forty-three, but you’ll be forty-four next month and, whichever way you add it up, surely to God you can see that Abby’s parents are worried sick about what’s happened – and they have every reason to be. As far as they were concerned, come October their precious little girl was off to De Monteford to do something meaningful in social sciences, and now here she is shacked up with some ageing Lothario in a love nest above the laundrette.’
David glared at her, his face fire-engine red. ‘You can be so bloody cruel at times.’
‘You mean when I’m not being pessimistic or a terrible burden?’
‘This is no joke, Cass,’ he snapped.
She got to her feet. ‘I wasn’t being funny. I think you should leave now.’
Reluctantly, David got to his feet. ‘So what do you think of my offer?’ he asked again.
‘I took it in the spirit in which it was made, David,’ she said, guiding him towards the front door.
‘Meaning what, exactly?’ he asked.
‘That I think you’re taking the piss. I’m going to see my solicitor and, in the meantime, I am seriously considering accepting a managerial position I’ve just been offered in Brighton.’
David’s jaw dropped. ‘What?’
‘You heard me.’ If she was going to be accused of being a cow, Cass decided, she might as well enjoy a few of the perks. She also didn’t bother pointing out that she was only going for the summer, nor that she would be managing Barney.
It totally wrong-footed David. ‘I hadn’t thought – I’m not sure how I feel about that. I mean, where does that leave us?’
‘Us?’ Cass said incredulously. ‘What the hell do you mean, us?’
‘What about Danny?’ he blustered.
It was all Cass could do not to punch him. ‘Don’t talk to me about Danny. You’re the one who planned your visit so that he was asleep when you got here.’
And then there had been Abby’s parents, who had been another complete nightmare. They couldn’t see beyond the fact that it had been Cass who had offered Abby the job after she had replied to an ad in the corner-shop window. Everything that had happened from then on, it seemed, had been everybody else’s fault except Abby’s.
‘She’s very naïve and young for her age. We thought it would be safe, letting her work here, didn’t we, Moira? We’re very upset about how things have turned out,’ said Abby’s father. It didn’t seem to occur to either of them that Cass might be hurt or upset too, or that their daughter might have had any part in seducing, flirting with, or encouraging David. Oh no, that it seemed was absolutely impossible.
‘We thought of her as our little girl,’ said her mum, tearfully. ‘You know, she hasn’t rung or been round or anything since…well, you know.’ They were talking about Abby in variations of the past tense, as if running off with David was the same as dying.
‘She was just a baby, really,’ agreed her father.
Cass nodded. Their little girl, their baby, who turned up to clean house in a pink lycra crop top with Sex Kitten in silver sequins across the front, no bra, breasts so pert they would have taken an eye out of the unwary, and a denim micro skirt that, combined with the top, was every dirty old lecher’s dream ticket. Abby may well have been young, but Cass had a horrible feeling that she had known exactly what she was doing when she sashayed across the sitting-room floor pushing the Hoover and plumping cushions. Certainly she had been just what David’s mid-life crisis needed.