The Lily-White Boys (18 page)

‘Not unless she has a relapse. The first twenty-four hours are crucial.'

‘What brought it on, does anyone know?'

‘Your housekeeper could tell you more, but I think she found her slumped in the chair when she took in her elevenses.'

Betsy; poor old Betsy, who always got the rough end of the stick and never any thanks for it.

‘Just five minutes, Mr Latimer. Then I think you should go, and let her get some rest. You can see her again this evening.'

This evening; so much for the Private View, he thought, and was immediately ashamed that he could consider it at such a time. But he wouldn't after all be able to tax Jeremy about his anonymous companions.

The next five minutes were not easy, and he spent them trying to reassure his mother, grateful for the imposed time limit; a fact which caused him further guilt.

Having duly left her, he returned to the bank, walking slowly this time and allowing himself to be buffeted by people who were now, perversely, in more of a hurry than he was. Back at his desk he phoned first Betsy, who could tell him little more than he knew, and then Monica.

‘Oh George, I'm so sorry!' she exclaimed. ‘How is she now?'

He repeated the guarded information the nurse had given him. ‘But I'm afraid I shan't be able to call for you this evening.'

‘Goodness, as if that matters!' Monica paused. ‘I hope you're not blaming yourself in any way?'

‘I went out to dinner last night, though she asked me not to.'

‘She
always
asks you not to! If she had her way, you'd never leave the house!' Another pause, then: ‘Sorry!'

‘You're right, of course. But we don't know how long she'd been lying in her chair before Betsy found her. If it had happened when I was home, it might have been different.'

‘She's as tough as old boots. She'll pull through.'

George nodded, though Monica couldn't see him. Added to his sense of guilt was the fact that he'd been wondering lately whether to call his mother's bluff and go ahead with the wedding. It couldn't really be possible, he'd reasoned, to have a heart attack to order. After this, though, their plans would have to be shelved again. Perhaps she really was as ill as she kept telling everyone.

‘Would you like me to come to the hospital with you?' Monica was asking.

‘No, really. She's in Intensive Care and I'm the only one who can see her.'

‘It would be moral support on the way there.'

He felt a rush of love for her. ‘Bless you, darling,' he said quietly, ‘but no. You go to the Private View; you've had a bad week yourself and could do with some light relief. I'll phone you later and let you know how she is.'

And, turning from the phone, he tried to pick up the threads of his traumatically interrupted day.

The Preston boy worked at the Job Centre in Duke Street, and Dawson and Cummings were waiting for him when he came out for lunch. He nodded as they introduced themselves.

‘I reckoned you'd be looking me up, after seeing Dolores. And Mum said if you did, to ask when the funeral is?'

Dawson was taken aback. ‘It's not been arranged yet, son. We have to wait till we can charge someone with the crime.'

‘But that could be years!' Damien protested, unconsciously echoing Phil Davidson.

Dawson ignored the slur on his professional competence.

‘Weeks, perhaps,' he corrected, ‘but the Coroner has the last word on that one. I'll make a note to let you know when it's fixed.'

‘Ta.'

‘Got a set lunch-hour, have you?'

‘Till half-one, yeah.'

‘Like to turn in here, then?' They were passing a McDonald's.

‘Don't mind.'

The unlikely trio went through the doors together, Dawson and the boy seating themselves while Cummings ordered beefburgers and Coke. Not the skipper's usual tipple, he thought with a grin.

The lad was subdued, obviously grieving for his friends as much as his sister did.

‘I believe you last saw the Whites four weeks ago?'

‘That's right, we went to the Indian for a meal.'

‘Did they mention any particular aggro, anyone who might have it in for them?'

‘Don't think so, but they was always scrapping with someone. No hard feelings, though, once it was over.' Damien munched solidly on his beefburger.

Dawson went through the usual questions, though merely as a matter of form. Preston seemed pathetically eager to help, and if he knew anything, he'd have told them.

‘Akcherly,' Damien said suddenly, ‘I've just thought – I did see Rob after that, but only for a minute, like. He was setting up his ladder outside the chip shop.'

Both detectives instinctively leaned forward. ‘You spoke to him?'

The boy seemed taken aback. ‘Yeh, but it was nothing important, like. He was asking about aeroplanes.'

‘Aeroplanes?'

‘Yeh, well, they're a hobby of mine, see. I've got model kits and pictures of them all round my room.'

Dawson found he'd been holding his breath. ‘Hang on a minute, lad. When was this?

‘A week or two back.'

‘Look, Damien, this could be important. Think hard.'

The boy looked frightened. ‘It must have been a Wednesday, because I'd been to the post office.'

‘Which Wednesday?'

His face cleared. ‘The week before last. I remember now – I'd just bought a card for Dolores. It was her birthday next day, and Rob gave me a fiver to get something.'

Four days after the house had been done and the low-flying aircraft reported.

‘What did he want to know about planes?' Dawson asked quietly.

‘The makes of the smaller ones, mainly. How far they could fly, if they'd need extra fuel to get to the continent – that kind of thing.'

‘And what did you tell him?'

‘Well, the one he described sounded like a Cessna.'

‘He described one? Why?'

‘I dunno. I did ask, but he was cagey, like. Said he'd seen a picture of it. And I hadn't time to stop, because I was due back.'

‘Can you remember anything else he said?'

Damien stopped chewing and frowned, concentrating. After a minute, he shook his head. ‘No, I reckon that was all.'

Nevertheless, it was a great deal more than they'd expected. There seemed little doubt now that the twins
had
seen the plane land and stopped to investigate. And that their curiosity, like that of the cat, had led to their death.

During the drive to Broadminster, Claudia's mind had been circling round and round the state of her marriage. The crisis had developed so suddenly that she could still hardly believe it; it was almost as if Abbie's innocent remark over lunch that day had precipitated disaster – though if her present suspicions were correct, her marriage had never been the happy, trusting relationship she'd imagined.

For she was now as sure as she could be that Harry and Eloise were having an affair – if a relationship which had presumably lasted twenty years could be so described. The vaguely unsettled feeling of the last week had crystallized last evening when, ashamed of her stilted behaviour on Sunday, she had phoned Eloise to apologize.

Her apprehension about phoning was on more than one count; she'd seen Monica that afternoon, who, when Claudia inquired after her headache, had told her Eloise was now suffering from one and she was standing in for her at a business dinner that evening.

However, anxious to clear the air before the View, Claudia went ahead with her call, intending to tell whoever answered not to disturb Eloise if she were resting.

She was considerably surprised to learn that in fact she had gone out. Then, with a terrible understanding, she remembered the phone call which Harry had taken during dinner, and his hasty departure after the meal ‘to attend to a crisis at the Gallery'.

She had made some stupid, incoherent reply to Theo, who was still waiting for her message, and put the phone down. Almost she was tempted to go straight down to the Gallery on the pretext of offering help. But she didn't dare. Suppose she did find them together, what could she say? She was no good at scenes, inclined to burst into tears rather than stand her ground and give as good as she got. And suppose, after all this time, it would be a relief for them to end the deceit? Was she prepared to let Harry go? What of Abbie? And Justin and the boys? Had she the right to precipitate the disruption of so many lives?

On the other hand, perhaps Justin already knew? Yet he gave no hint of it, always so pleasant and welcoming whenever they saw him. He had probably been duped as much as she had.

By the time Claudia reached Broadminster her mind was no clearer than when she left home, and she continued to debate the problem while automatically negotiating the familiar streets. She had been born in the town and lived there until, when she was nineteen, the family moved to Shillingham and she had met Harry: Harry who, two years previously, had been jilted by Eloise Tovey.

It was as well, she thought as she turned into her friend's drive, that she had this lunch engagement today; hanging about at home with her worries would have been insupportable. She remembered Eloise's casual offer to help with the hanging, and smiled grimly to herself. Once this evening was over, she'd decide what to do.

A passing car recalled her to her surroundings, and she realized she was still sitting in the driveway clutching the steering-wheel. Hastily she released it and, gathering up her handbag and the potted plant she'd brought as a gift, she got out of the car.

Tony Reid, manager of the Carlton Gallery, was distinctly on edge. He was the one who held the can on such occasions, and if anything went wrong, the blame would be laid squarely at his door.

In his early thirties, he was a presentable young man with a slightly artistic air that went down well with customers. He was also very ambitious, which appealed to Harry. He'd set his heart on owning his own gallery, and every penny he earned was salted away to that end. He was unmarried, but whether his interests lay in other directions, Harry neither knew nor cared. With his acute brain, his deferential manner, and his willingness to stick his neck out when necessary, he was ideal for the job.

During the morning they had worked methodically hanging the paintings and sketches. Having performed the task many times together, they worked well as a team and had almost completed it. Now, in the lunch hour, they'd gone across the road to the wine bar.

‘Relax, Tony,' Harry advised, noting the younger man's tension. ‘We've done all we can; it's in the lap of the gods now.'

‘Trouble is, the gods are a fickle bunch, and quite likely to throw mud in your eye for no good reason.'

‘Wine all organized?' Justin's firm was supplying it, as always on these occasions.

‘Yes, they're delivering it at five, so the white will stay cool as long as possible.'

‘And the caterers? No problem there?' It was the first time they'd used Home Cooking, having previously relied on a couple of girls from the wine bar they were now patronizing.

‘I phoned to confirm, and got the bloody answering machine. Probably means they've fitted in another job before us.'

‘Well, we haven't exclusive claim on them. They're dependable, though; I've been to several dinner-parties they've masterminded, and they were superb.'

Probably at Mrs Teal's, Tony thought morosely. He resented the way she made herself so much at home at the Gallery simply because she belonged to the same Arts Society as the Marlows. If that
was
the reason, he reflected darkly. Not like Mrs Marlow, who never interfered but was always pleasant and polite. Nice lady, Mrs Marlow.

‘I told them they could use the offices,' he said. ‘That'll be all right, won't it?'

‘Yes, I'll clear my desk when we get back. How about upstairs? I've not been up this morning.'

‘All in place. It looks very impressive.'

‘Good. Well, drink up. We'd better get back and finish the final check. After that, all we can do is say our prayers and hope it goes off all right. And,' he added with a smile, fishing out his credit card, ‘that your fickle gods aren't in the mood for mud slinging.'

‘Hannah?'

‘Hello, David. How's the case going?'

‘Chugging along. A few facts are slotting into place, but nothing of significance.'

‘Did the van-driver show up?'

‘Yes, and he seems to be in the clear. Which means we now haven't even got a suspect. Look, it's five-thirty and my brain's ground to a halt. I think I'll take an evening off and come back to it fresh tomorrow. Are you free? I thought we could eat somewhere cheap and cheerful and perhaps take in a film.'

‘Oh, David, I'm sorry, I can't. I'm going to the Carlton Gallery with Gwen and Dilys. Monica wangled us invitations.'

‘Just my luck. Well, have a good time with all those VIPs. Incidentally –' his voice quickened – ‘the Gallery was on the Whites' window-cleaning list. It wouldn't hurt to keep your eyes and ears open.'

‘With two hundred-odd people milling about? Even if they were up to something, it'd be under wraps this evening.'

‘You're probably right.'

‘I'm sorry I can't join you; in this weather, I don't relish the prospect of masses of people in a confined space.'

‘What you mean is, you'd rather spend the evening in my scintillating company.'

‘Exactly!'

‘Enjoy yourself,' he said, and rang off.

Poor David, Hannah thought; he'd probably have enjoyed the View more than she would. Modern art was not really her scene.

Since Harry wanted to be back at the Gallery by six o'clock, it was arranged that the Teals should call for Claudia and Abbie.

Hearing the car arrive, Claudia went to the door in time to see Justin opening the back and lifting a case of wine out of the boot.