Money Never Sleeps (14 page)

F
ancy woke early, remembering everything, or almost
everything
. There was a missing gap after taking the cup of tea from white-badger, Peggy Carter, and then Dr Arthur talking to her about his poetry. Jed seemed to be around a lot, on and off, coming in and out of her room like a weather man.

She remembered the fish and chips, especially the succulent taste of the forbidden chips. And that brightly coloured drink with a kick, but no alcohol.

She turned over and saw a strange woman asleep in an armchair by the radiator, some papers on her lap and more fallen on the floor. The woman looked very uncomfortable. Then Fancy recalled her name, WPC Richmond – also a town on the River Thames – deployed by Jed to guard her through the night.

Some guard, fast asleep.

Thoughts eddied through her mind. Someone had drugged her and then left her to drown in the lake. Was it the same person or different people? Fancy shivered though she was not cold. She was more scared. It was no longer weird happenings and threat. Something had happened which could have killed her. And Jed had rescued her. She did not like the twists and turns that this drama was taking.

Perhaps she could be taken into protective custody. She might be safer in a police cell. She would demand all mod cons: her own shower, television, daily menus, and access to a private gym. Or perhaps inmates got all this already.

Her last lecture was this morning. Her head had cleared and
she could remember what she planned to say and the area she would be covering. A quick look at her notes and she would be nearly word perfect.

But did she want to do it? It meant getting up, getting dressed, facing the world. It meant addressing a hall full of delegates, any one of whom might be Melody’s killer. She wanted to do a declining lady stunt. Stay in bed for ever.

Or the killer might be one of the other lecturers. Forsaking the committee table at meal times had not been a good move. She knew some of the other lecturers thought she was antisocial and acting above herself. It was not true. She liked to mix with everyone at the conference.

‘Good morning, Fancy. Did you sleep well?’

Dorothy Richmond had stirred. She was picking up her fallen papers.

‘Oh hello, I thought you were asleep.’

‘Just dozing. It’s a trick. Not actually asleep. Ears still alert even if eyes closed.’

‘You must have been awfully uncomfortable in that chair.’

‘Not exactly the Ritz. Do you mind if I have a hot shower? I’m feeling rather stiff and sticky.’

‘Of course not. Help yourself to anything. I’ll make some tea.’

‘The cups need washing.’

Fancy did as she was told. Dorothy Richmond was used to being obeyed. Fancy washed the cups and made tea while Dorothy was in the shower. The shower curtain was opaque so all secrets were kept secret.

Fancy stood at the window, drinking the fresh brew. The jogging brigade were already up and out, keeping fit, running around the misty grounds, wearing regulation jogging gear. Perhaps she should take more exercise. Exercise was supposed to be good for depression. Writing was a solitary occupation; bum on seat for hours, eyes glued to the screen, days and weather passing by in an endless stream of nothing. She only had the clouds for company.

But this lecture was something she had to do. She decided she would say no to all future invitations, however flattering.

Her last lecture. She had survived drugging and near drowning. Her appearance had to be stunning. She was a survivor. She peered among her limited wardrobe, looking for something that she hadn’t worn before but everything had had an outing or two.

She went for the slim black jeans and fitted jacket with a plain white shirt. She did look stunning, the sweeping wings of her dark hair hiding the pain in her eyes. A white and silver scarf tied in a Chelsea knot went round her throat. Maybe someone would try to strangle her with it…. But who? She was suspicious of everyone. Even Jed. He only said he had rescued her. He could have been disturbed by someone and put on the rescue act.

Maybe Dorothy Richmond was not a genuine police officer at all. Fancy could have been suffocated in her sleep. There had been plenty of opportunity, plenty of pillows.

‘For goodness’ sake,’ Fancy told her mirrored self. ‘Snap out of it, girl. You’re becoming paranoid.’

Dorothy came out of the bathroom. She had dried and dressed again in the same creased clothes. ‘Talking to yourself now, are you?’ she said. ‘That’s a bad sign.’

‘It’s a good sign,’ said Fancy, putting on a soft pink lipstick and mascara. ‘It shows I’m still sane enough to talk to myself.’

‘Let’s go and have some breakfast,’ said Dorothy.

‘Are you going to be my taster?’ Fancy asked. ‘In case someone injects a dose of arsenic into my grapefruit?’

Fancy knew she was being unnecessarily caustic but she couldn’t stop herself. What was the matter with her? She was not usually so rude.

‘Not in my job description,’ said Dorothy, putting on her
serviceable
lace-up shoes. Her coral lipstick was a quick swipe in the region of her mouth. It was not a good colour for her skin. She needed a make-up makeover.

The early birds were already queuing outside the dining room, determined to get their favourite table or sit with friends. Fancy never minded where she sat or with whom, usually cruised around to find an empty seat. Now she would have to find two empty seats.

‘Let’s take a walk,’ said Fancy. ‘I don’t like queues. I’ll show you around the grounds.’

‘There’s no need,’ said Dorothy. ‘The super showed me around after the woman drowned in the lake at the beginning of the week.’

Fancy stopped, puzzled. ‘You mean you’ve been here before? Detective Chief Superintendent Edwards showed you around? Why didn’t you say?’

‘You didn’t ask me.’

There was no answer to that.

‘Looking forward to your last lecture, Fancy,’ said a group of young writers, eager-faced. ‘Everything you’ve said has been so helpful. What have you got in store for us this morning?’

‘It’s a surprise,’ said Fancy. ‘Wait and see.’

‘So you’re giving a lecture this morning,’ said Dorothy, helping herself to a packet of cornflakes, a packet of muesli and a banana. She piled the lot into one cereal bowl. Fancy, who had pounced on two empty seats like a predator, sat looking at her half-
a-grapefruit
.

‘My last. And my last ever, I hope. You can sit at the back of the conference room and stop anyone rushing in with a grenade or a stink bomb. Also watch out for any irate delegate who thinks I’ve stolen their priceless plot. They may have brought one of those sharp grapefruit knives in with them. I’m not wearing body armour.’

‘How many people do you expect at your lecture?’

‘Between seventy and eighty.’ This was a slight exaggeration but Fancy was past caring. The numbers always varied. Some delegates were itinerant. They cruised from lecturer to lecturer. And now she was a sort of novelty factor.

‘I’ll need six pairs of eyes,’ said Dorothy. ‘Perhaps I should phone Derby for backup.’

‘I thought you were backup.’

‘There’s a limit to what I can do,’ said Dorothy, going back to the fruit bowl for another banana. ‘I’m not a miracle woman.’

Dorothy put away a good-sized breakfast, including the
bacon, egg and beans fry-up. She passed on the toast. Fancy stuck to half a grapefruit, an apple and black coffee. She had not seen Jed yet this morning. She hoped he had got a good night’s sleep. He needed it.

The room was crowded for her last lecture. There were some new faces, delegates who had strayed from their original courses, wanting to sample something different.

Fancy spotted Phoebe Marr, the poetry lecturer, sitting at the end of a row. She was a petite woman, fairy-like, with a halo of fine blonde hair. She smiled at Fancy and waved.

‘I hope you don’t mind,’ she said. ‘I’ve brought all of my lot to your talk. I thought they ought to know more about real life for their poems.’

‘They are welcome,’ Fancy said. ‘But I’m not sure if they will learn anything useful. My motto is: write plain. Cut all
unnecessarily
flowery words.’

Phoebe laughed. ‘We could all learn from that.’

‘Perhaps we’ll learn something from you. Better words, brighter images.’

Fancy launched into her lecture. There was so much to say and so little time left. She was concentrating this morning on how to weave in clues and red herrings and how to resolve all the loose ends. She wondered if there was such a thing as a criminal poem. Perhaps Phoebe would write one.

‘We’re now going to do some practical work,’ she said. ‘You’re all going to become detectives. Please go out into the grounds of the conference centre and search for anything you think might be a clue. You can’t go into the taped-off area, of course. That is still, sadly, an out-of-bounds crime scene. Remember the clue must not be contaminated. Either bring it back, untouched by hand, or write a description of it.’

‘We’re going to be real detectives!’

‘Wow!’

‘Ten minutes. That’s all you’ve got. Poets as well. No slacking. Back in ten minutes, everyone, please.’

There was a scramble to get out. Fancy knew they would be gone fifteen minutes. She sat down, exhausted by the effort. She had not recovered from yesterday’s ordeal as much as she thought she had. She stretched out for a drink. She had brought her own bottle of water.

‘Do you want me to go out and search for clues?’ said Dorothy, amused. ‘Uniformed might have missed something.’

‘No, you’re supposed to stay here with me. I don’t think they’ve tried poisonous gas yet.’

‘I’ll tell you if I sniff anything obnoxious.’

‘I hope I don’t smell obnoxious,’ said Jed, coming into the hall. ‘Some of these new aftershaves are pretty weird.’ He walked to the front row and sat down, stretching out his legs. ‘So, come on, Miss Burne-Jones, lecture me.’

‘Why aren’t you at your course?’ said Fancy, trying to hide her pleasure at seeing him. He looked fresh and showered, and well groomed, his silver streaks brushed forward tidily. Straight from a senate debate at the forum. No toga; jeans and a sweater.

‘My course has run out of steam,’ he said. ‘I thought I’ve give you a try.’

‘You are not supposed to do that, change courses.’

‘Phoebe’s here.’

‘They’re going to write a poem about clues and red herrings,’ said Phoebe quickly. ‘This is work experience.’

Jed grinned. ‘Neat. Mind if I have a word with Dorothy?’

‘Go ahead. Ask her what she had for breakfast.’

Jed and Dorothy went into a huddle at the back of the room. They seemed to have a lot to say. Phoebe was scribbling on her notepad, inspired by something. Fancy had bought one of Phoebe’s slim volumes of poetry. She could write funny verse as well as the emotional stuff. Almost another Pam Ayres.

The newly appointed detectives began drifting back with their finds wrapped in paper or a clean handkerchief. The noise was horrendous as they swapped stories.

‘Settle down, please,’ said Fancy, going back onto the platform. ‘Now let’s hear what you’ve found. One at a time, please.’

‘As I was crawling about in this Peruvian swamp, I found a bent brass hairpin. DNA shows that belonged to the murderer.’

There was a general groan and laughter. It was the class clown. He could be relied upon for a joke in any circumstance.

‘And I found this torn up email, stuffed into a crevice in the wall.’

‘This is a tiny screw that has been sharpened. Could be a lethal weapon.’

‘My clue is a red one. A map showing where the treasure is hidden.’

And so it went on. There was general laughter and amazement at what people had found in the grounds. They had a few minutes to translate their finds into writing and a few more minutes to hear some of them read out. Time was flying.

Fancy then talked about resolving issues, tying up loose ends. One part of her mind was saying: Tie up your own loose ends, idiot, resolve this issue.

No one wanted to leave, even though they could hear coffee being served on the lawn. There was a charming, eloquent vote of thanks from an articulate writer with good manners and loads of clapping.

Fancy was touched by his kind words. ‘Thank you, thank you,’ she said. ‘It’s been a pleasure. You are all very talented and I wish you well in your writing careers.’

Phoebe had taken her group to a corner of the lawn, with coffees, to discuss their thoughts and inspiration. They were all talking non-stop. Definitely inspired. It was good that the poets also found her talk enlivening.

Fancy surveyed the conference room, now that it was empty of people. Most of them had left their clues behind. There was always some lost property. Cardigans left on backs of chairs, notebooks, bags. She gathered them up to take to the office.

Jed was rummaging through the clues, not touching, but looking. Someone had found part of a credit card. It had been cut in half. It was the left half with the gold chip that validated the card. The imprint said: Mrs G Harlow. He recognized the bank logo.

Jed picked it up carefully, using a handkerchief. ‘Look at this, Fancy. I think this means that Grace is here, too. The card numbers are incomplete but I should be able to identify the card from this amount of information.’

‘Grace? Thelma’s twin sister?’

Fancy felt all her elation from the talk drain away. Not the other twin sister here, the serious one who had married Rupert Harlow. It was too much to take in.

Jed pulled out his BlackBerry and keyed in some numbers. The amount of databases stored on the device was phenomenal. He also phoned the CID room at Derby and waited for an answer.

‘Leave all the clues in there,’ he said to Fancy, over the top of his mobile. ‘Dorothy will pack them up. The bent hairpin from the Peruvian swamps might be just what we’ve been looking for.’

She tried to laugh, but it was difficult.

He seemed to be a long time on his phone, listening and talking. She didn’t move away. She didn’t want to go out on the lawn on her own. She knew she would be besieged by writers and she really was too tired to talk any more.