A Winter Flame (7 page)

Eve sank back in her chair. ‘Well, well, well,’ she said aloud to herself. Now that was too much of a coincidence. She made a few notes, including the detective
sergeant’s name. She would email and find out if they’d ever caught ‘The Major’. She wouldn’t have been surprised to hear that they hadn’t, because he sounded a
greasy, shifty character. Maybe he had laid low for a few years and was now back in business, preying on old ladies who lived in bungalows with his tried and trusted modus operandi. Were Jacques
Glace and Major Jack Glasshoughton one and the same? She’d bet her share of the theme park they were, and she would go all out to prove it. Yes, she knew there was something shifty about
Jacques Glace all right. He was too smiley, too cheerful, too easy-going, too secretive.

From the corner of her eye, she saw the candle flame flicker. The candle which Jonathan had bought for her and placed in her window and told her that as long as it burned, she was his and he was
hers. He told her this on the last day she ever saw him.

‘Oh Jonathan, who is Jacques Glace?’ she said. ‘Is he really Major Glasshoughton? Did he con Aunt Evelyn into writing him into her will?’

Why couldn’t life be simple? Why was life so full of questions, like how did Aunt Evelyn end up with a theme park? Who was Jacques Glace? Why had he made that stupid joke about marrying
her? Why couldn’t she have married the man she loved? Why was she sitting here talking to a candle – the only thing that signified she was loved in this world? Tears welled up in her
eyes and she fought them back because Eve Douglas did not cry. But she couldn’t push back that surge of sadness and pain that her man was on the other side of an impenetrable barrier. Her
brave, lovely, wonderful, Corporal Jonathan Lighthouse. Killed in action on Christmas Day five years ago – three days before he was due to come home from Helmand Province. As if another man
could ever measure up to him. Jacques Glace less than most. Jonathan was brave and brilliant. Jacques Glace was a maverick who didn’t work and had about as much dress sense as a blind court
jester. It was an insult for him to even think he had a chance at charming her. He wasn’t even fit enough to wait in the queue to clean Jonathan’s shoes.

‘I can’t find a single Jacques Glace on the net, but I did find a Major Jack Glasshoughton who conned an old lady out of her life savings. And when I rang the
police, they told me that he’s never been found. What do you think about that then?’ said Eve, pulling on her car handbrake at the side of the Winterworld gate.

‘Sorry, what?’ said Violet, lifting her eyes from the newspaper where they had been glued.

‘What’s the matter? You look cross.’

‘It’s this damned paper. I don’t know who the editor in chief is, but I suspect it’s someone in Broadmoor.’ She passed over the
Trumpet
and pointed to the
top of the page.

‘They’re useless,’ said Eve, shaking her head. ‘I can’t believe you agreed to advertise with them.’

‘I didn’t,’ replied Violet. ‘They took it upon themselves to wreck my business single-handedly. Anyway, what were you saying about Jacques Glace?’

‘I said that I wonder if that’s his real name. I suppose I’ll find that out for definite when “I get married to him”. I still can’t believe he said that. The
cheek of the . . . well, I don’t know what to call him. Man doesn’t seem to be the right word.’

Eve harrumphed with such indignation that her cousin Violet barked with laughter. That caused Eve to give her a withering look.

‘It’s so not funny, Violet.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Violet, trying hard to straighten her face and failing dismally.

‘I thought I’d find some sympathy with you of all people.’ Eve sniffed. ‘If that was his attempt to seduce, I’m quite safe.’

Violet straightened her face. ‘I think it’ll be fun working with him and trying to get to the bottom of who he is. He sounds a tonic, and you need an adventure. Get your Miss Marple
hat on,’ she said. ‘You could put your wedding notice in the
Trumpet
“Steve Berry, aged sixty-five, marries Gus Jackman, aged fifteen”.’

‘Very droll,’ said Eve. ‘And tonic isn’t a word I’d attribute to him. I don’t trust him, Violet. How can anyone trust a man who has managed to wangle half of
my aunt’s inheritance from her after two minutes’ acquaintance? Look at this.’ With a certain amount of smugness, she pulled a photocopy of the article about the Major from her
handbag and handed it over to her cousin, waiting patiently until she had finished reading it.

‘You do know the
Bugle
got closed down for reporting just about every story it reported wrongly. Then it rose like the Phoenix from the ashes with the same editor and a new name:
the
Daily Trumpet,’
was Violet’s only comment.

‘Well, they got this story right because I checked with the police. They never did find Major Glasshoughton. Major
Jack
Glasshoughton.’

‘And is Jacques as tall and dark as this Major?’

‘Very tall. Not dark though, but he could have easily gone grey in eight years. I’m going to ring the police again and report him.’

Violet looked horrified. ‘Eve, you can’t go around accusing people without good reason.’

‘Well, I’m going to tell Mr Mead anyway and see what he has to say about it all. I knew there was something fishy about the man. Do you know, I could quite happily bring Aunt Evelyn
back to life just to kill her,’ said Eve, scratching hard at her stomach. ‘How could she be so careless and then leave me to sort all this out?’

‘Got lice?’ Violet nodded towards her.

‘They’ve obviously been buggering about with the formula for shower gel again,’ Eve answered. ‘I appear to have become allergic to my own knickers.’

‘Don’t tell Jacques Glace that one,’ giggled Violet. ‘He’ll suggest you take them off.’

Eve shuddered. ‘Don’t even joke.’

‘Come on then,’ said Violet, clicking off her seat-belt. ‘Let’s go and check out your inheritance. I’m so excited. My cousin owns a Christmas theme park.’ She
clapped her hands together with delight.

‘Winter theme park, please,’ said Eve, mumbling in a very disgruntled way to herself. She had been non-stop poring over plans for Winterworld and now had a very definite idea of what
it was going to be like: oodles of quality, less kiddy and more adult orientated than the rubbishy ‘Lapland-type’ theme parks which had garnered so much bad press for being gawdy and,
well, crap. Winterworld was going to be a much classier act. She had dragged Violet along for half an hour to get a sneak peak of the plot before tomorrow’s big day: her first day at work
there. Violet was always so full of puppyish joie de vivre that it would be useful to see things through her eyes, Eve thought. Violet was the equivalent of an adult Phoebe May Tinker.

Eve stood peeping through a slit in the high builder’s barricades, trying to imagine the park open and running before December if she had her way. She might have had more success imagining
herself as Angelina Jolie.

Violet was squeaking with excitement and the sound made Eve smile. She had felt so terribly guilty that Violet was trapped in an awful situation last year and hadn’t been able to talk to
her about it, especially as they were virtually inseparable as children.

‘Come on, then. Into the unknown,’ said Eve, taking out the large key and slipping it into the lock on the large iron side-gate. A security camera fixed to a nearby pole swept around
to them.

‘Oh God, are we going to be mauled by Rottweilers or lions in a minute?’ asked Violet.

‘No, I rang Mr Pitt and told him I was coming,’ replied Eve. ‘So don’t worry.’ And the two women walked through, one slender as a reed and very blonde, the other
dark, taller and curvier. Eve was very much in the mould of her aunt Susan with her big bosom and the nipped-in waist of a fifties film starlet, whereas Violet was like the women on the Flockton
side – pale skin, bluebell-coloured eyes and a fragile frame.

Before them lay a concrete path leading up to a wood full of huge Christmas trees. To the right were log cabins. There looked to be a lot of land. Violet summed it up in just one word:
‘Blimey.’

‘Give or take the F-words, that’s what I was thinking,’ gasped Eve. ‘Look at all those Christmas trees.’

‘What’s that building over there?’ asked Violet, pointing towards a large log cabin. She unfolded the map which Eve had photocopied. ‘Ooh, it must be the
café.’

‘Yes it is. And that one behind it is going to be your ice-cream parlour,’ Eve said, feeling ever so slightly faint. Standing here in the midst of it all was a curious mix of
daunting and exciting. On one side, the sheer implausability of tackling a project of this size, on the other, the challenge, the adrenaline rush, the sense of achievement, because Eve knew she
could make this work better than anyone else ever could. And then she’d be able to retire in six years’ time when she hit forty.

‘It’s a lovely idea having honeymoon cottages for the people who get married in the chapel,’ sighed Violet. ‘That would be so romantic, spending your first night as Mr
and Mrs in a cabin on the edge of that pretty forest of Christmas trees.’

‘Like anyone will want to get married here,’ huffed Eve. ‘The chapel isn’t going to happen, you can bet your life savings on that one. It’s a total waste of a
building.’

‘Can you alter the plans like that? Don’t you need permission from your partner?’

‘I’ll get permission, don’t you worry,’ said Eve, knowing that she easily would. When Eve Douglas put her mind to something, it happened.

‘I’m looking forward to opening another branch of Carousel. Does that make me a magnate?’ asked Violet with a smile on her lips. ‘What do you think the
Daily
Trumpet
would call me?’

Eve chuckled. ‘That newspaper is just unbelievable. You do realize they’ll refer to you as a “magnet”.’

Violet giggled. ‘I have some great flavours that will go down really well – Snowflake, Mince Pie, Brandy Butter. Christmas . . .’ Violet paused as Eve raised a finger.

‘Figgy Pudding,’ she corrected. ‘Sounds better than Christmas Pudding anyway.’

Violet shrugged without saying that she thought Figgy pudding sounded very old-fashioned in a wrong way. She wished Eve would let a little of the festive season into her heart. Five years was
way too much time to be shut away inside oneself. Violet didn’t want her cousin ending up like poor old Evelyn – alone and lonely for many, many years with only the cold comfort of
ever-fading memories.

‘This place could be a goldmine in a couple of years if I get it right,’ said Eve.

Violet winked at her cousin.
‘If you
can’t make it happen, Eve, no one can,’ she said.

Then behind them came the thunderous sound of someone bellowing ‘hello’. They turned to see a grinning, waving giant in a very familiar coat: Eve’s fellow will beneficiary.

‘Bonjour,’
he shouted. ‘Fancy meeting you here. Aren’t we on a wavelength? That bodes well.’

‘Who’s that?’ whispered Violet.

‘It’s
him,’
Eve replied under her breath. And from the way she said ‘him’ and that her hair appeared to be standing up on end like a pissed-off cat, Violet
knew this must be the mysterious Jacques Glace. Violet was intrigued. She had wondered what he looked like. From Eve’s description she had imagined a cross between Nosferatu and
Frankenstein’s monster, not this smiling, handsome silver-fox with shiny blue eyes and very nice, generous lips curved up into a smile. Jacques strode towards them.

‘Don’t let him shake your hand, V,’ warned Eve quickly. ‘I’ve only just managed to get my arm back in its socket.’

‘So here we are on our land,’ said Jacques, managing to imply intimacy with the way he said that. ‘Huge, isn’t it? Look at those trees – wow. How strange you should
be here at the same time as me. That’s a good sign, don’t you think?’

His damned eyes were twinkling mischievously again. Eve didn’t ask what that was a good sign of. She wasn’t in the mood for another of his stupid jokes about marriage. He was a
charmer all right, but she was safe. Forewarned was forearmed.

‘Hi there, I’m Jacques Glace. No doubt you’ve heard all about me from Eve.’ He winked at Eve and she felt her lip curling over her teeth. He held his paw out towards
Violet, seeing as no introductions from Eve were forthcoming.

Eve flashed a warning at Violet as she was taking his hand, but Jacques shook it very gently. It was the sort of handshake that spoke volumes to Violet. She got a very good vibe from him,
however much of an obvious downer Eve had on the man.

‘Sisters, I presume?’ asked Jacques, flicking his finger from one to the other. Despite their different builds and colourings, that wasn’t as ludicrous as it might have
sounded, because there was a distinct similarity in the shape of their large black-fringed eyes – even if Violet’s were the shade of May bluebells, and Eve’s Christmas-tree green.
They also had identical smiles – but Jacques wouldn’t have noticed that because he hadn’t seen Eve genuinely smile yet.

‘Cousins,’ said Violet, in a voice that told Eve she was a little charmed by Jacques. Traitor. She wouldn’t be that charmed when Eve exposed him for ripping the arse out of old
ladies’ savings.

‘Ah,’ said Jacques, and he turned to Eve then and raised his eyebrows in such a way that she felt duty bound to make introductions.

‘Mr Glace, meet Violet,’ said Eve. ‘Violet makes ice cream. I am hoping I can persuade her to supply Winterworld.’

‘Oh, I love ice cream,’ beamed Jacques with all the enthusiasm of a five-year-old child faced with a giant Mr Whippy cone studded with twelve flakes in it. ‘My grandmother used
to make the best ice cream in France. And a gorgeous orange and cinnamon sorbet at Christmas. Do we get free samples?’ He rubbed his hands together and somehow reminded Eve of the big, daft
red setter puppy which used to live a few doors down from her mother in one of the houses they had lived in. That’s what Jacques would be if he were suddenly turned into a canine. She wished.
He’d be easier to control that way. Then again, thinking of that hyper dog that never seemed to calm down – maybe not.