Money Never Sleeps (6 page)

J
ed searched her room. It was getting to be a habit. No wet intruder hiding in the bathroom. Then he disappeared fast, making sure she was locked in. As he said, the intruder could not have gone far. There were damp marks in the lift, as if the scarf had been carried in a leaking bag.

So it must be someone here at the conference. Someone who had followed her to Derbyshire. Fancy had thought that by enduring the tedious drive up the M1, she had shaken off whoever it was that had chucked a lump of concrete through her bedroom window. She was wrong.

It did not make sense. What had she done to evoke such animosity? Written a lot of crime books? All fiction. Edited a magazine called
Macabre Mysteries
?

Cold cases. It must be something to do with cold crimes. Crimes that had gone cold, that had never been solved. Perhaps one of the issues had come too near to the truth. Perhaps someone was scared. They were nervous, worried, running
shitless
, scared that the case might be re-opened.

Jed had been going to talk about some cold crime in
MM
. She had never listened. She tried to remember what cold cases she had featured in the past but was too tied down with lectures and workshops to concentrate. She must listen now.

Fancy made some weak tea, changed into her pink nightshirt, waited in case Jed returned. He might never return. She was dangerous company. All her life, she had been too bright, too dangerous. Men had left her. Men with no courage, no guts, too
self-obsessed with their own looks, their ambition, their place in society.

It was nearly one o’clock before Jed returned. Fancy was in bed, reading notes for her talk the following day. At least her legs were getting a rest.

He knocked on the door of room 425.

‘Password,’ said Fancy, slipping out of bed.

‘Dammit,’ said Jed. ‘It’s Jed. Do I need a password?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did we arrange a password?’

‘Of course, we did.’

‘Liar. Campari and ice. Will that do?’

‘Come in.’

Jed looked exhausted. He had combed the grounds, the gardens, all the halls. Nothing. Even the smoker’s gazebo had given up coughing and gone to bed. His Roman fringe was standing on end as if his hand had gone through it a dozen times.

‘We need to talk,’ he said, sitting down on the end of her bed. ‘I’m not staying, don’t worry, but a cup of tea would be great.’

Fancy filled the kettle with fresh water and switched it on. Jed had taken off his vulnerable glasses and was rubbing his eyes. He looked ready for sleep. He’d already driven into Derby and back that afternoon, missed any supper. She supposed his car was fitted with special controls. Another thing to ask him, one day.

‘So what shall we talk about, before you fall asleep?’ asked Fancy, making tea. ‘I’ve a stolen banana. Now defrosted.’

‘Pass over stolen goods. I need the energy. Whoever it is that’s tormenting you with happenings or non-happenings is determined and nasty. He needs to be caught and frightened off, stopped, before someone gets hurt.’

‘Before I get hurt.’

‘Melody got hurt. Badly hurt. So hurt that she is now in a refrigerated box in Derby.’

‘Is there a connection? Is anyone else being sent severed hands in a biscuit tin?’

‘I haven’t heard any other screams of terror.’

‘I didn’t scream.’

‘Only a tiny squeak,’ Jed agreed. ‘Amazing self-control.’

Fancy sat on the bed beside him, wrapped in her pashmina. It was like a replay of the pre-supper party that evening, but without the fun and laughter and wine. She made sure there was space between them as Jed negotiated the hot tea with his one good hand. He noticed her precaution.

‘You should have seen my handwriting when I had to start learning to write with my left hand. It was like a child’s.’

‘Like Nelson’s.’

He was surprised. ‘Have you seen that letter? The first he wrote with his left hand after he lost his right hand?’

‘Yes, the one dated 27 July 1797.
I am become a burden to my friends and useless to my country
,’ she quoted. ‘I went to an
exhibition
of Nelson’s relics and memorabilia at Greenwich.’

Jed looked astonished. ‘So did I. Yes, I went to that exhibition. We might have passed each other in the crowd. Brushed
shoulders
, even.’

‘I think you trod on my toe. Someone big trod on my toe.’

‘It was probably me. I apologize.’

‘I accept your apology.’

‘If only I had said hello.’

Jed put the tea down on the floor, being careful not to tip it over. He looked at Fancy with caution, trying to gauge her
reaction
. She looked calm enough but she was an old hand at disguising her feelings. He never knew exactly what she was thinking. He could gauge the emotion but not the thoughts.

‘Would you like me to stay the night? You’ve a double bed. We could put a pillow down the centre for propriety’s sake.’

Fancy imaged that pillow, white and pristine. Jed would be only inches away, that silver-streaked hair on another pillow, breathing his own sleep. She had only her pink teddy bear
nightshirt
. Not long enough to be entirely modest. She thought of the bleak loneliness of other nights, hundreds of nights, when she had longed for a companion. Anyone, just someone there, being on the other side of a pillow.

‘A pillow?’

‘No room for a barbed wire fence,’ he said, keeping a straight face. ‘If that’s what you’d prefer.’

‘Is this to protect me?’

‘I want you to have a good night’s sleep, for tomorrow. It’s your big day. No more surprises. No nasty surprises. I don’t want to find you floating in the other lake. Or floating anywhere.’

Fancy shivered at the thought. She was really frightened. Dew broke out on her skin, not only from a night-chill. Whoever was pursuing her was here at the conference. He was here, at this minute and not far away, watching her every move. It was a relentless onslaught on her nerves. She was supposed to write crime, not be a victim of crime.

‘I can swim,’ she said again.

‘After a blow on the head? Or being drugged?’

‘I don’t know what to do.’

‘If it’s a pillow problem, I could go downstairs and get a pillow and duvet from my own room. I would then sleep on the floor, not exactly against the door as there isn’t room for my legs, but alongside the bed or below the window. Any space that’s six feet long.’

‘What do you think is going to happen?’

‘I don’t know, Fancy. I hope I’m wrong, but something is clearly going on here and you are at the centre of it. What have you done to upset someone so much? It is revenge? Is it
something
or someone in your personal life that you haven’t told me about?’

‘I can’t think of anything or anyone. No reason at all. Someone might dislike my books but surely not to that extent. It must be something to do with those cold cases, maybe a case that I have already published. Perhaps I have unearthed a kettle of worms.’

Jed flinched. ‘A can,’ he said.

‘I can’t think at this time of night. I’m not one of those small-hours writers. Office hours for me, nine to five, or nine to near midnight. I often just keep on writing, only stopping for tea or a sandwich.’

‘I usually write at night. Research and routine work during the day. Work-out at the gym, walk a lot. I have to keep fit. It’s only too easy to give up if you have an injury.’

‘Will you tell me about it one day?’ Fancy asked, blinking. ‘You know, what actually happened. Would you mind?’

She might be able to understand him if she knew what had happened. He was an enigma. One moment joking, the next totally distant. Frosted.

‘I might. I might not. It was a bit gory. You should get some sleep. There’s this pillow question to resolve. Your decision, lady. Make up your mind, before we both fall asleep, where we are.’

Fancy wanted him there but she did not want the reputation. Jed could hardly sneak away at dawn to his own room. It would soon be all over Northcote, a juicy item of gossip for breakfast and lunch. Though it might be forgotten by supper time.

‘I shall be all right now,’ she said, dredging up the last of her courage. ‘This room is safe enough. I’m not afraid of a couple of wet scarves. We both need our sleep. But thank you for the offer. The pillow was very reassuring.’

Jed got up, stretched, obviously relieved. He touched her shoulder briefly. ‘I like my own bed, too. But I might change my mind one day and to hell with the pillow.’

It was the smell that awoke her. A faint whiff of smoke that eddied round her nostrils and made Fancy cough. The window was half-open and she had not drawn the curtains. She always liked to see the night, the stars, the dark drift of clouds over the moon. Sometimes she got her best ideas in the middle of the night.

She would lay, only half-awake or half-asleep, and a story would drift around in her mind and she would see scenes as if she was watching late night television. She always kept a
notebook
by her bed. Sometimes she could not read what she had written in the night, lines like wriggly worms. Only this was not late night television, this was not dreaming.

Fancy sat up, coughing. Smoke was curling up under the door, in tendrils of vapour, almost white against the wood panelling of the door. Now her ears caught a faint sound, a crackling of
splinters
bursting.

Something was on fire outside her bedroom.

She knew that the first rule in any fire is: do not open any doors. It was called backdraught, or something. It only made a fire worse. She had seen a film. But Fancy was on the third floor. It was a pretty long drop from her window even if she knotted sheets together. She only had two sheets and she was hopeless at knots.

She was gambling on it not being a very big fire. It didn’t sound like a roaring furnace. She switched on the bathroom light and propped open the door, running the cold tap. She put a wet flannel over her mouth and nose and cautiously opened the bedroom door.

A gust of smoke blew into her face. She coughed and coughed, doubling over, clutching the doorpost, waving the smoke out of her sight.

The fire was burning inside a large bag. On the top of the bag was printed
A BAG FOR LIFE
, one of those sturdy, save-the-
environment
projects. The burning bag was settling down inside a bucket from the garden. There was still earth clinging to the sides of the bucket. Flames were beginning to lick upwards and over towards the door of the bedroom.

Fancy ran back into the bathroom, picked up a big towel, plunged it under the running water, came back and threw it over the bucket and the bag. Then she grasped the handle of the bucket and carried the whole thing into the bathroom.

The handle was heavy and hot. She stood the bucket in the shower cubicle and turned on the cold water. A cascade of water hit the fire in seconds.

Fancy jumped back. It hissed and spluttered and the plastic shower curtain melted into shreds like molten sugar.

She leaned back against the tiled wall, gasping and catching her breath. She leaned over the basin and, cupping her hands,
drank huge gulps of water from the tap. It was then that she saw that she had red burns on the palms of both hands. Her nightshirt was wet through, clinging to her curves. The shower had sprayed her too.

The fire was almost out. It was drawing its last spluttering gasps, the flames dying, the red ash speckling through the towel as it, too, ate the cotton.

She was shaking now as shock set in. She sat on the side of the bed, making the sheets damp, and unsteadily dialled the number for the night manager. The number was printed on the front of the phone.

‘There’s been a fire outside my bedroom,’ she said. ‘Lakeside 425. No panic. I’ve put it out.’

There was such a fuss and commotion in the corridor that it was a wonder anyone got any sleep. Half the inhabitants were up, clad in a variety of nighties and pyjamas, bathrobes and satin gowns, hair in curlers, faces shiny with night cream.

‘You were wonderful, Fancy. We could all have been burnt to death.’

‘You’re a heroine.’

‘Back off, everyone. Shock, she’s in shock.’

‘Everyone make tea! We all need tea.’

Fancy was wrapped in a big dry towel and plied with hot sweet tea. She kept her hands hidden, letting someone else hold the cup to her lips. She was still too shocked to wonder who had started a fire outside her bedroom. It could have been Jed. He knew she was alone and locked in….

The night manager was on his mobile phone, waking up the housekeeper and a couple of gardeners. ‘Get here, fast. Lakeside 425. I need help.’

He needed witnesses, not help.

‘The whole corridor could have caught fire. You saved us all,’ said Fancy’s neighbour in 423. She was an elderly woman, hardly able to climb out of a window at her age. She wrote very long, involved sagas about country life.

Fancy’s heart fluttered down to a steadier beat. She didn’t want to be a heroine. She didn’t want high blood pressure.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Fancy, reassuring her. ‘It was probably a prank. A very silly and stupid prank.’

‘Too many parties?’

Fancy tried to raise a smile. ‘You’ve got it. Now you go back to bed.’

‘The housekeeper is on her way,’ said the night manager. ‘She’ll get you another room.’ He was very young, spiky blond hair, shirt tucked hastily into jeans. He’d never had anything like this to deal with before.

‘The bed is all right. I can sleep here.’ If she could get to sleep, thought Fancy.

‘I think we ought to have to look at the damage or something,’ he said. He had no idea, really. This was beyond his normal
experience
. ‘You know, clues.’

Fancy nodded. She was too tired to argue. Perhaps the arsonist had left his room number on a calling card.

T
he night duty manager, hot on the heels of the marathon
tea-making
industry, was still sweating. When he realized that Fancy had put out the fire and there was no need to evacuate the whole of Lakeside and summon the fire brigade, he relaxed and, to a degree, he began to participate in the event.

He removed the ‘evidence’. He said the fire inspector would want to look at it. Another writer with some knowledge of first aid put something soothing on Fancy’s burns and bound them up with lint and bandage. She felt like a boxer with two white gloves.

‘To keep the air out,’ said the first aider. ‘Cling film tomorrow.’

The night manager shooed everyone back to their rooms. He was now in his element. It made a change from lost room keys and people locking themselves out. He inspected room 425. There was minimal damage. It needed a new shower curtain and a good scrub, that was all.

‘You were very brave, Miss Jones. Thank you, thank you so much. You didn’t panic and that’s the main thing in all emergencies. I’m just so sorry that you got hurt. Would you like me to call an ambulance? Maybe you need hospital treatment,’ he suggested.

‘No, thank you. It’s only a little burn. I’ve done it many times at home, taking something out of the microwave without a cloth.’

‘The housekeeper says you can have the room opposite for the rest of the night. The lady who was occupying it has had to go home. Some family problem.’

‘How sad. What a pity,’ said Fancy, clutching the towel round her. Her damp nightshirt was feeling clammy. And the sheets were damp where she had sat down.

‘Can I get you anything?’

Fancy wanted to say a large brandy but that would cement her reputation as an old soak. ‘Nothing, thank you,’ she murmured, moving across the corridor like a sleepwalker.

She also wanted music. Chris Rhea singing
Josephine
would do nicely. Four minutes of cheer and a pulsing beat.

The room opposite was identical to hers in every way; same furniture, same colour quilt and curtains, except that its view was the car park and the new lake. But it seemed alien. It was not home. It was bare and cold, had none of her things. Fancy wrapped herself in the duvet and tried to sleep. Fire or no fire, there was still tomorrow to get through. But it was already today, she thought sleepily, as she drifted through cotton wool into some haven.

She had the keys to both rooms so she was able to find clothes the following morning and ferry them back to the new room. It was the Question and Answer Panel first so she had to look reasonably intelligent and informed, but relaxed and friendly. A tall order. Black jeans were the answer, with a fitted, black suede jacket. Her shirt was vintage black-and-white striped silk to minimize the severity of the outfit. She added a tasselled scarf for jollity.

A fire incident officer came out from Derby and Fancy spent breakfast time answering his questions. The day manager took him to inspect the damage in room 425. Fancy managed to grab some orange juice and a croissant. That was all. She would make up for it at morning break time, indulge in a biscuit.

She thought she might see Jed but he was nowhere around. Surely he had heard about the fire? The grapevine at Northcote was faster than Twitter or Facebook. Again, the awful thought. Perhaps he had put the fire outside her room. He had left her locked in. He’d had time to set it up. He would know how to do it.

She saw him striding across the lawn, munching on an apple. No time for breakfast either. He waved, then stopped when he saw her hands.

‘You’re hurt,’ he said. He seemed concerned. ‘What happened?’

‘Nothing much,’ she said. ‘This is a big fuss. A bit of cling film would have worked just as well.’

‘Keep the bandages on,’ he advised. ‘Milk the sympathy vote. Always useful. Tell me what happened.’

Fancy gave him a rundown of the incident from her viewpoint. He nodded, listening intently.

‘You did exactly the right thing in the circumstances, but not if it had been a big fire. Never open a door. Hang out the window and yell for a hunky fireman to carry you down the extending ladder.’

‘It was instinct.’

‘This time instinct was right but it’s not always. I’ll examine the fire remains,’ he went on. Then seeing her face, he added. ‘The fire officer is an old mate of mine. He may ask for my opinion as I’m here. I’ll do it immediately.’

‘You do have a strange circle of friends,’ she murmured as he walked away.

But he was back before she had stopped talking to some of the writers at her lecture. They drifted away when they saw his serious face.

‘Classic incendiary,’ Jed said. ‘A wigwam built of books of matches, opened up and stood on their end. Torn up paper all around and the whole put in the middle of a big clump of paper. It looks like a typed manuscript. There are page numbers still visible in the corners going up to three hundred.’

‘Oh, I hope not. Some poor soul who wanted me to read her novel,’ said Fancy. ‘Perhaps she left it outside my door. I hope it wasn’t her only copy.’

‘There are charred bits and pieces left. The fire officer has taken the evidence. Was it a sequel to
Gone With The Wind
?’

‘So they just put a match to it?’ They were walking slowly
towards the main conference hall. Delegates were merging in the same direction. There would be a bottleneck at the door.

‘No, a match would just go out without any air. Whoever it was put a burning cigarette down among the books of matches and they went off, one by one, like miniature fireworks. Guaranteed to keep burning.’

‘How come you know all about it?’

‘Am I a suspect, Fancy? Surely not? True, I was downstairs. I know how to start fires. I’ve dealt with enough arsonists in my time.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Fancy, confidence in tatters. ‘I’m a bag of nerves.’

‘How are your hands?’

‘Feeling better,’ she said. ‘I might have difficulty in holding a glass.’

‘I’ll get you a straw.’

When Fancy walked into the main conference hall with the other panellists, it was full to capacity. Questions and Answers were always popular. The chairman, Fergus Nelson, chaired the panel, trying to make sure that each panellist had their fair chance of answering. There was usually one member of a panel who wanted to hog the whole event, thought their words were the only ones that counted, who had too much to say and needed shutting up.

‘Good morning, everyone,’ said Fergus. ‘Settle down. We’ve a lot to get through.’

Fancy was not one to push herself forward but the chairman made sure she had a fair chance with replies, though she always kept her answers short and sweet. No publicity eulogy about herself and her current work.

When she left the hall for the first break, Jed was waiting outside with a black coffee for her and a couple of biscuits. He looked as if he hadn’t slept or eaten for hours. He was drawn and lined, the sparkle gone.

‘I skipped the last question,’ he said. ‘We all know about double spacing.’

‘Don’t forget some of the delegates are white-badgers. New writers. Never been to anything like this before. It’s a revelation.’

‘Point taken. Can you manage? I need to get some more coffee. I want an adrenaline fix. I shall go straight to the head of the queue, ignore the looks.’

‘We’re a bit short of hands, between us,’ said Fancy, managing a joke. ‘We should invent some no-hands gadget for
Dragons’
Den
.’

‘And make a million.’

They did not have a minute together. People were crowding round Fancy either to comment on the fire, commiserate about her hands or ask ancillary questions to ones already asked at the panel. Fancy could hold a cup. Her fingers were working outside the clumsy bandage. At least she got a seat on one of the garden benches.

Fergus came up later. ‘Can you manage the second session, Fancy?’ he asked. ‘We shall quite understand if you want a rest. You didn’t get much sleep last night.’

‘I’m fine,’ said Fancy. ‘I can carry on.’

She was actually on better form for the second panel session. Her wits seemed to have recovered and her remarks, off the cuff, were hilarious. She even managed to shut up the current trendy know-all, Ms I’m So Famous, with a remark that had everyone laughing.

She couldn’t see a silver-streaked head among the audience. Perhaps Jed had gone for some much needed sleep. It didn’t matter. She had survived this morning, with him or without him.

It was early lunch today because half of the delegates were off on an excursion to Chatsworth House, the nearby stately home. The other excursion offered was to a factory outlet, buying reject china in bulk, and touring the pottery.

Fancy only wanted to fall into bed and sleep.

Lunch was a rushed affair. Salad and ham, and either grated or cottage cheese was on offer with grated carrot or coleslaw. She couldn’t follow what choice she was being given. It was sit and be grateful time.

Delegates rushed out to their coaches. Fancy was left with a whole table to clear. Nobody had touched the dessert – Bakewell tart and orange custard. She went to the frozen fruit table and selected the softest pear.

She had a whole flask of coffee in front of her. And a whole afternoon ahead. She wondered if room 425 had been scrubbed and refurbished. She wanted to be back in her own room.

Jed came and sat down at her table. He looked a few degrees better, less burdened. The landscape of his face had softened. He had had a sleep, even if only for an hour. He could revive on a nap. All policemen could. He poured himself a coffee from her flask.

‘No Chatsworth House?’

‘I know the history. I’ve read the Georgiana book. Horace Walpole thought it had an air of gloomy grandeur.’

‘Surely it’s research, somewhere full of ideas for future books?’

‘I don’t need any more ideas. My head is spinning with them.’

‘So what are your plans for this afternoon? There’s some sort of private rehearsal going on in the hall. A writing read-through in the Orchard Room and a last talk on non-fiction at 5 p.m.’

‘I’ve no plans.’

Jed finished his coffee. ‘My car’s outside. Would you like a drive to Newstead Abbey? It’s not far, some part-ruins, some falling down. The poet, Lord Byron, once lived there, though he didn’t drown there, he drowned in Italy. Just a walk around, Fancy. Fresh air and nice grounds, somewhere different. A breath of the outside world. No strings.’

Fancy nodded her thanks. It sounded perfect. Especially the no strings.

Jed drove well in his adapted car. It was a small, low-slung
two-seater
with a soft top, dark blue, hardly the right car for a retired detective chief inspector. Extra levers on the steering wheel. Fancy did not recognize the make of car. She was not good on cars. Maybe a Vauxhall Sports? In minutes she had forgotten that he did not have two hands on the wheel.

The afternoon began to warm up. She threw off her jacket and tossed it into the tiny space at the back of the car that might take a child or someone slim sitting sideways. She began to relax, fall into some kind of emotional slump.

The conversation was light, ridiculous, funny.

‘I went out for lunch. I remembered Tuesday’s lunch is a rushed job. Fish and chips down at the local pub. But no marrowfat peas. They’re revolting,’ said Jed, taking a right turn.

‘You’ll never make old age,’ she said. ‘Fish and chips. All that cholesterol.’

‘Don’t worry, I will. I’m writing a book of true life cold crime stories. I’ve emailed
MM
half a dozen times but you never answer. That’s why I’m hoping to get some time to talk to you this week. This book is important to me. All those unsolved crimes that deserve to be solved; the villain still out there, walking the streets.’

‘I always answer my emails,’ said Fancy, indignantly. ‘Perhaps I wasn’t getting them. Perhaps there’s a hacker.’

‘But why?’

‘Because these cold cases are too near the truth? Because they could be solved if you publish what you know about them? It’s a thought.’

‘One of my stories featured in your
MM
. It really interested me.
The Missing Cover Girl
. Do you remember that issue? It was one of my first cold cases and one that we have never solved.’

‘Yes, I remember. It was alleged that he killed his wife because she caught him having an affair with her twin sister. But it was never proved and her body was never found. So he got away with it.’

‘We never cracked it either. Yet there were traces of blood
spatters
in the house. The wife was never seen again from that day forward. It was as if she disappeared from the face of the earth.’

‘Was it the wife’s blood?’

‘We could never prove it. Long before the days of DNA. Both sisters had the same blood group.’

‘Who reported the wife missing?’

‘Her mother. The husband said she had a history of running away and she would probably come back. But her passport and bank account were never touched. And it didn’t look as if she had taken anything with her. Even her handbag was still in the house.’

‘Did he marry the other twin?’

‘Yes, I believe he did eventually.’

‘After seven years. When his wife was officially declared dead?’

‘I guess so. I was busy on other cases by then, getting slowly promoted. Here we are. This is Newstead Abbey, somewhere behind all those trees.’

He turned into the entrance drive, nodded to the gatekeeper on duty, who waved them through. It was a narrow drive, heavily canopied with trees and shrubs. Many of the shrubs were in flower and Fancy could feel herself relaxing as they left the busy roads and noise of traffic behind.

The house came into view as the drive turned into undulating parkland, dominating a big clearing of grass and paved
walkways
. She could see deer grazing in the distance. Several coaches were already parked near the house, visitors climbing out and stretching. Jed parked the car in a shady spot away from the crowds.

Newstead House was both house and ruin. The ruined abbey walls leaned heavily on one side of the house. The tall stone arches looked precarious, as if they were about to fall at any moment. It was cordoned off with warning notices, keeping the curious at a distance.