Creed (36 page)

Her lips – thin lips for such a large lady – puckered as though she were about to speak, but instead she cocked her head to one side, examining the oddity before her.

‘I’ve come down from Yorkshire to see him.’ He didn’t make a fool of himself by trying a Yorkshire accent.

At last she spoke. ‘Mr Pink doesn’t have visitors.’

‘No, not as a rule. It’s a long way to come, you see. Mother’s not too good on her pins – on her legs – nowadays, and I’m abroad a lot. It’s difficult to get a chance to visit old Uncle Henry.’

Her munchkin voice attempted authority. ‘I’m afraid it’s impossible for you to see him. As I told you, Mr Pink doesn’t have visitors. He’s much too unwell for that kind of thing.’

‘That’s exactly why I’m here. Mother and I are worried about his health and, well, frankly I’d hate not to have seen him one last time before he, you know, pops off. I’m due back in Dubai tomorrow. My company doesn’t give me much leave, so I have to make the best of it. It’ll be another three months at least before I get the chance to return. Still, that’s the engineering business for you. Can’t complain about the money though.’

By the disdainful way she inspected his unshaven, battered face and rumpled clothing he realised mention of money might have been a mistake in this context; he must have looked like a refugee from Cardboard City. With an inward groan he also realised that if he worked abroad so much, particularly in places like Dubai, then he would have been a little less pallid. The receptionist may have looked dumb, but nobody was
that
dumb.

‘Do you have any form of identification?’ she asked witheringly.

‘The thing is, you see, I’m away so much I rarely carry my UK driving licence with me.’

‘Didn’t you drive here?’

‘Yeah, but I didn’t think to bring the licence. Came over to England as a last-minute idea, wanted to see the old boy before he snuffed – before he became too unwell. Let’s see if I got my Amex with me.’ He patted his pockets, even rummaged through one or two. ‘Can you beat that?’ he said, giving her the full Mickey Rourke smile. ‘I’ve even forgotten my wallet. I’m such a klutz sometimes, no, a lot of the time, actually, I’m always—’

‘Are you a journalist?’

‘Pardon me?’

‘I said, are you a journalist?’

‘Huh, what gives you that idea?’

‘People have tried to contact Mr Pink in the past. Writing people.’

‘Because of his old job, I suppose. Personally, I think it was a mistake to write his memoirs, should have kept his profession a family secret. Even Mother has been pestered by nosy . . .’

His words petered out. Her face, fleshy though it was, had set rock-solid.

‘I think you’d better leave,’ she piped.

‘I think you’re right,’ he replied. Years of gatecrashing told him his bluff had failed here; argument, persuasion, insistence, charm, and even a bribe would only be a waste of time and energy with this one. It didn’t mean he’d given up, though.

She nodded towards the door as if to remind him where it was.

‘Might be better if I get Mother to make a proper appointment for me.’ He backed away while he talked. ‘Go through the right channels, that sort of thing. Bring some proper identification next time, right? I’m so stupid sometimes. Who
is
in charge here, by the way? Mr Parmount, isn’t it? You don’t want to say? State secret? Well, give my love to Uncle Henry, won’t you? Tell him I’ll bring him a food parcel. Only joking – I can see you eat well here. Thanks for your cooperation. You’ve been a peach.’

The rest of her froze to monolithic hardness, but Creed was scanning the hall and the stairway as he backed off towards the entrance. He gave her a wave before ducking out.

Shit!
he mentally cursed outside on the step.
Shoulda planned it better, shoulda phoned beforehand, made up a decent story.
In the forecourt, the portly caterer was at the wheel of a Volvo, checking through a list of some kind. Creed descended the short flight of steps and walked over to the car. He tapped on the window.

Greenaway glanced up from the piece of paper, startled. He wound down the driver’s window. ‘Yes?’

Creed leaned over, resting an elbow on the roof. ‘Something going on here today?’ he enquired amiably.

‘I don’t see that it’s anything to do with you,’ the unamiable reply came back.

‘Excuse me, dear,’ said Creed straightening. He hadn’t needed to ask, for he’d already seen and heard enough to make the question rhetorical. With a sniff, Greenaway wound his window up and switched on the Volvo’s engine. Creed stepped aside as the car reversed and swung round to head down the long drive.

Footsteps caught Creed’s attention. Adrian, the youth who had carried the cartons into the house, was returning to his van. He slid back the door and was about to climb in when Creed sauntered over.

‘Having a big one, are they?’ the paparazzo asked.

‘Eh?’ Adrian turned his head, one foot remaining on the van’s step. He had straw-coloured hair, long and straggly on top, cut short at the back and sides. His face was ruddy, not from exertion, but naturally so.

Creed indicated the house with a thumb. ‘They having a party or something? That’s a lot of food you took in there.’

‘Oh. No, a costume ball, so Mr Greenaway says.’

‘Don’t they have their own people to handle things like that? I mean, they must have a chef and proper staff to cater for all the inmates.’

Adrian grinned. ‘Rich bleedin’ inmates. ’Course they have their own cooks, but we do the specials. We don’t get a look-in tonight though, we just deliver.’

‘How many have you catered for?’

‘Don’t know. A fair amount.’

‘You want a cigarette?’

‘Yeah.’

Creed produced one of his brown roll-ups.

‘No thanks,’ the youth said.

Creed stuck it in his own mouth while Adrian produced a packet of Silk Cut. The photographer lit him.

‘Cheers. What you doing here then?’

‘Trying to visit a sick uncle. Roseanne there wouldn’t let me in.’

‘Mr Greenaway says they’re not allowed visitors. Wealthy lunatics and geriatrics, he says. That’s why we can’t stay, and I’m bloody glad of it.’

‘Lunatics? Here?’

‘According to Mr Greenaway. It’s not a mental home though, nothing like. Mr Greenaway almost slapped my wrist when I called it one. Very sensitive, the people who run this place.’

‘It’s private enough.’

‘Yeah, never know it was here, would ya? Oh-oh, the circus lady’s got her eye on us. I’d better be going.’ He hoisted himself up into the van.

Creed turned and saw the blue-uniformed receptionist watching them from the entrance. As the van pulled out he went to his jeep and climbed in. He sat behind the wheel for a few moments staring at the figure blocking the Mountjoy’s wide doorway before switching on and driving off. In his rearview mirror he saw that his departure was being watched all the way.

Creed crouched in the bushes, studying each car as it went by, a bright moon that was still low in the sky helping the observation. This was what he was good at. It was cold, he was shivering, but he knew how to hide and wait; he’d had years of practice. He ignored the numbness in his big toes.

The best time to gain access anywhere was when there were plenty of bodies around, visitors arriving or leaving (preferably arriving) in a constant flow with everyone and everything busy and half the time nobody knowing who was who. Those were the best conditions. In this case, the guest list was probably specially chosen, so he wouldn’t be able to saunter into the house as one of the crowd, particularly in his present dishevelled state. No, a fair amount of subterfuge would have to be used here. Or at least, a back entrance.

Bentleys, Rollers and Jaguars seemed to be the order of the night, with an occasional Mercedes thrown in. BMWs were most definitely out, so it had to be a class affair.

Although he couldn’t take suitable snaps in that light and at that distance – about thirty yards from the drive itself – he used the zoom lens of the Nikon to get a closer look at the guests as they sped past. Some of those faces, the ones he managed to get a reasonable look at, surprised him, for they were either famous or at least ‘known’ to the public. But the face that surprised him most was Cally McNally’s.

He had risen to his feet for a moment to ease his aching and frozen limbs when headlights had swung into the drive at a speed that had almost caught him out. He had just managed to duck behind a tree before being caught in the full glare.

He blinked against the dazzle, then, as the XJS drew almost level, he risked a quick peek. Her face was turned towards him, but she was looking at the driver of the coupé, talking to him. Creed didn’t have time to check through the camera’s viewfinder, but he was sure it was her. The driver briefly blocked his view until he caught a last glimpse of Cally’s profile as the car sped onwards towards the manor house. He leaned against the tree, his mouth open, agog, for he’d had a further surprise. The driver had been Lidwit, Lidrip, Lid
TRAP
.

Creed’s hands tightened around the tree.
Lidtrap had said he didn’t know her! She’d admitted she didn’t actually know him! What were they playing at? And what were they doing here at the Mountjoy Retreat?

Another car drove by, its headlights catching the Jaguar in front, but Creed was too stunned to try and see who was in this one.

Why should Cally be here?
The question burned in his brain.
There had to be a good reason, no way could it be a coincidence, no bloody way!

He moved away from the tree, pushing through the undergrowth and putting distance between himself and the drive; he’d seen enough anyway. So far about forty or fifty cars had passed by, all going towards the rest home, most containing two or three occupants, only occasionally one alone.

Trudging under cover in the direction of the manor house, Creed wondered what Cally was doing in such company. Over and over again he kept asking himself,
Why was she here
? He paused where the trees and bushes gave out to broad lawns. In the distance the guests were alighting from their vehicles and climbing the few steps to the entrance, their gowns and clothing lit by lights from the house itself. His clicker-finger had developed an itch and he had to remind himself that he was there for more important reasons. If he kept to the treeline he’d be able to make his way round to the back of the place without being seen, and experience told him that doors and windows were invariably left open at these kinds of functions; staff were always popping outside for a quick smoke or a breather, while guests often felt in need of fresh air or a swift fondle of a good friend. Creed had stolen into many a private party because of such toings and froings. Once inside, the difficult part would be locating Henry Pink. Knocking on every door and enquiring after him was impractical. So was asking a member of staff. However, there had to be a register of names somewhere, so if he could find the home’s offices, and they were unlocked and unmanned at that time of evening, then it should be no problem, no problem at all. Face it, Creed, you don’t have a hope in hell.

But there was another method. The place was full of old people, and most old people love to gabble. Find one, or some, try not to frighten them, and merely ask. Providing they hadn’t all been packed off to bed early, and if he wasn’t discovered loitering in the corridors by a member of staff, it might work out. Anyway, it was the only plan he had.

Adrenaline beginning to pump – he couldn’t help enjoying this sort of thing, even though the present circumstances were somewhat dire – Creed crept through the trees towards the rear of the house. He stumbled over so many roots and fell over so much low undergrowth that soon he decided it would be easier and faster if he left the cover of the trees and skirted around the lawns. As long as he kept the trees as a backdrop, he should be okay.

Within minutes he was looking up at the building from the back. A terrace ran the whole of its length, with two central staircases leading down to the gardens. There were plenty of hedges and topiary in those gardens to provide cover while approaching the house.

Creed made a crouching dash across a flat lawn towards the first hedge. He ducked behind it and stayed there awhile on all fours, waiting to see if he had been spotted. No one called out. He lingered a little longer, catching his breath, allowing his heartbeat to slow down. Onwards again, keeping low, one hand tucked inside his coat pocket to hold the Nikon steady. He thought he heard a door open above on the terrace and he slid to a halt, cursing himself for the noise he’d made on the gravel path. He hid behind a garden plinth.