Money Never Sleeps (21 page)

Jed helped Fancy to her feet and over the wall. She could not look at her car, still smouldering under mountains of foam. She couldn’t speak.

‘Time for more coffee, I think.’

He guided her through Lakeside and back into the garden as the two police cars sped towards Derby. And prison cells. For a very long time.

‘J
essie drowned her own aunt?’ Fancy was incredulous. She was sitting on the grass, rubbing her feet. ‘It’s unbelievable. Grace was her aunt.’

‘That’s what people will do for money. A lot of money. They do horrible things.’

‘But I don’t understand. And then all those happenings to scare me in London and again here at Northcote. The hand in a biscuit tin, the scarves, the fire in a bucket, the date-rape drug, everything that has happened to me? Who did them? And why?’

‘Mostly the invisible man. No one knew he was here or in London or took any notice of him. He’s merely a middle-aged, grey man, wandering about. It’s too easy to infiltrate a
conference
. There are no real checks. How many white badges can you read? The writing is usually so small and illegible, you’d need a magnifying glass. Did you ever check the identity of the person sitting next to you in the dining room or the bar or at a talk? It was too easy for him to mingle.’

‘And I suppose he slept in Jessie’s room.’

‘She had a room in the oldest part of the house, lots of
corridors
to get there and a big bedroom with several beds. He could slip along late at night. The maids would never notice one more body. They don’t do a bed count.’

They were sitting on the lawn again. There was still the same sunshine, but now it was a different air, more relaxed, a scent of freedom. Fancy could still smell the burning Vanden Plas. She grieved for her beautiful old car.

The admin office, alarmed by another fire in the car park and
all the police activity, were thrown from their usual guest
turnaround
routine. Everyone was huddled in groups, gossiping. The housekeeper ordered a tray of coffee to be sent out to Jed and Fancy on the lawn. It arrived with a plate of chocolate cake,
home-made
oatmeal biscuits and a pot of coffee. A feast indeed. But they had no appetite for food. They were both high on adrenaline.

‘So Leo Cousseau was smuggled in by Jessie,’ Jed went on, ‘arriving here as if he were Melody’s farmer husband from Cornwall. But he arrived too early. That was their first mistake. I got road traffic to check the first possible arrival time, even if he had driven at sixty miles per hour the whole way, without a stop. He arrived at least an hour too early. At the time, it didn’t mean that much.’

‘We all thought, poor man. We were sympathetic.’

‘Then the lack of grief. DI Bradley interviewed him first and it didn’t seem natural, even if they hadn’t been getting on as a couple. The man was a cold fish even when they took him into Derby to identify the body.’

‘He never mixed. We didn’t even realize he was Melody’s “husband” at first, then we thought he wanted to be left alone. But as you say, he wasn’t the husband.’ Fancy sipped more coffee. She was beginning to calm down.

‘The next mistake was setting fire to Clousseau’s car. They suddenly realized it had French number plates and someone might have noticed and queried it. But instead of removing them or changing them, they set the car alight. The fire officer said it was arson, a small incendiary bomb ignited from a mobile phone, he said. But he noted the plates and we checked them.’

‘A bit like my lovely vintage car,’ said Fancy, trying not to sound accusing. She was still angry about its destruction.

Jed leaned forward and took her hand with his good one. His skin was warm and smooth. His eyes behind his glasses were glinting with warmth. ‘Don’t fret, Fancy. I know vintage when I see it. I had your Vanden Plas towed away last night. It’s safely locked in a staff garage. The car that was blown up today was some unidentified abandoned vehicle from our police pound,
very similar, but no licence, no insurance. It would have gone to the scrap yard eventually.’

Fancy felt ashamed of her feelings. She could only nod her thanks and squeeze her gratitude. Her car was safe. ‘Thank you, Jed, thank you.’

‘Thelma had spent her whole life seething with indignation and fury that Grace had got both her husband and her share of the fortune, planning revenge. But she didn’t know what to do without disclosing her own duplication. She had staged the blood spatters, the disappearance, in the hope that Rupert would be charged with her murder and found guilty.’

‘But he wasn’t. He was acquitted. She must have been gutted.’

‘She was. She then spent years plotting and planning how to get the money. Somehow along the way, and we don’t know with whom, she acquired a daughter, Jessica. There’s no record of a father or a marriage. Thelma went to live in France with Jessica, where she made a modest living acting in dubious French movies and television, using the name Melody Marchant. It seems to be a popular name in that family.’

‘So Jessica was brought up in France. Once I heard her say, “
Bonne chance
” or something, and I thought how clever, she’s bilingual.’

‘I also once heard her use some French expression, and thought, like you, it was neat. But no, it was her native tongue. For years she was indoctrinated by her mother that the brewery fortune
rightfully
belonged to her. It was part of their life together. Jessie met and married Leo, and they also both believed that the money
rightfully
belonged to Thelma and that it would eventually pass to them. Quite a strong motive. Must be worth millions by now.’

‘Then Thelma was killed in a road accident and all the DNA came to the surface. You told me about the unidentified Jane Doe.’

‘Jessica and Leo panicked. Thelma was already declared dead. She could not die twice. They could not identify her. They let her stay in the morgue with a Jane Doe tag on her toe.’

‘How horrid. Her own mother.’

Fancy’s head was spinning. But she wanted to know more. ‘How did my magazine come into all this?’

‘Thelma had been getting it for the last few years. She’s on your subscription list. I checked. Slightly different name, but Jessie’s French address. As long as
The Missing Cover Girl
stayed a mystery, she was safe. But when we started prodding around, she knew that she had to do something about it. And her solution was to get rid of you. With you out of the way, the magazine would flounder and die. No more cold cases to be solved.’

‘But Thelma was killed in a road accident.’

‘One of those things, stepping off a kerb in a busy street without looking. Could happen to anyone. And she carried no identification. But she had a daughter who took up the cause. Jessie vowed that no one would ever know the true story. And at the same time, she had her eye on the money. She would inherit if she came forward as Thelma’s daughter.’

‘Were there any more mistakes?’

‘We found a roll of duct tape in the glove compartment of Jessica’s car, which exactly matches the type of tape used to secure your wrists and ankles. And a white flower was found in the car park, which I’m told you were wearing in your hair at the dregs party. There will be forensic evidence in the boot as well. The most minute fibres from your clothes, strands of hair, and the seed pearls from your top. They planned it, the two of them. They planned to leave you to die in Pennyroyal.’

‘I might have died.’

‘Yes, you could have died.’

‘The Pink Pen Detective saved me. She told me what to do. How to get out and save my life.’

‘Good for her. That reminds me, Fancy. Our next stop is the A&E department, to get them to look at your feet.’

‘What will happen to the brewery millions?’

‘I don’t really know. It depends on what Grace put in her will. She may have left it all to her husband and his sheep, or perhaps left a trust for an annual writing prize. Children’s stories, of
course. She may even have left a legacy to the conference. They’re always short of money.’

Fancy sat back on the lawn, the coffee growing cold in her hand. She had come to some sort of calming decision. ‘I’m not going to write any more crime books,’ she said. ‘I’ve had it with crime. It’s all too complicated. Who would ever think of a plot like that? Never. My Pink Pen Detective has gone to ground. She’ll spend her retirement in the Bahamas, sunning herself, meeting wonderful men and drinking piña coladas.’

Jed watched her closely, for evidence of extreme shock or mental disturbance from the blow on her head. But there was none. It was reassuring. His clever and wonderful Fancy Jones was as right as rain, her eyes sparkling, ready to start writing again, to take up life, to live it to the full.

‘So what are you going to do?’

‘Maybe I’ll move to Castleton, buy a cottage in the village or a small bungalow on the outskirts. I saw several this morning as we drove through. They looked really pleasant. Something with a bit of a garden to sit in with an iced drink. Get a dog and a cat. Maybe that tabby needs a home. I’ll write funny, chick-lit romances. Always wanted to write funny books. Books that will make people laugh and feel happy, feel good.’

‘We have several well-trained, retired police dogs wanting good homes.’

‘Get me one of those, please.’

Jed let the moment hang in the air. He was not sure how she would take it.

‘Will your new home in Castleton permit unexpected visitors? Visitors who are over-worked, usually dead-tired, who might arrive at unsocial hours?’

Fancy leaned across and looked at his dear face, the forward fringe of Roman-cut hair, the twinkling eyes. This was the only man she ever wanted to see, a moment she wanted to keep inside. He could come at any time of the day or night.

‘That’s the only kind of visitor I really want,’ she said. ‘I might even give you a key.’

My grateful thanks to Dr David Thomas for putting me straight with medical queries.

More thanks to retired Chief Superintendent Detective for meticulous police procedure.

To Simon Brett for his kind permission to name him as an evening speaker and star performer.

To the editorial team at Robert Hale for their endless patience.

All the delegates and officials at this Conference are entirely fictitious. If anyone thinks they spot a fleeting resemblance, then I am unaware of it. I’ll buy you a drink next year.

Midsummer Madness

Portrait of a Murder