Money Never Sleeps (8 page)

‘She did well.’

‘The husband in the case was Rupert Harlow, a prospective candidate for some seat in the south and they all met at a constituency party. Grace was there as a press officer and Thelma went along to be photographed. A sort of gatecrasher, but Grace let her in. She could hardly turn her own sister away.’

‘I can see it all,’ said Fancy. ‘Rupert fell in love with the
glamorous
twin and she was dazzled by his political ambition, seeing herself standing on the doorstep of No. 10 in ten years’ time.’

Fancy let the words fall around her. She was too tired to take the story in. She was listening out of politeness.

‘Exactly. Rupert and Thelma became an item, although I’m not sure who pursued who. Thelma certainly had her eye on being the wife of a Member of Parliament, lunch on the Terrace, dinner in the Members’ Dining Room.’

‘Did Rupert Harlow ever become an MP?’

‘No, he lost at the next election and became a solicitor instead. Thelma and Rupert were married by then, living in Surbiton. It
seemed a happy marriage; a smart young couple, dinner parties and trips abroad. Then Thelma disappeared. Rupert didn’t report her missing. He said later that she had flounced out in a huff, had gone to visit her sister.’

‘And had she?’

‘Grace wasn’t even in the country. She was attending some conference in Brussels. It was their mother who reported Thelma as missing. When the police went round to the house in Surbiton, they found spatters of blood in the bedroom and on the stairs, which Rupert Harlow could not explain. Thelma’s belongings were still in the house, her handbag, car keys, passport, bank book, money. She had taken nothing with her.’

‘How strange. It’s coming back to me now.’

Fancy remembered the story. The newspapers had called it the case of
The Missing Cover Girl
with lots of glamorous photos of Thelma. Thelma posing at parties, nightclubs, the races, always looking beautifully dressed and radiant.

‘Then it came out that Rupert had been having an affair with Grace for months, cheating on Thelma. He’d got tired of the flighty one and had fallen for the serious one. Thelma had caught them in bed together. There had been an almighty row. It was here that the stories began to differ. Rupert said that Thelma had walked out on him. Grace said that the sisters had forgiven each other and Rupert and Thelma were planning a second
honeymoon
. Their mother did not believe it.’

‘And he was charged with Thelma’s murder, despite no body being found?’

Fancy’s fingers were itching to make notes. But she had no pen and no paper. Not like her at all. She would have to remember everything.

‘The prosecution claimed that the blood spatters were Thelma’s blood, but Grace had the same blood group. Grace said she had cut herself on a broken glass. Defence claimed the evidence was flimsy and the case was thrown out,’ said Jed.

‘Were you on the case?’

‘Before my time, Fancy. I know I have grey hair. It was all the
talk at the station. They were certain Thelma had been beaten up and buried under the patio.’

‘Was there a patio?’

‘Police in-joke. Tacky. Poor taste.’

‘And why do you think the case might be re-opened?’

‘It’s the development in DNA testing these days. They can find evidence in the tiniest sample of earth or dust or smear of blood. My digging around to write about the case has stirred things up. And I’ve a lot more facts about Rupert and Grace that casts a different light on their affair and their subsequent marriage. I want to write about it and put it in my book.’

‘
The Missing Cover Girl
:
Where is she now?
sort of thing?’

Jed nodded.

‘If Thelma walked out on Rupert, then she is still around, isn’t she? Thirty years older, but still good-looking, I bet. Have you the keys to both rooms?’ Jed asked, changing the subject and finishing his beer. Fancy yawned.

‘Yes. No one has asked for them back.’

Jed stood up and stretched. ‘Do you fancy a dance?’

The small conference hall was belting out music. It was not Fancy’s kind of music – pulsating rock at mega-decibels. She cringed in the doorway. Her ears were protesting.

‘Wait a moment,’ said Jed. ‘Let me see what I can do.’

He went and spoke to the skinny, short-skirted DJ. She turned down the volume and changed the disc. ‘By request, ladies and gentlemen, for one night only,’ she said. ‘
Lady in Red
.’

Jed led Fancy onto the dance floor. ‘Other way round,’ he said. ‘My left hand goes round your waist. My right hand can be held anywhere in space.’

‘It seems all right,’ said Fancy. ‘Even if it is the wrong way round.’

‘Who wrote the rules? It wasn’t Einstein.’

The music was universal. The floor filled. Everyone loved this song of haunted love. Fancy felt herself being held closer. Jed smelled so fresh and strong, as if he showered every hour. She
needed this kind of strong man. She had been alone, fending alone, for so long.

‘Don’t fight me,’ said Jed, his face close to her hair. His breath fanned her cheek. ‘This was meant to be.’

But she was not sure what she heard. She was floating on a cloud. Moving in time to the music, letting the words wash over her. It was a song she had loved for years. The singer … Chris de Burgh. What a mesmerizing voice. He had suffered. He knew what it was all about.

As the music faded away and the dancers stopped swaying, so the DJ pounded her original choice back onto the airwaves. It was ear-splitting, enough to deafen a thirty-year-old.

Fancy and Jed left the dance floor and went outside onto the lawn. The music was still pounding the air. Even the smokers were irritated.

‘Do they think we’re all deaf?’ they coughed.

‘I’ll walk you home,’ said Jed. He still had his good arm round her waist.

They went up in the lift at Lakeside, soothed by the electronic voice telling them about floors and doors.

‘Is it all right if I move into the room opposite tonight?’ asked Jed.

‘Yes,’ said Fancy. ‘I should like that. If you don’t mind. I’d feel safer.’

‘The rooms are all alike. It’s no problem.’

Fancy leaned against room 425. ‘Were you going to tell me something else about the missing twins?’

‘Part of my research. I’ve discovered that the twins’ maiden name was Marchant. So Melody Marchant might have been the missing Thelma Marchant. What do you think, Fancy?’

‘Melody was very good-looking, even with white hair. Quite striking. But who would want to kill her? The name might be a coincidence.’

‘If Melody was Thelma Marchant, then she has already been declared dead. You can’t kill the same person twice. That’s the law.’

‘M
archant was their maiden name? Are you sure?’

‘Yes, but no one remembers maiden names. It never
registers
. Who would think it important? Their mother, Mrs Marchant, was open about her name and it was there in the records. It was something that went completely unnoticed. Till now.’

‘Thelma Harlow disappeared thirty years ago.’

‘A long time ago.’

‘Melody Marchant could have been from some other branch of the family.’

‘Yes, she could. But we don’t know yet. They’re running more sophisticated DNA tests now. It only takes a few days. It used to take weeks.’

‘Are you trying to link this unsolved murder with me, the fire, the lump of concrete and all the other things?’

‘I can’t see how or why yet, but it is possible. You are here. Melody was here. I’m reopening
The Missing Cover Girl
cold case and you publish a magazine called
Macabre Mysteries
, which ran the story previously.’

Fancy leaned against the wall, her shoulders slumped. It was quite cold now, the plaster chilled and hard against her back. She couldn’t remember when she had last slept well. And she needed more sleep.

‘I’m too tired to take all this in. Thank you, Jed, for helping me with my talk. I couldn’t have done it without you. It went very well, amazingly well, and it was because of your support. It was
a great idea and the only way I could have got through the evening.’

‘You needed a straight man. I was there and I knew I could shield you from anything unpleasant. I’ve provided protection in far worse situations.’

‘A bodyguard?’

‘Did you see that film? Whitney Houston? Great film.’

Fancy didn’t want to talk any more. She inserted her key and opened the bedroom door. ‘Thank you again, Jed. Goodnight and thank you for a lovely afternoon at Newstead Abbey. It seems a hundred years ago now.’

‘It was a hundred years, a completely different world.’ Jed saw that Fancy was drooping. ‘I’m sleeping in the room across the corridor with the door open, don’t forget.’

Fancy absorbed the new arrangement. He would be near, which was perfect. ‘Sleeping across the corridor with the door open seems a good idea. I’ll be able to yell for help.’

‘I hope you won’t have to. I’ll check your room first.’

There was no sign of the fire. A new shower curtain had been fitted and every inch of tile scrubbed and cleaned. Even the smell of fire had gone. Her room was back to normal. Someone had put some mauve flowers on the windowsill.

‘Are you going to be all right?’

‘I could sleep through an earthquake.’

‘I don’t think your hoaxer could manage an earthquake. Goodnight, Fancy.’

‘Goodnight, Jed.’

She could barely drag herself through her normal bedtime routine. She managed to take off her make-up and clean her teeth, but her clothes went into a heap on a chair without being hung up. Bed was a haven and she wrapped herself into the duvet, wallowing in the self-infused warmth. As she slipped into sleep, she started not to care if anything happened to her.

Her best-seller would not get published but that would not matter any more. Authors disappear. They often did. No more working late into the night at a solitary computer. No landfill of
tax demands. No more editorial arguments, no more
proofreading
. Proofreading was her personal nightmare.

But she did not sleep for long. Something woke her in the early hours of the morning. She looked at her luminous bedside clock. It was 2.20 a.m. Not a quadrant. She did not know what had woken her. She dared not move in case it provoked some further unwanted activity.

She moved silently out of bed and stood by the window, keeping well back. A watery moon cast its pale light over the grass verge and path, and the grassy knoll where the Orchard Room stood. Nothing seemed to be happening. No parties. No very late bedfellows. The writers’ conference had retired for the night. The manager on the late shift duty could watch television in peace.

Fancy was not sure. Something did not seem right. She needed to find out for herself, to put her mind at rest. She pulled on some black trousers, and a long-sleeved black fleece, black trainers, no socks. She put a couple of pink pens in her pocket; they had sharp nibs. And, as a final thought, she picked up her nail
scissors
. Not that she would ever use them to defend herself. But they made her feel safer.

Jed’s door was open a few inches and she could hear his regular breathing. He was sleeping deeply, worn out by the day’s activities. She wished she could stay with him but knew it would be foolish. It would be over by the weekend and everyone would disperse to their homes all over England, many to Scotland. Some would be flying back to Switzerland or France..

She would go home to her church lodge, get the window repaired, get on with her book. So many words a day.

She might never see Jed again. He would go back to his life, maybe to his wife, if he had one. She didn’t know. She had never asked. Nor had he ever mentioned a wife, waiting at home, ironing, making jam and chutney.

She crept down the stairs, not using the lift, along the corridor to the front entrance. It was eerily quiet with only a low-wattage light on. It sent no shadows into corners. A few empty bottles and
glasses had been abandoned on the central table. Some late-night party that the bar staff did not have the energy to clear up.

The front door opened with the smallest of clicks and Fancy went out onto the path. It was cold and she was glad of the comfort and warmth of the fleece. She had read somewhere that fleece was made from recycled plastic bags. She went down the slope and into the shadow close to the wall of Lakeside. The moon had clouded over and it was dark. She kept close to the wall, hoping she would not wake any light sleepers on the ground floor. She began a circuit of Lakeside, round both sides, through the car park, skirting the older, sturdy ABC building that was clothed in darkness. The main entrance to Lakeside was also closed and dark with only a small bulb glowing over the counter.

Nothing was happening. No one was about. But she sensed something or someone. She heard a noise. Footsteps were crossing the gravel of the main car park, by the entrance hall of the old Victorian mansion. She ducked down behind some bushes and moved between the trees that circled the main driveway to the house.

A man was getting into a car. It was a metallic silver Vauxhall with a roof rack. At two o’clock in the morning? It could hardly be staff and Fancy knew that staff parked way back, out of sight. No one would be working this late.

She tried to fix on some aspect of the man, something to remember, like a detective would. He looked middle-aged. About early fifties, wearing dark clothes, a waterproof parka and a flat cap. She thought she caught the glint of spectacles. He closed the door and switched on the headlights. They beamed away from the school, down the drive. He slid the car into gear and moved away, almost without noise.

The car rolled down the drive, over the speed bumps, towards the entrance gates and the lane that lead up to the main road. In a minute he was out of sight. Fancy breathed deeply. She suddenly felt free. There was something about the man and the car that had spelt trouble, and now he had gone.

Could she put this fear into a book? She had no idea. She needed to get back to her room and rescue what hours were left of the night. She took the shortest way back to Lakeside with complete confidence. She was the only person awake.

Except for the tabby cat who crossed her path. He was also out late, hunting mice from the nearby fields. He twisted himself round her ankles.

Fancy stroked his striped head and back, and he arched, purring. ‘I’ve nothing for you, puss,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’

She took the stairs again. Jed was still asleep, his breathing like an ancient Greek’s, strong and regular. If only she could crawl in beside him and curl up against his back. She knew she would sleep as deeply.

But common sense told her not to be so foolish. She hated common sense. It was so boring. She went back to her room and closed the door, activating the self-lock. But she still put a chair against the door. She made a cup of tea, but later in bed, was asleep before it was half drunk.

Her dreams were weird. A blue thermos flask, a cliff path and the sea lashing against rocks far below. The sea was clear and blue, sparkling. The place meant nothing but gave her a sense of serenity. She did not want to wake up. But she had to.

There was an urgent knocking on her door. And Jed’s voice came though her submerged dreams. She floundered in shreds of consciousness.

‘Fancy! Fancy, wake up! Are you all right?’

Fancy sat up, blinking. She recognized his voice, the urgency.

She staggered to the door, stubbing her bare toes on a chair, which was extremely painful. She pulled the chair away and opened the door, forgetting the briefness of her teddy bear nightshirt.

‘Jed? What is it? I was asleep,’ she mumbled.

‘I had to make sure you were all right.’

‘I’m all right. Why? What is it?’

‘Come and see.’

They were standing in the corridor, both less than half dressed. It was idiotic. Fancy hoped no one was watching.

Jed slept in shorts. His chest was brown and bare with a sprinkling of dark hair. He took her arm and pulled her into his bedroom, took her across to the window. ‘Look. Down there.’

Below in the car park, a car was ablaze, flames shooting up into the night sky, glowing like a bonfire. It was parked some distance from the other cars, although alarmed owners were running into the car park, anxious to move their vehicles away from the blaze. Sparks could travel.

‘Where’s your car?’ Fancy asked.

‘It’s safe. Parked on the upper level. Is yours there too?’

‘Yes, no point in walking miles with luggage and books.’

‘I was worried in case you were in the car,’ said Jed, drawing her away from the window. ‘So many odd things have happened to you.’

‘For heaven’s sake,’ said Fancy. ‘Why would I get into some strange car in the middle of the night? I’m not that stupid.’

‘You might have been drugged, taken prisoner, hostage, dragged there. I don’t know. I just had to make sure you were okay.’

Fancy calmed down. She could see his point but he had woken her from a lovely dream and that was almost unforgivable. One could never get back to a good dream. It was gone forever.

‘Can I go back to bed now?’ she asked.

‘Yes, sorry to have woken you. I had to check.’

‘Was there anyone in the car?’

‘No, I don’t think so. I couldn’t see anyone. Hear that noise? The fire brigade has arrived. Hoses out. Everything’s under control now. The night duty manager will be asking for danger money at this rate.’

‘Everyone will be glad to go home on Friday morning. All this excitement.’

‘Will you be glad to go home?’ Jed asked.

How could Fancy answer in all truth? She wanted to go home, longed for her own bed, her computer and books, yet she did not want to leave him. She wanted to stay here with Jed, whatever
happened. He had become her rock. Yet she knew nothing about him. He might be a rock of salt.

‘I’ve a window to get repaired,’ she said. ‘A saint with some lambs. Funny how I don’t like my church lodge quite so much any more. No views. Only a few walls and dustbins And the traffic is diabolical.’

She went back into her bedroom, repeated the locking
procedure
and drank the cold tea. She had not told Jed that she recognized the car. The blazing car had been a metallic silver Vauxhall with a roof rack.

Sleep was more elusive this time. She tossed and stretched, tried going through plot lines, tried to remember her next lecture. She could not remember a word of it. It was going to be a disaster.

‘Sorry, folks, I can’t remember what we were going to do today. I know I was going to start and then an hour later, I would end.’ They might laugh. ‘But the in-between bit is a blur. Just talk among yourselves.’

She gave up trying to sleep, switched on the light and found a recent novel. If she couldn’t sleep, then she would read. Let some other writer transport her to another world, cast it with dream people, weave some magic.

She must have fallen asleep with the book still open at a page. No reflection on the author or his story; her eyes had given up, refused to stay open. Dawn was filtering through her window, the palest of colours tinting the sky, a brush of light, night bleeding into morning.

‘Is this Wednesday?’ she asked herself. ‘I’ve lost count of the days.’

Yes, it was Wednesday. Two more days and Northcote would be all over. Life would revert to normal. Everyone would go home to jobs, children, swearing eternal friendship, exchanging email addresses and phone numbers, hugs and kisses. As if life could ever be the same after this time together.

Would Jed kiss her goodbye? Probably not. She would put her cold face on before he could plant a kiss on her cheek.

She showered and put on an easy, crinkled white shirt with her black jeans, with a butterfly cover-up. The weather had changed abruptly; it looked bleak, grey and cold outside. She needed the comfort of warmer clothes. For once she was in time for half a breakfast. Grapefruit, hash browns and baked beans, coffee. No bacon, no sausage. She could not face the cold brown roof tiles, even with butter and marmalade. Everyone was talking about the burnt-out car.

The fire incident officer was around again, prodding the remains of the vehicle, now a pile of soot and twisted metal. ‘Looks like you’ve got an arsonist,’ he said. ‘There are signs of some sort of fire source. It was thrown over the car. Thank
goodness
no one was inside. They would have been incinerated.’

‘Is it getting worse?’ Jed asked. ‘Fire in a bucket, now a car on fire?’

‘There may not be any connection. Perhaps the car is copycat.’

‘Will it be the old house next or the conference hall?’

‘Don’t look on the dark side, sir. I’m sure there’s an
explanation
for all this. After all, they are writers.’