Читать книгу A Few Little Lies - Sue Welfare - Страница 8
ОглавлениеThe flat above the shoe shop in Gunners Terrace looked small and shabby – an easy target. The man watched a small, plump woman ring the bell, waited for a few minutes more in his car, watching to see if she got an answer until he was certain there was no-one at home.
As she walked away, rounding the corner, he climbed out of the car and flicked up his collar. They did that in all the films, and on the telly. He crossed the road, slipping his hand into his jacket pocket. The lining was split so he could carry a jemmy tucked up under his armpit. It felt good, familiar, like part of him. It was warm from his body heat. Under his parka he stroked the grooves and the small rough patch where someone had scratched their initials.
Rain dripped off the gutters, and now off him too. Stepping off the kerb he swore as he stepped into a deep pothole, soaking his feet inside his trainers. Bloody weather, bloody roads. He walked slowly towards the door, glancing left and right. He rang the bell to double check. No answer.
Probably Catiana had moved out now she was famous, now she’d got a bit of money. Maybe the other woman was just a cleaner or a Jehovah’s Witness. He grinned, then stepped back and looked up at the grimy first floor windows. At one of them, a large ginger cat pressed his face against the glass. Someone had to be taking care of the cat; perhaps he had struck lucky after all.
Glancing around once more to make sure no-one was looking, the man slipped into the alley beside the shoe shop. Rubbish bins and soggy cardboard boxes were stacked two high. Here, the gutters had failed completely; glistening waterfalls of rain cut swathes into the muddy, weed-choked path.
The alley dog-legged around a flat-roofed, single-storey extension. A crumbling brick wall divided the pathway from the fringes of the recreation ground behind.
The man looked at the wall thoughtfully; it wouldn’t take too much to get up onto the roof. The extension joined on to the flat. He stood for a minute or two considering whether he ought to risk climbing up in broad daylight. From the roof he’d be able to get inside the flat, no problem. In, have a snout around for the stuff he was after, and then out. Maybe twenty minutes, tops. Inside his other pocket was an aerosol can of paint. Good way to confuse the Old Bill. He grinned. Only trouble was the little ball in the can made a helluva noise if you ran, kept banging about, rattling.
‘Are you the builder?’
Startled, the man swung around. A teenage girl, arms wrapped defensively around her chest, peered at him through the rain. Her face was screwed up with cold.
He nodded dumbly, trying to gather his thoughts.
‘Not before bloody time. The manager says to tell you that the damp’s coming in through the brickwork in the store room now. Do you want to come in and look?’ She stepped aside and indicated the open door into the shoe shop.
The man shook his head, still thinking.
‘Er no, I’ve just come to look at the outside today.’
The girl, her hair now dripping, rolled her eyes heavenwards.
‘Bloody typical. Well, I’m not hanging about out here watching you wandering about with a tape measure. If you want anything you’ll have to knock or come round the front.’
‘Wait,’ said the man. ‘You don’t happen to have a key for the flat upstairs, do you? I’d like to take a look at them gutters.’
The girl pulled a face. ‘Nah, it’s completely separate. Didn’t you come last time? The woman who lives up there is out all day today, she told me this morning.’ The girl looked down at her watch. ‘I’m going to go and get me dinner.’ Sniffing, she stepped back into the shop, closing the door smartly behind her.
‘Wednesday is shopping-day, Tuesday is egg-n-chips, Monday is s-o-u-p.’ Dora alternated between singing and humming as she drove back along the bypass into Fairbeach town centre. She smiled at her reflection in the rear-view mirror. If she wasn’t careful she would have turned into a crazy old lady before anyone realised it.
Dora had been out to Ely, trying to fill her head with window-shopping as an antidote to Lillian Bliss’s virtuoso performance on the ‘Fenland Arts’ programme. She’d been to the supermarket first, which on reflection was a mistake. The full-cream jersey milk had probably already turned to yoghurt and the meat was no doubt busy defrosting itself all over the custard doughnuts. She turned off the main road into Gunners Terrace, slowing and easing forward as she reached the corner, trying to catch out the blind spot.
There was a car parked outside the street door to her flat – a small white car with a blue light on top. With a peculiar sense of resignation, Dora pulled in behind it. Before she had a chance to lock the car doors. Sheila appeared, and from a nearby hatchback, a slim ginger-haired girl hurried towards her clutching a notepad. They both began speaking at the same time.
‘There you are. I wondered where you’d got to. You don’t want to go upstairs, it’s an awful mess,’ said Sheila.
The ginger girl took a deep breath, pen poised above her pad. ‘I’m Josephine Hammond from the Fairbeach Gazette. I wonder if we could have a word with Miss Moran? Why are the police here?’
Dora stared blankly at the two women and then pushed past them.
Upstairs, there was a young police officer in uniform standing in her kitchen – what was left of her kitchen.
‘Mrs Hall?’ he said pleasantly, turning round to face her.
Dora nodded. The kitchen window was smashed and everywhere seemed to be covered in cups and cornflakes and washing and newspapers and books and plates – cupboards open, milk puddling around an overturned bottle on the lino – on the wall, in spray paint someone had written ‘SLAG’ in huge fluorescent green letters.
Dora stared at the policeman and blinked. She struggled to find something to say but was stunned to discover that there were no words in her mouth.
Sheila launched herself manfully into the breach. ‘You’ve been burgled.’
The policeman looked at his notes. ‘Mrs Shepherd here said she came round at just after twelve o’clock today to see if you were in.’
Sheila sniffed. ‘I was round at nine but you weren’t here, so I nipped back.’
The man consulted his notes again. ‘Twice?’
Sheila nodded, colouring slightly. ‘I’ve been worried about her.’
‘And on the last occasion Mrs Shepherd found the street door open downstairs.’ The officer looked up and pointed at the broken window with his pen. ‘I reckon they must have come in over the flat roof, broken that, and then let themselves out by the front door when they’d finished. Kids, most likely.’
Dora took a deep breath, but Sheila was ahead of her.
‘What are their parents doing? Why aren’t they in school, that’s what I want to know? It’s disgraceful.’
Dora turned round, stepping on crackles of broken crockery. She coughed to clear her mind. ‘I’ve been to Ely. My cat …’ she began.
Sheila snorted. ‘Never mind about the bloody cat. Look at the mess.’ She bent down to pick up the remains of a mug. ‘I bought you these last Christmas – ruined.’
Dora wandered through the little flat. It looked as if a huge malevolent child had been playing hunt the thimble – drawers were upturned, books strewn everywhere, endless sheets of paper curled into snow drifts against the skirting boards.
The policeman followed in Dora’s wake. Sheila skittering along behind.
‘Anything obviously been stolen?’ he asked, still clutching his notebook. ‘Money, valuables? Your sister said the TV and video are still here.’
‘Nothing seems to be missing,’ said Dora, finally finding her voice. ‘I don’t keep a lot of cash in the house. I won’t really know if anything’s been taken until I’ve tidied up.’
In the office there were computer disks strewn all over the floor, books, notes, pens, ink – a multi-coloured archipelago of chaos nosing its way out into the hall. Dora suddenly felt as if someone was sitting on her chest, and slumped down in the swivel chair, the pulse in her ears banging out a calypso rhythm.
‘Your sister mentioned your address was broadcast on TV last night.’
Dora glanced up at the young man and then Sheila. Somewhere low in the pit of her stomach she had a nasty sense of being caught out. ‘Yes –’
Sheila stared at Dora. ‘It’s all right, I already told him about that woman on the telly. Common, if you ask me, and no more brains than she was born with. Said she lived here, but she doesn’t, Dora does. She must have had the flat before. There were students in here, weren’t there? All the same, students. How long have you been here? Three years? Four?’ She glanced at Dora for some kind of confirmation, but Dora said nothing, deciding it was better just to let Sheila carry on – she was doing a fine job of pushing the skeletons neatly back into the cupboard. ‘But fancy telling everyone the address, and on TV too.’
Before anyone could pass comment there was a funny strangled mewling sound from close by.
Dora sprang to her feet. ‘Oscar,’ she whispered and hurried back into the hall.
He was in the sitting room, camped out under an upturned armchair. When he saw her he lifted a feline eyebrow.
‘The day I’ve had,’ he mewled. She stroked his broad gingery skull and was rewarded with a guttural purr. He deigned to let her pick him up and nosed miserably against her chest. With narrowed pupils, he reassured her that the chaos had nothing whatsoever to do with him.
‘Spur of the moment, I reckon,’ pronounced the policeman. ‘Could be that they saw the TV programme – arts thing, like your sister said – but I very much doubt it. They’re like magpies, these kids. Trouble is, if they don’t find any money or anything they can sell quickly, they smash the place up. They reckon it’s the frustration.’
Sheila made a dark unpleasant sound in her throat. ‘Frustration? I’d give the little buggers frustration. So what happens now?’
The policeman shrugged. ‘Fingerprint lads are on their way, but I wouldn’t hold your breath. There’s an awful lot of this kind of thing goes on.’
Sheila sniffed. ‘What about that woman on TV?’
The man shrugged before returning to a solution he understood. ‘School’s just across the back from here. Maybe they saw Mrs Hall go out this morning. Maybe they climbed up on the roof for a dare. Who knows?’
Dora glanced up at the wall above the fireplace. ‘At least they weren’t totally illiterate,’ she mumbled, reading the arc of obscenities sprayed on the chimney breast. She looked around, swallowing hard. ‘I really ought to ring Kate.’
‘Her daughter,’ Sheila informed the policeman. ‘Lovely girl, she’s an estate agent, works in Banbury, you know, near Oxford? Got married last year.’
The policeman nodded and then scribbled something on a sheet of paper which he handed to Dora. ‘If you give these people a ring they’ll come and sort your window out’ he said in a reassuring voice.
Sheila squared her shoulders. ‘I’ll just nip home and get my overall. I think we’ve got some magnolia emulsion left in the shed. Get that wall done in no time.’
Dora was too overwhelmed to protest.
‘What do you want me to say to that girl down there?’ said Sheila, pulling on her coat.
Dora took a deep breath and went into the office. From the window she could see the reporter from the Fairbeach Gazette, Josephine Hammond, still sitting in her car.
‘Nothing,’ Dora replied flatly.
Maybe the girl would get bored and go away. Dora picked up a fan of paper from the office floor. Wishful thinking.
It looked much worse than it really was, or at least that’s what Sheila said at least two hundred times, as she bagged up the broken remnants of Dora’s life. It was like a mantra. Plumping and straightening with uncanny zeal she cut a swathe of order through the chaos. Dora would have been immeasurably grateful, if only Sheila could have managed her act of compassion in silence.
‘I don’t know …’ Sheila said, for the umpteenth time, dropping a broken plant pot into a black bag, ‘… what is the world coming to? Look at this …’
Dora followed her, cradling Oscar. She felt as if she was walking around inside somebody else’s body.
Finally, hours later. Sheila emptied the sink, stripped off her rubber gloves and tucked them up into a neat ball.
‘There we are,’ she said briskly, claiming another personal triumph. ‘Now don’t touch that emulsion in the living room. I’ll nip round tomorrow and put another coat on.’ She arranged the clean brush and roller back in the paint tray. ‘Might be a good, idea to do the rest of the room while we’re at it.’ She looked round thoughtfully. ‘Whole place could do with a bit of brightening up. I’ve got three quarters of a can of nice sunshine yellow if you want it. What are you going to do about the office?’
‘I’ll start in there tomorrow.’
Sheila took her coat off the back of the door. ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right? You can come home with me if you like. It wouldn’t be any trouble.’
Dora stared at the shadowy ghosts of the graffiti on the kitchen wall. She wasn’t sure whether she could bear to stay in the flat another minute and at the same time couldn’t bear the idea of leaving. Even the air felt raw and hurt. She wanted Sheila gone so that she could start to make everything better again.
‘I’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘Really.’
Sheila nodded. ‘Good. Funny thing about that Catiana Moran woman, bit of a coincidence you liking her and it turning out she used to live here. Did you know about that?’
Dora hurried across to the door. ‘Thank you for all your help, Sheila. I really don’t know what I would have done without you.’
‘You ought to ring the TV programme up and complain though, I would. I’d give them a real piece of my mind, if I were you.’ She sniffed. ‘Have you rung Kate yet?’
Dora shook her head. ‘Not yet. I’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks for everything you’ve done. I won’t be here in the morning, I’m going to Jack Rees’ funeral.’
Her sister pulled a face but said nothing.
When Sheila finally went home, Dora left a message for Calvin on his machine, then unplugged the phone and crawled into bed. Oscar claimed the lion’s share, which was strangely comforting – not everything had changed.
Alicia Markham, chair of Fairbeach Conservative Association, adjusted her hat, tugging down the veil over the discreet brim so it emphasised her eyes. She smiled at her reflection; she had always looked good in a hat, and her carefully composed expression, from long practice, conveyed a perfect balance of interest and unapproachability.
‘Guy really ought to travel in one of the main funeral cars. After all, he is our new candidate.’
Beside her, Harry Dobbs, the party secretary, coughed. ‘It really wouldn’t be right, Alicia. It’s not official yet. Let’s at least get Jack Rees decently buried.’
Alicia turned away in exasperation. Across the oak-panelled function room in the local party headquarters she caught Guy Phelps’ eye and found herself smiling. He was sitting with his wife and two members of the selection committee. She lifted her glass in a silent salute. Charming man. He should do them very well. She turned her attention back to her reflection in the mirror above the fireplace and tipped her hat a little further forward.
‘We have to wait for the official announcement,’ continued Harry in his unfortunate monotone.
Alicia Markham snorted and glanced at her watch. Time for another sherry before Edwin Halliday arrived from Westminster with his entourage. She was pleased that they had sent one of the more popular cabinet ministers to represent the government. The Fairbeach by-election was crucial. The PM had sent his condolences. She ran a smoothing finger over her eyebrows. Pity he couldn’t have made the effort to come himself, but then again that might look like an act of desperation, so this, presumably, was his idea of a double bluff.
Just inside the door the tables had been set for the buffet lunch. Two pubescent waitresses were arranging glasses on trays for the sherry. She pouted; best remind them that the good bottles near the bust of Churchill were for the VIPs.
Alicia would have preferred some of the more senior party ladies to have officiated, but she could hardly expect them to don pinafores today, though there were at least half a dozen who would willingly have thrown themselves on the sword for party honour. The girls shuffled backwards and forwards with trays of vol-au-vents and smoked salmon canapés. Alicia fought the temptation to tell them to pull their shoulders back. The large blonde one had the most appalling skin – where did the agency get these girls?
‘Besides, I’ve already arranged for Guy to go with Lawrence Rawlings. A discreet statement of intent,’ said Harry, to her reflection.
Alicia had quite forgotten about Harry Dobbs. He was now wringing his hands with considerable conviction. Presumably the gnashing of teeth came later.
‘Every newspaper in the country has leaked Guy’s name, Harry. What do you propose we do, unveil him at a fête?’ she snapped. She stared at Jack Rees’ wreath-topped coffin. ‘At least Guy Phelps has some degree of decorum. We won’t have to show him which knife and fork to use.’ She sucked her teeth. ‘And I’m hoping we’ve finally seen the end of our MP ignoring a three-line whip because he’s pissed, and then having to try to convince everyone it was a point of principle.’ She shuddered. ‘What we need to consider now is who the other parties have got lining up against us.’
Across the room, the club steward, resplendent in his morning coat, opened the double doors for Jack’s widow, Caroline. Alicia tidied her jacket and glided across the parquet to greet her. She took Caroline’s hand in hers and pressed an inaccurate airy kiss to each cheek.
‘Caroline, my dear. How are you?’
Caroline snorted. ‘Cut the crap, Alicia, and no, before you offer, I don’t want a bloody sherry. Can we go to your office? Jack told me you keep a decent single malt stashed away for big occasions.’
Alicia glanced around to ensure no-one had overheard the grieving widow’s outburst. ‘Of course, my dear,’ she said, in a carefully stage-managed voice, and led Caroline to the inner sanctum. They were no sooner inside than Caroline Rees dragged off her hat and threw it onto the desk.
‘My daughter, Lucy, wants to sing “Pie Jesu” during the service.’
Alicia smiled benignly. ‘That will be nice, dear,’ she said, in her most soothing voice, pouring two stiff scotches.
Caroline grimaced. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Mawkish little cow.’ She took a long pull on the glass Alicia offered her. ‘You know, when I first met Jack, everyone said he’d make the cabinet. Tipped for a top job. And the honours list – selfish little bastard – awkward to his last breath. Trust him to die before he picked up his knighthood.’ She paused for a second or two, staring unfocused into the middle distance. ‘He was tipped for one, you know – they always give them to the mavericks.’ She gathered up her lips with a drawstring of old resentments. ‘But he didn’t know how to say yes sir or kiss arses, did he, Alicia? Our Jack, good old Jack, was born without an arse-licking gene in his entire body.’
Alicia wondered how many scotches Caroline Rees had had before she left home.
‘Have you met Guy Phelps yet?’ Alicia asked, trying hard to steer the conversation back to safer ground.
Caroline Rees rounded on her. ‘We’re going to lose the seat you know, Alicia.’
Alicia Markham reddened and squared her shoulders. ‘Guy Phelps –’
Caroline sighed. ‘Is a complete and utter dickhead. Everyone knows you’ve selected Phelps because he’s a yes man. Do you think you’re going to be able to persuade people that he’s Jack reincarnated just because he’s a local boy? Come on, Alicia, get a grip. People loved Jack Rees because he was a complete rogue. Bastard.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘He must have been the most unsuitable Conservative MP in living history.’ A sad, single hot tear ran down her elegant face. She sniffed, pulling herself upright. ‘Can I have another scotch?’
Alicia swallowed hard. ‘I rather think you’ve had enough, Caroline. Everyone will be here soon.’
Caroline lifted an eyebrow. ‘They’ll find out about Jack, you know, splash his little indiscretions all over the front page. Probably do something on BBC2, fallen heroes.’ She sniffed again and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. ‘Nothing people like better than shooting a folk hero down, once they’re dead, of course. The dead are fair game –’
There was a knock at the door. Alicia was relieved and hurried across to answer it. The steward nodded. ‘Mr Edwin Halliday is here, Mrs Markham.’
Alicia sighed. ‘Thank God for that,’ she muttered in an undertone. She nodded to Caroline. ‘If you’ll excuse me, my dear.’ She indicated the grieving widow to the steward. ‘Get Mrs Rees a cup of coffee will you,’ she said quietly. ‘Make it black.’
Alicia glided back out into the main room, painting on her party smile. Caroline Rees disturbed her deeply. In some ways, although Alicia was loath to admit it, she had preferred Jack. At the very least he didn’t pretend – what you saw was what you got. Caroline Rees, by stunning unsettling contrast, was a delightful woman when she was on show, the perfect politician’s wife, but in private … Alicia shivered as she approached Edwin Halliday. She almost felt sorry for Jack.
‘My dear Mrs Markham, how very nice to see you again,’ Edwin Halliday said, engulfing her tiny hand in both of his. ‘It’s a terrible shame that we have to renew our acquaintance under such tragic circumstances.’
Guy Phelps was already on his feet, as was to be expected, nosing his way into the edge of the group. Alicia stared at him for a few seconds. Caroline Rees was right about Guy, of course, that’s why Alicia had been at such great pains to ensure his selection. Finally, a man at Westminster she would be able to control. But the memory of the decision she had engineered was dissipated the instant Edwin Halliday turned his smile on her.
‘Man that is born of woman has but a short time to live …’
Dora Hall glanced up at the vicar by the graveside in Fair-beach’s cemetery and suppressed a Sheila-style sniff of disapproval. His voice rose dramatically.
There was a large crowd huddled around the graveside for Jack Rees’ funeral, including a bevy of local party supporters – and their chairwoman, Alicia Markham, surrounded by her initiates. Dora peered at them. Presumably one of the men in overcoats was the new Conservative candidate. The king is dead, long live the king.
Dora recognised the Labour candidate, the Lib Dem man – her concentration slipped a notch and moved on until she spotted Calvin Roberts standing in the shelter of a yew tree. She lifted a hand in greeting. He frowned miserably in her direction.
The press had been penned up in a special area. Dora glimpsed the face of Josephine Hammond from the Fairbeach Gazette amongst the huddle, but presumably, today, Dora was no more than a minnow amongst a shoal of far bigger fish. If the girl noticed her, she gave no indication.
Jack’s widow and his two step-daughters stood by the graveside, very stiff and upright. The newly bereaved Mrs Jack Rees was wearing a very chic little black suit and a pillbox hat with a veil. At regular intervals she dabbed one eye with a stunningly white handkerchief and looked tastefully grief-stricken.
Dora tried very hard to be sad and not cynical.
‘Ashes to ashes …’
Dora glanced around the faces of the other mourners. She knew most of them. Amongst the dignitaries – the mayor and his wife, the chairman of the local chamber of trade, councillors and businessmen – were an awful lot of ordinary Fairbeach people. The groups were interspersed with other unknown faces, presumably from London. Strangers, who, for a little while, were united in their love and respect for Jack Rees.
Across the grave, a single, beautifully stage-managed tear trickled down the face of Jack Rees’ widow as she sprinkled a handful of soil on the coffin. There was a lightning strike of flashbulbs.
Disgusted, Dora turned away and huffed out a long breath. Calvin eased his way through the crowd towards her. He looked decidedly unhappy.
‘Good turnout,’ said Dora conversationally. Calvin made a small tight noise in his throat.
Dora stared up at him. ‘What’s the matter? Are you all right? Did you get my message on your machine?’
‘I did. I’m sorry to hear about the burglary.’ He sniffed and then a cacophony of angry words tumbled out. ‘You’re not going to believe this – someone broke into my office as well. I can’t bloody well believe it. Makes you wonder what the damned police are up to. Kids running riot all over the place – bloody disgusting.’ His heavy features reddened dramatically as he drew in a sharp breath.
Dora stared at him in astonishment. ‘You were burgled?’
Calvin wrinkled up his nose. Dora wasn’t sure whether he was hurt, angry or shaken. She felt very much the same.
‘When?’
‘Last night. Little bastards. Went through every office in the bloody building. Nicked the petty cash and smashed everything else to smithereens. You would not believe the mess.’ He smiled grimly. ‘Or maybe you would. Police came round first thing this morning. Said there wasn’t much hope of catching the little sods.’ He peered at her. ‘How are you, anyway?’
Dora shrugged. ‘I really don’t know. Sheila’s been round to give me a hand to clear up. I’m not sure which is worse really, her or the vandals. The police told me there wasn’t much chance they’d catch the culprits either.’
‘Bloody typical, they haven’t got to deal with the mess – files everywhere, drawers emptied – the insurance will cover the damage, but that isn’t the point, is it?’ He took a vicious puff on his cigar and lifted his hands in resignation. ‘What can you do?’
Dora fixed him with a long cool stare. ‘You really want my advice, Calvin? I’d seriously reconsider muzzling Lillian Bliss.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t think she had anything to do with this, do you?’
‘Seems a bit of a coincidence to me. One night my address is broadcast to the nation and the next day I’m burgled. Your address is all over my office and the same night someone does your place as well. Bit fishy –’
‘The whole of the building was done,’ Calvin protested. ‘Lillian had nothing to do with it. What did the police say to you?’
‘It was magpies, apparently. By the way, where is Lillian this morning, Bunny?’
Calvin frowned. ‘Stop it, Dora. We have a purely professional relationship.’
‘She makes you pay for it, does she?’
Calvin glared at her. ‘Lillian’s in Cambridge doing a book signing. I thought I’d already told you about that. Then later today we’re holding a short press conference, more of a photo call really. You ought to be more grateful. She’s generated an awful lot of interest, pre-publication sales for the new book are really creeping up.’
Dora lifted her eyebrows. ‘Well, that makes it all right then, doesn’t it? If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get back to the clearing up.’
‘Still on for lunch tomorrow?’
Dora snorted. ‘Too right, I haven’t got a single unbroken plate left in the house.’
‘Need a lift home?’ He tugged at his sleeves and then pulled a cheroot from his inside pocket. ‘I’m going back through town, wouldn’t take me too far out of my way –’
Dora shook her head. ‘No thanks.’
The mourners were beginning to disperse. Dora headed away from the main group towards the side gate which would take her onto a short cut.
‘Dora?’
Instinctively, she turned round at the sound of her name.
Hurrying across the grass was a man in a long black coat. She stopped and tried to focus on his face.
‘My God,’ she hissed under her breath, as a name formed in her mind. As soon as the thought hardened her stomach performed a dramatic back flip.
Chief Inspector Jonathan Melrose. Jon Melrose – the man she had left her husband for. Not that Jon knew, not that she would ever tell him. She had never so much as kissed him, but it had been the awful, ice-cold certainty that she could and would, if the offer ever came up, that had made her look at her marriage with different eyes.
Jon Melrose had unknowingly changed her life forever, and now he was standing with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his good funeral coat not more than an arm’s length away.
He grinned at her. ‘Hi, I thought it was you. Long time no see.’
Dora smiled. ‘How are you?’
‘Not bad. Look, I’m on duty at the moment, all these bigwigs need a bit of sheep-dogging by the local plod. I just wanted to say, I saw the report on your burglary first thing this morning. I was going to give you a ring.’ He stopped and smiled. ‘Saved me a phone call meeting you here. I wonder if you’d mind me dropping by later?’
Dora opened her mouth; too many times recently no words had come out. To her relief there was an answer all ready and waiting.
‘Sure. Why not?’ she said lightly. ‘Do you know where I live?’
‘It’s on the incident report. Don’t worry, I’ll find it.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘I’ve got to be getting back. Can’t keep the VIPs waiting. Once they’ve stopped shaking hands they start to get twitchy and wandering off on their own. I’ll see you later.’
Dora watched him jog back towards a group of distinguished-looking men, wondering why it felt as if she had become a passenger in her own life.
The intercom bell rang briefly. It was later that same day and Dora was sitting in her office looking at the computer screen. Outside, the street light’s glow announced the coming evening, though Dora had no sense of the time. Catiana Moran’s latest, unfinished novel scrolled up slowly, line by line. She could see the words but her mind didn’t seem to be able to decipher them.
The furniture had all been replaced and tidied, books rearranged, cupboards repacked, papers sorted, but the sense of calm and stillness was absent, as if the atmosphere had been ransacked along with the rest of the flat. She’d left the phone unconnected. The last thing she needed was more frantic voices to stir the slowly settling dust. She glanced at the receiver with its cord all neatly bound around, tying the words in. She really ought to ring Kate.
Her mind was butterflying. Lillian Bliss looked very much how she had fantasised her alter ego might look. Taller, bigger hair – far bigger mouth. She winced and stroked the scrolling words thoughtfully with her finger. The screen was cold.
Beside her keyboard was the novel Catiana had autographed.
The doorbell rang again. It sounded very distant. Dora shook herself as if she was trying to slough off fatigue. The bell rang more insistently. She leant across and pressed the button.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello, Dora, it’s me.’
Dora blinked. Four simple words in a voice from the past that made her gut contract.
‘Jon?’
‘Would you mind if I come up?’
‘Two minutes, I’m just changing,’ Dora lied and clambered to her feet.
She flitted around the room in desperation, turning off the computer, tidying away Catiana’s unexpurgated thoughts. Hurrying into the sitting room, she bundled the debris of the day into the cupboard near the fireplace, plumped cushions, straightened curtains and switched on a table lamp, while a nagging internal voice told her how ridiculous it was. After all, Jon Melrose had just dropped by to talk about the burglary.
Which made her wonder, if that were the case, why the sound of his voice had left an odd tingling glow in the pit of her stomach and her pulse had shifted up a gear? Glancing into the mirror above the fireplace, humorous grey eyes peered back from behind wire-rimmed glasses. She pulled them off, folded them on the mantel shelf, licked her finger and scrubbed at the spot of magnolia emulsion on the end of her nose – noting ruefully as she did that there was paint all over her hair as well.
Reflected in the mirror’s dusty eye, the sitting room looked soft and homely. Taking a final swipe at the cat’s hairs on the arms of the sofa, Dora hurried back into the office, letting a finger hover above the entry button. The kitchen –
Turning quickly, she threw open the door, scrambled lunch-time’s fish and chip wrappers into a ball and slam-dunked them into the bin. It was really too late to do anything about the rest of the room.
One deep breath, two deep breaths, after all she wasn’t a child. Struggling to regain her composure, she stepped back into the office and pressed the button.
‘Come up. It’s open.’
She heard the street door close and then the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Dora licked her lips, counting the footfalls and for a second all she could think of was how gorgeous Jon Melrose had looked in black.
