Staging Death (4 page)

‘He was big, all right. As soon as I saw him I decided if he wanted to visit any of our properties I’d send one of the lads with him, not a woman. But as to a gun – I’ve no idea.’

‘Did you check his ID?’

I could almost hear her wrinkling her nose. ‘You know, I’m sure I asked him. I said if we were to show him round anywhere at all I needed his passport or something similar. Well, we would have done if we’d made a sale, wouldn’t we? I just thought a pre-emptive strike was in order. Anyway, he said it was back at his hotel, and that it was one of the few civilised things about this country that people didn’t have to carry ID cards. He got – shall we call it –
impassioned
?’

‘And did he go back for it?’

Heather snorted with ironic laughter. ‘He said his hotel was in London. In any case, he said, did I read Russian? I just said it was company policy.’

‘And he stormed out?’

‘I wouldn’t say he stormed, exactly. But – this sounds silly, doesn’t it, Vena? – if he’d chosen to storm he could have done a very good job of it.’

‘Did he have a cowed little wife with him?’

‘I don’t recall… No, I don’t think so. If he had, I might have stretched a point, times being what they are. How’s Burford’s getting on?’

‘Like everyone else, I suppose. I don’t think Greg will have to sell his Merc, but I don’t see him ordering a new one, not yet a while,’ I added, a Black Country expression sneaking in uninvited.

We agreed that lunch would be nice, and fixed a day a couple of weeks hence.

So what could I do with the information? Stuff about data protection was swimming round the depths of my brain. It wasn’t on the Brosnics as such, so I wasn’t sure I should put it on their file. In fact, I was sure I shouldn’t. But if Heather was worried enough by her Mr Kendrowsky to want a man, not a woman, accompany him on viewings…

Before I could make a decision beyond jotting everything on a Post-it, the phone rang. Claire pointed at the extension on the desk I was using.

It was Mrs Wimpole, with a smile in her voice and the most wonderful words. ‘It’s about Little Cuffley Court, Ms Burford. We want to put in an offer…’

Despite the fact that my role was crucial in showing off houses and charming a response out of the punters, I wasn’t allowed to take part in any negotiations. That was Greg’s job. Although I was sure the Wimpoles would rather have dealt with me, now I had to hand over to him, hoping that he would use some of the family tact and charm and not antagonise the vendor or the would-be purchaser. He had the grace, the moment he’d rubbed his hands with glee, to give me a hug.

Then he remembered his managerial status, reminding me I wasn’t to build up my hopes. The
Sedgwicks were a crusty old pair and thought they were sitting on millions in terms of the furniture alone. All the same, he’d do everything in his power to make them see that offers no longer grew on trees, that house prices had dropped, and all the things I already knew.

‘Even if they turn their noses up at the offer at first, if you let them sleep on it, they may come round,’ I suggested.

‘And do you think there’s any chance of talking the Wimpoles up a bit?’

‘I doubt it. I think they’re pretty well at the top of their limit already. But they have sold their own, Greg – remember that. Think of all that lovely money just dying to leap into the Sedgwicks’ hands!’

His smile was genuine. ‘And ours, Vee…and ours…’

I should have slept like a baby that night. I did, until my recurring nightmare popped up. In it, Dale, my ex-husband, stands behind me with a knife at my throat. Just as he once did.

Only tonight it wasn’t Dale.

It was Brosnic.

There was no one better qualified than Harvey to be honest about my hair. In the often camp ranks of my friends, he was a heterosexual beacon, with a past that had more to do with the theatre of war than the one I loved. He had once been in the army, the SAS to be precise, but had been invalided out with a back injury. You might have thought that having a good back was a prerequisite of being a hairdresser, and that killing people silently from behind was the antithesis of all his new craft stood for. Only a few of his clients in the salon, not far from Greg’s Kenilworth office, knew that he needed to spend at least an hour each day working on the damaged muscles and bones. He was gentleness personified when he wielded the scissors.

But not when he used his tongue. ‘I know you’re naturally dark, Vena, but there’s a limit
to what we can do, you know, before the colour starts to look…well, artificial. That’s why so many dark ladies go blonde as they get older. Think of’ – he produced a malicious smile – ‘Ann Widdecombe, for instance.’

‘I may be mature but I’m not that mature,’ I replied tartly. It was what Caddie had been implying, wasn’t it? Was that why I’d been resting so long? Through dry lips I asked, ‘OK, Harvey, what do we do?’

‘Let’s think of the cut first. There comes a point when you should think of looking chic, not—’

‘Not sexy,’ I supplied dismally. I looked at my long bob with newly hostile eyes. The hair wasn’t just less lustrous, it was getting coarser – less the Egyptian queen and temptress and more an ageing Carmen from some amateur operatic society. It certainly wasn’t like that hair I failed to get the advert for. Only the voice-over, of course. But all the same.

He weighed it in his hands, pulling here, pushing there. I thought of his past and stayed schtum. In the end he dropped it all, and disappeared to the back of the salon. He returned clutching one of those hairstyle magazines featuring young and perfect faces with young and perfect hair. In fact, he discreetly covered the face with his fingers.

I stared at the crop, which was all that was now visible. ‘For me?’

‘I don’t see why not.’ He removed his hand and lifted my jaw in a way that brooked no argument. ‘You’ve got far better features than she has, and the posture of a queen. Trust me, Vena – this will turn heads.’

‘And the colour?’ I asked sulkily.

‘Just a shade warmer.’ He dived off and produced swatches. ‘This one. Yes?’

I stuck out my lower lip. ‘I suppose.’

He ruffled my hair as if I was a child. ‘You just trust your Uncle Harvey.’

‘Coming from a man at least ten years younger than me that’s a bit rich.’

‘We’re not talking age here, Vena – we’re talking attitude. You know you can do sultry with the best of them. Now you’ll be doing chic sultry.’

The next day I resolved to do Brazilian. No, nothing to do with the wax! Heaven forfend! The accent, of course. Harvey insisted – and the mirror didn’t deny – that he had taken years off me. I hadn’t been brave enough to let him take off all he wanted, but I suspected I would next time. The problem was that short hair was more high-maintenance than long. He’d already booked my next appointment only five weeks away. I’d have to hope that the Wimpoles’ offer was swiftly
accepted. Only when the whole deal had been completed would I get my hands on the bonus. Until then I would play accents CDs wherever I drove. And pester Caddie.

The first time I called her – about a minute after ten, which was when she officially opened her office – she was engaged. Her answering service told me that she knew I was calling and I was to leave my name and number so that she could call back. I suppose it doesn’t take all that long to drive from my side of Stratford to Aldred House, but I was disappointed that she hadn’t managed to respond. Should I try again before I left the Ka, as before, in the stable yard? Or would that smack of desperation?

The decision was made as Toby materialised, fully dressed this time.

‘I know Allyn forgot to call you,’ he said, by way of greeting and apology, ‘but there was offspring trouble. It seems the nanny had let Nash eat something containing preservatives and he was walking all over the ceiling. No, not those you’d had painted and not literally. But she had a loud and stressful time.’

So that was a day’s pampering wasted, wasn’t it? Though I didn’t say so, of course.

‘Anyway, she’s left precise details of what she wants doing. I’ll talk you through her ideas as we see each room.’

This from a superstar? And where was Allyn?

He took my arm to assist me from the Ka, and tucked it matily under his. What a shame I had to spoil the moment by zapping the locks.

‘You don’t trust my security?’ he asked, eyebrows in mid-air.

‘I don’t trust kids. Any kids,’ I added, lest I’d offended him. And why hadn’t he noticed my hair? ‘But speaking of security, maybe you should be keeping an eye on— Hell! Stop that!’ Cold water was coming from nowhere, and landing on my new hair.

The twins were circling us with water pistols. Correction – water attack rifles. If only they’d had them during the Great Fire of London or the Blitz they’d have changed history.

‘Where’s their nanny, or whatever?’

‘Instant dismissal.’

Shades of
Jane Eyre
! ‘And Allyn?’ I asked carefully. She was the boys’ mother, after all.

‘She ate something with dairy in it by mistake last night – she’s prostrate with a headache. A migraine,’ he corrected himself.

‘So who’s in charge of the kids?’

He had the grace to trace a semicircle in the gravel with the toe of his trainer.

‘We are? Hell’s bells! And how are we proposing to sort out the decor with them in tow?’

‘I thought you might have some ideas.’

It was clearly time for one now. My basilisk stare had brought the twins, rifles ready and pointing straight at us, skidding to a puzzled halt. I probably looked like a demented traffic cop as I contrived to hold them at bay with one raised hand and beckon them to me with the other.

‘You see that car?’ I pointed. ‘I bet you can’t get it clean with those things. I’ll give you ten minutes to try.’ I pointed at the stable clock. ‘Starting now!’

I legged it to the house, though as soon as Toby got the gist of what I was doing he overtook me. ‘We should get one room sorted at least,’ I panted.

His face fell in exaggerated disappointment. ‘I thought you meant you wanted a quickie.’

In the event, the kids cleaned every car on the estate, getting soaking wet in the process. One of the security lads got into the spirit of things and produced some polish and old rags. The Valkyrie was detailed to wash their soaking clothes before their mother surfaced.

And I’d got the information I needed on three of the ten rooms, which I reckoned wasn’t bad. I could order both the fabric and the wallpaper and get the decorators primed. My next task was to get my specialist carpet importer to source
appropriate rugs and carpets, since I’d managed to persuade Toby that the original wood floors were fine enough to be left visible. I had in mind for the main reception room a beautiful silk Turkestani carpet, antique gold in colour, which would set Toby back a mere thirty thousand.

Toby didn’t so much as blink when I mentioned the sum. I said I’d arrange a home viewing – for that amount of money he was entitled to see it
in situ.
Another shrug: I should fix an appointment for a time to suit Allyn.

I made a note. ‘Meanwhile, we ought to see what Nash and Brummell are up to,’ I said foolishly.

‘They’ll be hooked up to their PlayStations. They want some new game, though. They say they’re bored with this one.’

‘I’m not surprised. In my book, boys of that age shouldn’t be playing computer games, but with a ball. But then, I’ve never had children, have I?’

He looked at me sideways. ‘You’d have made a good mother.’

I swallowed and let him hug me. At last, I asked, ‘OK, what about a tree to climb?’ They were both tubby enough to bounce should they fall, as if all Allyn’s calories had migrated from her hips to theirs.

‘Climbing trees?’ Toby sounded almost as horrified as I would have expected Allyn to
sound. ‘She wants them all cut down!’

I’m not often lost for words, but I simply gaped at him. Eventually I managed, ‘Haven’t you heard about global warming?’

‘Haven’t you heard about risk assessment?’ he countered. We stood arms akimbo confronting each other – we might have been Beatrice and Benedict. And look what happened to them.

But now his eyes were permitting a twinkle to emerge. ‘In fact, why don’t we carry one out right now?’ All sorts of meanings swam under the prosaic clichés.

In the event, he herded the kids together and pointed in the direction of the furthest copse. I felt sorry for them – their legs must have chafed as they ran. But I figured the more they ran, the less they’d have to chafe.

Toby and I followed more slowly, shoulder to shoulder, our hands occasionally touching. I willed myself a few inches further to his left. This gave him the opportunity to reach out for my hair. He gripped a handful. Not in the same way as Harvey, however.

‘It really suits you,’ he said, releasing it, only to trail a finger down my jaw. Again, not at all like Harvey.

As we caught up with the kids, he pointed at some huge trees. They lay flat, their exposed roots clawing desperately for the earth from
which they’d been torn. The boys stared.

He hunkered down so that he was at their eye level, and regaled them with a story about a monster. Why didn’t they make a den in all those roots to protect themselves? While they gaped, he busied himself collecting branches and propping them up wigwam style. It was only when they’d got the idea and were working with a will that he came back to me.

He turned the full force of his smile on me. ‘You see, I’m not such a bad person. That lot came down in last month’s gales, and I’ve really no idea if the others are safe.’

‘I’m afraid you need an expert.’ Was my voice as matter-of-fact as I hoped? ‘Those don’t look well at all – those with the bald upper branches sticking out from the ones just coming into leaf.’ I pointed.

He strolled and kicked at the ivy-covered trunks, the way a man proved his knowledge of second-hand cars by kicking the tyres. ‘Tell you what,’ he said,‘I know just what would look nice in this corner. No, not nice – that’s a stupid word. I know what demands to be put here.’ He strode around, apparently at random, making pretentious little framing gestures with his thumbs and forefingers. ‘My dad – well, he was really my stepfather, but I always thought of him as Dad – was a sculptor. Real big stuff!’ His
arms circled like windmill sails. ‘There’s never been any attempt to gather together his
oeuvre
.’

It was good enough to be an
oeuvre
, was it? How did I know what was coming?

‘What I should do is clear all this and exhibit everything in a sculpture garden. Now, where do I start?’

I clicked my fingers, the noise momentarily attracting the attention of the boys. But it didn’t take them long to realise it was just a crazy adult thing, and they returned to the tree roots. ‘Christopher Wild! You must remember Christopher Wild. He did one of the best Dogberrys you’ll ever see.’

He shook his head slowly, but then he too clicked his fingers. ‘Yes! At the Old Vic. About ten years ago? What about him?’

How could I point out tactfully that it wasn’t just me who needed a sideline? That there were a lot of actors better than Toby would ever be who never worked? I tried a tart smile. ‘He whiles away the hours waiting for his agent to ring by performing surgery on trees and giving them sap transplants.’

‘And is he qualified?’

‘You wouldn’t mind an unqualified success?’

Christopher compensated for spending years impersonating rustics by dressing in as suave
a way as was practical for a man now making a living from the soil. If you had seen him in the street you would have put him down as a recently retired bank manager or solicitor, neat in a well-cut sports coat, elegant flannels and highly polished brogues. Everything from Oxfam, actually. His accent had returned to something approaching the public school cut glass he must have been bullied into some forty years ago. In vain had I remonstrated that a touch of the hayseed about him might have inspired even more confidence in those wanting his arboreal advice and perhaps catch the eye of a passing casting director. He liked dapper and would do dapper until he was forced to do otherwise. And at sixty he was entitled to dress as he pleased.

He sat in my living room, taking long sips of the sherry I’d bought in especially for him. I no longer touched the stuff myself, having once tried to sink more of it than they could make. That particular bad time was well behind me now, as was the man who’d caused it, but the smell of amontillado still turned my stomach. So I was quaffing a Pimm’s, with as much aromatic fruit as you could cram into the glass.

‘A big job?’ he said, setting down the glass in the very centre of the coaster.

‘Very big. And the guy’s loaded. Mind you,’ I said, raising an admonitory finger, ‘I’m not
telling you that so that you can fleece him. Just so that you know you can tell him what needs doing without worrying he won’t pay for it.’

‘And will you be wanting commission for putting the work my way?’

I stared. ‘I’d never thought of such a thing. Is that what you usually do?’

‘Some folk expect a cut; others don’t. If you don’t I’m grateful, and will respond by putting appropriate employment your way.’

What on earth was his idea of
appropriate employment
?

‘You’ve got the ear of someone casting
Antony and Cleopatra
, have you?’ I wasn’t quite joking.

‘Would that I had. Mind you, they seem to be casting younger and younger Cleos, don’t they?’ he added with more accuracy than tact. And this was the man for whom I was cooking supper.