Risking It All (15 page)

‘How’s Usha?’ I asked. Usha was Ganesh’s sister and Jay’s wife.

‘Fine. Fingers crossed, expecting a baby.’

‘Good news, then.’

‘We could do with some,’ said Ganesh grimly.

‘It seems to me at least,’ I told him, ‘that it would be a good thing if I kept out of the way for a bit. I don’t mean skip out. Inspector Janice would go bananas. I mean, just not be here too much.’

This was paving the way for my absence the next day, when I intended to go out,to Kew. Gan didn’t know about that, but I hadn’t forgotten my promise to my mother. ‘This afternoon,’ I went on, ‘I’ll go to Egham, to the hospice.’

‘I can’t get time off to drive you,’ Gan said. ‘I can’t leave Hari. The old chap’s in a terrible state. Morgan said someone would be round to interview him this afternoon. I’ve told him all he’s got to say is that Duke came into the shop and asked for you. That’s the one and only time Hari saw him. But you know Hari. He keeps saying we are all under suspicion.’

I could imagine it. The way the police mind works, it might be true, at that.

‘Then I’ll definitely keep out of the way. Don’t worry, I’ll get the train out to Egham.’

I set out for the hospice shortly after this conversation, via Waterloo, as I’d told Gan. When I got there, I took a bus up the hill. It dropped me near the hospice. The rain had stopped but the day was dull. It had rained out here earlier too, and water dripped from the rhododendron bushes as I turned in the hospice gates.

I was thinking about my mother and what I was going to say to her and not paying much attention to anything else, and it nearly cost me dear.

There was a sudden roar of engine and crunch of tyres on gravel. A car sped down the drive towards me, causing me to leap for my life into the bushes. I had a brief glimpse of the driver, a man in his thirties or early forties with a pale, set face and eyes staring ahead of him. With a screech of rubber on tarmac he turned right and belted off. I hoped the idiot would encounter a speed camera. I didn’t think he’d noticed me at any time, on the drive or sprawling in the greenery. I disentangled myself and wiped trickles of water ineffectually from my jacket. Perhaps the Wacky Racer had just made a difficult visit to a hospice patient and his mind was all over the place. He could still kill someone, driving like that. He’d nearly killed me.

I carried on up the drive and made my way into the hospice. I tapped at the office door just inside the lobby. Someone called out for me to enter.

Sister Helen was standing by the window, looking out at the drive. She appeared flushed and not as in control as when I’d last seen her. She looked round, saw me and said, ‘Ah, Fran.’

I saw the mask of composure slip neatly back into place. Working here, it was something she’d had to cultivate. I admired her for doing such a difficult job, but she was looking at me in a speculative way which made me wonder what was in her mind. As it was, I had something on mine.

‘Someone nearly ran me down,’ I told her indignantly.

‘That,’ she said, ‘would be Mr Jackson. I saw him leave.’

She paused as if I would have some comment to make about this. When I didn’t, she indicated a chair. We both sat down.

‘You didn’t recognise the car?’ she asked. ‘Or see the driver? The name doesn’t mean anything to you?’

I shook my head. ‘I saw his face. I didn’t know him.’

She made a noise like ‘tsk!’ and frowned. After a moment she appeared to make up her mind and said, ‘Your mother’s been sleeping most of the day. I’ll go along and see if she’s awake in a moment. Perhaps we could have a word first.’

I didn’t like this but I couldn’t refuse. I asked, ‘What about?’

‘Well, Mr Jackson for a start, though you say you don’t know him. I was hoping you might. Fran, I know something’s worrying your mother. It’s been on her mind since she first arrived here. Before Mr Duke found you I thought it was that she feared he wouldn’t – or that you wouldn’t come even if he did. Now she seems so eager to see you again, but it’s not the usual kind of eagerness. It’s as though she’s expecting you to bring her some kind of news.’

I shifted on my chair and must have looked guilty but I said, ‘I can’t explain that.’ Which, as far as it went, was true. I wasn’t free to explain. If she took my words to mean I was ignorant of the cause of my mother’s nervy state, so much the better. I wasn’t sure she did. She was too sharp. I thought she probably understood that I knew but wouldn’t tell.

‘We get all kinds of people calling here,’ she began now. ‘Usually they’ve been in touch first, or the person they’re visiting has told us about them. Mr Jackson just turned up about half an hour ago, wanting to see Mrs Varady. When I asked if she was expecting him, he said no, but he was an old friend. So I asked who had told him she was here. But he was vague about that and distinctly jumpy. I told him Eva was asleep and suggested he wait. He did sit in the lobby for a few minutes, fidgeting all the time. Then he went outside and called someone on a mobile phone. I couldn’t hear the conversation, of course, but I could see him through this window. He looked very agitated, even quite shocked. When his call was over he just jumped in his car and drove off without coming back to tell me he was leaving. I’m not happy about any of it. I was very relieved to see you. I thought you might be able to explain some of it.’

‘I don’t know Jackson,’ I said. If that was his real name. I doubted it. Another unknown bobbing about in the equation. Wonderful.

‘Sister,’ I said, ‘I do have some news for you but it isn’t good. It’s about Mr Duke. He’s dead and it’s in the hands of the police.’

She stared at me with her clear gaze, which seemed able to see right into my head. ‘You mean it’s a suspicious death?’

I nodded. ‘But my mother mustn’t know he’s been – that he’s dead. I’ve explained to the police about her but they might come round, wanting to talk to her, even so.’

‘We can handle that,’ Sister Helen said, and I felt comforted. Morgan and Cole wouldn’t get past this defence easily. She rose to her feet. ‘I’ll just go along and see if Eva’s woken up.’

My mother was propped on her pillows. She looked tired and more frail than when I’d last seen her. She held out her hand wordlessly. I took it and sat by the bed.

‘I went to the address you gave me, in Wimbledon.’

She turned her head, watching, saying nothing.

‘The Wildes don’t live there any more.’

I felt her hand twitch in mine. Now, I have a confession to make. It had occurred to me, sitting in the train on the way there that afternoon, that I had a cast-iron excuse for putting an end to this chase after the Wildes right now. All I had to say was they’d moved and I hadn’t a clue where they’d gone. But now I knew I couldn’t lie to a dying woman.

‘I’ve got another address, from a neighbour. It’s in Kew. I hope I’ll be able to go there tomorrow.’

‘Thank you,’ she said.

We sat quietly for a while, hand in hand. ‘Is it difficult for you to take time off work like this?’ she asked suddenly.

‘I haven’t got a job at the moment,’ I told her. ‘But I’ve got one lined up, in a pizza parlour. It’s a new place, or will be, when it’s finished. The owner’s got ambitions for it. I’m going to have to dress up like someone in the chorus of
The
Gondoliers
.’

She managed a faint smile. ‘You’ll look very nice, I’m sure.’

‘I’ll feel a bit of a prat, though. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’ve got plenty of time at the moment to go to Kew.’

‘Is Mr Patel with you today?’

‘No, he does have a job and he couldn’t get away.’

She nodded. ‘You’ll need some money, all this running around on my account. I’ll ask Sister Helen to give you twenty pounds. She keeps a sort of kitty for each of us for odd expenses. I’m sure there’s twenty pounds in mine. I don’t have any expenses.’ After a moment she went on, ‘I should have known that, shouldn’t I? About your not having a job. I should have asked you that sort of question last time you came. I didn’t ask you anything about yourself I was so keen to get Miranda’s story off my chest. I wanted so much to hear you say you’d do it, do what I wanted.’

She was still calling my sister Miranda. In her mind, Miranda would always be her baby. She knew that baby had taken on a new identity, but a corner of her mind wasn’t accepting it. I had an uneasy feeling that what she was trying to do was turn the clock back. No one can do that.

‘Don’t worry about it.’ I could see she was tired and struggling to concentrate. ‘I’ll come back when I’ve been to Kew,’ I promised. ‘We’ll have a talk then. With luck I’ll have good news for you.’ I stooped and kissed her forehead. Her skin felt soft and papery.

She raised a hand to touch my cheek, her palm resting against my flesh as lightly as a feather. ‘Call Sister,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell her about the twenty pounds.’

I thought Sister Helen might question me about the money, but all she said as she handed it over was, ‘It isn’t necessary for your mother to know everything, Fran. We’ll keep Mr Duke’s death from her and you’ll know if there’s anything else.’

I set off back to London, realising for the first time that even if I was successful in tracking down the Wildes, I might not find what Mum was expecting. If I didn’t, what should I do?

That evening a guy I knew from my drama studies days called Marty came round. He’d heard I was looking for a place to live and he knew of a squat in Lambeth. There might be a place for me, no promises.

I went down there with him so that he could introduce me and tell them I was an OK person. It was a big old house with a damp problem not disguised by an interior decoration top to bottom in lilac paint. The youth who opened the door to us had the pale skin and staring eyes of the confirmed junkie. As he lifted his arm to point up the stairs, his sleeve slid back to reveal the bruises and angry red puncture marks. Any squat I’ve lived in has always operated a no-hard-drugs rule. From behind one door came the sound of a first-class row between a couple who had the technique of veteran scrappers. Any minute now it would become physical. From behind another door a baby wailed with the sad hopelessness of instinct. It knew things weren’t going to get a lot better than this.

As it happened, I was too late and the spare room had already been taken on by someone. I wasn’t altogether sorry. As we left, the junkie at the door asked if we had any spare dosh. Marty retorted, did we look as if we had?

Outside Marty apologised for bringing me on a wasted errand. I told him not to worry and bought him a pint because he’d meant well.

‘The last time I was there,’ he said, still worrying about it, ‘it was a really nice place. It’s gone downhill a bit.’

Like me, he had his standards. Also like me, the stage didn’t appear to be providing him with much of a living. He had a tatty beard and the unhealthy look of someone who eats all the wrong food. However, I was wrong in thinking he had no plans in that direction.

He cleared his throat. ‘I was going to look you out anyway, Fran. I’ve got this, um, project.’

He looked both proud and embarrassed. I asked what it was.

‘You remember Freddy, the landlord at the Rose pub?’

‘I do indeed,’ I said. ‘And if you’re thinking of doing a turn on that stage he sets up, you’d better be ready for anything. I’ve seen the audiences he gets.’

‘Old Freddy’s a bit stage-struck,’ said Marty, defending him. ‘He fancies himself as a promoter.’

‘Freddy fancies himself, period.’

‘Are you going to listen or not?’ Marty asked, hurt by my cynicism. ‘I’m offering you work.’

‘I’m listening!’ I told him.

‘Well, he hasn’t just got that stage downstairs. He’s got a big room upstairs and every Christmas he puts on some kind of a show for his regulars. One year he had a panto. Last year he had an old-time music hall. This year he wants to put on a play.’

Marty sighed. ‘I was hoping I could persuade him to let me put on one of mine. I’ve written several. But no, he wanted something they’d recognise and like. He reckons they’d like a mystery. To cut a long story short, he asked me if I could do a stage version of something with Sherlock Holmes in it. And I said,’ Marty drew a deep breath, ‘I’d adapt
The Hound of the Baskervilles
. Freddy was pretty keen. All his regulars have heard of that. Most of them have seen the old film on telly. I’ve started on the script. I thought you might like to play either of the female roles, preferably the main one.’

‘Of course I will,’ I said at once. ‘So long as I don’t have to get into a dog outfit and play the hound.’