Murder on the Hill (7 page)

As soon as we completed this case for Mr. Bellman.

It was funny how that took over my thinking, diminishing Ivanov’s threat. But after his impromptu kidnapping, his demands remained in the back of my mind.

I stood up from my sofa nest and opened the curtains. I briefly considered snooping around for that diamond again, but Cordi came through the door, looking bright and breezy as a woman who didn’t have an anticlimactic night.

“We’ll get coffee and croissants on the way. I’ve got us a meeting with the carer this morning.”

“Wonderful,” I said, wishing it wasn’t so early. I hardly ever woke before noon, so seven a.m. was the twilight zone for me. I never really knew what went on during these hours. And didn’t care enough to find out. I like sleep. More the better.

“What do we know about her?” I asked between yawns.

“Not much. Her name’s Susan Leadbetter. Other than that, she works at the Maple Leaf Care Centre and visited Mrs. Bellman twice a week. She seemed a little distracted, though, when I spoke with her. Maybe even a little evasive.”

“But she still agreed to see us,” I added.

“Yes, though that’s not necessarily an indication of a willingness to help. Quite often people will agree to answer questions in order to get it over with and get you off their case.”

Cordi was really starting to impress me. I admit that I kind of wrote her off a bit as a crazy cat lady who hoarded crap, but the more I worked with her, the sharper she seemed.

“I feel gross,” I said. “Can I use your shower? It’s all been such a whirlwind lately I’ve not had a chance…”

“Oh, of course! I’m sorry for not offering sooner. I feel awful. Making you stay here without a clean change of clothes. You must think I’m a terrible person. Here, let me go sort some clothes for you. I know you’re slimmer than me, but I have some clothes from when I was younger, they’ll be sure to fit with a little adjustment. Come on; let me show you how the shower works. It’s a little antiquated and fussy, but it does work well.”

I wanted to say no thanks about the clothes, thinking they were going to be moth-eaten bell-bottoms or some such horror, but Cordi was off and up the stairs, muttering what a terrible person she was.

Given how good she had been with me, especially with not asking too many questions, I decided I’d just deal with it and go by Sapphire’s later to collect the rest of my things, which only amounted to a single rucksack of leggings, old band T-shirts, and various items of underwear.

***

After spitting cold water at me, the shower head, a great wide brass thing like a sunflower, eventually sprayed the hot stuff, making me groan with delight.

I stood with my head bowed and let the water hit my shoulders and back to ease my muscles.

Although I’m quite used to sleeping almost anywhere, Cordi’s ancient sofa provided a new kind of chiropractic torture that twisted up my muscles. I leaned against the tiled wall and let my body relax.

Outside of the shower room, Cordi was bustling through cupboards and wardrobes, trying to find something for me to wear. I don’t know why, but I got images of floral dresses and beige slacks. That thought made me shiver, despite the hot water.

Easing myself straight, I soaped up and washed my hair.

It felt good to be clean again.

It’s easy to get used to going a few days without a shower when you’ve spent years on and off the streets or hiking through Africa and South America.

From beyond the door, Cordi called out, breaking me out of my relaxation. “Harley, dear, I’ve got some clothes and towels for you. Is it okay to come in?”

The shower curtain wouldn’t show anything, so I said, “sure.”

“How are you getting on in there, everything okay?” Cordi asked.

“Fine,” I said, letting the last of the shampoo suds wash away. “It feels great. Thanks for letting me use your shower stuff. I’ll pay you back.”

Through the shower curtain I saw her silhouette standing there with her hands on her hips. “I’ll hear none of it. In fact, I’ve been remiss in paying you your wages. When you’re finished, come into the kitchen and I’ll give you an advance. Given the sudden circumstances, it’s only fair. And no, I won’t have any argument, you hear me, Harley?”

I smiled through the stream of water. What had I done to deserve finding such an amazing friend and employer? I definitely owed Cole big time for setting this up.

Which reminded me; I’d have to send him a message and find out what was going on with my new ID credentials.

“Thank you so much,” I said. “Really.”

“Well, don’t thank me too much until you’ve seen these clothes,” Cordi said with a hint of mischief to her voice. “I’ll be downstairs getting ready. We leave in thirty minutes for our appointment with Ms. Leadbetter.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Cordi closed the door and descended the stairs. This old place echoed and clanked with any movement, making me worry just what else would come crashing down at any moment.

Finishing up in the shower, I shut off the water and stepped out of the bath onto a mat. Cordi had piled the clothes neatly on the tiled floor next to a stack of fresh towels, which I snatched up and dried myself off with before the chill of the morning got to me.

I stared at the clothes as I dried off, eyeing them with suspicion.

Just what kind of hideous things had she found for me? I thought, with horror, that some of them might even be her old aunt’s…

The panties were big. Like
Bridget Jones
big. Still, they were clean, and they would do until I got something smaller, and less parachute-like.

I put my own bra back on and reached down for the rest.

To my surprise, Cordi had given me a pair of vintage black Levi’s.

Skinny fit with perfect patina on the knees. The denim was soft and worn and wouldn’t look out of place in a high-end vintage clothes store. They were so rock ‘n’ roll that I chuckled with delight as I squeezed into them. With a little stretching and impromptu yoga moves, they fitted perfectly.

I cleaned the condensation off the mirror and looked over my shoulder. Damn, they made my butt look good.

Go Team Cordi!

For the top, my new best friend had given me an old
Cure
T-shirt.

It had a deep neck and hung baggily, just perfect. I was tempted to backcomb my hair and go full-on goth, but I didn’t have the time.

I quickly towelled my hair and left it all tousled. It went well with the new outfit. I didn’t bother with any makeup—I didn’t want to push my luck with asking Cordi for mascara and lippy. And besides, this wild natural look felt great.

Tidying up in the bathroom, I wrapped my old clothes in a towel and headed downstairs. Cordi was sorting out some cash from a lockbox on her table. I spied over her shoulder. No black diamond. But given what she had done for me, that prospect was becoming less and less desirable.

How could I steal from this woman who had shown me so much kindness? I’d just have to find another way of dealing with Ivanov. Though I only had a couple of days left until the goons came calling again. I tried not to think too much about that.

“Hey, you,” Cordi said, turning around on her chair. “Don’t you look great. The jeans fit okay? I’m sorry they’re so old and unfashionable, but—”

“Cordi, these are just perfect! I love them. Thank you so much. I can’t believe you were a goth.” I beamed at her, returning her smile.

“I was a huge Cure fan,” she said. “The goth scene in the ’80s wasn’t like it is today. It was… happier, in its own gloomy way.” She chuckled then, and I could see her now, dressed like me, at the gigs, and I felt a deeper connection to her.

“You’re pretty cool, you know that?”

“Why thanks. Oh, here’s your wages. I’m afraid it isn’t much for the first month. I’m still trying to turn this business around, but once we complete the Bellman case, I have ideas of how to expand things… once I deal with my aunt.”

“Your aunt? In what way?”

“Oh, just some leftover issues. She’s an old busybody and doesn’t like new things. I’ll sort it. Anyways, here you are.”

Cordi handed me a brown envelope. I flicked through it. There was a grand in cash.

“Cordi, this is too much. I’ve only worked with you for a couple of days.”

“It’s an advance, and besides, you need it. I’m not blind, Harley. Your gorgeous friend Cole Lockland has told me a little of your background. And no, before you think this is charity, it’s strictly business. That’s your first month’s wages. If you decide you don’t want to continue after the Bellman case, you’re free to return the difference.”

Before I could protest any further, Cordi folded my hands over the envelope and grabbed me by the shoulders. “Come on, let’s go do what we do best and get some answers from Leadbetter.”

CHAPTER 8

London is often thought of as a super-populated concrete jungle, with few green spaces, but if you travel a few miles outside the city centre, you’ll be surprised how quickly the environment can switch between urban and rural.

Now, I’m no country bumpkin. I like concrete. I like cities and shops and industry. I like the bustle of people and traffic. London breathes with this frantic twenty-four-hour heartbeat that means every day has promise. Go a few miles out of that and I get anxious.

Trees and fields, narrow country lanes. Tractors. Cows. All that kind of stuff. It feels unnatural to me. Even when I was travelling, I preferred the busy towns and cities to the wilds.

Saying all that, I couldn’t help but feel spirited as Cordi drove the Mercedes through the narrow roads lined with tall oaks and chestnuts.

With the windows open, the breeze was a welcome addition. London in the summer can be insufferable, so despite the lack of people and things, this rural escape at least brought some fresh, cool air.

While Cordi drove, I navigated, with an actual map. No GPS here. I’d use the dongle and my phone, but when dressed in ’80s clothes, it seemed right to use an old-fashioned map.

I only got us lost twice.

We still managed to meet our appointment on time, so I’m chalking that up to a win in the Harley column.

The tires of the Mercedes crunched over the gravel drive. It was a long, slow approach through a huge expanse of a green field with massive oaks dotted around the landscape. A few elderly people with walkers ambled around the place. Others were sat around a picnic table with white and blue uniformed carers helping to serve the tea.

“Looks nice out here,” Cordi said. We approached the open square that made up the guest car park. It ran along the front of the massive old stately mansion.

There were at least fifty windows along the four stories. And huge marble columns held up a porch over the wide, open double doors of the entrance.

“Thinking of booking a room?” I asked.

“If it means picnics with cake and tea, why not?”

“I’ll bear that in mind when you get a little older.”

“Planning on sticking around for that long?” Cordi said as she parked in a visitor’s spot.

That was a good question. I hadn’t planned to. The idea was to get the ID and start a new life. But perhaps working with Cordi… “We’ll see how it goes,” I said, not wanting to interrupt the good thing we had going with talk of the future. “You might be fed up with me after a while.”

“I doubt that. I like having you around.”

“For competitive cake eating?”

“That too.”

“Hey, looks like you’ve got an admirer.” I pointed out the side of her window. An older guy in a bright pink cardigan and brown corduroy trousers leant against his walking stick, a few feet away from the car. He focused on Cordi with a cheery glint in his eyes.

“Hey, we’ve got a greeter,” I said.

“He looks friendly. Let’s say hello.”

Cordi opened the door and approached the man. His white hair blew wildly in the breeze. He smiled wide in greeting, contrasting against the foreboding mansion. I looked up at the windows and saw dozens of faces watching us behind net curtains.

“Can I help you?” Cordi asked the man.

“You’re ’ere to see Leadbetter?” he said with a Cornish accent.

“Um…” Cordi didn’t know what to say to that, but the old guy shuffled forward and held out a hand.

“Gerry Foswinkle, at your service. I know all about Mrs. Bellman. That’s why you’re ’ere, isn’t it, to see if ol’ Leadbetter did it.”

“No, that’s not quite it,” Cordi said. “I can’t really talk about that, I’m sorry, Mr. Foswinkle.”

“Just Winkle, to my friends.”

“Okay… Winkle. Thank you.”

Cordi and I shared a secret grimace as we rounded ‘Winkle’ and headed inside.

“That wasn’t creepy,” I said as we stepped inside to the home’s reception. “I’m telling you, there’s something off about this place.”

“It’s fine, I’m sure.”

Dark shadows shrouded the reception area and added to the general gloom created by the wood-panelled walls and brown tiles. The place had the stench of an old hospital.

In the far left corner a suit of armour stood on a plinth. Above it hung a huge portrait of a serious man with a widow’s peak and bushy, angry eyebrows.

“James Forsyth the Third,” a female voice said from behind us.

Cordi and I turned to the right to find a blonde-haired woman in her mid-forties standing behind a desk with a pen in her hand. “The original owner who had this home built in the nineteen hundreds. Passed it down through his family until the last Forsyth died a decade ago, giving the home to the elderly to provide respite and care.”

Quite the introduction. She’d clearly said this a thousand times given how bored she sounded.

“Hi,” Cordi said, stepping forward and handing the woman a business card. “We’ve got an appointment to speak with Ms. Leadbetter.”

The receptionist took the card and placed it in her breast pocket. She looked from Cordi to me, changed her expression to something that was less welcome, and said, “Are you looking for a place for your mother?” Her hand casually indicated Cordi.

I burst out laughing. Cordi didn’t exactly dress young for her age, but she certainly didn’t look like she belonged in a care home. The receptionist flared her nostrils at me.