High Island Blues (7 page)

Lucky old Louise, Molly thought, as she drove into Sainsbury’s car-park to pick up some groceries for supper, knowing that George would complain if they had a takeaway meal again.

Sally Adamson, the presenter of
Wildside
, the children’s programme, was more difficult to track down. First, Molly tried the BBC in Bristol, where the Natural History Unit was based. She was told that the latest series of
Wildside
had been completed almost a year before and that there were no plans to make any more. The team had been disbanded.

‘I’m trying to trace Sally Adamson,’ Molly persisted.

‘I’m very sorry madam.’ The voice at the end of the line was nasal and determinedly unhelpful. ‘I’ve already explained that our contract with Miss Adamson has ended.’

‘But you must still have her address on your file.’

‘It’s not our policy to give personal details of presenters to members of the public. I’m sure you can appreciate that.’

‘What about her agent?’ Molly spoke quickly, sensing that the woman was about to replace the receiver.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I presume she
does
have an agent. To handle her contracts. You surely wouldn’t have any objection to giving me her agent’s name.’

There was a pause while the woman tried to invent one.

‘I’m sure Miss Adamson would be very unhappy if she knew that the BBC had been obstructive, when there was the possibility of an offer of work.’ Molly pressed home her advantage.

‘I’ll have to transfer you.’

Molly was passed on to a young man, whose voice seemed not quite to have broken. She was kept waiting for ten minutes, then he said, in a series of squeaks and growls: ‘Miss Adamson is represented by Cyril Oxley.’ He gave her an address in Kensington and a telephone number, speaking so quickly that she hardly had time to write it down.

‘Thank you,’ said Molly with only a hint of sarcasm. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’

When Molly phoned Cyril Oxley about the possibility of Sally Adamson opening a school’s new wildlife garden he was not at all suspicious. Molly sounded very like a headmistress and that sort of approach was made to Sally all the time. Less now, of course, that the programme was no longer on the air, but children, as he always said, were remarkably faithful.

‘She couldn’t do it for nothing,’ he said. That was the problem. Schools and charities always expected actors to appear out of the kindness of their hearts. It was all very well for the rich and famous to give their time just for the glory but these poor kids had to survive on the dole.

‘Of course not,’ Molly assured him. ‘ We quite understand that.’

‘It’ll be a hundred pounds plus expenses,’ he said. ‘As it’s a school.’

‘That sounds very reasonable.’

‘If you could give me the details …’

‘I’d quite like to discuss the matter with Miss Adamson personally,’ Molly said. ‘I understand that you may not want to give out her telephone number, but if you could ask her to phone me.’

‘A hundred pounds is the going rate. You won’t persuade her to do it for less,’ he said suspiciously.

‘Of course not!’ Molly was headmistressy and offended. ‘St Ursula’s isn’t a
state
school, Mr Oxley. We don’t quibble here about money.’

Sally phoned her back almost immediately. She said she’d be delighted to open the school’s wildlife garden, and the expenses wouldn’t be too horrendous actually, because although she lived in Bristol, at the moment her parents were in the States and she was looking after the house for them. Her mother was paranoid about security. Molly had to interrupt.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘There isn’t any school. I’m afraid I got you to ring under false pretences.’

‘Is it real work?’ Molly could hear the excitement. ‘Acting?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Oh.’ Sally made no attempt to hide her disappointment.

‘I’m a private investigator. Your name’s come up in a case I’m working on.’

‘That sounds intriguing.’ At least she was not going to take out her disappointment on Molly.

‘I wondered if I might buy you lunch.’ Somewhere nice, Molly thought. Cecily could afford it and she had taken to this friendly girl. ‘I’ll come to you. I don’t want to put you to any more inconvenience.’

‘All right. I explained that I’m staying at my parents’ house in Sussex.’ She gave the address, directions.

‘What about tomorrow?’ Molly asked.

‘Why not?’ There was a pause and for the first time she sounded sorry for herself. ‘After all, I’m not doing anything else.’

Sally’s parents lived in a substantial house on the edge of a tidy village. There was no mud or cow muck in the main street and smart little cars were parked outside what had once been farm cottages. Molly was not invited into the house. Sally was waiting for her, and Molly sat in the car while she set an elaborate alarm system.

‘What a fuss!’ Sally said. ‘Anyone with a screwdriver and a GCSE in woodwork could walk into my flat.’

She was tall, wide-mouthed, with dark hair cut very short.

They had lunch in a converted barn. Molly was afraid that the restaurant would be pretentious with fussy food and tiny portions, but the menu was English and limited enough for everything to be freshly cooked. The proprietor knew Sally.

‘When are we going to see you on the telly again, Sal?’

‘Oh, you know, Johnny. When they recognize what they’re missing.’ It was an answer she had given before.

They were shown to a table next to a long, arched window.

‘I know people mean well,’ Sally said, ‘but I wish they’d stop asking.’

Molly did not know what to say.

‘It was the same when I came out of drama school. They expected me to be playing Ophelia at the Royal Shakespeare a week later. My mother’s the worst. She never took acting seriously anyway. She’s waiting for me to find a husband and give up the whole crazy idea.’

‘You didn’t get the job on
Wildside
because of your interest in natural history then?’

‘Not really. I mean I’m
interested
, committed to the Green cause. We all are, these days, aren’t we? But they already had two scientists. They wanted someone young to act the scatty ignoramus, to ask the simple questions that kids might want to put. I thought it worked really well, but the ratings were never that good.’ She paused, looked at the menu. ‘Are you
really
a private investigator?’

‘I’m not what you were expecting?’ Molly saw herself through Sally’s eyes: elderly, plump, a Billy Bunter haircut and round spectacles. Perhaps I should smarten myself up, she thought, then, robustly: No. Why should I?

‘I don’t know,’ Sally said. ‘I imagined someone tough, glamorous …’ she paused again.

‘Young?’ Molly put in.

‘Yes.’ She laughed, slightly embarrassed. ‘ I suppose so. How can I help you?’

‘Have you ever heard of the Wildlife Partnership?’

‘The name’s familiar. Is it something we covered on the show?’

‘I don’t think so.’ Molly took out the brochure which had been sent to Cecily Jessop’s friend. ‘Your name’s listed here as a supporter of the charity. I wondered if you’d given permission for it to be used.’

‘No,’ Sally said. ‘I’m sure I’ve heard of it though.’ She looked out of the window at a woman in a silk head scarf being dragged along by two dogs. ‘ I remember. It was at a party. It must have been more than a year ago because we’d just been told that the Beeb were considering axing the show. I’d never seen
Wildside
as a permanent thing, but I’d got used to the regular income. It would be one thing to leave because I’d been offered a proper acting job. Quite another to get the sack. I’m afraid I had too much to drink and a terrible head the day after.’

‘Where was the party?’

‘London. I’d come to stay with my parents again, and my father took me along to cheer me up. It was some sort of work’s do, I think. I didn’t feel much like partying and I spent most of the time with a big glass of wine sitting in a corner and talking about the Wildlife Partnership. Or listening. It was hard to get a word in. I did say that it sounded a marvellous idea and well worth supporting. It would have been courteous though if the organization had asked my permission before using my name on their literature.’

‘Are you sure they didn’t?’

‘Quite sure.’

‘Tell me about the person who told you about the Partnership.’

‘It was a woman. Attractive, mid-thirties, blonde. More like a businesswoman, I thought, than someone involved in a charity. Well groomed, slick, you know. She probably told me her name but I don’t remember it now.’

‘Anything else you recall about her?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Sally said. ‘ She was American. She had one of those southern, drawling American voices which are so hard for English actors to get right.’

‘Was she living in England or on a visit?’

‘I don’t think she said. I’m not even sure what her role with the Wildlife Partnership was. What I remember most is her enthusiasm. She really wanted to get over her message. She said it was a revolutionary idea. The West and the Third World working as partners in conservation, taking joint decisions, listening to each other properly.’

‘Did she ask you for a donation?’

‘No, I didn’t get the impression that she was soliciting money or trying to sign me up. I didn’t feel that I was getting the hard sell. Not in that sense at least. Just that she was passionate about the idea and wanted to spread the word. She impressed me. There was something about her. That’s why I remember her so well.’ She paused, shrugged. ‘If it was a con she was a better actress than I’ll ever be.’

While Molly was eating roast lamb and Sussex pond pudding, George spent most of his day on the telephone. He tried the number given by the Wildlife Partnership to make credit card donations and found that it was unobtainable. He knew it would be a waste of time contacting British Telecom to find the office address. They would not give that sort of information to members of the public. But as Molly had said, he still had friends in high places, chums in the Home Office who owed him favours. An hour later he had an address. The Wildlife Partnership had been based in Filton, a suburb of Bristol.

The rest of the day he spent trying to track down who was behind the venture. He contacted the directors of other environmental organizations who might be expected to know. He spoke to the Charity Commission. By the time Molly arrived he felt less defeatist. There might be a way of getting to the bottom of this. Cecily Jessop might yet have reason to be grateful to him.

It was almost dark when Molly got home and as she drove down the lane towards the house she wondered again why they hadn’t moved. Norton’s Cross had been sensible when George had worked for the Home Office. Now, when neither of them needed to commute they could leave this benighted, congested corner of England and move somewhere with space and empty roads. She had been stuck for half an hour at the junction into the village.

But as she stopped the car to open the rotting wooden gate into the drive she knew they could not leave. They were too lazy, too settled and the place had too many memories. The house was a red brick Victorian vicarage. They had bought it in the early sixties when three parishes were amalgamated and it was no longer needed. Molly had made plans to renovate it but they had both been too busy. And neither of them cared, really, about the hideous paint which was still in the bathroom, the ugly gas fires, the draughts. The children had fretted when they were teenagers. Couldn’t something, at least, be done about the kitchen? they had demanded. Didn’t Molly know that Mark’s mother had forbidden him ever to eat in the vicarage because it was unhygienic? Now the children were grown up and respectable but even they agreed that it wouldn’t suit Molly and George to live somewhere smart.

George had seen the car lights and had a drink ready for her. There was a fire lit in the living-room and as she came in he was drawing the curtains against the gloom. She sensed that he was happier, that he had achieved something and she was relieved. Throughout their marriage he had suffered from bouts of depression. It wasn’t a problem he would acknowledge, except by sometimes admitting to her that he felt a bit low, but she had shared it with him. Fighting the moods had worn her out. It had been harder than social work or bringing up the children. Sometimes it occurred to her that in retirement she deserved a rest.

‘Well,’ she said. ‘ How did you get on?’ She spoke brightly and supposed that marriage must often be like this. Was there always one partner who provided the encouragement and support? And was it always the woman? Immediately she thought that wasn’t fair. He hadn’t demanded anything of her. She’d had a long day. That was all.

‘I’ve traced the real Wildlife Partnership,’ he said.

‘There is one then?’

‘It’s an American non-profit organization based in Houston. They certainly seem to be legitimate. Small but efficient, though it’s hard to find out where all their money comes from. A number of substantial anonymous donations. They’ve bought reserves in South and Central America, which certainly exist. One in Costa Rica and two in Brazil. I spoke to an RSPB reserves manager who visited one of them through Birdlife International. He seemed impressed by the management and what had been achieved.’

‘But here?’

He shrugged.

‘They’re not registered. But the charity law’s pretty complicated. Perhaps they thought they’d be able to operate here without registration.’

‘Have you talked to anyone in Houston?’

‘Not yet. The outfit seems to be run by volunteers but their PR is handled by a firm of environmental consultants called Brownscombe Associates. I’ll phone them later. It’ll be lunchtime in Texas now.’

‘The American angle would fit,’ Molly said.

‘In what way?’

She told him about the conversation with Sally Adamson and the mysterious American woman who had accosted her at a party.

‘What did you make of Ms Adamson?’ George asked.

‘She’s an actress of course. Ambitious and trained to be charming. But I liked her.’

‘I’ve traced the office which the Wildlife Partnership used in the UK,’ George said. ‘ It’s in Bristol.’