Staging Death (24 page)

I smiled, but shook my head. ‘Alas, Mr Tomasovicz, there’s been a wee spot of bother at the office. It’s had to be closed for the day, I’m afraid.
So I can’t get the keys.’ There was no need to point out that they were also kept at our other branches.

He looked genuinely concerned. ‘What sort of bother?’

‘A couple of yobs thinking we would keep the proceeds of sales in our safe, would you believe! When they didn’t find great bundles of cash they got a wee bit aerated. But I’m sure if you phone first thing tomorrow they can arrange for me to show you anything in our portfolio. I’ll be delighted to do so.’

He looked convinced. His smile certainly reached those gorgeous eyes. ‘So if I phone tomorrow you will show us round? Do you have a card?’

‘I’m brand new to the job, Mr Tomasovicz – only started today. But I promise I’ll be there whenever you want to look round.’

‘Excellent. We hope to see you tomorrow, then. At Oxfield Place.’

‘I shall look forward to it.’ We shook hands, I smiled at his still-silent wife, and they got into their car. This time they were gone for good.

There. Job done. Nearly. I still had to lock up and drive away.

Which I did without incident. No one seemed to be lying in wait for me or tailing me. So why did I pull over into a lay-by and throw up that wonderful lunch?

By the time I’d returned the car as instructed to the Bridgefoot car park I’d almost stopped shaking. Pocketing the key, I set off on foot through the town. The fine weather had naturally brought out the tourists in droves. Swift progress was impossible. Then I realised it was probably also undesirable. Why should anyone want to hurtle to a police station? And why should anyone want to hurtle through such a beautiful town? So I merged with strolling, goggling groups, trying to see the sights for the first time, as they must be doing. It was a long time since I’d looked above the shop frontages, and seen the lovely
higgledy-piggledy
line of the old roofs.

I let myself drift the long way round to Rother Street, even stopping off at the Shakespeare Hospice bookshop to collect a couple of paperbacks for bedside reading. They were
getting ready to close the shop, but because I was a regular they held on. It didn’t take more than two minutes to find paperback treasure –
Sprig Muslin, The Grand Sophy
and
An Infamous Army,
all in good condition. Excellent. Georgette Heyer always hit the spot, however many times I’d read every book before. I’d need to build another collection, of course, all mine having gone up in flames with my poor house.

And what about my neighbours – the ones I was attached to? Why hadn’t I given them a thought? Perhaps because we’d never exchanged more than the time of day since they’d moved in, despite my initial efforts to be friendly. I’d better ask Martin. But I couldn’t send apologies even if their home had been damaged, because I was supposed to be at death’s door. I bit my lip. As I’d told Martin this morning, it was little things that suddenly threatened to overwhelm me.

‘You did very well, from our point of view. You behaved perfectly normally – and I liked the Glasgow accent,’ Martin said, who’d collected me in person from the police station public area, escorting me through to his office, a goldfish bowl at the end of the open-plan CID area. His eyes twinkled, as he gestured me on to a visitor’s chair. Then he sat the far side of his desk. ‘How was it for you?’

‘Yes, yes, YES!’ I responded, banging the desk Meg Ryan-like, with an equal twinkle. More soberly, and dropping the car key on his blotter, I continued, ‘Fine until the end of their tour and the conversation on the front steps.’

All trace of amusement disappeared. ‘What sort of conversation? The porch wasn’t covered by mikes or cameras,’ he added.

‘I didn’t think it would be. But I still think it might just be coincidence they chose to talk there.’ I gave a brief account of what had passed.

‘More tours the same day? Is that usual?’

‘It might be if you were desperate to buy. Or if you were carrying half a dozen kilos of cocaine you needed to drop.’

‘Quite. And did you agree to take them around these other properties?’

‘Tomorrow. Provided they make an appointment via the office in the usual way. I said it was closed after an attempted robbery. I hope that was OK? I also explained I didn’t have a card to give them because it was my first day. Hell, do you think I gave them too much information?’

‘Hard to tell. How did they react?’

‘We parted amicably enough. So are you happy for tomorrow’s appointments to go ahead?’

‘I’ll talk to your brother. As for the timing of the appointments, the later in the day the better, logistically speaking.’ He jotted. ‘Were you happy
with the level of security coverage, or could you have used, say, a cleaner on the premises? SOCO have finished with your brother’s office, by the way, and we’ve recommended considerable upgrades to his office security.’

‘Good. I can’t imagine Claire wanting to go back there unless she’s got extra protection, and the firm would collapse without her. But as to the visits – a cleaner in either of the properties would be gilding the lily. You heard them query the presence of the gardener.’

He looked at me sternly, touching the map of the area on his wall. ‘As a matter of interest, why did you stop the car in this lay-by for a few minutes on your way back? We’d put a tracking device in the car, of course,’ he explained. ‘Just in case.’

‘Maybe my lunch disagreed with me.’ I let him see I was lying.

‘I had exactly the same thing, as I recall. But I didn’t have to stop to throw up.’ He got up and came round the desk. Did he intend, despite the no doubt interested audience of his CID colleagues, to put his arms round me? The phone interrupted whatever he’d planned. He ended the call quickly, and turned back to me. ‘Vee, it’s all right to be scared. And if you get too scared, we can pull the plug on the whole thing. I promise.’

Was I even tempted? ‘How’s Karen?’

He frowned. ‘Marginally better but—’

‘Martin, she was a pretty young woman. She’s in hospital because I was stupid and slack. And those people in hospital in Brum were there because I was stupid and slack.’

‘They were in hospital because they took illegal substances!’

‘I could still have done something. And I still can. So I will. Whatever is necessary.’ I turned away. My promise wasn’t just to him, after all. But my brain started to buzz. ‘Martin, you won’t laugh at me, will you? But someone, goodness knows who… No, it’s crazy.’

‘Nothing’s crazy when you’re investigating a crime, especially when it’s one of our own who’s been injured. What’s worrying you?’

‘Yesterday, when all that other stuff was going on, someone said that Karen had been a pretty girl. They were talking about her in the present tense and suddenly switched to the past.’

‘And you’ve no idea who? It might be just a slip of the tongue, of course.’ His sudden frown was instantly replaced by an impish smile. ‘I always find the best thing is to tell yourself you’ll remember during the night – and keep a pad beside the bed for when the memory returns.’

‘You must have very solitary nights,’ I observed sadly.

‘I wonder if that could be remedied – once the
case is over, of course,’ he concluded seriously.

I liked these quick changes of mood. ‘Of course,’ I agreed, demurely, looking down at my hands, folded on my lap. My upwards glance was anything but demure. But I, too, could be mercurial. ‘Any more thoughts on the figures on that block of cocaine, by the way?’

‘Not yet. Maybe I should try the middle-
of-the
-night approach again.’

I signed for and slipped into my purse a wad of notes that Martin thought would tide me over until my new credit card arrived. I’d rather been hoping that Martin would take me back to Kenilworth, and maybe shout me supper, but another incoming phone call brought the frown back, and an apology to his lips. A constable with a house on the outskirts of Kenilworth was detailed to offer me a lift. The Thorpes’ pictures would obviously have to spend the night in police custody. As for tomorrow, Martin promised to be in touch.

‘Maybe I’ll have my own set of wheels by then, courtesy of Greg,’ I told him, conscious of the young man waiting for me.

‘So long as they’re an unobtrusive set,’ he said. He fished in a pocket and produced a small polythene bag. ‘And that you attach this tracking to them before you set off anywhere. Under the
wheel arch, somewhere like that. Press this little button here to activate it.’

I slipped it in my bag. ‘And remember to remove it and switch it off at the end of the day? No problem.’

‘No. Remove it from the car, of course, but leave it switched on, wherever you go. Even by foot. Anyway, good luck with the Tomasoviczes tomorrow. Everything will be in place.’

Suddenly I was anxious. ‘You won’t be able to use the gardener ruse, not twice,’ I said.

‘I won’t use it at all. There are plenty of alternatives. Please don’t worry – at least no more than you can help.’

Which, as farewells went, was not great.

Greg was already waiting in his Merc when I reached the car hire place at eight-thirty the next morning. ‘You and your walking,’ he said, as soon as I was in earshot.

‘My bike’s back in Stratford, what’s left of it. And my car’s in police custody. So it’s a good job I like walking.’

‘Haven’t you heard of bloody taxis, Vee?’

‘Haven’t you heard about my bloody cash flow? If you’re supposed to be at death’s door you’re not going to use your credit card, are you? OK, it’s unlikely that our East European friends will have access to that sort of information, but
you never know.’ I wasn’t about to tell him my arrangement with the police.

‘No credit card? Bloody hell.’ His face was remarkably troubled. Was he going to offer me a wad of cash? ‘But the police’ll fix something?’

‘I was rather hoping you’ll fix something, like the bonuses I’ve got coming my way – don’t worry, I’ll give you IOUs. Otherwise…’ I raised my hands in disbelief, surrender and despair.

‘Well, at least when we get you some wheels you’ll be able to get to work,’ he said. ‘Come along in,’ he added, opening the office door for me. ‘The paperwork’s all done. That Sandra woman gave me a letter for them.’

The letter had done the trick. A kind-looking girl behind the counter produced a set of keys without even asking for a signature.

‘It’s parked over there – in the corner of the yard,’ she said, anxious to answer a phone which was ringing insistently in her ear.

I stared. ‘I thought I’d be having something small and invisible. A Clio or Jazz or something.’

But she was busy on the phone.

I followed Greg on to the forecourt, the red, white and blue bunting, apparently left over from the millennium celebrations, flapping a parody of applause. Greg’s choice of a strictly anonymous car was only a great big silver Mondeo.

The only problem was I couldn’t get in. Although it was neatly parked, it occupied so much space that the other cars equally neatly parked in adjacent bays snuggled right up to its flanks.

When I learnt to drive, I spent all my time working out routes that didn’t involve right turns. Now I was going to have to bend my brain to finding easy parking.

To hell with all this dithering. I was a
grown-up
woman with a clean licence and a no-claim bonus as long as your arm. All I had to do was affix the little tracking device, squeeze into the car, and get on the road.

One journey I needed to make was to the dress exchange, near Alcester, I always favoured. I would have liked to take a route involving wide and deserted roads, but the A46 was the most direct, and perhaps I’d get used to having this mass of steel around me. It would help if I could see all the corners. No wonder they always referred to Mondeo Man – at first sight this was not a woman’s car. Whatever would I use all that impressive boot space for?

Without major incident, though I did get tooted a couple of times by people rightly thinking I was holding them up, I made my way to a petrol station, only to fall at the first hurdle. Opening the filler cap. As far as I could see there was no release button on the dash or floor
or anywhere inside. I broke two nails trying to prise the thing open. The queue behind me grew steadily. Shrugging like a manic Frenchman, I suddenly had a John Cleese urge. No, I didn’t grab a branch and start hitting the thing; I just slapped it hard – and blow me if it didn’t open.

Apparently the first dress agency customer of the day, I had my pick of parking bays in the large car park behind the shop. I found a beauty, with no spaces in front or behind, and I manoeuvred round till I was facing the exit and absolutely equidistant between the white lines. In the absence of anyone else to be proud of me, I was proud of myself, and deserved the reward of several nice outfits.

There was no sign of Helen when I went in, however, but I could hear voices from the fitting room. So I browsed for a while, quite happily, until something about one of the voices made me move purposefully closer. Where had I heard it before? Pray God I wasn’t going to have to wait for another sixteen hours for a three-in-
the-morning
moment.

I had heard it a lot in the past. But I had also heard it recently. The past suggested a fellow actor, someone I had worked with or someone on a long-running show. The present… As if I was innocently looking for Helen, might I peep
round the fitting room door – just like a green woodpecker, looking at the Gunters? For that was who the voice belonged to. Mrs Gunter. Mrs Gunter, indeed. It was Frances Trowbridge, wasn’t it? She’d been on the books of my first agent, so we’d met at parties. Why had it only just dawned on me?

Now what? Challenge her?

And what would she do? I didn’t want her grabbing something as a weapon – a metal coat hanger or a pair of scissors – and holding poor Helen to ransom. So I did the cowardly thing. I dived outside and pressed the button for Martin’s direct line. He answered first ring.

‘One of the people involved in the pickups is here, in the dress exchange just outside Alcester. I’ve left the tracker thingy on,’ I added helpfully.

‘I know just where you are. We’re on our way. You are not to be involved in this at all. No heroics, Vena. Please.’

I stared for a moment at the silent phone, wondering just how supine he meant me to be. It certainly wouldn’t hurt to go back inside the shop, just to check where she was.

Which turned out to be precisely where I’d left her. In the fitting room. Helen emerged briefly to fetch another garment, her mouth full of pins. Clearly I wasn’t the only woman having a fashion splurge. To my delight, but considerable surprise,
she didn’t appear to recognise me. Presumably she thought I was still in the ICU in Warwick Hospital, and this wasn’t the moment to disabuse her. So I nodded absently, and checked out the rails myself. To my chagrin there was nothing for me at all. My doppelgänger had presumably not dropped by recently, and although there were several outfits in my size, they weren’t the sort of thing Ms Connie George of Glasgow would have chosen. On the other hand, there was a lovely pair of shoes: Vena might eschew second-hand footwear, but I didn’t see Connie turning her nose up at a pair of chocolate-brown Moschino kitten heels, with a darling little suede and wool flower on the front. Not when they were in her size and at that price. More to the point, they fitted like gloves.