Dead Funny (6 page)

The woman took the smallest of breaths and Lieutenant Weinburger seized his opportunity. “Thank you ma’am. How did the guy pay?”

“Cash. I told my sister—”

“Cash. There’s no credit card receipt? Nothing we can use to trace him?”

“Well no, but I thought you’d want to know I’d seen him. My sister said, ‘Shirley, get over there and tell the cops right away. They’ll be looking for him—’”

“Of course ma’am.” Lieutenant Weinburger beckoned over one of his men. “Officer, take this lady’s statement. See if she can identify the carnation that we picked up in the grounds.” He revved up the engine again to indicate the conversation was at an end. As he drove through the gates, I could hear the lady’s story being poured into the ear of the policeman.

“That interview will be ninety-nine per cent perspiration,” I muttered to Graham. “Do you think he might have said anything to her about where he’s staying?”

“He wouldn’t have got a word in edgeways!” replied Graham.

“Are we going to be safe here?” Looking up at the mansion I felt suddenly anxious. Two people had already died there. “Suppose Len Radstock comes back?”

“With armed police crawling all over the grounds?” replied Graham. “Right now I’d estimate that this is probably the safest place in Hollywood.”

The car pulled up in front of the house. Mum ran down the steps to meet us.

“Did Poppy help?” she asked Lieutenant Weinburger.

“Yes ma’am,” he said. “She provided us with a real neat solution.”

He didn’t sound exactly thrilled and for the first time I felt a glimmer of sympathy for him. Because as I climbed out of the car I felt the tiniest suspicion tiptoeing across my mind that maybe – just maybe – the solution was a little
too
neat…

That
night, when Sylvia cooked us supper in Baby Sugarcandy’s kitchen, she seemed more relaxed and at ease. Her hair was still scraped back, but the ponytail wasn’t quite so tight. The dark suit had been replaced by a light summer dress, the tightly-laced shoes with a pair of strappy sandals, and there was even a slick of lipstick across her mouth. It had been badly applied, as if she wasn’t used to wearing it, and traces of red had got on to her front teeth, making her look as though she’d been eating raw liver.

But she was smiling in an almost sincere way when she said to me, “It’s just as well you were here to help the police! It’s only a matter of time before they catch the guy now.” She started frying some chopped onions. “What a relief that’ll be!” It was spoken with real feeling.

“Let’s hope the police arrest him before he finds Toby,” said Graham gloomily. “Or there might be another nasty murder.”

Sylvia added meat to the pan and it sizzled away while she boiled water for the spaghetti. “He can’t hide for ever. And then this will be over and we can move on. It’s been a rough couple of days! As for Toby – he must be deep in the jungle somewhere. If the police can’t find him, an old man like Len Radstock won’t be able to. And they’re sure to pick him up soon, his picture’s been on TV, it’s all over the papers – someone’s going to recognize him.”

Mum began to catch Sylvia’s optimistic mood. She moved over to the counter and picked up a block of parmesan cheese. “Want me to grate this?” she asked.

“Sure.” Sylvia smiled at her and I noticed again that it was almost, but not quite, genuine. Soon they were absorbed in a conversation involving global politics and I curled up in the armchair near the Aga so I could watch them.

For someone who was about to be out of a job, Sylvia seemed unnaturally cheerful. There was a spring in her step as she tossed salad leaves in dressing. Energy fizzed from her fingertips as she set knives and forks on the table. Electricity positively crackled from every pore as she dished spaghetti into bowls and poured the meaty sauce on top.

“Dinner is served,” she announced, pulling a chair out for me and Graham and beckoning us to the table. “Enjoy.”

The food was good, and I tucked in. I pretended to be absorbed in the process of eating, but really I was studying Sylvia closely. The secretary didn’t give me a second glance and that in itself was odd. She’d been watching me and Graham ever since we’d arrived and her lack of attention now only made it more noticeable. It was like having a radio on in the background – you’re only really aware of it once it’s switched off. So why had Sylvia been watching us? And, more importantly, why had she stopped? It was as if she’d been desperately hoping we’d do something, and we’d done whatever it was, so she’d lost interest in us.

Mum was laughing at some joke Sylvia had made. She seemed to think Sylvia was OK. And Graham hadn’t been bothered by her scrutiny. Why did I have this gut instinct that the secretary couldn’t be trusted? Was it those insincere smiles? Had she really had Botox injections? Surely she was too young for that?

I thought back to the day she’d picked us up from the airport. Of course, I’d missed most of the journey. I’d been fast asleep until she’d braked for that raccoon and the Sat Nav had fallen off and gone bonkers. I wished I’d seen it. She’d said there were loads of raccoons on the estate but we hadn’t seen a single one. Maybe I just wasn’t looking in the right places. I’d have to remember to ask someone about them.

When the meal was over, I was unable to stop a huge yawn escaping from my mouth. It was catching. Graham yawned too, and then Mum. Stifling it she said to Sylvia, “I think we’ll crash now, it’s been a long day. Thanks for the meal, it was delicious.”

For a moment Sylvia didn’t answer. She was looking intently out of the window. I glanced over, but from where I was sitting all I could see in the glass were the reflections from the kitchen. Suddenly, for the first time, a smile that went all the way up to her eyes creased Sylvia’s face in two. She concealed it almost at once, turning and saying blandly, “Hey, no problem. I’m glad you enjoyed it.” Mum didn’t notice her delayed reply, but I did. I saw Sylvia’s expression and wondered what had made her so happy that for a split second she’d seemed lit up from within.

I was just drifting off to sleep when a loud clatter from the courtyard below jerked me awake. For a confused moment I didn’t know where I was or what was happening. As I sat up and rubbed my eyes there was another bang that sounded suspiciously like a metal dustbin being pushed over.

“Graham?” I called, climbing out of bed and pulling on my dressing gown.

Graham emerged from his room and joined me on the landing. “I heard it too.” We looked at each other nervously, then went down the stairs together and approached the front door. I pulled it open and as I peered into the blackness the security lights snapped on.

Beside a toppled dustbin in the corner of the courtyard was a raccoon. It was caught in the sudden glare, sitting on its haunches, a half-eaten slice of pizza grasped guiltily in its front paws. Black markings on its face made it look as though it was wearing a bandit’s mask, and its stripy tail was sticking out sideways.

“Little thief!” I was delighted. “See that mask and those stripes? He looks like Burglar Bill. All he needs is a bag with
SWAG
written on the side!” The creature froze for a moment, dazzled by the bright light. I took a small step forward hoping to get closer but it ran away, clutching its prize in its teeth. I laughed, and then said to Graham, “Our first raccoon! Sylvia said we’d see one.” I glanced around, half-expecting the secretary to appear: she must have heard the clattering too.

It was then that I noticed the kitchen door was ajar. Sylvia had said she was going to bed. Why hadn’t she locked up?

A cold sliver of fear knifed me between the ribs. I peered harder into the starkly lit courtyard and then stifled a scream of horror.

Behind the toppled dustbin was the unmoving body of Sylvia. A dark stain had pooled on the stone slabs around her head. When we approached we saw that a baseball bat – which looked just like Mr Punch’s stick – had been discarded at her feet. A wave of terrible sadness crashed over me, but tears of pity turned to tears of rage when I saw what her attacker had done. It hadn’t been enough to kill her: he’d made fun of her too. On Sylvia’s head, perched at a mocking, jaunty angle, was an old-fashioned English policeman’s helmet.

“It’s
a nightmare. I wish we’d never come here. Why did I take this job? I want to go home!”

Lurking in the shadows at the top of the spiral staircase I could hear Mum’s wailing quite clearly but Lieutenant Weinburger’s reply was harder to catch.

“I appreciate your feelings, ma’am, really I do, but it’s just not possible for you to leave at the moment,” he said. “Your daughter is the only witness we have. We’ll need her to identify Len Radstock when we arrest him.”

“
If
you arrest him!” Mum snapped accusingly. “All those police in the grounds and he still managed to slip through! And the whole time we were having that meal with Sylvia he must have been out there, looking in at us… It’s horrible!”

I couldn’t control the violent shudder that seized me at the thought of Len Radstock watching while we ate spaghetti; waiting, while we crossed the courtyard to the guest wing. Had he been out there in the shadows all the time? Had he watched me and Graham discover Sylvia’s body? How close had we come to being his next victims? Where was he now?

It was very late and Mum had insisted that Graham and I go to bed and get some sleep while the police did what they needed to do at the scene of the crime. We’d been despatched upstairs with a comforting cup of hot chocolate. Mine was now stone cold on the bedside table. Sleep was utterly impossible. When Lieutenant Weinburger had knocked discreetly on the front door to interview us, I’d gone downstairs to open it, only to be bundled back up to my bedroom by Mum. “She’s not getting involved in any more of this. It will give her bad dreams for life!”

I’d faked obedience, climbing into bed and pretending to sleep. When Mum had finally gone back down to talk to the policeman I crept to the top of the stairs to eavesdrop. Graham was already there listening in.

“Why Sylvia?” lamented Mum. “Why kill her? It’s not like she was even related to the others.”

It was the question that I wanted to ask, and I bent forward to hear the lieutenant’s answer.

“He seems to be targeting anyone closely connected with Baby Sugarcandy,” he said slowly.

Mum’s voice rose an octave. “So we’re in danger too?”

“I’m afraid we have to consider it as a possibility ma’am. I’ve stationed officers all around the perimeter of the estate. No one can get through now, believe me.”

There was a pause, and from the rustle of tissues I could tell that Mum was crying. Lieutenant Weinburger let her be for a while, and then asked, “How much did you talk to Sylvia?”

“Not much. It was just polite stuff. Nothing important,” snuffled Mum.

“She didn’t mention a boyfriend?”

“No,” replied Mum, confused. “Why?”

“We believe she was planning on getting married,” said Lieutenant Weinburger.

“Really?” Surprise dried up Mum’s tears. “I had no idea.”

“I was checking over her room. She had a whole file of cuttings and leaflets about wedding venues, caterers, that kind of thing. They were spread out on her bed. Looked like she was planning something real big.”

“She must have bagged herself a millionaire.” Mum blew her nose.

“She never mentioned anything to you?”

“No, but I’d only known her a couple of days or so. Poor Sylvia! That’s so sad.” Mum was off again, weeping into a fresh tissue.

My mind was alive with questions. Sylvia had seemed so cheerful this evening – was it because she was excited about getting married? The words of the florist echoed in my ears: “That guy was just so happy! He was acting like it was his own wedding day.” Could there be a connection? And if Len had been looking so happy when he bought the buttonhole why did he look so scared when I saw him later? I was distracted from this line of thought by Lieutenant Weinburger.

“I found this in her room too,” he was saying. “I thought you’d appreciate having it back.”

“Oh.” Mum sounded puzzled, and I edged forward to see what he’d given her. “I wonder how she got hold of this?”

“You didn’t send it to her?”

“No.”

I twisted my head, pressing it against the banisters, craning to see what Mum was holding. It was a photograph. I couldn’t see who was in it but Mum was saying, “It was taken at the Chelsea Flower Show last year. I won a bronze medal.”

I remembered it well. Mum had clamped a restraining arm around my shoulder and forced me to be in the press photograph despite my protests.

“I guess Sylvia ordered a copy from the newspaper,” said Mum. “She must have wanted to be able to recognize us at the airport. Look at Poppy’s expression! She hates having her picture taken. That scowl could crack a camera.” Mum lifted the photograph up for closer inspection. “That’s odd,” she said.

“What?” asked Lieutenant Weinburger.

“There, look. Can you see? Sylvia’s scribbled on it. I wonder why she drew a circle around Poppy’s head?”

“Just doodling, ma’am. Probably did it without thinking.”

I wasn’t so sure. Sylvia had been watching me from the very beginning. The fact that she’d circled my face in the photograph struck me as being both sinister and significant, although I had no idea why.

Downstairs, the adults carried on talking a while longer, but they didn’t say anything else that was of interest to me or Graham. When the policeman got off the sofa to go, we took ourselves quietly back to our rooms, climbed into our beds and faked deep slumber.

I found that real sleep was slow to come and when it finally arrived it was full of horrible dreams. I woke at dawn, snapping out of a nightmare in which I was being chased by a giant raccoon, whose red lips were spread in a grin, and who cackled madly like Mr Punch.

I
had a deep, foaming bath and lay soaking in it until my fingers and toes were as wrinkled as raisins. Climbing out, I dried myself, feeling tired before the day had even begun. Mum would be pale with misery, fretting about Sylvia, terrified about the wandering murderer and the likelihood that we were next on his list, and wailing every five minutes that she wanted to go home. I found the prospect of coping with her feelings quite exhausting.