Molly's Millions (18 page)

‘You have absolutely no idea where you’re going, do you?’ Carolyn said to Marty after he pulled into the roadside and opened his atlas.

‘Well, I don’t see any of you clamouring to help with directions.’

Carolyn sighed wearily and stuck her head out of the car window. It was a beautiful stretch of road overlooking a valley with a river snaking through it. She smiled as she saw a father and daughter picnicking at the side of the road. They’d spread a tartan rug out and there was all manner of things on it including a guitar. The father had his back to the road and was staring deep into the valley below, and the girl had a book in one hand and an emerald apple in the other. Would that be them in the future? she wondered, trying to imagine Marty in the role of father.

Casting him a quick glance, she saw that his expression was darker than ebony. He wasn’t in a good mood. The
front-page story in
Vive!
had shaken him. He’d tried to keep it hidden but Magnus had got hold of it. But at least they hadn’t read it out to Old Bailey, and they hadn’t talked about it either. All their concentration had been focused on finding The Swan and hoping they’d be able to find Molly from there.

Poor Molly, Carolyn thought. For the first time in years, she was having a little fun and it went and made the front page of a notorious national newspaper. Life wasn’t fair, was it?

‘Here we are!’ Marty suddenly yelled. ‘We’re only about three miles away. Right, I want you all to keep your eyes open for Molly. She could be anywhere round here.’

Carolyn rolled her eyes. She was going to have to sneak a call to Molly at the earliest opportunity and see how she was and, more importantly,
where
she was.

Molly had left Chartlebury Court with a lump in her throat.

‘I’ll come back one day,’ she’d told Eleanora. ‘When I’ve got more time.’

‘You do that,’ Eleanora had said and they’d hugged as if they’d known each other all their lives and not just two days.

Molly could still feel the sting of tears as she drove away but a fiercer emotion was beginning to surface: anger. She was burning with fury at having her private life splattered across the front page by a man who didn’t even know her. But what was even worse than her own madness was the fact that she knew her family would read it and judge her. She hadn’t been answerable to her family since leaving home and she dreaded to think what they’d have to say on the subject of her bad behaviour with an Irish jockey. How would her father react
to this? And her brother? And Old Bailey? Molly scrunched up her face in panic. No wonder her mother had left. There’d been no freedom to do
any
thing in their household. That reminded her, she hadn’t had word from McCleod yet. She supposed it was early days but how long were these things meant to take?

She pulled over at a convenient spot and Fizz immediately did a little dance on the passenger seat.

‘Later, sweetheart,’ she said, looking down into a beautiful valley with a wide river winding through it.

She hadn’t quite got the hang of programming numbers into her mobile phone yet so entered it manually from the black-edged business card he’d given her.

‘McCleod,’ he barked.

‘Hello. Mr McCleod? It’s Molly Bailey. I was just—’

‘Ah! Molly! I’m glad you rang. I’ve just had a call from Legs.’

‘You have?’

‘He’s got a lead on your mother. He didn’t say much but he said he was heading to London. Where are you now?’

‘The Cotswolds.’

‘Good. That’s not too far away.’

‘Should I head to London?’

McCleod cleared his throat and Molly pictured him spluttering into the smoky, smoggy room. ‘Not yet. Best not jump the gun. This lead may lead somewhere else. We’ve had that before.’

‘So I just wait?’

‘You need patience in this game.’

Molly nodded. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’ She heard him clear his throat again before he hung up.

Staring out at the view ahead, Molly tried to imagine where her mother was. What was she doing in London of all places? She might not be there now, of course, but what had taken her there in the first place? She’d always hated cities. She couldn’t even bear Penrith on a Saturday afternoon, so what on earth was she doing in London?

‘Cities are cages,’ she’d once told Molly, her nose deep in her favourite honeysuckle, ‘and people aren’t meant to live in cages.’

No, Cynthia’s home was the countryside with open views and room to roam. Somewhere very much like here, Molly thought. She had a feeling her mother would have approved of the Cotswolds. It had the same serenity as the Eden Valley in Cumbria.

It was funny but, even though she hadn’t seen her mother since she was eleven, Molly could sometimes
feel
her. There seemed to be an invisible bond, some intangible link, which might be heartlessly explained by genetics but which Molly liked to think of as the kindred spirit. She’d felt a little of it too with Eleanora. It was strange. They weren’t related, were from completely different backgrounds and different generations and yet there’d been a connection: a unique place where two souls meet for a brief time in a turbulent world.

Molly turned the ignition and pulled back out into the road before picking up some speed to make up for lost time. She was getting all emotional again and that wouldn’t do. Now wasn’t the time. She had to keep her head and remain in control if she was to finish the job she’d set out to do, and that meant leaving the county of Gloucestershire before anyone managed to track her down.

Taking a bend in the road a little too fast, Molly slammed
on the brakes.

‘
Bloody hell!
’

She couldn’t believe her eyes. There, on the side of the road, was a little girl, cartwheeling to within an inch of her life. Molly’s heart thudded in her chest. What did she think she was playing at? Wasn’t there anyone looking after her? She’d almost been run over.

Taking a quick look in her rear-view mirror, Molly saw a young man leaping up from a tartan rug.

‘
Idiot!
’ Molly yelled out of her open window. Honestly, men couldn’t be trusted with anything, could they?

‘
Flo!
’ Tom yelled, as he heard the car brakes.

‘
Daddy!
’ Flora yelled back, the world settling itself again after one too many cartwheels.

‘Get away from the road!’ Tom dropped his guitar and grabbed Flora in a vice-like hug. ‘God almighty, Flo! You nearly gave me a heart attack.’

‘I couldn’t tell where I was anymore,’ she said, swaying slightly.

‘Well, we’re going to have to ban cartwheeling.’ Tom gave her a big squeeze, his heart still racing in his chest, and then looked down the road. ‘Shit!’

‘Daddy!’

‘That car!’

‘It nearly ran me over.’

‘It’s a yellow Volkswagen Beetle.’

‘Molly’s car?’

‘But it’s a brand new one,’ Tom said, squinting as it disappeared round the bend. ‘Did you see the driver, Flo? Quick – think!’

‘It was a woman. With dark hair, I think.’

‘It could be Molly! Maybe she’s got herself a new car with her money. There can’t be too many yellow Beetles in the Cotswolds, can there? Not driven by dark-haired women.’

Tom was on the move, chucking the remains of the picnic into carrier bags. ‘Get the rug, Flo.
Quickly!
We’ve got to follow her.’

Flora grabbed a corner of the rug and pulled.

‘Hurry up!’ Tom said, legging it back to their car. ‘We’ve got to catch up with her.’

‘Can I have a wee behind that hedge?’

‘No!’ Tom said, doing his seat belt up and starting the car. ‘Get your belt on. Hurry up!’

‘It’s on!’

Tom pulled out and put his foot down. He wasn’t sure where the road went and if there were any turnings or not but he’d soon find out. Could this be it at last? The chase? The confrontation? The culmination? And, if it was, how did he think it was all going to pan out? Would Molly simply pull over and let herself be interviewed? Probably not. Not after the press coverage she’d received at his hands. She’d be more likely to punch him on the nose.

‘There she is!’ he shouted, seeing the yellow Beetle ahead of them.

‘Daddy!’

‘What?’

‘I think we’ve forgotten something,’ Flora said in an anxious voice.

‘What, Flo? I haven’t got time for a moral debate now.’

‘No!
Really
forgotten something. Isaak!’

Tom’s face drained of colour. ‘You’re kidding!’

Flora shook her head and turned round to check the back seat. There was no Isaak there.

‘Shit!’ Tom cursed. ‘And don’t
Daddy
me!’

‘I wasn’t going to!’ Flora objected.

Tom’s face crumpled. What was he to do? In front of him, there was the woman he suspected was Molly Bailey. He couldn’t prove it, of course, but the odds were fairly good. Behind him was Isaak, the beloved guitar he’d bought with his first pay cheque. After Flora, that guitar was his best friend, and it’d be impossible to replace.

‘
Damn it!
’ He hit the steering wheel with a hand full of choice-torn rage. Words tripped wildly through his head. Molly. Isaak. Molly. Isaak. Story. Guitar. What was more important? He could surely catch up with Molly but he might not be able to find Isaak again. If he went after Molly, he might lose her or she might not even be Molly but, if he didn’t go back for Isaak, he’d lose him for ever.

With his brain overheating inside his head, the VW Beetle became smaller and smaller until it disappeared round a corner. And that’s when he stepped on the brakes.

Thankfully, Isaak was still there, lying on the grass looking very sorry for himself.

‘He looks so sad,’ Flora said.

‘Not as sad as I’d have looked if I’d lost him,’ Tom said, picking him up and dusting him down with loving hands. ‘Come on, Flo. Let’s see if we can catch up with Molly.’

But they couldn’t. Shortly after finding themselves back at the farm track in which they’d turned round in the first place, there was a three-way junction, and the yellow Volkswagen Beetle was long gone.

With a weary sigh, Tom pulled over again and got his road atlas out. He’d never done so much map reading in his life as in the last few days and his eyes felt sore from poring over the pages.

Of course, he knew Molly had been continually heading south, but did that mean she was now heading to Cornwall, Devon, Dorset or Kent or anywhere in between? He’d have
to put out another appeal for help, but what did he do in the meantime? Take a chance and hit the M5 or rest up in the pleasant surroundings of the Cotswolds?

Taking the turn to the right, he soon had the distinct impression that it was taking them in the direction from which they’d just come. What was it with these Cotswold back roads?

‘For goodness’ sake!’ Tom said, pulling over again. He felt exhausted, and in dire need of a holiday. He paused at the thought. Why not?

‘What do you think, Flo? Shall we stay here until we get some reports about Molly?’

Flora beamed a smile at him and nodded enthusiastically. ‘Look!’ she said. ‘Here’s the perfect place.’

Tom followed the direction she was pointing in and his mouth fell open as he took in the oldest, crumbliest, most beautiful house he’d ever seen.

‘Can we stay there?’ Flora begged.

‘I don’t think so. It’s a private house.’

‘But it says bed and breakfast – look!’

Tom turned round and saw a home-made sign hiding in thick clumps of ivy. ‘Good heavens! Let’s give it a go, then, eh? See if we can book in for tonight – special treat!’

Driving up the gravelled drive, they parked the car.

Tom gave a long, low whistle. ‘What a house! Flo, I’m not sure we can afford this. Stay here a min and I’ll find out.’

Tom got out of the car and walked towards the house, rolling his sleeves up as he went. His arms were beginning to turn a wonderfully warm gold, which was a vast improvement on the chalky white he was used to.

‘Oi!’ a voice suddenly called out from behind him.

Tom turned round to see an old lady in maroon charging towards him with a broom poised perilously in her hands.

‘Get out of here you no-good piece of garbage!’ the old lady said, her face the same scary maroon of her suit.

‘Can I help you?’ Tom asked hesitantly.

‘No you can’t! Get out of here. You’ll get no answers from me so push off! Go back to London where your scum belong.’

‘But I’m not from London.’

‘Well, clear off my land before I do some damage with this here broom!’

‘I don’t understand,’ Tom said. ‘I only wanted a room for the night.’

The old woman squinted at him. ‘You can’t fool me, Mr Tom Mackenzie.’

‘You know who I am?’

‘Get out of here, or are you a journalist who doesn’t understand plain English?’ she said, wielding the broom in a dangerous arc.

‘You’ve seen Molly, haven’t you?’

The old woman’s eyes narrowed until they almost disappeared. ‘What business is it of yours whether I’ve seen her or not?’

‘I think it’s of national importance,’ Tom said smiling.

‘You’re an unscrupulous piece of scum, that’s what you are. I think it’s disgusting what you’re doing to that poor girl.
Disgusting!
’

‘I’m only telling it as it is.’

‘That’s your opinion, but you’ve twisted and turned the facts around until there’s virtually no truth left. Why can’t you leave that poor girl alone? Get yourself a proper job and
get off my property.’

Tom held his hands up in resignation. He obviously wasn’t going to get anything other than insults out of the old woman. ‘OK, I’m going!’

‘Good! Get out of here,’ she shouted and, with one final brandish of her broom, she chased Tom into his car.

‘Aren’t we staying?’ Flora asked with a giggle as she turned round to see the woman wielding her broom.

‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s too expensive. You have to be a millionaire to stay here.’

‘Like Molly?’ Flora smiled.

‘Just like Molly,’ Tom agreed.

Molly hit the M5 and had been travelling for at least an hour before she had to fill up her new car for the first time. She pulled into the next station and shuddered as she saw
Vive!
in the newspaper rack. With the joys of driving her new car down the motorway, she’d almost forgotten about Peeping Tom and his front page but, now that it was staring her in the face again, she felt her anger rising up once more.

‘Molly Bailey – I’m ashamed of you,’ the voice of her father whispered in her ear.

Molly hung her head and bit her lip. She felt like a teenager with cheap, chipped nail varnish, stomping up the stairs to sulk in her bedroom. She’d never wanted to feel like that again, yet this stranger had thrown up all those feelings of adolescent insecurity again.

And that’s when she made her decision. She was going to ring Tom Mackenzie and give him a piece of her mind.

The Bailey men might not have had any joy in finding Molly
but at least they’d found The Swan, albeit after several wrong turns and getting stuck behind a very mucky, smelly tractor. Being lunchtime, they’d decided that they might as well eat there, even though the menu was a tad more expensive than they would have liked.

Carolyn used the opportunity to sneak a call to Molly and was quick to tell her where they were.

‘Don’t worry,’ Molly had said, ‘I’ve left Gloucestershire.’

‘Where are you heading?’

‘Don’t know yet but I’ll make sure I don’t slip up again.’

There was an awkward pause, both women wondering if anything would be mentioned about double-crossing jockeys.

‘Listen,’ Molly said, ‘can you give me Tom Mackenzie’s number?’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Put him in his place,’ Molly said. ‘What else?’

Carolyn gave her the number, which she’d kept safely in her handbag since Tom had given it to her.

‘Thanks,’ Molly said. ‘And you’re OK, are you?’

Carolyn took a deep breath. Now was her moment to confess. ‘Yes. I am. But—’

‘Good!’ Molly interrupted. ‘Listen, Caro. I’m going to have to dash now. I’ll catch up with you later, OK? Keep up the good decoy work.’

And she was gone, and Carolyn was left alone. ‘But you’re going to be an auntie,’ she whispered into her mobile.