Murder in Style (17 page)

Ellie hesitated, feeling not exactly shy but diffident about intruding on the meeting.

The door into the sitting room at the back – where the will had been read – was open, but no sounds came from it. Ellie wondered if anyone had bothered to replace the broken window.

Curiosity killed the cat? Well, never mind that. She walked in and sighed. Didn't anyone ever clear up after them in this household? The hostess trolley was still there, abandoned, festooned with all the glasses, cups and saucers and plates which had been lying around at the end of that apology for a wake. Added recently were a couple of pizza boxes, one with an uneaten slice still in it. And, no, the broken window had not been replaced, which made for a nasty draught.

‘About time, too.' Ray Cocks walked in behind Ellie, shutting off his mobile phone. ‘This place is a tip.'

Ellie blinked. Did Ray still think she was their substitute cleaner? She could disillusion him, but her every instinct was to clear the place up. She couldn't bear mess. And, she'd learned a lot by playing the part of the cleaner the day before, so why not continue? Also, she didn't think she'd be very comfortable in a script conference for a film which was unlikely ever to be made.

So she put her handbag on the bottom tray of the trolley, and began to collect the dirty dishes.

Ray ignored her to take a picture off the wall, revealing the door of a safe. Containing … what? His wife's jewellery and valuables? Which he was fully aware now belonged to Juno?

He produced a small book from his pocket and began to leaf through it. Looking for the combination to the safe? Was that his wife's diary, or his?

He wasn't familiar enough with the combination to identify it, which meant he hadn't chosen it … Which meant that his wife had … Which meant that she had had control of whatever was placed in the safe. So what was Ray doing, getting into the safe?

Ellie collected the pizza boxes and piled them on top of the dirty dishes. Ought she to break into the meeting to tell Trixie what Ray was up to? But, wouldn't she look stupid if Trixie already knew? Perhaps the solicitor had suggested that Ray get the jewellery – if that was what was in the safe – valued for probate?

Ellie picked up a heavy glass which had rolled across the floor to come to rest by the window, risking a glance over her shoulder at Ray, who turned on her, saying, ‘What the hell do you think you're doing?'

Ellie dithered. She could tell him who she was, which would entail having to confess that she had been spying on him in the guise of a cleaner. How embarrassing! Or, she could mumble an apology, red-faced, and get out of the room as quickly as possible. Which is what she did.

She was cross with herself. Hot and bothered. Undecided what to do.

The safe, once opened, had given her a glimpse of a stack of jewellery boxes and some bundles of paper. Share certificates? Bonds? Rolls of money?

What
was
she to do? She didn't
know
what Ray intended to do with the contents of the safe, though she suspected that … well, what? That he'd steal them? Yes, the word was
steal.
The contents of that safe did not belong to him. Of course, if they were his personal property …?

But, how was she to find out?

She pushed the trolley into the kitchen and started to put the dirty plates into the dishwasher, which contained only what Clemmie had put there the day before. Didn't Trixie realize you could easily run out of clean plates and cutlery if you didn't bother to wash up?

Laughter and a noisy babble came from the room in which Trixie's meeting was taking place.

Oh, dear Lord above; what am I supposed to do?

A burst of laughter from the meeting, a light-hearted cry of ‘Tea break!' and Trixie rustled across the hall and into the kitchen. Yes, she rustled. She was wearing a taffeta petticoat under another of her full-skirted dresses. Good heavens! Ellie hadn't thought youngsters ever bothered about petticoats nowadays. But, well, Trixie was a one-off.

‘Oh, you've come at last, have you? We'd like some tea, please. For six. Plus one coffee, black, no milk.'

Ellie stood up, easing her back. She'd asked God what she ought to do, and Trixie had arrived, prompt on cue. ‘Sorry, Trixie. I'm Mrs Quicke, whom your grandma wanted to sit in on your meeting for some reason, but then your father mistook me for a cleaner, and there was quite a mess, so I started to clear up.'

‘Well? What?' Trixie was annoyed. Discomposed, but annoyed. No one likes to be taken for a fool, do they?

Ellie stiffened a backbone which wanted to collapse. ‘Your father – and it may be quite all right, I don't know, you must be the best judge of that – he's got the safe open and—'

The girl vanished. ‘Father!'

Trixie had gone to see what was happening. Good.

Well, probably good.

Someone rang the doorbell. Hard and long. A tenor voice came from the front room, ‘Trixie? Someone at the door.'

Ellie abandoned her task, but hadn't got as far as the hall before a thick-set figure swept across her view and into the back room. The businessman. Now what exactly was his business with Ray? Ray owed him money, right?

‘I thought we were supposed to meet at two.' The businessman, not pleased.

Ellie crept to the doorway, but didn't step into the room. Her eyes went to the safe. It had been hurriedly closed and the picture rehung in front of it, askew. Trixie was standing beside her father, looking flushed and anxious.

Ray looked at his watch. ‘Is that the time?'

From where Ellie stood, she could see a bulging shopping bag … Tesco's? … on the floor behind Ray. It contained what? A fortune in cookies? The contents of the safe?

The businessman's eyes were everywhere, taking in the broken window, the absence of crockery, the look of guilt on Trixie's face. The bulging shopping bag. Ray's grin, which looked painful.

Trixie made a small, inviting movement towards him. And smiled. Again, it was a challenge, that smile. Not an invitation. Or was it? What was going on here?

The businessman replied to Ray, but looked at Trixie. He said, ‘Do I have to remind you that I hold a number of your IOUs? You said you'd have something on account for me.'

Ray loosened his tie. ‘You know what's happened, you were here yesterday, you heard. Everything belongs to Juno, and she's disappeared.'

‘You've reported her disappearance to the police?'

‘Well, no.'

‘Then you will do so. I cannot wait.' He hadn't taken his eyes off Trixie, who returned his gaze steadily, watchfully. Not promising anything. Or was she?

Ray threw out his hands. ‘You must understand that I can't touch anything that's hers. I rang the solicitor. He's adamant. Nothing can be sold or removed from the house till probate. Since the house is no longer mine, I can only stay here if Juno agrees, and we don't know where she is.'

The businessman didn't even bother to look at the shopping bag. Still his eyes were on Trixie, and hers on his. He said, ‘You have the garage. Sign that over to me. That should reduce your debt; maybe even leave you with a little credit.' Was he speaking in code? Did he want Trixie in his bed, by way of payment for Ray's debts? Would she play ball, to save her father?

Ray was oblivious of this by-play. He said, ‘The thing is, the last time I asked Poppy for money, she made me sign over the garage to her—'

‘What!' from both Trixie and the businessman.

‘The agreement was that she pay me to manage it. Only, I haven't been there much lately, and she said—'

‘She sacked you?' Trixie, horrified.

The businessman stood rock still. Feet slightly apart, head forward. A bull about to charge. ‘What about your personal property?' His eyes flicked up to Trixie. Did he think of her as Ray's private property?

‘My watch!' With shaking hands, Ray fought to undo the clasp of his gold watch, and held it out. ‘Take it. It's worth four, five thousand.'

‘No, father! Wait! You can't—'

‘My car. The Lexus. It's outside. Thirty thousand. It's mine. Not leased. Take the keys.'

‘Well?' The businessman said, to Trixie.

She turned her back on him, flushed. Trembling.

The businessman's eyes narrowed. Was he taking her reaction as a rejection? He snatched at the watch which Ray was holding out to him. ‘Add the contents of that bag on the floor, and we'll call it quits.'

‘No!' cried Trixie again. ‘That's Mum's jewellery. It doesn't belong to my father. You can't touch it!'

‘Watch me!' He darted forward and whisked the bag up from behind Ray's legs.

Ellie thought, Here I go again. ‘No,' she said, stepping into the room. ‘Mister …? Sorry, I don't know your name, we haven't been introduced, but Trixie is quite correct. Nothing that belonged to the late Mrs Cocks can be removed from the house till after probate.'

He swung round on her, bag in hand. ‘And who may you be?' His brain ticked over, and memory retrieved the sight of Ellie serving sandwiches the day before. ‘The cleaner? Hah!'

‘Oh, quite,' said Ellie. ‘But I'm also Mrs Ellie Quicke, of the Quicke Charitable Trust. If Mr Cocks wishes to pay his debt to you with his personal property, then he is certainly at liberty to do so, though I believe you should sign a receipt for the value of what you take and give him back his IOUs. But, my dear sir, you cannot remove property belonging to anyone else.'

‘Try me!' Carrying the bag, he took a step towards her, clearly intending to thrust her aside.

Ellie stood her ground. ‘I only have to raise my voice to summon Trixie's friends, who are conferring in the front room. Several very large men, I understand …' crossing her fingers that they were indeed large and of the male sex ‘… and several women who will have their smartphones to hand. They'd love to call the police to prevent a robbery taking place.'

His eyes swivelled, calculating odds.

Ellie's heartbeat was far too fast, but she managed to say, ‘Trixie, find some paper and make out a receipt for the gentleman, in the amount of, shall we say, goods to the value of thirty-four thousand pounds? One watch, one car. And you, sir, kindly drop that bag.'

A stir in the doorway behind Ellie and a large young man appeared. Rugby player? Red hair. Lively blue eyes. He focused on Trixie. ‘A problem?'

Trixie managed a smile, with difficulty. ‘Sorry. No, not really. An unexpected visitor. I'll be with you in a tick. If anyone wants tea or coffee, could they get it themselves? You know where the kitchen is, don't you? I just have to …' She gazed blindly around her. ‘Pen and paper. I need pen and paper.'

‘I'll get some for you, shall I?' said the newcomer. ‘We may not have any sensible ideas for a film script, but we do have pen and paper.' He disappeared.

Trixie said, ‘Aidan. Junior doctor. Son of Councillor something. He writes comic verses for revues when he feels like it. His surname is … What's the matter with me? I do know it, don't I?' She rubbed her forehead.

Hang in there, Trixie.

Ray let himself down into a chair. Gazed into space. Opting out. Humph!

The businessman calculated the odds of pushing past Ellie and making his getaway. His shoulders bunched. He was going to make a run for it.

Ellie said, ‘Of course, Ray could sue you, Mister whatever-your-name-is. There was a case in the papers a while ago where a man sued a club for letting him have credit when they knew he had no assets left. I don't know whether he won or not, but the publicity wouldn't do you much good, would it? I suggest you take the watch and the car and write the rest off.'

He weighed that up, and decided against it. Hefted the bag in his hand. She could see him thinking he would be able to push Ellie out of the way. How could she stop him? As well stop a charging bull.

‘Pen and paper, all correct. Anything else?' Aidan returned, his eyes lively, taking in the situation, lingering on Trixie, switching to Ray and then back to the businessman … and finally to Ellie. His eyes narrowed. He was trying to ‘read' her, wasn't he? No fool, this.

‘I'm not signing anything,' said the businessman, ‘and you will not prevent me from leaving with what is owed to me, or it will be the worse for you.'

‘Oh!' Trixie turned away, hand to mouth. She'd turned to marshmallow, hadn't she?

We need Clemmie here, not Trixie. Clemmie wouldn't melt at the first sign of trouble.

Clemmie, Aidan … Aidan, Clemmie? Good genes. YES!

Well, hopefully.

‘Threats?' said Ellie, her eyes on Aidan, who was reading the situation at the rate of knots. ‘Two can play at that game. Aidan, this gentleman is going to sign a paper for us before he leaves. And, he leaves without that bag because it doesn't belong to him.'

‘Do I call the police?' Aidan's eyes hardened, as did his chin. The genes were definitely good.

‘Yes!' gasped Trixie.

‘No!' said her father. ‘I mean … if he would only …'

The businessman wasn't waiting. He lunged for the doorway.

Ellie tried to step in front of him, and was thrust aside.

An immovable object prevented him. Thud! The businessman bounced off Aidan and staggered back, arms flailing.

Ellie plucked the bag from the uninvited guest's hand, and removed herself and it out of harm's way. ‘Enough of fisticuffs. Aidan, could you bring the gentleman over here and sit him down so that we can complete our transaction? Ray, you need to make out a receipt.'

Ray seemed to have difficulty moving.

‘Come along now!' said Ellie, becoming annoyed with him. ‘How should we word the receipt? Something to the effect that this is in full quittance of all debts owing? How much do you owe, by the way? More than thirty-four thousand?'