Risking It All (26 page)

The drizzle which had begun that morning was still falling. It was bitterly cold. I found the seat in the Wildes’ street and huddled on it, arms folded to keep the heat in and hands tucked into my armpits. Behind and above me trees rustled mournfully. The sodium streetlight gleamed on wet pavements. I was getting steadily soaked as water came at me from all angles, dripping from overhead branches down my neck, blown by gusts of wind into my face. Cars swept past, sending spray from overflowing gutters over my feet. Because the seat had been wet when I sat on it I even had the unpleasant sensation of wet drawers. I supposed this was all part of being a detective, but I’d decided by now it was an overrated profession. My only consolation was that, in weather like this, no one was out walking, like the lady with the fox terrier for example, and so no one was likely to ask what I was doing there. If anyone did, I’d decided I could always make up a story about being stood up by a boyfriend.

Up and down the street lights began to appear behind the expensive blinds and curtains. Occasionally, where curtains hadn’t yet been drawn, they revealed comfortable interiors like a forbidden world of luxury conjured up by a genie. I could see the Wildes’ house clearly. Lights were already on there so someone was home, but the blinds were drawn. Occasionally a fuzzy outline passed behind the blind but I couldn’t tell who it was, not even if it was doll-like Flora. Images projected on to blinds by lamps tend to be enlarged and distorted.

I read a story once, I think it was a Sherlock Holmes one, where a cut-out figure in front of a curtain fools a watcher in the street that Holmes is at home. I can’t see how that would work myself. The cut-out wouldn’t move. Even just sitting, we move about a bit, even if we doze off. I’ve slept in chairs. It’s not that comfortable. Your head lolls to one side or another. You shift about trying to get comfy. If the observer in the street was meant to think that was Holmes up there, wouldn’t he wonder why the great man didn’t tamp down fresh tobacco in his pipe now and then, or scribble a few words of the next little monograph on umpteen types of tobacco, or even decide to scrape away for a bit on the old violin? I tell you, it wouldn’t work.

I didn’t need reminding that I was pretty uncomfortable now, and wriggling about wouldn’t help. I leaned back and tried to ignore my waterlogged state and how stupid I must look to anyone driving past. Perhaps they’d think I was drunk or drugged. Perhaps they’d call the cops on that account. I wished I had a headset so I could at least listen to some music. I began thinking about Norman’s spare room and whether I could really live there. It wasn’t Zog on the landing or Sid in the attic who put me off. I’ve shared living space with all kinds of people and most of them just want to be left alone. What worried me was all that combustible newsprint downstairs and Norman adding to it daily like some sort of demented squirrel.

Someone was coming, walking down the pavement towards me from the further end of the tree-lined avenue. The figure slipped in and out of view disconcertingly as alternately it stepped into the shadow of a tree then out into a dull pool of streetlight. As it got nearer, I saw it was a female figure, not tall, and bulked out with padded jacket and heavy bag slung over one shoulder. On the other side, she carried some kind of long, thin dark case. As she came nearer I saw it was a violin case and I thought of Holmes again. The girl was almost on me. She emerged from the darkness beneath a tree into the reach of the nearest lamp, and I saw her face lit with a pale fluorescent glow.

I couldn’t stop myself. I just said, out loud, ‘Nicola.’

I had no doubt it was the girl in the school photograph. She’d pulled up the hood on her quilted jacket but her long fair hair, lank with drizzle, spilled out. Beneath the jacket she wore a dark-coloured skirt, dark-coloured tights and sensible laced shoes. I guessed they formed part of some private school uniform. They don’t change much. I’d worn much the same during my time in private education. I hoped Nicola was making more of her chances than I had.

She’d heard me and had stopped. Her eyes fixed me in a puzzled but not cautious stare. She had the self-confidence which goes with being bright, pretty, loved and well-off. A little princess.

‘Do I know you?’ Her voice was equally confident, slightly accusing.

‘No,’ I said.

‘You called my name.’

‘No,’ I repeated like a dummy.

‘I heard you. You said “Nicola”.’ Now the accusation was open in her voice.

‘No I didn’t,’ I denied. ‘I coughed.’

She didn’t buy it. She still stood there, glaring now at being contradicted when she was sure she was right.

‘I’ve got a bad chest,’ I said plaintively. ‘I got it sleeping rough. Got any spare change?’

That settled it.

‘No, I haven’t!’ she snapped. ‘And if I did, I wouldn’t give it to you!’

She strode away. I watched her cross the street to the Wildes’ house and let herself in with her own key. I judged it politic to remove myself from my seat for a few minutes. She’d very likely tell someone at home about me. I got up and retreated behind one of the trees. Not a moment too soon. Nicola must have burst in with a tale of being waylaid by a beggar. The blind at the front window was pushed aside and a face stared out, Flora’s, fixed and angry. Seeing the empty seat, she looked back over her shoulder at someone in the room. Nicola appeared, also peering into the night in the direction of the seat. She shrugged. They both left the window and the blind dropped back into place.

I waited a few minutes and then re-emerged, even wetter if that was possible. I was glad Jerry hadn’t come to the window. It indicated he wasn’t already home. I was aware that I didn’t even know if he commuted to and from work daily in a regular pattern. I could be wasting my time. He could work from home. He might all this time have been sitting in that cosy farmhouse kitchen, warm as toast, while I mouldered out here like Patience on a monument. But now I was encouraged to stick it out. He had to come, sooner or later. Mind you, I might get double pneumonia first.

In the meantime, I had plenty to occupy my mind. If it wasn’t for Janice Morgan and her investigations into Mrs Marks, my quest would now be over as far as Nicola was concerned. I could honestly go back to my mother and say I’d seen and spoken to her. Even Mum couldn’t insist on more. But Morgan and her thoroughness had put paid to that. Seeing my sister, speaking to her, had also put paid to any peace of mind I’d had left. I felt odd, a bit shaky. I told myself it was the cold but I knew it wasn’t, it was emotion. She was real. She was flesh and blood, my flesh and blood. Had my mother ever considered what this moment would be like for me? But then, neither had I. I’d worried what it would do to Nicola, but never what it would do to me.

I continued to sit there for the best part of an hour. Every time a car turned into the street I got ready, hoping it would be Jerry Wilde, but it never was. My joints were setting stiff. I got up and walked up and down a bit. Cold was eating into my bones. I was hungry and thirsty and, perversely, wanted to spend a penny.

I was considering nipping behind the tree again for this purpose when headlights played across the road junction. Another vehicle turned into the street. It was travelling slowly, drawing up outside the Wildes’ place. The driver climbed out. I was already moving forward, all discomfort forgotten. The street lighting played havoc with colours but the shape of that four-by-four and the glimpse of its driver were enough for me. I lurched across the road in my loose boot, calling, ‘Hey! Ben! Ben Cornish! Wait!’

Chapter Thirteen

My reaction was the antithesis of good detective work. I should have noted the caller’s identity and stayed where I was until Jerry turned up, as per my original plan. That I didn’t do this was partly because I was surprised to see Ben and shouted out his name on an impulse, much as I’d called out Nicola’s. But I fancy that subconsciously I knew I couldn’t physically wait out there in the dark and wet for much longer. Moss would be growing on me soon. I had to make contact with Jerry some other way, and providence was offering me one. Besides which, I’m an amateur.

‘Fran?’ Ben was saying, staring at me in astonishment, as well he might. He had watched the approach of the dark booted shape hobbling towards him with a mix of fascination and horror. Now he could see who it was, things weren’t improved. Drowned rats didn’t come into it.

‘Ben,’ I begged through chattering teeth, ‘we’ve got to talk. Please – don’t ring the bell. I must talk to you first, before you see the Wildes.’

He hesitated for only a split second. ‘Get in the car,’ he said. ‘There’s a pub just up the road.’

I climbed into the four-by-four, and only as Ben pulled us away from the kerb did it occur to my frozen brain to wonder what on earth he was doing there.

It was early in the evening for drinkers and he was able to park in the tiny car park to the side of the pub. As we made our way inside, he asked: ‘Why are you limping? Have you hurt your leg?’

‘No, just busted a bootlace,’ I told him.

‘Oh.’ He held the door open for me, a gent. Inside it was blessedly warm and dry. Also welcome was the sign that read
Toilets
.

‘Just a tick,’ I said. ‘Back in a minute.’

‘What do you want to drink?’ he called after me as I lurched away.

I called back that I’d like a coffee. Anything hot. It was the sort of pub which did coffee and food. I took a better look at it as I returned from my comfort stop. This was an upmarket watering hole for well-heeled local residents and tourists who’d come out here to visit the Gardens. It was spotlessly clean and all the tables shone. Each had a small brass disc with a number set into it, and above the bar was a VDU which showed what you’d ordered. All around the walls, a touch of culture, shelves of books. A quick squint at these suggested they’d been bought up as a job lot by the yard. There were titles covering every subject, from old romances of the Mazo de la Roche variety to out-of-date textbooks on physics and medicine. I wondered if anyone ever took one down and read it.

At this early hour of the evening, in any case, there was only a sprinkling of customers. The one or two who noticed me looked disapproving, as did the barman stationed beneath his flickering VDU. He had his name, Josh, pinned to his shirt and looked more of a yuppie than his clientele. Hey, Josh, I felt like saying, I used to live in Rotherhithe, where the regulars know who the barman is without it being stuck on his front with a sissy brooch. Nor do barmen there need a computer to tell them what you’ve ordered. They’ve got lightning-fast brains when it comes to totting up the score. They have proper names like Ron and Frank and they go in for weight training. They need to.

Josh’s opinion of me clearly reflected mine of him. I was lowering the tone of the establishment. He might have asked me to leave had I not joined Ben, who was waiting for me, a bottle of lager in front of him. A cup of coffee at my place sent enticing steam curls into the air.

‘Thanks,’ I said, grabbing it. The doors opened to admit another couple. The girl wore a long fake-fur coat and her escort a City overcoat. They looked as if they’d just returned from a shopping trip to Harrods. Perhaps they had. The barman was all over them. They all glanced at me. Josh whispered. I was sure he was apologising.

‘You look a bit wet. How long had you been out there?’ Ben was asking. He was looking amused. I think he guessed at the silent duel going on between me and Josh.

I confessed it had been quite a while. I’d done my best while in the Ladies’ to dry myself off in front of the hot-air blower and tidy up, but the improvement was marginal.

He didn’t comment. He waited until I’d drunk my coffee and showed signs of returning to room temperature. Then he asked, ‘Would you like to eat?’

I told him it was OK, but he didn’t believe me.

‘I think you should eat something.’ His voice was quietly determined.

I gave in without too much argument. I was ravenous. The menu stood on the table and the list matched the establishment. I picked on the least fancily titled thing, the special hamburger and chips.

Ben went to the bar and ordered. I was rooting around in my pocket for money when he got back but he waved it away. ‘No problem. Just tell me what’s going on.’

He was asking the impossible. How was I ever going to be able to explain any of this to anyone? If I could’ve kept one step ahead of the game, I might have been able to handle things better. But I hadn’t, not once Jerry knew I was on the trail.

‘I should have realised, when I called on Mrs Mackenzie, that she’d phone the Wildes,’ I said. ‘That sort of screwed things up for me.’

‘Aunt Dot was worried. She talked it over with me and I advised her to phone Jerry Wilde.’ Ben paused. ‘I phoned him myself, too, later. I gave him the address of the hospice. I reckoned if you were on the level’ – Ben’s gaze grew speculative – ‘and the Wildes and your mother were old friends, Jerry would want to visit her. He certainly sounded pretty upset. Whether that was on account of your mother being so ill or not, I don’t know. To be honest, I did think, when you called on Aunt Dot, that you were only telling us half the story.’