Money Never Sleeps (20 page)

‘Thank you for trusting me again,’ he said now, not taking his eyes off the road.

She began to recognize where they were. Soon they would be back at the conference centre. As they turned into the driveway, Jed crawled over the speed bumps, careful not to jolt her. The entrance was deserted. No cars, no people. Everyone had gone bar a few staff cars in the furthest area, some delivery vans unloading boxes.

‘This feels very strange,’ said Fancy. ‘As if the life has gone from the place.’

‘A different sort of activity. Cleaning. Preparing rooms. Getting ready for the next influx of people. Another conference about to start.’

There was a steady hum of vacuum cleaners and floor polishers. Trolleys of cleaning products stood about. Foyer flowers were being changed. Windows wiped down and polished. It was a mammoth spring clean.

They went through the entrance hall into the vinery, not expecting to see anyone they knew. A woman was perched on a stool by the noticeboards, taking down the dozens of notices, AGM minutes, instructions to do this and that, photos of speakers and details of the courses.

She almost fell off the stool when she saw Fancy, her mouth open.

‘Good heavens, Fancy,’ she said. ‘We all thought you’d gone home.’

‘No,’ said Fancy. ‘A slight delay. Call it technical research.’

The woman got off the stool and gathered the fallen papers and her wits. Drawing pins had scattered everywhere. She took her time collecting them. Fancy did not move to help. Jed seemed to be searching in his pockets with his good hand.

‘Well, that’s all right, then,’ said Jessie, the conference
secretary
. ‘We thought it funny, you not saying goodbye to anyone. Someone handed in a pearl necklace, by the way. They found it on the lawn at the dregs party. It might be yours. We all thought you had gone off to a private farewell party.’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Fancy.

‘A private, fond goodbye,’ said Jessie with a wink. ‘Well, you know. You and the dishy detective. It wasn’t exactly a state secret.’

‘W
e’ve come to collect Fancy’s case and her lecture notes. Her car is parked on the upper level, above Lakeside,’ said Jed easily. ‘Probably the last car left.’

‘Oh, that’s fine,’ said Jessie, still flustered and red-faced from bending over. ‘Take your time. The luggage may be in the manager’s office. I don’t really know. So much stuff gets left behind, especially hanging behind bathroom doors. You’d be surprised. I’m just clearing up all the odds and ends. The dining room is still open and the hot water heater’s working. You can make yourself some coffee, if you don’t mind a packet of instant Nescafé and those fiddly milk cartons.’

‘Thanks,’ said Fancy. ‘That would be lovely.’

‘That’s fine. No need to hurry, is there?’ Jed asked. ‘Such a lovely morning. We can enjoy the gardens by ourselves.’

Jessie flashed a smile. ‘Sorry, gotta go, folks, got a hundred things to do before I go home. I want to be leaving soon. Hope you can find everything you need. Like the tracksuit. Different,’ she flashed at Fancy, as if she had just noticed.

It was indeed strange. All the vibrant life had been drained from the conference centre. Empty dining room, now cleared of breakfast debris and nothing set on the bare tables for lunch or dinner. The next conference would not start until the next day, Saturday. The bar was closed, shutters down. No one in the shop or foyer. In fact, no one around at all. Except the domestic staff.

The gardeners were busy mowing the lawns. Walking on the soft grass was bliss for her feet. Fancy and Jed had the gardens to
themselves, sat on the bank of the sloping lawn, mugs of coffee in their hands, watching other people work. The local birds had returned, chirruping happily in their tall trees. They saw a squirrel hopping across the grass. The itinerant tabby looked forlorn and wandered over to them for company. He meowed hopefully for some breakfast sausage.

‘What are we waiting for?’ Fancy asked nervously. ‘I want to get my things and be gone from this place. It’s so creepy.’

‘Not long now, Fancy. And it isn’t creepy. That’s your writer’s imagination working overtime. Look at the sunshine and the lovely gardens. Be patient, Fancy. I’m with you. Nothing can happen to you while I’m here.’

‘The place is deserted.’

‘So is the Sahara desert. And Northcote is not deserted. You’d be surprised how many people are here, all working.’

Fancy tried not to think. The horrors of the previous evening were returning. The journey in the car boot, being dragged down the steps to darkness and nowhere. She knew it would be a long time before the nightmare receded. Castleton might help. It was a lovely place. She really liked the sprawling village.

Surprising thoughts were coming into her mind. She had never really enjoyed living in London, all the fumes and noise and traffic. The lodge seemed unnatural. Neither a proper church, nor a real home. A sort of halfway house, suitable for an eccentric London writer in limbo, but not forever. And the endless litter, mindless street furniture, rutted roads, the yobs trawling the streets looking for trouble.

On the drive through Castleton she had seen several House for Sale signs. No harm in looking around. She could write just as well in the depth of the Dales. What was email for? Snail mail still existed, too. Derbyshire was not exactly the other side of the world and the views were beautiful. And she fancied somewhere with a proper bath. She wanted to spend years, soaking away the bad memories.

‘Is there anything else you’ve forgotten to tell me?’

‘Yes. We discovered there was an extra person at the
conference
.
Someone who had no authority to be here, but nobody noticed, of course; who was wearing a white badge like a lot of other first-time delegates; who ate in the dining room, drank in the bar, but went to nothing. No talks, no lectures. Not a writer. It took a long time to track him down.’

‘The invisible delegate. So who was it?’

‘We think it was his car that was set on fire. And it had a French number plate. The plate has been traced through the vehicle licence records. Bless all those databases.’

‘Who to?’

‘A man called Leo Cousseau. Address: unknown.’

‘But I thought it was Grace’s husband’s car that was set on fire? The farmer from Cornwall.’

‘He was never contacted and has never been here. I’ve had it checked. He knew nothing about his wife’s death and never drove up here. He’s still in Cornwall, with his sheep.’

‘Poor man. So he didn’t know?’

‘No, not till last night. Local CID had to go round to tell him.’

‘Who was supposed to phone him?’

‘The conference secretary, Jessie Whytely. Bad news is her unfortunate responsibility. She phoned from the conference office, or so she told everyone she had. Then a man, apparently from Cornwall, arrived, so everyone thought it was the husband, Rupert Harlow. But the farmer didn’t arrive. It was instead a man called Leo Cousseau from France.’

‘But I thought you interviewed Rupert Harlow.’

‘So did I. But I actually talked to this Leo Cousseau. He’s a consummate actor. I was taken in. But later, I thought, where’s the remorse, the grief? His wife has been found dead and he shows no emotion. He knew all the facts and his story was word perfect.’

Fancy stood up, unsteadily, putting down the coffee mug. Her head ached. ‘I want to collect my bags and notes and be gone from here. Everything freaks me out. I’m nothing, nobody, only a hard-working crime writer. I don’t mean to harm anyone. None of this is anything to do with me.’

‘Money never sleeps,’ said Jed.

Fancy’s wheelie suitcase, briefcase and lecture notes were found, safe and sound, stored upstairs in an admin office. She wanted to put them straight into her car but Jed stopped her. Not yet, he said. She was beyond arguing. She knew she couldn’t drive till her feet felt they could use the pedals.

‘We could take my things back to Castleton?’ said Fancy.

‘Sure,’ said Jed. ‘We’ll put them in my car instead.’

They were standing at the window in the Lakeside room
opposite
425. Somewhere in the distance, far beyond normal sight, was the North Sea. The room had been made up for the next occupant: hospitality tray refilled, fresh towels and soap laid on the bed. They did not touch anything.

Fancy could see an oblique view of her beloved vintage car in the higher car park, or from this distance what looked like her car. It was the only small brown car in an empty space and a long way off, so it must be hers. She clenched Jed’s hand.

‘Is this going to be all right?’ she asked. ‘Can we go now?’

‘Of course. Everything is in hand.’

‘I don’t understand any of this, but I’m trusting you,’ she said.

‘Trust me some more. Are you any good at acting?’

‘Very good at acting. Oscar-nomination class. Do it all the time.’

‘I want you to come down with me now and pretend to say goodbye to me in the car park.’

‘Is that all? A fond goodbye?’

‘A very fond goodbye would be acceptable. But don’t get any ideas. Then I want you to go round to your car and pretend to get in it. The door will be unlocked. But don’t actually get in. Don’t in any circumstances get in it. Open the door, switch on the
ignition
, pretend to have dropped something, then immediately duck round the back and roll over the perimeter brick wall.’

‘Roll over the wall? In my state? With my bruises? You’re joking.’

‘I’m not joking. Get over that wall and crouch down, flat on the
ground if you can make it, hands over your head. Do exactly as I say, Fancy.’

‘This is ridiculous,’ said Fancy, irritated. ‘I don’t understand a word.’

‘It may well be ridiculous in which case you can have a good laugh. We will both have a good laugh. And I’ll help you back over the wall. Do you really want to be scared for the rest of your life, always looking over your shoulder, anxious to see who’s following you?’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Then do this one last thing.’

They went downstairs in the lift and out of the back entrance to the top car park. It was a gloriously sunny day, one of the last of the summer, with a light, caressing breeze playing through the trees. The scent of the flowers, roses and lavender, wafted across from the garden and mingled with the sharp freshness of cut grass.

‘Well, goodbye, Jed,’ said Fancy, reaching up to give him the briefest kiss on the cheek. It felt a little rough, as if he had not had a good shave that morning. ‘It’s been nice meeting you.’

‘If that’s a fond goodbye, then I can’t wait for the other kind,’ said Jed dryly, patting her on the shoulder like a pet dog. ‘Take care, sweetheart.’

‘I’m nobody’s sweetheart,’ she said, turning away. It wouldn’t rate as a scene from
Casablanca
.

Fancy walked across to her car, awkwardly in the thermal socks. The tarmac was hard. The Vanden Plas looked a bit different but perhaps her eyesight had been affected by the darkness in the tunnel. It looked more polished than her old vintage, which had lost its shine. Same colour, same shape, even the same make.

She opened the unlocked door. It was different inside. The walnut facia and leather-covered steering wheel had gone, replaced by boring grey plastic. This was not right. She wanted to protest, to say something to Jed, but he had walked away and was going back into Lakeside. She turned the ignition key as told, and ducked down to pick up an imaginary handkerchief.

She hurried round the back, stumbling up a bank and rolling over the brick wall. As she hit the ground below, she heard a roar and an explosion. Flames shot into the air and Fancy hid her face from the heat and noise. The brick wall protected her from the explosion. She was shaking with fear and with indignation. Her car was on fire, a wreck, a smouldering mass of twisted metal.

How dare Jed expose her to this danger. She could have been killed. He must have known the car might be booby-trapped. Yet he let her go within yards of the car, her beautiful little vintage car, now wrecked and burning.

Jed leaped over the wall and crouched down beside her. His body protecting her. But from what? He was too bloody late.

‘Are you all right?’

His arms were close round her but she was quivering, not from fright, but with fury. She fought him off with what strength she had left, mindful of what still hurt and was painful.

She turned on him fiercely, eyes blazing. ‘No, I’m not all right. How dare you! How dare you put me through that! What a nerve. I could have been killed. You knew it was booby-trapped, yet you told me to go and turn on the ignition.’

‘Calm down,’ said Jed, holding her close. ‘You’re safe. I would have pulled you into Lakeside if you hadn’t gone behind the wall. We weren’t sure. We only guessed it might be
booby-trapped
and that they would use a mobile phone to detonate it remotely. But only if they saw you appearing to get into the car and turn on the ignition. We had to have proof. The bomb wouldn’t go off instantly; there’s usually a time lapse on these things. There were vital seconds that gave you time to take cover.’

‘How could you? I’ll never forgive you, you beast, you horror.’ Her eyes were smarting with tears.

‘Yes, you will, because now you’re going to be safe.’

There seemed to be a lot of activity in the car park. Several police officers arrived, running, dousing the flames with fire extinguishers. Then she saw two more police officers coming out of Lakeside, holding a man between them. His hands were
behind his back, handcuffed. He looked vaguely familiar. Late forties, short grey hair, tweedy clothes.

‘That’s Leo Cousseau, who blew up his own car in case anyone noticed the French number plates. This is the man who has been wandering round the conference all week, wearing a white badge that he was not entitled to wear. He’s been eating with you, drinking with you, wandering about but not going to any lectures, planting nasty things to scare you.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Fancy. ‘Who is he?’

‘He kidnapped you yesterday, bound and gagged you and drove you to Pennyroyal, dragged you down all those steps and left you to die in the heart of a disused lead mine.’

‘It was him? But why? There was a woman, too,’ said Fancy, still trembling. ‘I heard lighter footsteps.’

‘We know. And here she is, in the custody of Detective Inspector Morris Bradley. I’m sure he will have read her the Miranda rights.’

DI Bradley came out of Lakeside, a struggling, handcuffed woman in tow. WPC Richmond was escorting her, her hand firmly on the woman’s arm. Dorothy craned her head and caught sight of Fancy. She nodded. A couple of police cars were screeching to a halt at the top of the car park. Cousseau was being down-headed into the back of one of the cars. It was like a scene from a film.

He was pale-faced, ashen, shaking.

The woman was also being taken to one of the police cars. She was in jeans and a T-shirt, her face wreathed in fury.

‘How did you get out?’ she shouted at Fancy, dragging back from her escort. ‘We made sure you would never get out. You were supposed to die down there. Got a broomstick or
something
? Going to write a sequel to
Harry Potter
now, are you? You and your idiot Pink Pen Detective. You’re nobody, you’re nothing. My mother was worth a hundred of you. She deserved every penny. And she would have got it if it hadn’t been for your stupid magazine, stirring up an old, dead story.’

She was bundled into the second police car, WPC Richmond
getting in beside her. The woman glared at Fancy through the window.

DSI Bradley had his mobile phone in his hand. He clicked it off. ‘Recorded all that?’ asked Jed. ‘She always did talk too much.’

‘You need no introduction to that woman,’ Jed went on. ‘You know her as Jessie Whytely, the writers’ Conference Secretary, but she is also Jessica Cousseau, the only daughter of Thelma Marchant, one of the twin sisters, and now rightful heir to the brewery millions.’

Fancy felt faint. ‘Jessie?’

‘Nothing to be afraid of any more. Those two are going down on two counts of murder and attempted murder. Forensics will find evidence to link them with Grace’s murder. Then there’s counts of arson and administering a prohibited drug. We can prove the kidnap, the lead mine and the booby-trapped car. And guess what we found in the boot of their car? Some of the seed pearls from your top. They’d been torn off. We’ll trace their mobile phone records, find evidence of journeys to London. The attempts in London will be more difficult to prove, but we’ll get there.’