Читать книгу The Cinderella Moment - Gemma Fox - Страница 8

Cass, holding her breath, standing up on tip-toe and reaching as far as she was able, struggled to tease a big holiday-sized suitcase down from the top of the wardrobe with the very, very tips of her fingers, watched by a wide-eyed and increasingly anxious Danny.

‘Are we going on holiday?’ Danny asked in a nervous little voice.

‘No.’

‘Is it for my school trip?’

‘Nope.’

Cass was trying to avoid going downstairs for a chair or to get the stepladder. She’d already sorted out a couple of portfolios, her art box and two small cases for Danny and…and…Cass took a deep breath, straining to stretch up that last half an inch. She was so close, so-very-very-close.

‘Am I going to stay at Granny’s for a very long time?’ Danny whispered.

‘No, sweetheart. God – bloody thing,’ Cass groaned, blowing hard. One more big stretch and…and she still couldn’t reach.

‘Are you going to take all my toys away and give them to poor children because I’ve been so naughty?’

Very slowly Cass turned to look at him and resolved to have a strong word with her mother. Danny was sitting on the end of the bed. He was dressed in a navy blue T-shirt, oatmeal-coloured shorts, blue socks and sandals, his big brown eyes watching her every move – he looked so cute that Cass could have scooped him up and eaten him.

‘No, sweetheart, no. I’m not going to do that and neither is anyone else, and I can’t imagine you’re ever going to be that naughty, ever. Take it from me, Granny Annie can be pretty bad herself, and no one ever threatened to take her toys away.’

Danny nodded solemnly.

‘The thing is,’ said Cass, reaching up again for the case, trying to fool herself that the first couple of attempts were just a warm-up and this time she would get it, no sweat. ‘You know that Mummy’s been looking for a job? Well, she’s got one and it’s going to be really good fun. We’re going to go and live by the seaside. Just you and me – and God, I really wish I was two inches taller.’

Danny considered the implications for a few seconds. ‘The seaside?’

Cass nodded. ‘Uhuh.’

‘With a beach and stuff?’

She nodded again. ‘With a beach and funfair and a swimming pool and ice cream and lots of places to go, and stuff –’

‘Are you still going to paint?’

Cass nodded.

‘And do books and cards and things?’

Cass wasn’t sure how much more nodding she could manage. ‘Yes, just like now, but I’m going to work in a gallery too, and do all sorts of other stuff.’

‘Are you still going to work at my school?’

‘Yes. We’re only going for the summer, for the holidays.’

Danny put his head on one side for a few seconds, and then said, ‘What about Daddy? Is Daddy coming too? How will he know where we live? He won’t be able to find us. And what about Milo and Bob?’ The words tumbled out in a breathless rush.

Cass gave up on the suitcase and turned her attention to Danny. ‘It’s all right. We’re only going for a little while. Jake is going to look after Bob and we’ll take Milo with us. And we’ll tell Daddy exactly where we are. OK? We’re going to live in a flat in Brighton and Mummy’s going to work for a man called Barney, and he’s got a cat and a dog too…’ Cass hesitated, it was probably best not to suggest that Barney was a nice man.

Danny’s eyes widened in horror. ‘Oh no. Barney’s not your new boyfriend, is he?’

Six, and he should be working for the local police force. ‘No, honey, he’s not my boyfriend. He’s an old friend of Jake’s.’ Cass paused; childcare was going to be a nightmare. Danny, swinging his legs, studied her thoughtfully.

The job, as explained by Barney over a lot of frothy coffee, a glass too much of house red and a crash course in Italian profanity, was a complex, fast-moving combination of PA, nanny, shopkeeper and head wrangler for Barney’s various family, art and business interests. These would include his pets, mother and various ex-wives, children, stepchildren, girlfriends, ex-girlfriends, creditors, artists, and such domestic help as he could lay his hands on, explained Barney conversationally, topping up Cass’s glass with the brandy that the waiter had left on their table.

To be fair, although Barney swore blind he didn’t like children, he seemed more than willing to accommodate Danny. And Cass, over dessert, had finally agreed to take the job for the summer holidays. Although on reflection maybe it was the booze talking.

‘Daisy’s going to be here for most of the summer and I thought we could hire an au pair – or at least you can. I’ll pay her, you just have to pick someone who won’t steal the teaspoons and hide bread in the airing cupboard,’ Barney had said, dipping a little crispy almond biscuit into his coffee so that the froth crept up it like a rising tide. ‘She can clean house and mind Danny and feed the animals. Actually, I’m not sure why I didn’t think of it earlier. It’ll be perfect. I can teach her to play backgammon and she will think I’m wounded and complex, and moon around after me with her hairy armpits, wearing strange clothes in peculiar foreign ways. They like a father figure, in my experience. I will try to be strong for both of us. It will be absolutely wonderful,’ added Barney gleefully. ‘When did you say you can start?’

‘As soon as the school holidays begin, although maybe we need to talk about living arrangements. For a start, I barely know you. You’re grumpy, rude and untidy – not to mention an alcoholic.’

‘You just said you didn’t know me.’ Barney looked wounded. ‘Jake never told me how rude you were.’ He paused. ‘Presumably you’re worried about your virtue?’

Cass didn’t think that deserved an answer.

Barney sighed. ‘You’ve seen for yourself how big the flat is. There are two decent-sized rooms and a little bathroom at the back – all yours, own key, everything. You’ll have to share the rest, but I’m sure Jake will give me a reference. And don’t worry, you’re not my type at all – my woman of choice is a neurotic bunny boiler who is stalking her therapist.’ He looked sadly down at the remains of his dessert. ‘God, I miss that woman.’

‘Own rooms? Own key?’

Barney nodded and extended his hand across the wreckage of supper. ‘So, it’s a deal then?’ he said, closing his great paw over hers and shaking it firmly before waving the waiter over. ‘Let’s have some more booze, shall we? How’s your tiramisu?’

Now, back at home in the spare bedroom, Cass stared down at her son; she must have been nuts to agree. But then again, maybe it was just the kind of thing that they both needed, a summer by the sea.

Easy. Or at least that was how it had seemed when Barney explained it to her.

She looked up at the wardrobe. It was no good, she would have to go and get a chair.

‘Cass?’ Jake’s voice made her jump. ‘Are you there?’

‘We’re upstairs,’ she called back. ‘Packing.’ Or at least they would be if she ever got the bloody case down. Jake was tall. ‘Come on up,’ she continued cheerily. ‘We’re in the spare room.’

Danny still looked anxious. She stroked sunshine yellow baby-boy hair back off his face. ‘It’s OK,’ she said softly. ‘Daddy will know exactly where we are going. And you can ring him every day if you want to. Maybe we can arrange for you to stay with him for part of the summer holidays. It’s going to be all right. Promise. Cross my heart –’ Was that for Danny’s benefit or hers?

Danny’s solemn expression didn’t alter. ‘Yes, but what about Jake?’ he whispered as their neighbour lumbered noisily up the stairs. ‘Who’s going to look after Jake if we’re not here?’

Good question. More to the point, who was going to look after Cass if Jake wasn’t there to make tea, pick up the pieces and say it would be all right even if it quite obviously wasn’t true? He was like a father, big brother and fairy godmother all mixed into one.

Before she could think of a good answer, Jake sprung across the threshold, clutching a folded newspaper. ‘Have you seen this?’ he said, thrusting it under her nose. The headline read, ‘Local businessman sought for questioning in multimillionpound accounting scam.’

Cass looked up at Barney. ‘Don’t tell me.’

He nodded. ‘’Fraid so – Mr Peaches,’ and then began to read: ‘“Local businessman, James Devlin, forty-one, is wanted for questioning in connection with the disappearance of company funds believed to be worth in excess of two million pounds from Devlin Holdings Ltd of Little Lamport, near Ely. Mr Devlin, a prominent and popular local figure, vanished last week after an emergency meeting was convened to discuss cash-flow problems and discrepancies in the accounts revealed during a routine audit. A company spokesman told our reporter yesterday that company representatives were keen to speak to Mr Devlin as soon as possible.”’

Jake looked up to see if Cass was still listening.

‘There’s a dreadful photo. Looks as if it was taken when he was at school,’ he said, before reading on: ‘“At their home, Mrs Margaret Devlin was unavailable for comment, but in a statement made through her family solicitor said she was anxious for her husband’s safety and mental wellbeing. He has been under a lot of pressure over the last few months, Mrs Devlin added, and said she had no doubt her husband would be happy to cast some light on the company’s present financial position as soon as he returned, and on a personal note added that she hoped that he would be home soon as his family missed him dreadfully.”’

Cass held up her hands in surrender. ‘Don’t look at me like that, Jake. It’s got nothing to do with me.’

‘I just thought you might be interested, that’s all. I mean, you were one of the last people to see him alive.’

Cass stared at him. ‘What do you mean, see him alive? As far as I’m concerned, he is still alive; he was off to have an adventure in Rome. He gave me a mint humbug, for God’s sake, not his last will and testament.’

‘Well, this comment by his wife suggests…you know…’ After checking that Danny wasn’t looking, Jake drew a finger ominously across his throat. He waved the paper at her again. ‘Anyway, I thought you might be interested. Here –’

Cass peered at it. Jake was right about the photograph. It looked like it had been blown up from some kind of eighties team photo and, other than the mop of blond hair, it looked nothing like the man she had met on the train.

‘Well, like I said, I’m not interested. When I saw him he was very chirpy, no hint of…you know.’ She expertly mimicked Jake’s tone and gesture as she returned the paper to him.

‘Have you talked to anyone about seeing him, besides the police?’ asked Jake. ‘The press or anything?’

‘No. Why on earth should I?’

‘I just wondered. Only there’s a car been sitting at the end of the lane for most of the day. I noticed it parking up when you came home. I wouldn’t swear to it, but I think the guy inside has got some sort of camera or maybe binoculars. I wondered if it was a reporter, the paparazzi.’

Cass laughed. ‘Oh, stop it. You’re being paranoid.’

Jake shrugged. ‘Maybe, but I was just thinking, what would happen if the national press got hold of your connection with the case?’

‘Got hold of what connection? I haven’t got a connection. I saw him on the train – it’s hardly headline news, is it? “Woman sees man on train.”’

‘Maybe you’re right. But you don’t know what his wife might have said about you.’

Cass groaned. ‘Please, Jake, stop, will you,’ and then added casually, ‘Is there any chance you could get that case down for me?’

Jake looked heavenwards. ‘Work, work, work, what on earth are you going to do without me?’

At which point Danny, still sitting on the end of the bed, sniffed miserably.

At the end of the lane where Cass and Jake lived, Mr Marshall had logged Jake’s arrival and taken a couple of photos with the long lens on his new digital camera.

A few miles away in Little Lamport a stream of police officers, as industrious and diligent as worker ants, were busy carrying box after box of James Devlin’s papers and personal effects out from the office he had had built above the double garage and stacking them neatly under the carport. Alongside the papers and folders were computers, screens, boxes of CDS, DVDs, files, folders, and God knows what else, all neatly sealed in evidence bags which were being carefully logged and doublechecked before being packed into an unmarked navy blue Transit van.

Margaret Devlin watched their progress from the sitting-room window and bit her lip, holding back a great torrent of fury.

Detective Inspector Turner, the officer in charge of the investigation, who was sitting opposite her drinking tea and eating his way through a packet of Garibaldis, took it for grief, which was most probably a good thing. Margaret glanced at him. He was a large affable man with wavy grey hair and a rather natty moustache that made him look distinguished and added a slightly military air.

‘We really appreciate your co-operation, Mrs Devlin. My men and I will try and ensure there is as little disruption to your day-to-day routine as possible. I realise that life can’t be very easy for you at the moment.’

He could say that again; her solicitor had just rung to tell Margaret that an application had been made by the shareholders to freeze all James’s assets. Why couldn’t the bastard have had the decency to die quietly in his bed and leave her in peace? She really hoped Gordie Mann’s weaselly friend tracked James down. Life would be so much simpler if James was dead – a heart attack or something quick and terminal – but obviously only if he hadn’t been using the company funds as his own personal current account. Bastard. Outside in the run, Snoops, pressed tight up against the wire, threw back his head and howled miserably.

‘I’m afraid I need to ask you a few more questions.’ DI Turner’s voice focused her attention.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I was miles away.’ If only.

He waved her apology away. ‘It’s perfectly understandable. Would you prefer to wait until your solicitor is present?’

Margaret shook her head. ‘No, of course not, Inspector. I’ve got nothing to hide. Ask away.’ She smiled at the WPC who was perched on the edge of the sofa, taking notes. The girl really didn’t make the best of herself, a bit of eye makeup and a decent bra really wouldn’t go amiss; what did they teach them at police training college?

The Detective Inspector took a deep breath as if he was about to launch into a big speech, but at that moment the au pair appeared at the sitting-room door, anxiously wringing her paws as she looked from one face to the other, finally settling on Margaret with those big brown watery eyes of hers.

‘Missis Devlin?’ The au pair smiled wanly at her. Margaret glared right back. This, after being told on numerous occasions that she wasn’t to interrupt when Margaret had guests, even if the guests were in this case the police.

‘Yes?’ said Margaret, feigning interest; she still wasn’t altogether sure what the girl’s name was, despite her having been with them six months. It was something Eastern European, maybe Romania, which sounded like a cross between a sneeze and a hacking cough, and refused point-blank to stay in her head, even after she had written it down phonetically on a whole pile of post-it notes and stuck them at various key points around the house.

‘What is it, dear?’ she added, mostly for DI Turner’s benefit. ‘Only, as I’m sure you can see, I am a little busy at the moment.’

The girl smiled nervously. ‘Sorry to disturb you, but this eeeez important.’

Margaret sniffed; that remained to be seen. Probably another defrosting, how-many-minutes-to-let-it-stand-between-microwaving emergency. She was tempted to suggest whatever-her-name-was went back into the kitchen and read the bloody packet, but held fire. The girl took this to be a green light.

‘This won’t take long, I just want to tell you that I have to leave now.’ Margaret had to pick her way through the words, the girl’s accent was as thick as a hand-knitted vest.

Margaret smiled indulgently at DI Turner and then back at what’s-her-name. ‘No, dear, not yet. It’s barely three o’clock,’ she began, her eyes narrowing. ‘It’s not time for you to finish work yet. You finish later.’ She tapped her watch for added emphasis. ‘Later. Six o’clock.’

But the girl was insistent. ‘No,’ she said emphatically, shaking her head. ‘No, I hef to go now.’

‘No, you don’t. You leave off at six, after you’ve cooked the children’s supper. Then it will be time for you to go to your language class.’ Margaret talked slowly, her smile stretched as tight as a drumskin as she enunciated every last word. God, the girl was such a bloody moron. ‘I’ll tell you what, why don’t we talk about this later. I’m rather busy at the –’

But the girl would not be stopped. ‘No, no, no, you not make of me any understanding. I have to go. Really. I do.’ She mimed walking away, using two pale, podgy fingers to represent those dumpylard white legs of hers. ‘Now.’

‘Oh, I understand perfectly, dear,’ said Margaret, keeping her tone as even as she could manage, while pulling a jolly ‘sorry, what-can-you-do-face’ for DI Turner. ‘But you don’t leave off until six. Six.’ She held up six fingers. ‘Six o’clock.’

The girl frowned. ‘No, not six, I know six. I have to go to my mother’s.’

‘Your mother’s?’ snapped Margaret incredulously. ‘What on earth do you mean, your mother’s? Your mother lives in, in…’ Margaret fished around for the exact location and, coming up empty, settled for, ‘abroad.’

The girl’s eyes lit up. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, that is it. Abroad, yes.’

‘Yes?’ said Margaret grimly, her awareness of DI Turner slipping away as her patience finally began to fail her. ‘What the hell do you mean, yes? Yes what?’

‘Yes, please, I am having to going to my mother’s abroad.’

Margaret’s eyes narrowed. ‘When?’

The girl smiled beatifically ‘Soon. But I have to leave here tonight. Now.’

‘Excuse me for one moment,’ said Margaret brightly to DI Turner as she got to her feet. ‘I’m not sure precisely what is going on here.’ And then to the girl, in a cooler tone: ‘Perhaps we should discuss this later, my dear, or at least go into the kitchen to finish our conversation. The Detective Inspector really doesn’t want to hear all our domestic –’

But the girl shook her head. ‘No, no. I have not got to talk. I have no time. I have to go now. I have to pack.’ It sounded like i-heftogonow-I heftopec.’

‘No, you don’t,’ Margaret growled. ‘We need to talk about this.’

The girl pulled herself upright, mouth narrowing down to an angry little slit. ‘It is in my contract.’

Margaret stiffened. ‘I’m sorry? What did you say?’

The girl pulled a great, dog-eared many-folded wedge of paper out from her overall pocket. ‘Page four, it is in my contract, it says my mother’s health it is not good. She is a sick woman.’

She waved the paper under Margaret’s nose and then, for good measure, under DI Turner’s. ‘It says here that I am able go to assist her any time if she ring me.’

‘And she rang you?’ asked Margaret icily.

The girl nodded. ‘Oh, yes. She ring me.’

‘When?’ snapped Margaret. ‘When did she ring you?’

‘A little while ago, maybe a few minutes, on my mobile. She say I have to go home. Excuse me, I have to go and pack now. I’m sorry.’

You will be, thought Margaret murderously.

The girl turned on her heel and made for the door at around the same time that DI Turner continued, ‘As I was about to say, Mrs Devlin, I would appreciate if you could answer one or two small points. Although I can see that this may not be the moment. Perhaps you would like me to come back at a mutually convenient time?’

Margaret painted on a smile and waved the words away. ‘No, not at all. It’s fine, Inspector. I’m sure I can sort er…’ the girl’s name refused to come ‘…sort things out when you’ve gone. She has always been a little volatile, and her command of English, well, you know.’ Margaret held up her hands to encompass all manner of craziness and misunderstanding. The Inspector smiled and nodded encouragingly, so Margaret carried on. ‘James drew up her contract of employment. I really had no idea about the sick mother clause,’ she said with false heartiness. ‘Laughable, really. But it’s so like him. Ah well. Now, what did you want to know?’

The Inspector seemed delighted that she had brought James up voluntarily. ‘Did your husband always deal with your domestic arrangements? You know, the hiring and firing of staff and that sort of thing?’

‘Yes, as a matter of fact, he did,’ agreed Margaret; why not blame James for her dilemma? She had completely forgotten about the stupid girl’s sick bloody mother. Fancy bringing it up now, at a time like this when it was quite obvious Margaret needed all the help she could get. Selfish little cow. Margaret felt a great wave of self-pity settling over her. What on earth was she going to do now? Who was going to clean and cook for the children? Good Lord, it was dreadful, unthinkable. Mrs Hill, her daily, would never be able to manage it all on her own.

Inspector Turner leaned forward. ‘Are you all right, Mrs Devlin? Can I get you something? A glass of water?’

She pulled out a lacy hankie and sniffed back the tears. ‘No, thank you. It’s very kind, but I’ll be fine, Inspector. James usually interviewed the girls we employed. In fact this is the first au pair I have ever actually chosen myself. James never really asked the right questions, if you follow me; he didn’t seem to realise how important it was that they could cook or clean or look after the children adequately.’ She left the implication hanging in the air between them.

DI Turner smoothed his moustache and then looked her up and down; it was a most provocative glance. Margaret felt herself blushing.

‘So what do you think he chose them for, if not for their domestic skills?’ the Inspector asked in a low voice.

Coyly Margaret looked down at the Oriental rug and noticed rather sourly that there were still biscuit crumbs on it from yesterday. ‘I’m sure you can imagine that life with James hasn’t always been easy. You must be aware of my husband’s reputation, Inspector,’ she said in a low voice.

DI Turner nodded. ‘I am. But, to be honest, having met you, Mrs Devlin, I’m surprised.’

‘Surprised?’

‘Absolutely. I’m surprised that he bothered, not with a good-looking woman like you waiting at home.’

At least the WPC had the good grace to look away. Margaret’s colour deepened to a warm, flattering pink.

Outside, the worker ants continued to empty James’s office, and from upstairs somewhere came the throbbing bass beat of a pop song. Margaret couldn’t work out whether it was coming from one of the children’s rooms or the au pair’s. Whoever it was, she would make sure somebody paid for it later.

By the time DI Turner finally got to the end of his questions, Margaret had some idea of exactly how bad things were. James had managed to head off into the sunset with around two million pounds, give or take a bob or two; not to mention various assets – property, shares, God knows what – which he had liquidated. DI Turner didn’t mention Gordie Mann’s investment, or the whereabouts of James’s diary or address books. Perhaps they didn’t know about them.

It seemed that even their house had been mortgaged more times than was credible. In a nutshell, Margaret Devlin had nothing. In fact, given the state of the mortgage situation, probably considerably less than nothing.

Once he had finished speaking, Margaret stared at DI Turner for a very long time. Finally he looked down at his notes.

‘And you say you have no current photos of your husband?’

Margaret shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not. James liked to take photos, but he was practically phobic about being in them.’

DI Turner nodded thoughtfully. ‘It’s amazing. It appears that your husband has vanished, which, in an age of CCTV and modern technology, is close to a miracle. And have you any idea as to the whereabouts of his diary?’ Margaret shook her head. It was true; she had no idea where it was now – the weaselly Mr Marshall could have taken it anywhere; same with James’s address books.

DI Turner paused, looking out into the middle distance. ‘I have to ask you, Mrs Devlin, if you have any idea where your husband might have gone?’ he said, after what seemed like an eternity.

Margaret shook her head. After the revelations about the state of her finances, she didn’t know how to speak, couldn’t find the words to say exactly what it was she felt. But one thing was certain: any ideas she might have about James Devlin’s whereabouts weren’t going to be shared with the police – at least not until she had had her five-penn’orth. Maybe she would ring Gordie and see if he and his man had come up with anything.

If she could find him, James Devlin would rue the day he’d done this to her. She would make him pay in ways he had never ever dreamed of; he would be glad to give himself up to the police and possibly even Gordie by the time she had done with him.

‘I’m afraid not, Inspector,’ Margaret said, letting the words catch in her throat to emphasise her regret. ‘Would you like some more tea, or would you prefer something a little stronger? To be perfectly honest, I think I could use a drop of brandy myself.’

DI Turner barely hesitated. ‘I don’t mind if I do,’ he said, ignoring the look from the WPC on the sofa.

‘Your husband, Mr David Hammond, has agreed, under the terms of his credit agreement with our company, to surrender the car in lieu of any further payments.’ The repo man, who had been reading his little speech from a laminated prompt card, paused and tried out a smile. Cass wondered if perhaps it was suggested in the script. ‘Do you understand?’ he said. He had a nasty nasal twang.

Cass nodded. What was there not to understand?

‘And then, obviously, once we’ve gone through all the formalities I’ll write you out a receipt.’

‘Oh well, that will really help,’ said Cass grimly. The formalities presumably meant taking her car keys away.

He smiled at her again. ‘You know, there’s absolutely no need to be upset. You really don’t have to worry. I mean, people do get upset, but this kind of thing happens all the time.’

‘Not to me, it doesn’t,’ said Cass through gritted teeth. First thing she’d heard about her car going was a cheery note from the finance company arranging a date and a time.

‘So let’s see, where have we got to? Oh yes, here we are,’ he said, running a finger down the laminated card. ‘Do you have the documentation, or know where it can be located?’ he read. The guy was a real genius. ‘The log book –’

The car in question, a bright shiny black Vauxhall Corsa that Cass adored, had been a birthday present from David. A present, a nasty little voice in her head reminded her, not something to be surrendered in lieu of bloody payments.