Читать книгу White Lies - Rachel Green - Страница 11

Chapter 5

Meinwen was woken by the tiger-rumble of her stomach. Apart from the cup of tea with Mr. Fenstone, she’d had nothing to eat or drink since the cheese sandwich during her vigil for the Holly King. The momentary thought of Jimmy prompted a rush of heat to her loins but, tempted though she was to dally under the warm sheets, she bridled her desire and rose, pulling fresh clothes out of her chest of drawers and trotting downstairs with the washing basket.

In the kitchen she was faced with the mud all over the floor and the sodden blanket. She kicked it into the corner and put her clothes in to wash at the ecological thirty degrees. She made herself a cheese and mushroom omelet with the shaggy ink caps, a pot of fennel and raspberry tea and headed into the tiny conservatory with the morning’s Laverstone Times. The headline today was “Cat rescued from Heating Vent.” Sometimes she missed living in cities. When she first moved to Laverstone she’d seen a headline about a cyclist prosecuted for speeding. The strains of Radio Three filled the air with Mozart and Debussy in an effort to compensate for the pendulous nimbostratus currently soaking Laverstone. The inclement weather made her wonder if she could rain check the visit to John Fenstone’s house. She was worried her fantasies about him might affect how she dealt with him. After a minute’s thought she decided the pros of going outweighed the cons of girlish infatuation.

When she finished lunch, she carried her plate back into the kitchen and went into the study for her laptop. All that remained of the tower system she’d come to Laverstone with was the hard drive, now mounted in an external USB case. Harry Prosser, who lived by the bus station, did computer work. Not publicly, for there was no shop front and not even a brass plaque next to the door but he’d do small things for friends.

A quick internet search revealed John Fenstone had worked for Smiles Estate Agents in Dark Passage. By an odd chance, if there was such a thing, the Estate Agents was next door to the bookshop run by Harold Waterman and his friend, Mr. Jasfoup. The Estate Agents listed the deceased as a “vibrant, fun-loving agent with a passion for selling ‘quirky and individualized houses.’” He also had a FaceSpace account, which, most interesting of all, referenced a Dominus account, a matchmaking service for people into BDSM. Meinwen had let her full membership there lapse, but she still had basic access.

She logged in to the latter but couldn’t trace John by his real name. She tried searching for dominants by location but still had no success. She tried “all men within ten miles” and almost jumped when Jimmy’s eyes appeared on the page.

A quick glance at the age and gender preference of the figure in the full leather face mask confirmed it wasn’t Jimmy. This was John, and his profile page explained exactly why Jimmy had no clue as to the identity of his brother’s girlfriend. He was a submissive and gay. That would also explain the missing pictures Sergeant Peters had referred to. If John knew his brother was about to be released from prison, it stood to reason he’d remove pictures of his gay lover before he had a chance to talk to Jimmy and prepare him. It wasn’t easy for someone to accept their brother was gay. It had taken her almost three years and several hundred miles to come to terms with the idea that the closest thing she’d ever have to a nephew would be Stimper the King Charles Spaniel.

Did it also explain the missing computer? Possibly. John may have been worried Jimmy would look through the saved files or catch sight of an email. But it rather begged the question of where the missing items were. Did John have an alternative hiding place? Had he entrusted them to his lover for safekeeping? A lock up garage somewhere? Or had his lover killed him and removed the evidence?

She paged back through the browser history until she returned to the home page of Smiles Estate Agents. Picking up the phone, she dialed the number. It was answered on the second ring.

“Smiles Estates. Jennie speaking. Can I help you?”

“I wonder if you can.” Meinwen reverted to her native accent, the South Wales lilt disguising her voice more effectively than a shop full of gadgets. “I believe my late brother worked for you. John Fenstone?”

“That’s right. We were all so sorry to hear of his passing.” Jennie sounded sincere, but then that was part of an estate agent’s training, wasn’t it? “I don’t think he ever mentioned a sister, though.”

“No, I don’t suppose he would. I hadn’t seen him since our mam died nine years ago. It fair broke her heart, him being gay.”

“Oh, that’s such a shame. He was lovely, our John. Life and soul of the place, he was. Everybody loved him.”

“That’s lovely to hear. I wonder, though, did he leave any personal possessions at the office?”

“I don’t think so. There’s a picture on his desk of him and another man. I could package that up and send it on, if you like.”

“Yes, please. You don’t know who the friend is, do you? I’m arranging the funeral and obviously I’d like to invite anyone who was important in John’s life.”

“I wish I did. He’s quite handsome. If he wasn’t gay, I’d have made a play for him. He looks like a hunk.”

“Super.” Meinwen revised her opinion of Jennie downward. “Did John have any salary, leave entitlement, death benefits or endowment polices due?”

“Ooh. I’ve no idea. Mr. Wilkins deals with all that and he’s out for the day. Could he call you tomorrow, perhaps?”

“Yes, that would be fine.” Meinwen relayed her number. “You don’t happen to know who his solicitor was, by any chance? He wasn’t one for filing, our John.”

Jennie giggled. “I’m with you there. He used to drop all his filing on the edge of my desk and flirt with me until I agreed to do it for him.”

“Flirt with you? That doesn’t sound like the brother I know.” Meinwen was being perfectly truthful. John’s behavior didn’t sound like Jimmy at all.

“Oh, you know.” She softened her voice into a croon. “‘If I was attracted to huge breasts and ruby-red lips I’d spend all day curled up under your desk gazing up at you and giving you blow jobs.’ I know that sounds terrible when I say it but it was hysterical when he did it. He used to flirt with everyone. Even the customers.”

“I’m almost surprised he wasn’t sued for sexual harassment.”

“Oh no. You knew he wasn’t being serious. He was like that with everybody. The customers loved him. Especially the buyers. He’d give them advice for their interiors as they were going round. He was a huge hit. He used to say he could sell an igloo to an oil sheik if he could choose the curtains.”

Meinwen chuckled politely. She’d see his interior design skills in an hour or to when she met Jimmy at their house. “Fancy him being like that. He was always so subdued with his family.”

“Perhaps he was one of them...you know...ends in ‘vert.’”

Meinwen could think of several, particularly in view of the leather mask on the Dominus website. “I’m nor sure I follow...”

“Oh, you know. It means life and soul of the party.”

“Extrovert?”

“Yes. That’s it. Sometimes people like that are quite shy at home, aren’t they?”

“You may be right.” Meinwen sighed. “So...did you know who his solicitor was?”

“No. Sorry. Again, Mr. Wilkins would know. He handled the mortgage and endowment policies for him.”

“I see.” Meinwen frowned. “Wait. Mortgage? I didn’t know there was a mortgage on the house. Mam left it to all of us.”

“Oh, not the house in Ashgate Road. He bought another one in Chervil Court. I don’t think he even used the Ashgate one much any more. He was going to tart it up to sell, I think.”

“Chervil Court?

“That’s right. One of the maisonettes. I think he rents out the other flats.”

“I didn’t know that at all. What number?”

“Give me a moment. I’ll look it up. It was one that came up for sale with us. John went to value it and fell in love with it. He bought it on the spot.”

“Was that ethical?”

“Oh yes. The vendor got it independently valued so he knew he wasn’t being fiddled. They split the cost of the land searches and agency fee and of course John got money off for pushing the sale through so quickly.”

“Lucky him. Right. Thanks for your help, Jennie. I’ll wait for the call from your Mr. Wilkins and see if the police found any keys.”

“Okay. Do you still want the number of his house in Chervil Court?”

“Yes, please.” Meinwen waited while Jennie put the phone down and left her desk. She was only gone a minute.

“Here you go. It’s number eight, flat five. Will you let us know when the funeral is? I think we’d all like to attend. Your brother really was a lovely man.”

“I will, love. Thanks for your help.” Meinwen rang off before Jennie could prolong the conversation further. She certainly had food for thought now. Another residence in Chervil Court? That was the student area north of the cemetery. Bedsit land, by all accounts. It stood to reason a gay man would be more readily accepted against a backdrop of students than with the twin set-and-pearls brigade of Ashgate Road.

She logged on to her messenger service to see who was online. She didn’t often talk to people she didn’t know but it was a useful way to have eyes and ears in a number of different spots in town. Few of the names of her list lit up so she left an offline message for her friend Cacoethes, otherwise known as the romance writer Jennifer Brande who used to run the whole town from her study desk until she joined the household at the Larches.

Scribe: Jennifer? I need your specialist knowledge for a case!

She logged off again, wondering who she knew in the Chervil Court area she could ask about John. She’d have liked to go to see the house there but it was pointless without a key. She looked at the clock. Two forty-five. Time to meet Jimmy at Ashgate Road. She powered down her laptop and stood.

Just her and Jimmy Fenstone in an empty house. Meinwen clenched her pelvic floor muscles as a familiar wetness spread through her vagina.