Who's That Girl

by T S Hunter

  “Maybe Jean wants to put things right before it’s too late,” Russell said.

  “Maybe. Yeah,” Ron said, not sounding convinced. “Still, I don’t know why she’d want to go raking all that up again now, after all this time.”

  Joe frowned. He’d got the sense from Jean that she’d seen Violet more recently than Ron was making out. Here in the hospital. Perhaps the sisters had reconciled their differences, once Jean knew her disease was terminal.

  He caught Russell looking at Ron askance too.

  “Raking what up?” Russell asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Don’t matter,” Ron said, quickly. “Sometimes history’s best left in the past, innit?”

  Joe wasn’t at all convinced that bad blood should be left to fester. He would call Violet as soon as they got home and tell her to come back in to see her sister.

  As the three of them strode out of the hospice, a slim, mousy-haired man in a pin-stripe suit hurried after them.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he called, his voice tight and nasal. “I wonder if I might have a word.”

  They all stopped and turned.

  “Can we help?” Russell asked.

  “I hope so, it’s rather delicate, you see,” he said. “You’ve just been visiting with Jean Carter?”

  “Yeah, what of it?” Ron asked, stepping forward defensively.

  “I’m sorry,” the man said, sensing that he was putting his foot in it already. “I’m the manager here. Harry Underwood”

  He extended a hand. None of them shook it. He tucked it back in his pocket.

  “Are any of you, by any chance, her next of kin?” Underwood asked, wringing his hands.

  “No, said Russell. “We’re just friends. Her husband passed away, we came to share our condolences.”

  “Yes, terrible business,” Underwood said. “The police informed us yesterday evening. She was very upset.”

  “Naturally,” Ron said.

  “And, do you happen to know who her next of kin would be now? Now that he’s passed?”

  Russell got the feeling there was something amiss here. He shot Joe a cautionary look, noticing him reaching for his wallet, and not wanting him to share the sister’s name and number until they’d spoken to her. This guy could wait, or get it from Jean herself.

  “What exactly is the problem?” Russell asked.

  “Well, I’m not sure I can discuss it with you,” Underwood said. “If you’re not family.”

  “I’m family,” Ron blurted. “I’m her brother-in-law.”

  Russell and Joe both stared at him incredulously, but he held firm.

  “I may not directly be next of kin, but I’m as close to family as she’s got left for the moment. What’s the problem?”

  “Ah,” Underwood said, smiling weakly again. “It’s just that there’s been an issue with the payments for the last two months. I tried to speak to Mr Carter about it; he didn’t want to worry Jean. He promised it would be sorted out, but, well, it hasn’t and now… well, we may not be able to continue caring for Jean if there is no payment forthcoming.”

  He shuffled his feet. There, he’d said it.

  “I’m sorry to have to bring it up, especially at a time like this, but I wonder if you’d be able to advise me on how we should proceed?”

  Ron pulled a battered business card from his wallet and handed it to Underwood.

  “Send any outstanding bills to me,” he said. “Care of the Red Lion pub on Rupert Street. I’ll make sure you get what’s owed to you.”

  Underwood thanked him and turned away, back straight, adjusting his hair on the sides as he walked off, satisfied with himself.

  Ron set off towards the underground station as Russell and Joe exchanged a confused glance and hurried after him.

  “Brother-in-law?” Russell asked, catching up.

  “It’s a long story,” said Ron. “And I don’t want to talk about it right now. I’ve got to open the pub in less than an hour.”

  It was standing-room only on the tube, and Russell could tell that Ron was in no mood to be questioned. Joe, however, wasn’t letting this go that easily.

  “Of course I’m not legally her brother-in-law,” he huffed. “But what does that matter?”

  “Why did you say it then?” Joe asked.

  “One,” Ron said, between clenched teeth, “it’s none of your business. And two, I was very close to Jean and Danny back in the day. Me and Dan were like brothers once, so that’s that.”

  “But why did you agree to pay the bills?” Russell asked. “Surely Danny had enough money to pay for Jean’s care? Why send her private if not?”

  “Danny was an odd one,” Ron said. “Didn’t trust hospitals. Never has. When Jean got sick, he promised her she wouldn’t die in one.”

  “But if he wasn’t paying the bills, he obviously couldn’t afford a private hospice,” Joe said.

  “Look, all I know is he was having a few money worries. I had no idea it was this bad.” Ron said. “I should have helped him out earlier. But, well… look I barely saw the bloke any more and he’s never been sharp with paying back his debts. He owed me too much already.”

  Russell got a sense he meant more than money.

  “Yes, but…” Joe started.

  “Just bloody leave it, will you?” Ron huffed.

  “You spent more time with Danny recently than the rest of us,” Russell directed his question at Joe, trying to stop his interrogation of Ron. “Did he ever let on to you that he was broke?”

  “No,” Joe said. “Look, he always got the drinks in, anyway. Didn’t seem to be counting the pennies. I didn’t really know him that well, though.”

  “Bloody idiot was always pretending to have more than he did,” Ron muttered. “It was all Jean’s though. She had the house, the career. And she earned well, too. They were pretty flush. He always liked to chuck it around. Showing off.”

  “Obviously he’s been chucking it around a bit too much, because something stopped him paying those fees,” Russell said.

  The tube pulled into their station and they shoved their way through the crowd and took the stairs out of the underground, emerging at street level at the end of Tottenham Court Road.

  “Where’s their house then?” Russell asked.

  “Cumberland Terrace. Number 4.” Ron said, putting on his best fancy voice. “You know them ones looking over Regent’s Park. Gorgeous, it is. Proper old townhouse.”

  “Bloody hell,” Russell said.

  It was a great postcode to own property in. An exclusive, expensive neighbourhood, right on the edge of the park. Far enough away from the seedier parts of London to be posh, but close enough to all of them to be relevant. Camden to the North, King’s Cross to the East, and Soho to the South. All within walking distance, though Russell doubted whether many of the residents of Cumberland Terrace ever walked anywhere.

  It seemed an incongruous place for Danny and Jean to live—too snobbish and gentrified for the likes of them. Russell could have better pictured them in some small flat in the heart of Soho.

  “Yeah, they’ve lived there for ever. Jean was quite the celebrity in her time. Like I say, she was a big earner.”

  “What did she do?” Joe asked.

  “She was a jazz singer,” Ron replied. “Bloody brilliant she was. You wouldn’t know it to look at her, but her voice could floor the toughest of men. Danny was lucky to win her heart when he did. Another year and she’d have been over in the States making millions, I reckon.”

  “Wow,” Joe said. “I had no idea he was married to such a celebrity.”

  They’d reached the Red Lion by then, and Joe made his excuses and headed back to work, while Russell waited for Ron to wrestle with the lock before following him in.

  Inside they found Paul already taking the chairs down from the tables and setting up to open. Russell was struck again by how much cuter Paul was out of drag and just being himself.

  “You’re going to need to change that ba
rrel on the Pride,” Paul said as Ron thanked him for setting up. “I still can’t twist the thingy.”

  “Righto,” Ron said, rolling his eyes and lifting the flap of the bar.

  “I’ve cleaned out the dressing room, and all,” Paul said. “What do you want me to do with this lot?”

  “What’s that?”

  “All Danny’s stuff he left back there. Keys, wallet, coat. I’ve also got his hat.”

  Russell cocked his head.

  “Just shove it back in the storeroom for now,” Ron said, dismissively.

  “Shouldn’t we hand it over to the police or something?”

  “Well, they didn’t ask for it, and I’m sure Danny wouldn’t want that lot sniffing around his pad,” Ron said.

  “Mind if I use your loo?” Russell asked innocently.

  “Help yourself,” Ron said, heading down into the cellar behind the bar.

  “I’ll stick those in the storeroom for you on my way past, shall I?” Russell offered.

  Paul smiled gratefully.

  “Ta love.”

  “No problem.”

  Russell had hit upon an idea, but it was one he assumed Ron wouldn’t be too happy with. He wanted to have a look around Danny’s house.

  Someone had deliberately killed him, and as yet he had no clue who or why. Hopefully he’d find some answers in Cumberland Terrace.

  3

  Joe was on fairly good terms with his new boss at the production company—Paul “PJ” Davis was one of the nicer guys in the television industry, and had taken a chance hiring Joe without any training or experience.

  Joe felt bad lying to him about where he’d been that morning, but he could hardly have asked for time off to go and see the ailing wife of a murdered acquaintance. So he’d lied and said he had an appointment of his own.

  “How did it go at the doctors?” Paul asked, conspiratorially. “Everything okay?”

  “Apparently so,” Joe said. “I need to sleep more and worry less.”

  “Don’t we all, love. Is that it though? He didn’t give you any of the good stuff?”

  “He gave me a prescription for something, I haven’t picked it up yet.”

  “Oh, you should take everything you can get. Migraines are no joke. I should know.”

  Joe had deliberately chosen migraines, knowing that Paul was a sufferer and assuming that it would make him more sympathetic. Of course, it meant he was likely to ask far more questions, too.

  “What have I missed?” Joe asked, changing the subject before Paul could grill him on his fictitious prescription.

  “Well, the Beeb are asking for about a hundred changes to the voiceover script, as usual, and Jane’s been locked in that room with the auditors since nine this morning. I don’t think they’ve even let her out for a pee yet!”

  “Better get on then,” Joe said.

  He sat at his desk and shoved the pile of release forms and other odd paperwork to one side. This afternoon’s filing would have to wait. He took the slip of paper with Violet’s number on it from his pocket and, smiling a hello at one of his colleagues, picked up the phone.

  The call took a moment to connect, before the ringing began. No answer. He held on, letting it ring. Just as he was about to hang up, a woman answered.

  “Hello?” She sounded annoyed already.

  “Oh, hello there,” Joe said, trying to sound official. “Is it possible to speak to Violet please?”

  “Who’s calling?” she asked, suspiciously.

  “My name’s Joe Stone.”

  “I’ve never heard of you. What do you want?”

  Joe sighed.

  “Violet? I’m actually a friend of your sister’s. Jean? She asked me to call.”

  The line went dead. Violet had just hung up.

  Joe dialled again. It rang out. No answer. He dialled again. Finally, she answered, her voice hard and bitter.

  “You can tell my sister if she’s got anything to say to me, she can do it to my bloody face.”

  “Good,” Joe said, level and calm. “That’s why I’m calling. She wants to see you.”

  “Oh yeah?” She sounded suspicious. “So, why isn’t she calling herself then? Too scared to talk to me is she?”

  Her tone was bitter and angry.

  “She’s not very well, Violet. And her husband has just passed away. I saw her today and she asked me to call you. She said to say she’s sorry but she does need to see you again, after all.”

  There was silence on the line. Joe was worried that he’d lost the call again.

  “Dan’s dead?” Violet asked. Suddenly, all the fight had gone out of her voice.

  “I’m afraid so,” Joe replied.

  A small silence. A shuddering breath. The smallest snort of a laugh. Joe waited.

  “Huh. Heart attack was it? Or stroke? Never could keep off the booze, that one. Can’t say I’m either shocked or sad to hear it.” The hardness was already back.

  “He was stabbed,” Joe replied. He saw no reason to sugar-coat anything for this woman—she was harsh and abrasive. Especially compared to Jean.

  “Jesus,” she said. Flat disbelief. “Well I never. So, what’s up with Jean then? Broken heart, is it? Am I supposed to feel sorry for her? Why didn’t she call me herself?”

  “Did you not know? I got the impression from Jean that she’d seen you recently.”

  “No love, haven’t seen her for donkey’s.”

  Joe frowned. He’d obviously got the wrong end of the stick from Jean. Or perhaps her mind was playing more tricks on her than they’d thought.

  “She has cancer, Violet,” Joe said. “It’s gone too far, I’m afraid. She’s in a hospice. End-of-life care.”

  “And she thinks by getting you to call me up out of the blue, I’ll just come running to her bedside like the devoted sister? Well she can think again. Who are you, anyway?”

  “I knew Danny,” Joe said. “I was there when he died. I went to see Jean this morning and she asked me to call you. She said she needed to see you again.”

  Silence again. Finally, she cleared her throat.

  “Where is she then?”

  “You’ll go and see her?” Joe asked.

  “I’ll think about it. Depends where she is.”

  “She’s in a hospice, in London. I can give you the address.”

  “How long’s she got?”

  “I don’t know,” Joe said. “Not long. It’s impossible to know, though. I think she wants to put whatever’s happened between you to rest before she goes.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m sorry to be so morbid,” Joe said.

  “Don’t worry, love. There’s no love lost. What’s the address then?”

  Joe read it out for her, slowly, waiting until she prompted him for each next part. She read it back to confirm.

  “Will you be there?”

  “No,” Joe said, momentarily confused. “I don’t work there, I just told Jean I would call you. Pass on the message.”

  “Oh. It’s just that I don’t really want to see her on my own. Things haven’t always been good between us. You said you were a friend.”

  “She’s very frail,” Joe said. “She just wants to see you. She can’t hurt you.”

  The woman laughed.

  “You have no idea how much that woman can hurt people,” she replied. “If you don’t come, I won’t go and see her. Simple as that.”

  Joe sighed.

  “Fine,” he said. “When?”

  “Tomorrow morning? Ten o’clock.”

  Joe looked at his boss furiously scribbling something on a whiteboard. He couldn’t phone in sick again and hope to keep his job.

  “Can we make it twelve-thirty? I have to work in the morning.”

  “Fine,” she said. “I’ll meet you outside the hospice. Don’t go in without me. And don’t be late. If you’re not there, I’m walking away.”

  As he hung up, Joe already knew that Violet wouldn’t be walking away at all. Her int
erest was piqued. And she had sounded genuinely surprised to hear that Danny was dead, so he guessed they could rule out the old family feud as a motive for his murder.

  Russell had been right to be impressed by the address. Danny and Jean’s house was a four-storey townhouse, overlooking Regent’s Park, set back slightly from the road with ornate Georgian railings protecting it from any straying passers-by.

  Compared to its neighbours, the whole place could do with a lick of paint and a general spruce up, but it was still a pretty nest egg to be sitting on.

  Russell couldn’t help feeling guilty that he was intruding without Jean’s permission as he began testing the keys in the lock, but he hoped she’d understand. He was sure a neighbour would come out and challenge what he was doing, but no one did.

  On the third key, he felt the lock give and the door swung open. He stepped inside and shut out the noise of London behind him.

  A large, grand entrance hall led to a wide staircase, with a solid-looking balustrade, painted white but, like the outside, worn and chipped. The carpet going up the stairs was deep red, held in place on each step by brass runners.

  The decorative Georgian tiles on the hallway floor, some cracked and chipped, led down the side of the staircase along a narrow corridor, off which was a small sitting room.

  Russell stepped inside to find the sitting room neat and ordered. The curtains were partly drawn, making the room feel dark and small.

  He crossed to the window and opened the curtains slightly, letting the light seep in. There was a thick layer of dust on every surface, hanging in the air, illuminated by the sunlight streaming through the window.

  The sitting room was quite old-fashioned. Two high-backed, deeply upholstered chairs sat either side of a small nest of tables, facing the window.

  One wall was lined top to bottom with fitted shelves filled with books about singers, musicians, music and the arts. This was Jean’s domain, Russell guessed.

  An equally old-fashioned writing desk nestled in the corner, the kind with a lid that opened out to make the desk. It was closed, and when Russell tried it, he realised that the lid was locked. He scouted around for a key to fit the tiny lock. It wouldn’t be very complex to pick, but he didn’t want to damage anything at this stage.