Staging Death (25 page)

I had them side by side on the counter, with the cash counted out beside them, when my conscience struck. Martin had given me the money to buy clothes. Would he – and the police – see shoes as that sort of essential?

Common sense told me that they would scarcely expect me to go barefoot. My conscience subsided. And Helen emerged, with an armful of clothes, all with pins in. They were all in my size! The sight of anyone having such a field day with my doppelgänger’s discards would be irritating on a day I had found nothing, but the thought
of a woman no better than a gangster’s moll with such a haul really rankled. Connie didn’t like it either. Superciliously regarding poor, kind Helen as if she were no more than one of her own pins, she pushed the shoes and the cash forward. The shoes safely stowed in one of Helen’s chic bags, Connie sauntered to the door, as if too bored to attempt civilised behaviour.

What I hadn’t been prepared for was the sound of an emergency vehicle getting rapidly closer. Neither had Frances Trowbridge, even now emerging from the fitting room. Perhaps at first she didn’t connect it with her; she was rooting for even more garments. Connie left the shop without a word of thanks or farewell and headed to the car park, to the accompaniment of the blue lights the police driver had unaccountably left flashing. None of this must be anything to do with me. I must not be heroic.

So deeply was I trying not to get involved that I was actually trying to work out how to open the boot. It was better to keep expensive-looking purchases out of sight, and I hated being defeated by technology. At last it sprang open.

To the accompaniment of swift footsteps.

Frances was running hell for leather towards me. No – to the car park exit. Behind her, two police officers were trying to disentangle their feet from the spaghetti straps of several lovely
dresses she had dropped or more likely slung down. I must not disobey Martin’s instructions not to get involved, must I?

‘Oh, my God!’ I screamed. I had carelessly dropped my new shoes, directly in her path, and she went flying, aided by my hands in the small of her back. Straight into the open Mondeo boot.

I heard a voice. ‘Slam it down! Trap her!’

I would have if I could.

Except I was too short to reach it. Even when I jumped up, my feet off the floor, high as I could, I was too bloody short. At least I remembered to swear with a Scottish accent.

The visits to Langley Park and Oxfield Place were a breeze. Actually, a gale, the speed the Tomasoviczes went through. They were unfailingly polite, but might have been late for a train. We exchanged meaningless nothings and I waved them farewell before heading back to Stratford with the keys.

I rarely admit to tiredness, but now I was
bone-weary
. The keys, however, had to get back to Greg’s safe somehow, and since he’d shelled out for the car, I suppose it was my duty to take them.

My phone rang. I was only a few metres from a lay-by, so I pulled over. It was Allyn. Was she about to rage about my relationship with Toby or implore me to help with rebuking a decorator? Either was possible with Allyn, though I did rather hope she wouldn’t indulge in histrionics over either.

‘Hi, Vena, I just wanted to know how you are. You left in such a rush – Toby says the police wanted you in a safe house. But where could be safer than here?’

I responded to what sounded like simple kindness with a kindly airbrushing of Toby’s role and her alleged part in it. ‘Everyone was thinking of the boys, Allyn. You don’t want a house guest attracting unsavoury visitors, do you? And the fact that I’ve moved elsewhere doesn’t mean I can’t drop by to keep things ticking over with the decor.’

‘Excellent! That’s what I told Toby. He’s so keen for everyone to OK the arrangement of the statues he’s bringing in. Christopher Wild seems to be living here, but he doesn’t have your eye, Vena.’

Just for once I wasn’t going to be bounced into dashing straight round. ‘I can clear tomorrow afternoon’s diary, Allyn, if that’s any help. About two? See you then!’ I rang off.

It rang again, immediately. Was tomorrow not good enough for her? But it was Greg, his voice high-pitched and whiny with strain. ‘It’s Knottsall Lodge,’ he said. ‘Some bugger’s stripped all the lead off the roof. This firm just turned up, erected a load of scaffolding, shoved up a roofer’s sign and took every last bit. So now everything’s – well, the lawyers will have a bloody field day.’

‘You’ve given every bit of information to the police, have you? All the people I took round? And how you came to make the sale?’

‘Why would they want to know?’

‘Because it’s their job to catch thieves,’ I said very clearly. ‘And every time I’ve shown people round Knottsall Lodge they’ve wanted to see the leads. One lot even photographed them. Look, Greg,’ I added, surprising myself, ‘I’m going to go straight back to Kenilworth and drop the house keys back at the office there. I just can’t face the Stratford traffic, not getting in and then out. Give me a bell when you’ve spoken to the fuzz, eh?’

Then, before I could pull out and head for my temporary home, it rang again. This time it was Sandra, whose existence I’d almost forgotten about. She did not sound as if she’d missed me, either: she was as brusque as she’d been with Toby when he’d turfed me out.

‘I’ll be round at about six-thirty,’ she announced. ‘We need to talk about today.’

That was all. Suddenly I was thirteen and had been caught mimicking one of the teachers – very well, as I recall. And the teacher used exactly that tone to address me. Why should Sandra want to chew my ears off? If anything, I rather thought I deserved – in school parlance – a gold star and a house point.

I was just turning into the hire-car yard when
the phone went yet again. When had I become so popular? Whoever it was had to leave a message, as a driver of an equally voluminous car was trying to get out as I was trying to get in. The manoeuvre completed without damage to either party, I checked. It was Greg, saying he’d pop in and see me if I liked. His wife had taken their kids to a school swimming gala and we might as well share a takeaway. All those excellent eateries in Kenilworth and he wanted a takeaway.

He and Sandra arrived at the flat together. She was in mufti this time, but the civvies she’d chosen didn’t flatter her figure any more than her uniform had. Greg, wearing a suit sharp enough to cut himself on, was inclined to be snooty, but I quickly explained her role in my life and he settled down with a can of beer he ran to earth in a kitchen cupboard too high for me to reach.

Then he hijacked the conversation. ‘So they’ve put me on to some specialist branch dealing with scrap metal theft,’ he said resentfully. ‘I thought I’d be dealing with that Martin Humpage. I’d say he was a bright enough guy.’

‘I’m sure he’d be honoured,’ I said dryly. ‘But it’s just not his bag, Greg, not if there’s already a task force set up to deal with it. Did you tell them about Mr Gunter taking photos of the roof?’

Sandra was writing with speed and surprising clarity in her notebook. She looked up. ‘Did
you tell the DCI about that, Vena?’

‘Yes. I think so.’ I didn’t like the flicker of her eyebrow. ‘I’m sure I did. But maybe you’ll want to remind him. Did you tell the task force people, Greg?’

‘I’ll check, shall I?’ Sandra’s question was rhetorical.

‘So you think that the drug runners are also casing the houses I show them for lead to steal?’ I asked.

Greg stuck out his lower lip, a gesture he’d perfected some sixty years ago. ‘But they didn’t want to buy that church you’ve made me fork out five thousand quid for when you only asked for two. And they still nicked all the lead from that.’

‘That might be because people assume there’s lead on a church roof,’ I said patiently. ‘Heavens, someone nicked a lot from Tewkesbury Abbey not so long back!’

‘If you’re lucky,’ Sandra continued, as if Greg hadn’t interrupted, ‘it’ll just be lead from the roof. Could be pipes, too, of course – lead and copper. That’d leave a nice mess, wouldn’t it? And they’re not just after domestic metal: it’s copper signalling wire from railways, manhole covers, everything.’

‘Ah. The toerags nicked memorial plates from the crematorium where Mo’s mother’s ashes
were interred,’ Greg said. He finished his beer, and returned to the kitchen cupboard. I coughed; Sandra had got up too and was looking down at his car. I didn’t think she’d hesitate one second to nick him if he exceeded the limit.

Baulked, he forgot about the takeaway he’d mentioned, and found he had an urgent appointment at his golf club.

‘Going to find a buyer for another of the houses on your books?’ I asked unkindly.

He sniffed. ‘And when are you expecting the English half of the drugs gang to collect the stuff, Constable?’

‘You should know that better than us, sir. How often did they leave it between drop and pickup in the past?’

I was on my feet by now, and easing him to the door. Things weren’t going to get any better if he stayed. He got the message and went. By now I had a thumping headache, the sort Alexander Technique should prevent, and would be glad to see the back of Sandra too.

But she merely sat down, very firmly, behind an invisible head teacher’s desk.

‘You could have ruined that arrest this morning,’ she said. ‘If details have to come to court, I don’t think the defence lawyers will like the thought of someone involved in the case tipping someone into their car boot.’

‘One of your officers told me to!’ Or was it a voice in my head? ‘Surely even I could have made a citizen’s arrest?’ My anger surprised me. ‘Or would you have preferred her to get away?’

‘Of course not. And as it happens, she made no complaint. She even saw the funny side of someone not knowing how to deal with a hire car. And, I’m glad to say, I don’t think she clocked you as more than some airhead Scotswoman.’

‘She didn’t recognise me as the estate agent’s gofer?’

‘Not yet. But what if she’d been armed? What if Gunter had been waiting in his car round the corner? We’re spending a lot of money trying to keep you safe – and then you go and make yourself very obvious indeed. Don’t you understand that this is a major case, and we don’t want it to go wrong because you want to get involved in a bit of flash heroism?’

I couldn’t bring myself to frame one possible response, which was the abject apology she expected. I took a deep breath. ‘Did you get anything out of Frankie? Frances Trowbridge. You collectively, I mean.’

‘You mean the DCI and his team? That’s another thing. You’re making him a laughing stock, Vena. This crush he’s got on you is all round the station. A man of his age and rank
making a cake of himself over—’ She stopped, flushing an unflattering brick red.

‘Over a clapped-out old actress. Well, that’s one way of looking at it, Sandra. The other is that a clapped-out old actress has the hots for an attractive younger man.’

‘Why should you want him when you’ve got Toby Whatsit?’

‘You know bloody well I haven’t “got” Toby Frensham. You saw him chuck me out, for God’s sake.’

‘Only because he was jealous of you having it off with young Frederick.’

‘Which I didn’t do either. Whose side are you on, Sandra? Because if you’re supposed to be my handler, you’re doing a bloody poor job of it.’ Counting on my fingers, I said, ‘I tell the police everything I know. I’m forced out of my home and out of what I hoped was a refuge. A woman I really like is in hospital because of my bloody cheese. Yesterday and today I spend several hours in the company of two people who might not want to kill me but probably wouldn’t hesitate if they suspected I was doing a little job for the police. And now you lay into me for sexual misdemeanours I haven’t committed because someone else is behaving in a way you don’t like. What the hell’s going on?’ I didn’t often lose my temper, but when I did, I lost it very well.

And this poor woman was getting the full force of it. What could she possibly say?

I jumped in again, but in quite a different tone. ‘As far as Martin’s concerned, he’s a wonderfully attractive man,’ I said gently, ‘and in other circumstances I… But wouldn’t having a relationship with a witness mess up his career?’

‘Would you want a relationship with a mere policeman? I’ve Googled you, see, and I know the sort of bloke you’ve had in the past. And Martin’s not that sort of man.’

I was back in anger mode. ‘For God’s sake, are you his mother or something?’

‘No. His ex-wife.’

I stared, open-mouthed.

She sat there, quite phlegmatic. In her case I’d have been in hysterical tears. ‘That’s right. We divorced years ago. When I realised I was gay. I left him for a probation officer. We’re still together. I reverted to my maiden name. Martin and I don’t often work together, but it’s no big deal when we do.’

‘It seems to be for you,’ I snapped.

‘We look out for each other. And when I see someone messing him about—’

‘On this occasion, that’s just what you don’t see. Whatever my feelings for Martin they are none of your business. And,’ I added, sitting down hard because my legs wouldn’t hold me up
anymore, ‘don’t you dare tell him we’ve had this conversation – if you can call it a conversation, that is. Now, you go and google me again, and you’ll find most of the men I’ve been photographed with are gay. My ex-husband, Dale Teacher, the one who’s just landed the part of a lifetime on prime-time TV, beat me up so badly that I lost my unborn baby and my chance of having others. Then he managed to throw me out of our house and nick all the money in our joint account.’

‘But how—?’

‘Fancy lawyers. That’s how. And since people tend not to employ actresses with black eyes or missing teeth, I was unemployed and broke for years. Any money I’ve had has been earned the hard way. You’ve seen my house. What’s left of it. What a glamorous sexy life I’ve had!’ I spat out.

‘I’m sorry, but—’

‘But nothing. We’re supposed to have a professional relationship, Sandra, and that’s the way I want to keep it. You never, ever talk to me about Martin again. Understand? What you do tell me is what he and his team got from Frankie. In fact,’ I added, ‘let’s see if there’s any more of that beer and you can tell me now.’

She got up and stomped off to the kitchen, standing on a stool to reach the cupboard Greg had raided. ‘You don’t want beer,’ she shouted,
over her shoulder. ‘It’ll just fill you up with wind. This cheap muck at least. How about some of this?’ She waved a half-full bottle of Laphroaig. Much as I wanted to bawl her out for telling me what I did and didn’t want, I had to stop. This time she was spot on.

‘I think Frances is glad to have been found out, in a way,’ Sandra said reflectively, staring at the bottom of her glass, which she’d no more than dampened with the whisky.

‘What sort of way?’ She was driving; I wasn’t. I had another finger’s worth.

‘It seems someone approached her with what seemed like real acting work with decent pay.’

Another resting actress. Did that make her a kindred spirit?

‘The job was supposed to be impersonating someone’s wife for the afternoon. That’s all. Except she thinks that the estate agent showing her round recognised her.’

I nodded. ‘And she recognised me – but neither of us could place the other.’

‘Then they told her she had to go fishing in lavatory cisterns. She wasn’t going to argue, she said. Not with the man who said his name was Gunter. But she realised what she was getting out of the loos and panicked.’

‘As you would. So why didn’t she talk to the
police? Ah, not with a man like Mr Gunter as your supposed husband. He’d put the fear of death into you. Twice.’

‘Exactly. She said she couldn’t have done more than make allegations anyway, since she didn’t know Gunter’s real name and didn’t know what happened to the cocaine after she’d retrieved it. He wasn’t very pleased with her performance, and said they wouldn’t use her again. So she walked off with her money and stayed schtum.’

‘Hell. I hoped she’d help unravel the whole thing.’

She looked at her glass again. If she wanted to risk her licence and her career, in whichever order, it was up to her. I put the bottle within reach, but she didn’t take it. ‘I suppose she still may. You see, she’s said all these things, but the people interviewing her aren’t sure she’s telling the truth. It was an awful lot of clothes she dropped this morning.’

‘And designer items don’t come cheap, even second hand. So you think she might be about to do something else dodgy? But then, she wouldn’t be wearing strappy evening dresses to pick up cocaine from empty houses.’