Money Never Sleeps (3 page)

‘What am I doing now?’ she said, more to herself. ‘You are probably expecting me to say that I’m working this novel and planning yet another novel. That I’ve a serial for a woman’s magazine to finish. That my magazine
MM
is blooming and I’m wading through piles of submissions.’

She looked round at the faces and paused. Many looked drawn and white. They were all tired, too, after long journeys by train or car, farewells, responsibilities, desperate for success. Some had even flown in from France and Switzerland.

‘But what I am really doing now is running away from someone who is trying to kill me. And I am terrified. He, or she, could be anywhere. They could be here, now in this very hall, or hiding in the shrubbery, or waiting outside my room.’

There was a nervous titter. Fancy had their attention. They didn’t know whether to believe her. It could be a trick.

‘But I am also terrified of writing my next book. Can I still do it? We never know. It’s always a challenge. It still nags me. Have I got that special something inside me or has it gone? We have to prove ourselves over and over again.’

A few heads nodded. They knew the feeling.

‘The killer out there could also be true,’ she said. ‘Or it could simply be the plot of my new novel. Wait and see. I have still got to write it.’

A burst of laughter greeted her closing words. She had not
used her three minutes, but she had said enough. Fancy felt a burden roll off her shoulders. She trusted all the writers to help her. They would be there for her because writers were like that.

They were there for each other.

The laughter was followed by applause. The event folded and closed. Everyone was drained. Seats shuffled, bags were searched for, programmes consulted. Pens rolled onto the floor.

‘I’ll walk you to your room,’ said Jed. He’d been sitting over the other side and she had not seen him. ‘Is that all right? Then you won’t be so terrified.’

‘I know the way. There are lots of other people.’

‘I heard fear in your voice. I’ve heard fear before. You’re
frightened
.’

‘It was acting.’

‘No, you weren’t. I know real fear when I hear it.’ Jed folded his programme with one hand and tucked it into a back pocket. ‘But I hope it is just a plot from your thriving imagination. Come on, Fancy Burne-Jones, let me see you to your door.’

Fancy made a quick decision. She had to trust someone and he was over six feet tall. It was a reassuring height, not as tall as the legendary Jack Reacher, but he looked reliable. ‘Just to my door.’

He grinned, a twinkle coming into his dark eyes behind the glasses. ‘Not a step further.’

It was a short walk along the low-lit path but it was a long walk in her life. Fanny had never loved anyone except the heroes in her books. Real men had always fallen by the wayside as they let her down or she failed to be bewitched by their synthetic and predatory charm. She had come to the conclusion that she was too hard to please. A loner. Work took their place. She fell in love with words instead, put them on paper where they completed the landscape of her life.

‘Just looking at that trifle made me want to take my own life,’ Jed was saying.

‘My mother used to make a trifle that dripped with sherry.’

Fancy laughed. She had been letting him talk, listening more to his voice than to what he was saying. She liked his voice, the low timbre, the slight northern accent. It had a musical
resonance
, yet at the same time, was purely masculine.

‘Jelly and custard and hundreds and thousands sprinkled on top,’ said Fancy. ‘I had a frozen banana.’

‘Wait till you see breakfast,’ he went on. ‘They serve roof tiles.’

‘Roof tiles?’

‘In normal life, it’s called toast. But that isn’t fair to them. The rest of breakfast is excellent with a huge choice of cereal and fruit.’

‘I rarely eat breakfast.’

‘You should. You’ll need it here to keep up your stamina. Everyone needs stamina to survive the whole week at Northcote.’

Jed punched in the front door code. Fancy couldn’t even remember it though it was something simple. The door swung open to the Lakeside foyer. ‘Lift or stairs? I said I’d come right to your door.’

‘Stairs,’ said Fancy. She didn’t want to be in a lift with him. It was far too soon to be so close. ‘I need the exercise after all that sitting this evening.’

‘What did you think of the speaker?’

‘I confess that I was not actually listening all the time. It was pretend listening. I was writing. Something came into my head and I had to get it down. I knew I would forget it if I didn’t.’

‘The true professional,’ he said, following her up the three flights of turning stairs. ‘Even on an evening off. What happens if you are out on a date?’

Fancy couldn’t remember when she had last had a date. In the distant past, sometime in The Middle Ages, there had been dates and men.

‘Especially when I’m on a date,’ she said. ‘To relieve the boredom.’

‘Ouch,’ said Jed, stopping on a landing and looking down at her. ‘Did I tread on a sore corn? Sorry.’

Fancy shook her head. ‘It was a poor joke. I’m too tired to think up a good one. Tomorrow, perhaps.’

‘Nearly there – 425 is at the far end, isn’t it?’

‘Why is it numbered four, when it’s on the third floor?’ she wondered out loud.

‘It’s the way it was designed. Lakeside is built on a slope and the other flank of the building, the wing facing the new lake, has four floors. Your wing is built on the upper slope, so consists of only three floors. Don’t ask me what happens in the middle. A sort of empty zone.’

‘Or a floor and a half, like the platform in Harry Potter,’ said Fancy.

‘You’re probably right. Here you are, Fancy. Safe and sound. Sleep well.’ Jed turned to leave, almost abruptly. ‘Hey, what’s this? Someone’s left you a present.’

It was a tin of biscuits. The glossy lid depicted assorted tea biscuits, chocolate and plain, made by a well-known
manufacturer
of biscuits.

‘How very kind,’ said Fancy. ‘From the committee, I expect, in case I’m starving in the middle of the night. But I don’t eat many biscuits. You can have them. I’ve never known a policeman who could resist biscuits.’

‘Chocolate digestives. They are my downfall.’

‘You have them, then.’

The tin was heavy. For a fraction of a second, Fancy thought: concrete. But the tin was sealed and it hadn’t come through a window.

‘Thanks,’ he said, ripping off the sticky tape. ‘I’ll leave you with a couple of jammy dodgers in case of unexpected midnight hunger pangs.’

He eased off the lid and removed a couple of layers of
greaseproof
crinkle paper.

Fancy gasped and staggered against the door, her blood running cold. The thing inside the biscuit tin gleamed an ivory white; it was a human hand, severed at the wrist, the wrist scorched and burned.

Jed caught her with his good arm, dropping the tin at the same time. The hand spun out of the tin and skidded across the floor. It lay there, obscene and menacing, shreds of tissue scattered.

‘Now I know why you’re so scared,’ he said.

F
ancy had set her digital alarm for 7.30 a.m., ignoring the desperate need for extra sleep. She had slept well, which was surprising after the fright of the night before.

Jed insisted on coming into her room, searching it thoroughly and making sure she was securely locked in for the night.

He dismissed the biscuit tin. ‘A very silly joke. It’s a plastic model with a daub of red paint. The kind they use for teaching medical students. Forget it.’ But he took it away with him, tucked under his good arm.

It surprised her that she slept so well. Sheer exhaustion. The bed was comfortable and she loved the extra space of a double bed, stretching her legs sideways. Perhaps she could move in permanently and go to all the conferences that were held at Northcote. She might learn a lot of new things. Then she thought of all the trifle she would have to consume and filed the idea.

She wanted to be up early so that she could get the feel of the small conference hall where later, after coffee, she would be giving her first crime talk. She needed to absorb the atmosphere of the room, note where the lights were, the windows, screens or walls where she could put her lecture aids.

Her talk was written as a PowerPoint presentation and she needed to check the electrical sockets, microphone, everything, in fact. She did not want to make a fool of herself in front of a crowd of writers with equipment that didn’t work. They would be after her blood immediately.

At first, she disliked the room; the windows were too high up.
She thought writers should be able to look out of windows, write what they saw outside. They’d need a trapeze to reach these windows. Not a good start. And it was too gloomy until she found the switch for full-on lighting.

Nor did she want the chairs in rows. She wanted a semi-circle. She was so pernickety. The committee had yet to learn what an awkward cuss she was.

She was in her lecturer-ship black, trousers, silk print shirt, funky Portobello Road waistcoat. Her hair was pulled back into her usual high casual knot, pinned with gold combs. The loose wings curved round her cheeks. Simple but classy.

She couldn’t eat despite the big choice of fruit and cereals, even porridge. Writers were tucking into bacon, sausages,
scrambled
egg and baked beans. She ate half a grapefruit, trying not to squirt her neighbours with juice.

‘Sorry,’ she murmured, dabbing her chin with a paper napkin.

Jed gave her a nod and a half-wave from across the crowded dining room but that was all. He was sitting at one of the general tables. Fancy knew she was going to move in among the
delegates
at the first chance. The committee table was pleasant enough but she felt cut off from it, as if there were invisible barbed wire erected round the corner. Some might like the distinction but Fancy did not care for it.

It was an isolated feeling, despite the helpfulness of everyone. The technical expert on the committee came with her to the hall to check that she had everything and it all worked. They tested the microphone.

‘Testing, testing,’ she said, trying out various distances and heights. She moved the lectern to the back wall. No one would be able to see her standing behind it. She preferred to be with her audience, walking among them.

The technician gave her a hand moving the chairs into a
semi-circle
. ‘Anything else while I’m here?’ he grinned. ‘Like the walls painted a different colour? A quick roller job? How about strobe lighting? I could manage that.’

‘What a star,’ said Fancy, the adrenaline still pumping. ‘Could
you manage some arrival music?
Luck Be a Lady Tonight
would be perfect.’

‘How about a pipe band?’

‘Really?’

‘I’ve brought my kilt and my pipes.’

Fancy laughed. ‘I think your kilt might ruin our concentration.’

The gardeners were busy watering and weeding the riot of flower beds. Lawns stretched down to the tranquil lakes. A sleek tabby was sprawled out in the sunshine, waiting to be stroked and admired – his daily routine. Northcote was like Brigadoon, cocooned, a million miles away from the real world.

She took a cup of black coffee into the hall with her, a quarter of an hour before the start of her lecture. She half expected to see another biscuit tin but it all looked normal. Delegates were already arriving, wanting a good front seat.

She made a point of welcoming each group as they arrived, walking among them easily, chatting and putting them at their ease. She didn’t have a pipe band or a Sinatra song, but within moments her crime lecture was in full swing.

Fancy knew what she was talking about and she knew how to communicate her enthusiasm. It was not long before ideas were coming fast from the delegates, inspired by her words and
guidance
,
remembering to use her pink pen. She was surprised how quickly the hour went and it was time to troop out, to the chapel on the hill, if so inclined, to pray for success.

She gathered up her notes and switched off the equipment. She had not said half of what she had prepared. Still, it was better to have too much rather than too little. The rest of the day was hers. She could relax. She would go to some of the other talks. It was never too late to learn something new.

‘Hear it went well,’ said Jed, leaning against the doorway. His back hunched in a way that seemed familiar. It broke her dream. She had dreamed of him last night. How strange when she had only just met him.

‘You didn’t come.’

It was a statement not a rebuke.

‘I might have asked awkward questions or damned your police procedure,’ he grinned. ‘Come and have a drink. You deserve it. But be prepared. There will be a dozen hopefuls in the bar waiting to ambush you for some private advice. Don’t agree to read anything they have brought with them.’

‘Thanks for the warning. I might read short stuff. No novels.’

‘They’ll devour you if you give them half a chance. You’re on the menu at Northcote; they’ll all want a bite.’

Jed seated her in a far corner and went to queue up at the bar. There was already a stampede from the other course lectures. She wondered about numbers. She reckoned there had been about seventy at her lecture. There were over three hundred delegates and five courses, but the maths was beyond her. The novel and short stories would take the biggest audiences. Non-fiction and poetry were the smallest. She would be somewhere in the middle, even if some delegates went to nothing.

The feeling came to her without warning. One moment she had been happy and relaxed, waiting for her drink, and the next she was washed over in fear. It was like an electric shock, only it was a cold shock.

She shivered violently, almost dropping her notes.

‘I’ll shut that window,’ someone said. But it wasn’t just the window. It was more than that. She knew she was being watched. Watched by someone with evil intent. It was 12.39 p.m. Not a time that meant anything.

Jed came back to their table, doing his two drinks in one hand trick. He put them down, only spilling a little. He looked at her quickly.

‘What’s the matter, Fancy? Seen the ghost?’

She shook her head, trying to shake off the feeling. ‘Is there a ghost? No, I haven’t seen it. But is there one here?’

He pushed the glass of red wine towards her. ‘There are two ghosts, so they say. A lady in blue who stands at the bottom of the main stairs in the old house, next to where the grand piano used to be.’

‘How should I know where the grand piano used to be?’ she said.

‘And the other is a German prisoner of war who escaped from what was the Garden House before they pulled it down.’

‘Now that really does make a lot of sense,’ said Fancy, sipping the wine. It trickled down her throat and began to warm her. ‘A piano that isn’t there any more and a Garden House that has been pulled down.’

‘All true. I’ll tell you all about them one day. It’s quite a story.’

‘We only have six days,’ said Fancy. ‘And yesterday has gone already.’

‘Why were you shaking when I came back from the bar? Was it a biscuit tin moment?’

‘You could call it that.’

He was observant. But then he was a policeman. He hadn’t got to detective chief superintendent simply pushing paper on a desk. If she got a chance to get into the computer room, she’d see if he was on Google.

‘You won’t find me there,’ he said, reading her mind. ‘Because I’m on cold cases. That’s why I emailed you on
MM
. I thought we could be mutually helpful. I could write another case for you, and you might solve the odd case for me.’

‘Are you serious about this? I do need help and I do need quality material. I only publish the best.’

‘I know. I read it. It’s a fascinating magazine. And I’ve read some of your books. Not all of them because I don’t have time, but I like a good crime novel to help me get to sleep. Some of your police procedure is a bit wobbly.’

‘And mine send you to sleep?’

‘Isn’t that the purpose of a good book?’

A woman was hovering by the table, anxiously looking at Fancy, clutching her big A4 memo pad. ‘Terribly sorry and all that, Miss Jones, but do you mind if I ask you something? I was at your talk this morning and it was great, but I wondered if you might help me. You see, I’ve got stuck.’

Fancy nodded and indicated the spare seat at the table. ‘Sit down and please call me Fancy. Tell me all about it.’

She escaped from the committee table at lunch time. It had been too easy. The evening’s guest speaker had arrived plus
unexpected
wife, so there was no place for her. Fancy slid away quickly and joined one of the rectangular tables.

As she was late, she found she had the last place, at the top and so had to serve everyone. She served the chicken fillets with style, making sure everyone got some of the sauce. The apple pie was also easy to serve, each portion being already cut. A portly gentleman got two portions as a pastry-conscious girl, thin as a stick, opted for some grapes. Frozen grapes.

‘I feel sure I was a serving wench in a previous life,’ Fancy said, dishing out the food. ‘In a tavern, in a low-necked blouse. This comes quite naturally to me.’

The custard was a lurid orange. She had never seen such strange custard. Her criminal mind immediately wondered if it was poisoned with some exotic Peruvian concoction. But everyone had the same. No one fell about, clutching their
stomachs
, at least, no one in the dining room.

‘It’s industrial custard,’ said the portly gentleman, shirt buttons bursting. Fancy discovered later that he wrote poetry and got it published. ‘Everything has a purpose, you know. One of us will write an Ode to Orange Custard and it will be quoted a hundred years hence.’

‘Not much rhymes with custard.’

‘Mustard.’

‘Bustard.’

The table rapidly dissolved into giggles and absurd rhymes. All thoughts of biscuit tins vanished. Fancy enjoyed herself. It wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

She spent the afternoon going to other people’s workshops and talks. Some knew what they were talking about and others quite obviously hadn’t a clue. She wondered why they had been asked to speak. Perhaps they volunteered. There was not much
the committee could do to discourage a willing volunteer. And they had a timetable to fill.

She began making notes with her pink pen. She put down all the times of the incidents: the Underground, the rucksack, the lump of concrete, the biscuit tin and two chilling moments. Maybe she was wrong to attach too much to the timings.

Two notes had been put under the door of room 425. They were cheerful pictorial invitations to parties, Monday and Tuesday, both at 6 p.m. One was also in Lakeside but the other was in ABC, and she had no idea where that was. RSVP had been crossed out. ‘Just turn up,’ they added.

Fancy sat on her bed. She hadn’t been to a party for ages, nor did she have any party clothes. What she had with her would have to do. She’d take a bottle, bought from the bar. That would make up for the lack of sequins.

She had a whole hour before supper. A whole hour to stretch out on her bed and relax, think through the day. She made a cup of coffee but didn’t drink it all. She set her alarm in case she fell asleep and missed everything.

Something was wrong somewhere – she knew it. Her sixth or seventh sense told her so. Someone wanted to kill her or warn her off. Warn her off what? Her next crime novel? That was a laugh. She never knew what she was going to write till she wrote it. Nor did she ever have more than the vaguest idea how it would end.

She closed her eyes, glad to have a moment to relax.

She awoke to a banging on her door. It sounded as if an elephant was trying to barge in. Several elephants.

‘Fancy! Fancy! Are you in there? Answer me immediately or I shall get the housekeeper. They have spare keys.’

It was a man’s voice but she didn’t recognize it. The room was dark, which was strange. She couldn’t see anything. She groped about for the switch to the bedside lamp but couldn’t find it. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and tried to stand up, but her legs refused to take her weight. They crumbled beneath her.

‘Coming,’ she mumbled.

‘Fancy? Is that you? Open the door at once.’

Some part of her befuddled brain then recognized the voice. It was Jed Edwards.

‘Jed?’

‘Open the door.’ His voice had quietened and was more persuasive. ‘It’s only me. I want to make sure you’re all right. It’s very late.’

Fancy staggered to the door and opened it. The room was wavering. She blinked at Jed. ‘Late?’

‘It’s nearly ten o’clock. You’ve missed supper and the speaker. I was beginning to get worried. You couldn’t be that tired.’

‘Come in,’ said Fancy. She staggered back to the bed and sat down on a corner. ‘I must have fallen … asleep.’

‘And slept through your alarm.’ Jed switched it off. ‘You set it in time for supper. It’s been bleeping for three hours.’

‘Surely not? I don’t remember.’ Fancy tried to shake off the muzziness. ‘I feel very strange.’