by Edie Baylis
Nero watched the old dear prancing around on the screen for the second time. So, she was spritely for someone of her age, but what was he supposed to be noticing? Was there something obvious that he’d developed a blind spot for? Oh no, Jonah hadn’t developed a fetish for the oldies, had he?
Nero tried not to display his confusion. When Jonah was in a mood like this, it was akin to inadvertently brushing against an unexploded bomb and he didn’t want the grief, but when the voiceover filtered into his brain, his attention sharpened fourfold. The word ‘Feathers’ was enough. He peered closer; his ears finely tuned to the female narrator.
Jonah paused the video and faced Nero, raising his eyebrows questioningly.
Unable to quite believe it, Nero leant against the wall in shock. ‘Fuck me! That’s Dulcie Adams?’ he whispered. ‘The Dulcie Adams?’
‘How many Dulcie fucking Adams who headlined the Feathers club in Soho do you think there are? That’s her. That’s fucking her!’
Nero blew out between his teeth. ‘Jesus Christ!’ Twenty years he’d been with this firm after being brought in at the age of eighteen to work alongside Jonah and his father. Everyone knew of the outstanding debt. The actual situation might have occurred twelve years before he was born, but the quest to reclaim what was lifted by Michael Pointer had never gone away and it was something that every single member of the Powell firm was well acquainted with.
It hadn’t taken long for Jacky Powell to work out that Pointer had lifted a lot more than he’d told them. Pointer had clearly underestimated exactly how on the ball Jacky Powell was when it came to knowing exactly where and what everything was.
Apparently, Jacky had relished allowing Pointer to think for a short amount of time that he’d got away with it – allowed him to think there was no suspicion and let him walk straight into the trap – and of course he had. The minute Pointer had said he was retiring, coming out with some bollocks about not wanting to upset his wife or offend Jacky’s family values by divorce, that had been the needed confirmation.
After that, it had taken a very short time to despatch the man, but the jewels had remained elusive. Presuming Pointer was keeping them at his home somewhere had been wrong – a thorough going over of the man’s house uncovered nothing but a terrified wife with no clue. Sophie Pointer hadn’t been party to any of it, so Dulcie, as Pointer’s long term mistress, was the next obvious choice. But she’d disappeared, and had done so long before the actual heist had taken place and somehow the woman had given them the slip ever since.
The firm had been looking for this woman since 1965 and despite using more manpower than the police would allot to a serial killer investigation, they’d always drawn a blank.
But if anyone had thought that when old Jacky Powell died the search would be scaled down or perhaps even laid to rest along with his body, they’d soon realised they were wrong. Taking over the reins from his father in the absence of his elder brother, Jonah had made it clear from the off that what Pointer had done would never be forgotten. They had, of course, managed to retrieve the couple that O’Hara had possession of, but it still left the majority with Pointer’s tart – wherever she was lurking.
As time had worn on the firm had other things to deal with – plenty of them, but the possible link with that heist and Dulcie Adams had remained forever floating in the background.
Nero locked eyes with Jonah and frowned. ‘So now what?’
Jonah grinned, exposing his straight white teeth. ‘That clip you just saw was connected to a business of some other slag – I’m presuming it’s the daughter – something to do with an estate agent. Bring Keith up to speed with what I’ve told you.’
Nero’s heart sank. ‘You want me to work on this with Keith?’
Keith Grogan was a great enforcer – the size of a house, but the collection side of the business was chock-a-block at the moment and he didn’t want that to slide. Furthermore, Keith was hardly the most subtle of characters.
Jonah eyed Nero. ‘Yes, I do. Do some digging and see what you can find.’ He folded his arms across his wide chest. ‘This time we’re finally going to fucking find that old bitch and discover for definite whether she was the one. You know as well as I do how much what she might have stashed is worth. And if she’s got it...’ He twirled his pen around between his fingers, ‘...then we’re getting it the fuck back from her.’
‘WHAT ON EARTH WERE YOU THINKING?’ Robert asked, his stance tense as he stood stiffly next to the huge fireplace, his wide frame all but blocking the mantle from sight. He glared at his mother; his cold eyes hard. As much as he loved her, she wasn’t making things easy. ‘Why would you feel the need to do that?’
‘Oh Robert,’ Dulcie sighed. ‘What exactly is the problem? The woman was nice and we got chatting, that’s all.’
‘She was a bloody journalist! She came to do that interview with Helen.’
Dulcie shrugged. ‘Did she? I can’t remember now. It was ages ago.’
Robert’s eyes narrowed. ‘It wasn’t ages ago! It was only a fortnight past. Have you completely lost your mind?’
Dulcie laughed. ‘So Helen keeps telling me.’
‘She’ll go berserk when she sees this,’ Robert muttered. ‘You’ve made the nationals too – there’s clips of you on their news channel website.’
‘Their news channel what?’ Dulcie exclaimed, her blue eyes twinkling. ‘Website? Oh, you mean like the TV? Ooh, how exciting! I haven’t been on a newsreel since 1964. Can I see it?’
‘No you can’t! I could barely bring myself to watch it myself. Christ. How embarrassing. You’re sixty-five, not eighteen!’
‘The girl asked if I could remember any of the routines from back in the day.’ Dulcie smiled proudly. ‘Well, of course I can, so I showed her and she said I still had it.’
Robert paced around the room fuming silently. He wasn’t so much angry with her, just annoyed that her doing things like this made it harder to fight her corner where Helen was concerned.
‘Have you seen yourself?’ Dulcie laughed. ‘You looked just like your father then.’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ Robert barked. ‘If you remember, I never met him and I don’t need constantly reminding of that. I can’t see why you want to keep all of this rubbish either.’ His arm gestured to the framed photographs and posters adorning the walls; some black and white, others colour of old music advertisements and celebrities. ‘Why would you want to showcase memories of the places and people connected with where my father – your husband, died? I don’t understand you.’
Dulcie’s eyes narrowed. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know what killed your father or if anything ever did!’
Robert stopped pacing. ‘What you do you mean, you don’t know? You were the one who told me he got run over outside that goddamn club where you worked.’
Dulcie staggered and reached for the back of the chair to steady her bird-like frame. ‘I-I don’t feel well,’ she muttered.
Robert stared at his mother, his mouth forming a thin line. Whether he liked to admit it or not, her mental health was definitely worsening. He watched her take a seat on one of the chairs, patted her shoulder and smiled calmly. ‘Please don’t do any more of this sort of thing. It will only give Helen added reason to think you’re going dotty.’
He resented Helen constantly going on about their mother going nuts. She wasn’t nuts, she was just getting on and becoming forgetful in the process. But whether he wanted to admit it or not, it was getting worse and it was only fair to warn Helen that this article and web stuff was doing the rounds.
Two
NERO GUNNED IT ALONG THE M40. After confirming they had ID’d the one lead they had – Helen Shepherd, they’d got on the road back to London. There was no point hanging around. It was obvious they’d get no further with this tonight, but now it was a question of where they went from here.
He shot Keith a glance as he sat squashed into the passenger seat, shovelling one o
f the many sandwiches he’d bought from the Spar into his mouth. The man’s massive hands made the sandwich look the size of a postage stamp. No wonder they always had to buy several of the damn things each time.
It had been a pain in the arse trekking up to Maidenhead. Bloody posh bastards this side of the Home Counties never failed to get on his tits; thinking their shit didn’t stink - the birds poncing around like Stepford Wives. No thanks.
Neither had Nero in any way enjoyed sitting through the brain-numbing interview about Helen Shepherd’s ‘successful and elite’ estate agency business – catering to people who ‘wanted country homes with a touch of splendour...’ Jeez, have a day off! What a load of bollocks! Tell a posh twat that a shed was the thing to have and they’d fall over their designer shoes to buy one. But the interview had at least given them all the relevant information where this estate agency was and who ran it.
The TV interview had also proved that Helen Shepherd was, as Jonah suspected, Dulcie Adams’ daughter. The woman hadn’t looked overly pleased when the reporter asked for an opinion of her mother’s dancing skills – the expression on Helen’s face had been reminiscent of a slapped haddock.
Nero bit back a grin. The silly cow would be even less pleased to realise her all-so-important interview had inadvertently reignited the Powell’s search to get their hands on Dulcie Adams and what she’d most likely got stashed. Helen Shepherd’s need to get ahead in the world had given them a direct lead to what had been overdue for four decades.
‘Here, that Helen bird’s alright looking, isn’t she?’ Keith mumbled through a mouthful of cheese and onion.
‘Not my cup of tea,’ Nero muttered as he sparked up a fag and jabbed at the button for his electric window, opening it a crack.
Keith brushed a buttery chunk of bread off his jeans, leaving a greasy smear down his left leg, then casually wiped his fingers on the seat belt. ‘I’d do her!’
Nero chuckled to himself. Keith would shag a corpse providing the face hadn’t rotted away too much, but to be fair, even in her forties, the woman was a decent looker, but she had too much of an ‘I’m above everyone’ sneer across her nicely made up face for his liking. Certainly not the sort he’d put his cock in for a quickie, but at least forcing himself to sit through that interview had made sure he’d known straight away that the woman who’d left the estate agents this afternoon was the one they were looking for. The only problem being they hadn’t been able to confirm an address for the elusive Dulcie Adams.
It had been a bit too much to hope for that the very day they rolled up to watch her, Helen Shepherd would leave the estate agents and conveniently lead them straight to her mother. There had been a small chance of that, but it hadn’t happened. He’d half expected to end up following her back to her hubby – presuming she had one, but tailing Helen’s Mercedes had only led them to a poxy-looking wine bar. After an hour of watching a group of snooty bastards sipping from wine glasses, and desperate for a drink himself, Nero had made the decision to head back. The chance of Helen Shepherd going on to her mother’s now was slim.
Taking a long drag on his cigarette, he veered out into the outside lane to overtake a car hogging the middle lane. Giving the female driver the finger as he passed, he grinned at her refusal to look in his direction.
‘What’s the plan now?’ Keith asked.
Nero shrugged. ‘I haven’t got a clue, but Jonah will tell us soon enough.’ He suspected Jonah would have much preferred for them to have been able to confirm the old bat’s address straightaway, but life was very rarely that simple.
With a sigh of resignation, he accepted there would more than likely be several more trips up to Maidenhead required before even the first leg of this new discovery was wrapped up.
HELEN SHEPHERD SLAMMED her knife and fork down on the table and looked at her husband. ‘What do you mean, it’s not that bad? Of course it’s that bad!’ Her forehead creased. ‘How many times do I need to explain that my mother is ruining my business with the things she does and this has got to be the worst one yet.’
Although it showed that her plan was working, it wasn’t supposed to infringe on her bloody business. She removed her linen serviette from her lap and dabbed at the corners of her mouth, inspecting the cloth to make sure she hadn’t inadvertently transferred any lipstick onto it.
James studied his wife for a flicker of emotion but found none. As usual. ‘What does Robert think about it?’
Helen raised an eyebrow and laughed – a hollow, tinny, sarcastic laugh. Yes, Robert... Robert always had the most inept timing. He’d have known calling her to inform her about this latest example of their mother’s ridiculous behaviour would wind her up. And it had. Even then he’d waited a full day before telling her!
More than anything, she wished she’d stayed for a few more drinks after work, but receiving that phone call halfway through her first glass had put paid to that. After hearing what Robert had to say she’d been in far too much of a foul mood to even think about remaining there and trying to act normal.
This really was the very last thing she needed and gave her even more impetus to get her mother out of the way before she screwed things up even more. It had taken months to get that interview set up and she was counting on it bringing new clients into the business.
Sales had been gradually sliding with Shepherd, Percival and Proctor for a couple of years now, but last year was by far the worst. Unbeknown to James, she’d already remortgaged the house to plough the money into the business. She could hardly not do her part, being as both the other partners had contributed to the firm’s shortfall, but since Neil Percival had died, it only left her and Bob Proctor and she just hadn’t got any more funds, which was becoming embarrassing.
And all James could think about was Robert’s opinion?
‘It’s not Robert who will be affected, is it? It’s my business that will,’ Helen snapped. ‘But at least he’s finally beginning to accept that our mother is going nuts.’
And Robert had to accept their mother was going crazy because getting her out of the way was the only bloody chance she’d got of getting more money for the business.
Robert didn’t want to accept it. Oh no, he wouldn’t because he’d always been the favourite out of the two of them. It was ok for him; he didn’t have to worry. His job as a computer consultant brought top money in with no overheads to speak of.
Her plan was working, she acknowledged that, but it was slow – too slow. And a side effect of it was damaging her business further, which wasn’t supposed to happen.
Listening to Helen ranting, James sighed. He’d heard nothing but the state of Dulcie’s mental health for months. Aware Helen hadn’t spoken for several minutes, he fiddled with the remainder of his steak. ‘You should get a doctor involved if you think she’s developing something such as dementia.’
‘Yes, I’m intending on doing that.’ Helen watched James cram another piece of steak into his mouth and felt like punching him in the face. Why had she bothered marrying him in the first place? It wasn’t like he’d contributed to anything. It was her who had got somewhere in life. It was her who had made the business work with no help from him, but this was probably why. He couldn’t get his priorities right. Why was he even bothered about her brother’s opinion? It was hardly massive in the large scale of things, unlike her business’ reputation, which if her mother’s antics became too erratic, would be in jeopardy. She’d lose clients hand over fist and she wasn’t putting up with that. The sooner her mother was out of the picture, the better.
Helen glared at James. Contrary to what he believed, she was doing something about it and it wouldn’t be too much longer before everything would come together. He could push in any direction he liked, but she’d got everything in hand.
She forced a smile in her husband’s direction. ‘Can we talk about something else?’
James picked up his wine glass and sighed inwardly. Personally, he liked Dulcie and from what Helen had said,
it did sound like the poor old girl was beginning to lose her marbles, so both Helen and Robert needed to act on it sooner rather than later before things got really bad. And as much as he didn’t have much time for the insular, miserable creature that was Robert, he did understand the man’s unwillingness to accept the situation, but he’d do what Helen asked and change the subject. He never got anywhere reasoning with her – it only ever made her angry.
As for her blowing her top over a news clip regarding the old days, he couldn’t see where the harm was in it. She was just stressing because the clips came off the back of that interview about her estate agents. Clients wouldn’t have an issue with it, surely? If they saw it, they’d probably think it was nice – showing that Helen had a family – a nice mother. But James knew she didn’t see it like that.
He studied his wife’s crease-free brow. If Helen’s theory was correct, she should be more worried about the dementia, rather than the possibility of offending a few toffee-nosed clients. He knew he would be if Dulcie was his mother.
Despite his underlying concern, James remained upbeat. It was easier. ‘By the way, a parcel arrived for you this morning. I’ve put it on the table in the hallway.’
‘Ok, thanks,’ Helen muttered, hoping James wouldn’t question what she’d ordered. She’d been starting to think the order was lost in the post and that would not be good. Not now she was nicely on track, but James didn’t need to know the details. He didn’t need to know anything.
Hearing the phone ring, James smiled as he got up from the dining table. ‘I’ll get that. You finish your wine.’
Helen breathed a quiet sigh of relief as he left the room. It was only a few days before her meeting with an old flame from the property business to set the wheels in motion. Before long, her mother would be purchasing one of those flats for elderly people whose minds had gone west, leaving her free to sell that massive house and plough the profits into the business she’d worked so hard to make successful.