Wishful Thinking (33 page)

When they had gone I took the initiative, requesting tea from the maid. When she brought the tray she explained, rather timidly, that she had to go to the shops. Would I be all right on my own? (I would.) It was not necessary to answer the telephone because there was a machine.

‘Fine,' I said.

And then I was alone in Jerry's flat.

I could almost hear Georgie's voice whispering in my ear, like a devil sent to tempt me. I stared resolutely down at the proofs, roughing out a few sample sentences for Jerry's approval, in which I attempted to condense the departure of the judge's wife and his consequent suicide into so few words that it wouldn't throw out the entire section. Fortunately, we were at the end of a chapter. There was a fair-sized blank space over the page. I reduced the required passage into five sentences, crossed my fingers that Jerry wouldn't change them too much, pocketed my felt-tip, and set off to explore the flat. The money was in a safe place, Jerry had said. Not
the
safe – a safe place. What would be a safe place for half a million pounds?

Ordinary drawers and cupboards were obviously out: it wasn't a sum you could hide under your knickers. There might be a secret drawer or concealed compartment in the study desk, but even if there was, surely it wouldn't be big enough. After glancing round the vast acreage of the living room, I followed my instinct and went into the master bedroom. Anything of value, I reasoned, you want hidden somewhere close to you, in your personal space. Overnight guests might occupy other bedrooms, visitors colonise the sofas or meander across the parquet, but the study and the master bedroom were Jerry's exclusive territory. There was a huge four-poster bed, with scalloped drapery above and a pleated flounce below. Any hint of femininity was counteracted by the colour-scheme, which was predominantly red. There were whole walls of built-in wardrobes, walnut doors polished to a mirror gloss. Other doors were panelled with actual mirrors, so the entire room gleamed, the lighting (there was lots) glancing from door to door, reflections and bright shadows flickering around you with every movement. A large unit beside the bed (more walnut) opened to reveal a widescreen TV with video and DVD, and a complex sound system. Remotes were on the bedside table, along with a humidor of cigars and an enormous modern silver ashtray which, I thought privately, was the nicest thing in the room.

I looked in the wardrobes, rifling through racks of suits, shirts, ties, but there was nothing behind them but the wall, solid and unyielding. No sign of magical countries with fauns and witches and snow, let alone half a million quid. I climbed on a chair to study the canopy over the bed more closely, thinking it would be clever to have a hiding place on the top. I couldn't see above the rim but I managed to feel along it, and there was definitely nothing there. I peered round the headboard, moved the pillows, looked under the flounce, all without result. I even lifted the corners of the Oriental carpet and shifted every piece of furniture that I could. The room, though large, wasn't cluttered, and I didn't think I'd missed anything. The money wasn't there.

I went into the ensuite, the centrepiece of which was a circular Jacuzzi bath big enough for a spa, encased in what looked like marble and reached by a flight of steps. I adore luxury baths, and my mouth all but watered at the sight of it. Inside, there were numerous buttons for the different pressure-jets, fuel-injection bubble bath, something that might have been a temperature control. I toyed with the idea that one of the buttons might open a secret cavity somewhere nearby, but of course Jerry wouldn't always use the bath alone, and it would be too easy for a girlfriend to press the appropriate button by mistake. Exploring the rest of the room, I noted the grouting between the tiles showed no chinks or cracks and the walls were seamless. The cupboards were filled with the usual things: mounds of towels, spare loo rolls, men's beauty products (plenty of those), soap, shampoo, Just For Men hair colorant. I giggled at this last item, which was unfair of me, since no one thinks it funny if women tint their hair. I don't – an unhappy home experiment in my teens put me off – but most do. We have streaks and bleaches and rinses and dyes, and it's all part of the fun of being female. (I must try again some time.) Men have cringe-making advertisements – ‘My daddy looks younger than your daddy' – and products that don't seem quite so successful, possibly because their heart isn't in it. Still, I giggled. Jerry Beauman would be embarrassed if the world knew he coloured his hair. No woman would give a damn. When it comes to vanity, we have the edge.

Dismissing the rest of the bathroom, I turned back to the Jacuzzi for a final yearn. Then I noticed something. Though the bath was round, the casing formed a square, presumably to accommodate the intricate plumbing underneath. Each section was separate: a hairline crack marked the join. And one side, I discovered, was subdivided into two, the shorter piece being only a couple of feet in length. Of course, maybe they'd been running out of marble – but this was a no-expense-spared apartment, and I didn't believe that. I remembered when I was a student sharing a house where the casing round the bath had been broken. Through the gap, you could see a tangle of pipes and the lair of a gigantic spider whom we christened Ernestine. When we had parties, we used to tuck any drink we wanted to save in there, safe from the predations of thirsty guests. There must be quite a lot of space behind the surround of Jerry Beauman's bath . . .

I dropped to my knees and inserted my finger-nails into the crack, trying to lever the section free. (By the feel, it wasn't marble, just a lookalike.) No luck. But I was still sure I was right. Somewhere, there would be a button to press or knob to twist. I pushed all the buttons in the bath without success, turned the taps on and off, scanned the steps and surround for anything button-like and pressable. Fleetingly, my mind jumped to the collection of remotes on the bedside table – but no, too risky, the bimbo girlfriend would be bound to try them all when watching porno films in bed. I would just have to go through all the bathroom cupboards again, looking for a button this time. I was just about to make a start when I heard a noise. Not footsteps: the carpet deadened those. The click of a handle turning, the shush of an opening door – I was too busy panicking to be sure. Relief surged when only the maid walked in, carrying a multi-pack of Andrex and evidently surprised to see me.

‘Just nosy,' I said, making what I hoped was a conspiratorial face. ‘I needed the loo, and I wanted another look at the bath. Jerry showed me round when I first came, but we were only in here a moment. Isn't it sumptuous? Have you ever used it?' It was a shockingly naïve question, and I knew it, because even if she had it would have been on the sly, and she would never admit to it. I definitely couldn't visualise Jerry Beauman inviting his maid to use his private bathroom. However, I hoped it would distract her from wondering what I was really doing there.

She shook her head violently, clearly as embarrassed as if it was she who had been caught snooping. We almost collided in the doorway as each attempted to leave the other in possession of the field. But I was too nervous to resume my search; right now, all I wanted was to get out in one piece. I really wasn't cut out for a life of crime. In the living room I gathered up the proofs, complete with amendments, and escaped.

I don't know what I'd been planning to do if I found the money: I hadn't looked that far ahead. I certainly wasn't going to steal it, or start a new career as a supergrass to the SFO. I just wanted to find out where it was – to see what half a million pounds looked like (on TV, it's always neat wads of banknotes in suitcases) – to go away, leaving it there,
knowing
. And then, Plan B.

At that stage, there was no Plan B.

At the weekend, Georgie and I traipsed round a range of stores in quest of my posh dress. This isn't meant to be a shopping novel, so I won't go into details. You've already had plenty of retail therapy, and I don't want to get repetitive. Suffice to say we found a dress that fulfilled all requirements, at the cost of a staggering debit on my Mastercard, very sore feet, and the kind of exhaustion normally experienced by top athletes after a particularly gruelling decathlon. We finished in Liberty's, where we dived into the coffee shop to recuperate. Georgie had been meeting Cal on Friday night, ‘just to talk', and I asked her how it had gone.

‘Good and bad,' she said, making what the French call a
moue
, which is a kind of foreign pout.

‘Explain.'

‘We got along fine to begin with, until the subject of Neville came up. He said had I really not slept with him, and I said no I hadn't, but I would have if I'd wanted to, because Cal's married – and he said he doesn't sleep with Christy or shag around any more, so I should be faithful too – and I said that wasn't fair because he
lives
with Christy, which is a kind of infidelity – and we started quarrelling all over again. And then some people from Ransome came in and joined us, so we couldn't sort it out, and one of them was going Cal's way home and offered to share a cab, so I didn't get to see him later, and I think we're back at stalemate.'

‘He loves you,' I said. ‘You love him. You'll sort it out.'

‘Do I want to?' said Georgie. ‘Maybe I'll get over him, and meet another Neville, and live happily ever after. I just wish the idea didn't depress me so much.'

By way of diversion, I told her about further developments
chez
Beauman, and my search of the flat.

‘A secret compartment under the bath?' Georgie said, impressed. ‘By George, I think you've got it! My aunt – the one who left me the house – kept all her jewellery in a plastic bag in the lavatory cistern. Actually, it was a hell of a pain. The house has one of those old-fashioned loos with the tank right up near the ceiling. She had to climb up a stepladder every time she wanted to wear ear-rings. But it was a great hiding-place; she had a burglary once but they never thought to look there.' And, reverting to Jerry's bathroom stash: ‘The question is, how do we open it?'

‘We're only looking out of curiosity, remember,' I said.

‘Absolutely.'

‘Well, I tried to lever it open but couldn't. I reckon there has to be a button somewhere which does it automatically, but the maid came in and I didn't get much of a chance to look.'

‘When are you going to the flat again?'

‘I don't know,' I said. ‘Anyway, I think we should do some background research first. On the phone to this Sir Harold person, Jerry mentioned Dryden – it was one of the names I heard him use before. Sounds like a company, not an individual. And the other time he talked about something called Acme City, which rings a faint bell. It's time we found out what's going on.'

‘How?'

‘Perhaps Lin wouldn't mind asking Andy, now she's got Ivor,' I suggested.

‘Worth a try.'

Possibly because she was restless after her inconclusive evening with Cal, Georgie wanted instant action. She called Lin on her mobile – to be hailed with a sort of gushing relief which I could hear from across the table.

‘Georgie! How wonderful! I was just thinking of calling you. Are you – are you busy?'

Yes, I mouthed, immediately apprehensive.

‘I'm in Liberty's,' Georgie said. ‘With Cookie.' In her dialect, anything to do with shopping meant she was busy.

‘The thing is, Ivor's parents are in town, and he wants me to meet them, but I don't think it's a great idea to take the children. The twins are playing cricket this afternoon, but there's Meredith . . .'

Georgie rolled her eyes, grimaced, sighed. ‘I've got to go to a dinner party this evening,' she said. ‘In Chiswick.'

‘It wouldn't be for the evening,' I heard Lin say. ‘Just tea-time for a couple of hours. I'm so sorry to ask you, but I'm desperate.'

I made various gestures signifying resignation and surrender. Your place or mine? Georgie asked me, in sign language.

We settled on my flat, in the outer reaches of Notting Hill, since it was nearer to Lin's place. ‘When she gets there with the brat,' Georgie said, as she hung up, ‘I'll ask her about Andy.'

Back at home we made basic preparations – checking my supply of videos and soft drinks, locking up the silver, trying to teach Mandy to respond to the command ‘Kill!' Lin arrived on a flood of gratitude, depositing Meredith on the doorstep; Ivor, hovering at her side, provided a more moderate echo to her sentiments.

‘Actually,' Georgie said, ‘there
is
something you can do in return. Cookie's back on the track of Jerry Beauman's financial shenanigans. We really need your chum Andy to give us some inside information.'

‘Who's Andy?' Ivor asked. (Odd that Lin hadn't mentioned him.)

‘Just an old friend,' Lin said carelessly. At least, I
thought
she sounded careless. ‘From Scotland. I hardly see him. He's got a beard.'

I detected relief in Ivor's expression. No serious rival would have a beard.

‘He's a banker,' Georgie was saying. ‘We need his expertise.'

‘We'll talk about it on Monday,' Lin said. ‘We must dash now. See you about six-thirty.'

Meredith, meanwhile, was gazing critically round my flat. Her eyes met Mandy's, matt black stare fixing cold green one. They approached each other warily.

‘Is that your cat?' Meredith asked. I said it was. ‘What's its name?'

‘It's a he. Mandy.'

‘Mandy's a girl's name.'

‘Short for Mandelson.'

‘That's a funny name for a cat.' She sat down on the floor in front of Mandy, reaching out to stroke him. He tossed his head disdainfully and mewed, but didn't move away. ‘Sandy had a cat called Snowball because it was white, but it got run over. That was ages ago, when I was very little. After that Mummy said we couldn't have any more cats, because there are so many cars on the road and they would always get killed. The twins had a pair of gerbils – that's a kind of rat – but they escaped. I helped them. I didn't think they were happy in a cage.'