Читать книгу Keeping Mum - Kate Lawson - Страница 6

‘Blonde wig, sunglasses…’ Cass tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and looked herself up and down in the ornate mirror currently leaning up against the wall in the spare room. She turned left and right to gauge the full effect and then shook her head. ‘Fiona, I can’t go out dressed in this. I look like a hooker.’

‘No, you don’t. Of course you don’t,’ Fiona said briskly, tugging Cass’s wig down at the back. ‘You look…’ She hesitated. It was obvious that it was a struggle to find the right words.

‘Conspicuous and very dodgy?’ suggested Cass. ‘Let’s be honest, Fee, that’s the last thing you want from a spy.’

Fiona’s expression hardened. ‘Spy is a very emotive word,’ she snapped, handing Cass a trench coat and rolled black umbrella.

‘Oh, and these are meant to help me blend in, are they? I don’t think this is a good idea at all.’ Cass dropped the umbrella onto the bed. ‘And besides, I barely know Andy. I’ve only seen him a couple of times since you moved back.’

‘Exactly.’

‘What do you mean exactly?’

‘Well, if you knew him you could hardly spy on him, could you? He’d get suspicious, but this is fine. You know Andy well enough to recognise him in a crowd or pick him out in a bar, but not well enough for him to come rushing over or, worse still, go rushing off.’ As she spoke Fiona flicked Cass’s collar up and fluffed the wig so it looked a little more tousled.

‘There we are,’ she said. ‘That’s absolutely perfect.’

‘It’s not perfect. Remember the sixth leavers do? Vamps and tramps? You made me wear a corset and nearly got us both arrested?’

Fiona sniffed. ‘You always say that, but it was fine. I told the policeman we weren’t soliciting.’

Cass nodded. ‘Uh-huh—well all I need now are the fishnets.’

‘Don’t be so silly,’ said Fiona. ‘You look great.’

Cass wasn’t convinced.

From an overstuffed chair out on the landing, Mungo the resident ginger tom and Buster, Cass’s matching mongrel, watched proceedings with interest. They didn’t look convinced either.

‘It’s not like I’m asking you to bug him or anything,’ protested Fiona into what was proving quite a tricky silence. ‘All you have to do is watch, take a few photos and possibly notes, and let me know exactly what he is up to. And with who…’ Fiona paused. ‘I know he’s up to something.’ But if Fiona was hoping that Cass was going to leap into the breach, she was sadly mistaken.

‘I wouldn’t ask, Cass, but I can’t afford a private detective and I don’t know what else to do. Does your mobile phone have a camera with a zoom lens?’ Fiona asked, as she buttoned Cass into the trench coat.

This wasn’t exactly how Cass had imagined the evening going at all. She’d been thinking more in terms of a DVD, a bottle of wine and a takeaway, along with a bit of girlie chat, while the cat and dog mugged them for prawns.

Cass had known Fiona since they were eleven years old, and at school together—which in some ways felt like yesterday and in others a lifetime ago. After sixth form they had drifted apart, separated by college, boys, careers. And then a couple of years ago, Cass had had a phone call out of the blue:

‘Cass, this is Fee, just wanted to let you know we’re moving back to the area—isn’t that great? God, I’m so excited, maybe we could catch up sometime? I feel a bit like salmon coming home to spawn.’

Which was probably too much information. It obviously hadn’t occurred to Fiona that Cass wouldn’t remember who she was, not that Cass had forgotten—who could forget someone like Fiona?

Time smoothes away the raw edges of memory and Cass had forgotten a lot of things about Fee. What Cass had forgotten was that when she was on a mission, Fiona could be a grade A pain in the arse. These last two years of having Fee back in her life had brought all those annoying little qualities to light in glorious Technicolor. They hadn’t spoken very much in the years since leaving school but in that first conversation it all came flooding back.

‘When I saw this job in the paper I said to Andy it was fate. I can’t remember if you met Andy—he comes from Cambridge. You’ll have to come to dinner sometime once we’ve settled in. He can still commute; I know it’s a bit of a drag but we’ll get real quality of life in Norfolk. Or at least I will, he’ll be spending most of his life on the train,’ she giggled. ‘And I’ve found this great house. In Barwell Road? Those really lovely old Edwardian houses overlooking the park—four bedrooms, big bay windows…It’s going to be just perfect. I mean we want kids and London’s no place for a family, at least not for a country girl like me. So what are you up to these days?’ It had taken Fiona the best part of twenty minutes to get around to asking Cass anything about her life.

‘Working mostly, you know I bought a shop? And bringing the boys up.’

‘God, there’s you nearly done and me just starting,’ Fee had said. ‘Doesn’t that make you feel old?’

Cass hadn’t known how to answer that and so instead said, ‘Oh, and I sing in a choir.’ It had been a throwaway line.

‘Really?’ said Fiona. ‘You know I’ve always wanted to join a choir. Remember when we used to sing in the school choir? God—that was such a giggle.’

Which was why Fiona, the week after she moved in, had turned up to join Cass at Mrs Althorpe’s All Stars—Beckthorn’s community choir, which was a lot sexier and loads more fun than it sounded. When she saw Fiona waving and hurrying over to her, Cass groaned and wished she’d kept her mouth shut. Two years on and she hadn’t changed her mind.

‘God,’ Fiona had said, as she slipped in alongside Cass. ‘Isn’t this great? Just like the good old days.’

Cass hadn’t said anything.

As a lady bass and occasional tenor, Cass did a lot of well-synchronised do-be-do-be-doooos, dms, and finger snapping that made up the heartbeat of the doo-wop and blues numbers the band was famous for.

Originally Cass had joined the choir because she couldn’t get a place on the garden design course, hated aerobics, and had always wanted to sing. She’d also thought it might be a good place to meet men, which it was—although as it turned out almost all of them were well over 50 and mad as haddock. It was fun though, because there was no need to be anything other than yourself with them.

For the choir’s performances, which took place everywhere from church halls to street corners, the All Stars wore full evening dress, men in black tie and occasionally tails, the women shimmying and swaying in gowns of every colour under the sun, all glitzy and glamorous and very over the top with lots of diamante, feathers, sequins, tiaras and an ocean of bugle beads. It certainly beat workout Lycra into a cocked hat.

After Tuesday evening rehearsal, the choir traditionally went on to the pub. Which was how Cass and Fiona came to find themselves squeezed into the end of a pew behind a long table in the snug bar of the Old Grey Whippet, alongside Ray, Phil and Welsh Alf, whose voice came straight from the heart of the Rhondda—which didn’t quite compensate for the fact that he often forgot the tune and occasionally the words—and Norman, who only came because his wife had an evening class across the road on Tuesday nights and didn’t drive.

Cass hadn’t intended to sing bass when she joined. But when she signed up there’d only been one man, Welsh Alf, and so, Alan—their musical director—had suggested that some of the female altos sing the bass parts an octave higher. (Which at that point meant nothing to Cass, who hadn’t sung a note anywhere other than in the bath since leaving Beckthorn County High.)

Four and a half years on, there were half a dozen men and around the same number of women in the bass section, with a sprinkling of men in the tenors and of course Gordon in the sopranos, who sang falsetto, plucked his eyebrows and occasionally wore blue eyeliner, although he was the exception rather than the rule.

Her only real gripe was that while the sopranos got the tune and the altos had the harmony, the tenors grabbed the twiddly bits, and so nine times out of ten all the basses got were the notes left over and they didn’t always make much sense musically. There certainly wasn’t much in the way of a catchy little tune to hum while making toast.

So, after choir on Tuesday evening, everyone was just finishing a blow-by-blow dissection of how the evening’s rehearsal had gone, and Gordon was perched on a stool at the bar, halfway down his second Babycham, when Fiona, who was sipping a bitter lemon said, ‘I was wondering—could you do me a favour?’

Cass looked round. Fiona said it casually, in a way that suggested she wanted Cass to pick up a few bits from Tesco on her way home from work or maybe pop round to let the gasman in, and so, halfway down a glass of house red, Cass nodded. ‘Sure. What would you like me to do?’

But before she could answer, Bert, the big chunky tenor, an ex-rugby player who sang like an angel, drank like a fish and was tight as new elastic, bellowed, ‘Anyone fancy a top-up, only it’s m’birthday t’day, so I’m in the chair.’ Fiona’s reply was lost in the furore.

‘Maybe it would be easier if I popped round some time?’ Fiona shouted above the general hullabaloo as people fought their way to the bar to put their orders in. ‘Make an evening of it?’

‘Okay,’ said Cass, easing her way to the front. ‘Why don’t you come round for supper one night next week?’

Which was why they were now standing in Cass’s spare room with a suitcase full of props and the remains of a bottle of Archers which Fiona had brought round—probably, Cass now realised, as a liquid inducement. It had slipped down a treat. Unlike Fiona’s little favour.

It had taken Fiona a couple of glasses, a lot of idle chitchat and much admiring of Cass’s home before she managed to get around to what she had in mind. What Fiona wanted was a little light surveillance. More specifically, she wanted Cass to follow Andy, and find out what he was up to, where, when and with whom—although so far the reasons behind it all were a little hazy.

‘So tell me again what exactly has brought this on?’ asked Cass. ‘If I’m going to go the full Mata Hari, at least I should really know what I’m getting myself into.’

‘Andy’s seeing someone,’ said Fiona, gazing past her into the mirror, presumably trying to gauge the effectiveness of Cass’s disguise.

‘How can you be so certain?’

The questions seemed to take Fiona by surprise. ‘Because he’s been acting very strangely over the last few weeks. He’s changed the password on his email account.’

‘And you know this because?’

‘Well, when I was on his computer I couldn’t get into his email,’ said Fiona, casually.

‘You read his email?’

At least Fiona had the decency to look a bit sheepish. ‘Of course I do, I mean, doesn’t everyone? We’re practically married—’

‘And that makes it all right, does it?’ Cass couldn’t imagine anything worse than having someone nosing through her private life.

‘What on earth has right got to do with anything?’ said Fiona indignantly. ‘He shouldn’t need to hide things from me.’

‘So presumably Andy’s got your password too?’ asked Cass.

Fiona looked outraged. ‘No, of course he hasn’t, but that’s different—I mean, I’m not up to anything.’

‘Changing your password is hardly proof of being up to something though, is it?’

‘He keeps getting texts…’

‘Oh for goodness sake, Fee, we all get texts.’

‘Which he erases,’ Fiona countered. ‘I know because I’ve looked while he’s in the shower. His inbox is always empty—you’ve got to admit that that is suspicious?’

Cass wasn’t sure there was any sane answer. Experience told her that if you think someone is up to something, then your mind is only too happy to fill in the gaps, and everything the other person does only conspires to make them look even more guilty. And while Fiona’s plan all sounded pretty crazy from this side of the fence, no doubt inside Fiona’s head it sounded just fine. When it struck, jealously, insecurity and uncertainty could be a destructive and all-engulfing madness.

‘How long have you two been together?’ asked Cass, adjusting the wig and adding a bit more lipstick. She’d always wondered how she’d look as a blonde. Cass turned to catch a look at her profile; realistically she probably needed something a little less Barbie.

‘Nearly four years. I read somewhere that four years is the new seven-year itch. And besides, if Andy’s got nothing to hide, then why does he keep wiping the inbox on his phone, why does he have a new password on his email account and why does he sneak about? Did I tell you he’s been sneaking about—’

‘Have you thought it might be because you’re trying to break into his email account, read his phone messages and are currently setting someone up to stalk him?’ asked Cass.

Fiona considered the possibility for a few seconds then shook her head. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Andy’s got no idea he’s going to be stalked. And besides, he is up to something, I know it—and I want you to find out exactly what it is.’

‘Because?’

‘Well, because we’re friends, and I’d do the same for you.’

Cass stared at her. ‘Really?’

‘Oh God yes,’ said Fiona. Which wasn’t exactly how Cass remembered it. She did remember lots of things about being Fiona’s friend, like being left at the bus stop in the pouring rain, in her gym kit, because Fee had persuaded her mum to give the school hunk, Alan Hall, a lift home instead of Cass, the same friend who had refused point-blank to lend Cass a tenner when they were at a gig and Cass found she’d left her handbag backstage.

None of which suggested to Cass that Fiona would be running to her rescue if she ever needed a bit of on-the-side spying.

‘I don’t think blonde’s really my colour, do you?’ asked Cass, narrowing her eyes, trying to gauge the effect of the wig and hoping to lighten the mood. ‘Maybe something with a bit more caramel?’

‘Can we please concentrate? I don’t think you’re taking this seriously,’ snapped Fiona. ‘Andy’s going to be at Sam’s Place, Saturday night, at eight. I’ve brought my camera with me just in case yours doesn’t have a zoom.’

Cass looked at her. ‘Sam’s Place?’

‘Uh-huh you know, the trendy new bar, opposite the Corn Exchange.’

Cass shook her head.

‘Oh, come on, Cass, you must have seen it. It’s been all over the local papers. They did a double-page spread in the Argos and Echo, and a thing on local TV. Some guy off the telly is one of the partners in it. He used to be in The Bill—not that I watch that kind of thing, obviously. Anyway, there’s a cocktail bar and restaurant, and a coffee shop, all retro and very Casablanca, with a nightclub upstairs. I’ve been trying to persuade Andy to take me there for weeks.’ Fiona paused for effect. ‘Do you know what he said?’

Cass decided it would probably be wiser not to offer any suggestions, so pulled an I have no idea face instead.

‘He said, “Fee, what in god’s name do you want to go there for? Clubbing—at our age? It’s ridiculous.” That’s what he said, Cass, “Ridiculous”. It was horrible. It made me sound like some sort of desperate pensioner…’

Fiona was wearing a skirt that was bang on trend—if you happened to be eighteen—a pair of Christian Louboutin knock-offs and a haircut that probably cost more than Cass’s sofa, and Fiona had made Cass swear that she’d never mention the Botox or the fillers in front of anyone. Maybe ‘pensioner’ was a bit cruel, but ‘desperate’ wasn’t far short of the mark.

‘So you haven’t been there?’

Fiona shook her head. ‘No, of course I haven’t been there, although now it looks as if he’s going to be going without me. There was a message on the pad in his office —“Sam’s Place, 8 o’clock”, and what looked like next Saturday’s date. I was going to bring it with me to prove that I wasn’t imagining it…’

‘Did you ask Andy about it? I mean, surely if he left the note on his desk he meant you to see it,’ asked Cass cautiously.

‘He would think I was mad…’

Cass decided not to comment. ‘Maybe he’s planning to surprise you? You said you wanted to go—maybe he’s going to take you as a treat.’

Fiona didn’t look convinced.

‘Why don’t you just ask him, Fee? He left you a note—in plain sight…’

‘It wasn’t actually the note I saw,’ Fiona said, after a few seconds. ‘And Andy didn’t leave it out on the desk for me to see. It was more of an impression on the pad underneath. I could see that it had something written on it, but I couldn’t really make out what it said…’

‘Right,’ murmured Cass in an undertone. This was getting weirder by the second.

‘Anyway, I saw this thing on a film once, where you get a soft pencil and then very lightly shade over the indentations.’ Fiona mimed the action.

Cass had heard enough. ‘Uh-huh, okay, look, I think we should stop right there, Fiona—this is nuts. You need to talk to Andy, not me. And as for the stalking? I think it’s crazy and I’m not doing it.’ As she spoke, Cass pulled off the wig and dropped it onto the bed. ‘I really don’t think it’s a good idea. Do you want to stay with Andy?’

Fiona stared at Cass as if the question hadn’t crossed her mind. ‘Well of course I want to stay with Andy,’ she snapped. ‘Why on earth would I go to all this trouble if I didn’t want to be with him? For god’s sake Cass—have you got any idea how hard it is to get your hands on a decent blonde wig? It’s taken me ages to get all this stuff together…’

‘Well in that case you need to talk to him, not go creeping around spying on him.’ Cass slipped off the trench coat. ‘I’m really sorry, Fee. I’d be glad to help but not like this.’

Fiona looked as if she was about to speak, and then she bit her lip, her eyes filling up with tears. She started stuffing the wig and the brolly into her holdall.

Cass sighed, feeling guilty. ‘Oh for goodness sake Fee—’ she began.

‘Don’t say anything,’ she sniffed. ‘I thought you’d understand.’ Between sobs, Fiona rolled the trench coat into a ball and crammed it into the bag. ‘I thought you were my friend.’

‘I am your friend, and I do understand,’ said Cass. ‘Really, I do—but this isn’t going to help anything.’

‘How do you know unless we try?’ cried Fiona. ‘I don’t know what else to do,’ she wailed, still gathering things up as she made for the door.

‘Fee, wait, let’s talk about this,’ said Cass, but it was too late. The last thing Cass saw was Fiona heading down the stairs with the holdall clutched tight to her chest.

‘Oh bugger,’ said Cass in frustration. The Chinese takeaway they had ordered arrived half an hour later. Mungo and Buster waited by the kitchen door, trying hard not to look too eager, although realistically there was no way Cass was going to manage all those chicken balls on her own.