A couple of days later, Martin came back from work even later than usual, but with a decided smile.
‘Someone’s talking?’ I asked, passing him a glass of chilled Pinot Grigio.
‘To SOCA. And SOCA’s talking to me, praise be. About your old friend Frances Trowbridge.’
‘She’s got tired of monosyllabicism?’
‘I do love it when you talk dirty. Yes, she’s decided to pin the blame on someone else. Well, everyone else. From the TV-watching and theatre-going public downwards.’
‘Who wickedly ignored her acting so she had to turn to crime?’
‘Pretty well. Seems she still insists that at first she was only doing a decent day’s work, accompanying a man she only knew as Mr Gunter, to look at houses. But SOCA have got her to admit how much she got paid, which turned out to be so much I’m sure someone like you would have smelt a rat immediately.’
‘Anyone seeing Gunter would have smelt a whole Hamelin full of rats.’
‘Then he put pressure on her to do one more job, calling himself by a different name this time. Just the one, he assured her. And this time she was so scared she agreed to.’
‘Does her story hang together? What about the dress exchange visit? She was buying clothes like anyone’s business. And got arrested by you people. And got let out. And then did this other job? And what if she hadn’t been caught?’
‘Exactly. So her story that she’s as pure as the driven snow doesn’t convince me. Or SOCA or the Crown Prosecution Service. We shall have to wait and see what a jury thinks of her eloquence.’
I topped up his glass. ‘She did save my life.’
‘Only after you told her to. And you had suggested she might be on his death list too, as I recall. It’s a pity Mr Nasty isn’t likely to confirm or deny her story.’
‘Come on, Martin – he must have a proper name. Surely all these interdepartmental emails don’t refer to Mr Nasty?’
‘Indeed they don’t. He is actually one Kenneth Carter, a career criminal with form as long as your arm. He’s been involved in a long and unpleasant war to control drugs in Birmingham, and there’s a lot of evidence linking him to prostitution.’
‘How very versatile of him.’ And then I remembered where he was, and became serious. ‘What do the medics say about his prospects?’
‘He’s no better. Probably never will be. The medics are talking about persistent vegetative state.’
I nodded, trying hard to care.
The next day I played tennis with Allyn. Strictly therapeutic tennis. Cynically I’d expected her American therapists to come up with all sorts of drugs and endless psychotherapy, but to my pleasant surprise they seemed as calm and full of common sense as a dear old-fashioned GP. One of them even insisted that she take exercise outdoors. Neither of us mentioned her tennis coach; instead, I joined her every few days to knock up on the court. I found singles pretty hard work, and she got bored with beating me all the time. So I had a brainwave. Ambrose had always played like a demon, and he said that his art expert girlfriend, Sonia, was a bit of a whizz. So we started to play foursomes.
The doctors were right. For the first time since Toby’s death, Allyn started to laugh, and not just at my serve. She dragged the pair of them back to the house for post-shower drinks and nibbles, insisting they saw every exquisite piece of furniture. And there were many. Ambrose was in antiques heaven, especially when he recognised pieces I’d bought from him. I’d have expected Sonia to be equally delighted with the paintings about the place, but she got grumpier and grumpier. It was a relief to wave them off the premises.
I made my way home via the Avon Industrial Estate to buy some paint from Scotts. Martin might have a bog-standard house but it deserved better than the bog-standard magnolia that some previous tenant had inflicted on it. It might improve my tennis if I went through the bending and stretching that painting walls and ceilings involved.
Martin viewed the changes tolerantly, and ran hot baths to ease my aching back. One evening he brought me a glass of wine to sip and sat on the floor – why had he never bought so much as a stool to fit the space? – to talk to me.
‘I had some interesting news today,’ he began. ‘About Greta.’
‘The Valkyrie? What’s she been saying?’
‘A great deal all of a sudden.’
‘What kept her?’
‘Fear, she alleges. Fear of Frederick, no less.’
‘She didn’t look very afraid of him when I saw them together, though I admit it’s hard to tell if a gyrating pair of hips is happy or not.’
‘I hope yours are.’
‘Always. But you’re not Frederick.’
‘Which is a good thing, if what she says about him is true. She says – and SOCA seem inclined to believe her – that she and Frederick met in London, on a language course. He was particularly keen on her getting the job with the Frenshams. But having met her there a couple of times, he insisted that they changed their trysting place. Actually, this seems to have coincided with the heightened security. Anyway, she started to go to him instead – he has a very chic apartment in the middle of Birmingham – for their hot sex.’
‘I’ll bet it wasn’t as brilliant as ours,’ I said. ‘Hey, you’ve got far too many clothes on.’
Sometime later he resumed his narrative.
‘It seems that apart from being a red-hot lover, Frederick could also be pretty vicious if crossed. By anything or anyone. So while Greta would have liked to break off the relationship, she was too scared to. Oh, don’t look so cynical, woman. Or I shan’t tell you the part of the story involving you. Apparently she got you removed from Aldred House simply to protect you.’
‘Pull the other one.’
‘She alleges that your presence irritated him so much that he threatened to kill you.’
‘What? For interrupting their coitus? Or for spotting him making a phone call in a stable? Seems a bit extreme even for someone burdened with his Christian name.’
‘A man with a very short fuse, obviously. She came up with what even I admit is a devious plot to get rid of you, simply to stop him killing you. She tells Toby you must go or she’ll tell Allyn about their activities in the chapel. So you go. But Fred is furious, and the only way she can appease him is by offering kinky sex with the added frisson that the pulpit is where Toby liked his sessions with her.’
Which Toby had first assured me he hadn’t had. On the other hand, his last text to me suggested he might have been lying.
‘They even added a refinement Toby hadn’t thought of. They taped that mirror to the canopy. And they took it in turns to tie each other up. When it came to her turn she tied him up very tightly indeed. And left him there.’
‘Part of which is true because we found him there.’
‘And forensic evidence suggests the rest’s true, too. Would she have left him to die there? Or did she have other plans? She says she was trying to collect evidence so she could tip off the police. And certainly Interpol place young Fred right at the heart of a huge prostitution ring. The Big Cheese. Cold and calculating and very clever. Drugs were almost a sideline. And then when the price of scrap metal shot up, he got into that racket too.’
‘So you’re tempted to believe Greta?’
He made a rocking gesture with his hand. ‘It’s up to the jury, not me.’
‘And what does Fred say?’
‘He will only talk in Russian in the presence of a tame Russian lawyer and an interpreter who looks scared to death. I’d say some of what Greta says is true, anyway.’
I wrinkled my nose. So much easier since I’d given up my Botox habit. I could dip into the public purse for clothes and shoes and even make-up, but the puritan in me drew the line at that sort of beauty treatment. ‘So why encourage her to move out to Warwickshire? Did he plan to use Aldred House as a dropping-off place for his drugs or something? And then found, of course, that Ted Ashcroft was a very efficient and conscientious man? Is that why they killed hi
m so horribly? He was a decent man, Martin, and didn’t deserve it.’
‘I know. All he knew was that he’d tightened security - his job. He wasn’t to know he was interfering with their plans. Fred had to come up with a new way of making the exchanges. Posh people looking at posh houses - who’d ask questions about them? Which is where your brother’s firm – and others – came in so handy. And they’d get their disguises from dress exchanges like the one you used, and others, of course.’
‘I bet those were Greta’s idea,’ I snarled.
‘You really don’t like her, do you?’
‘Not a lot. I don’t think Sandra did either. Perhaps she’s just not a woman’s woman.’
At least she was still in custody.
Tennis doubles, much more fun than singles, would have proved problematic when Am and Sonia had a terminal row. However, Allyn press-ganged one of the gardeners to make a fourth – he had a serve strong enough to knock my racquet out of my hand. I also spent time a couple of afternoons each week with Karen. At first I simply read aloud to her. Then the good news came that her sight was saved and that she would soon be out of hospital.
Each week I could see an improvement in her appearance, but clearly she couldn’t. And I could understand why, having once spent all that money on my face, which wasn’t in bad condition in the first place. The plastic surgeons might have done a superb job on her face, but it was only a job. It wasn’t her face, not as she’d always known it, as she sobbed out one day when I dropped in unannounced only to find her in tears.
Hang the reading aloud. I hadn’t got much slap in my handbag, but I had enough to show her what she could do. I went back next day with my complete kit and taught her as much as I could about foundation and blusher. Another day it was lips and eyes. She might still loathe her naked face, but soon she had the skills to disguise it even from herself and left hospital with her head held high. As for her hands, she worked so hard on her physio, the doctors were telling her she’d be back at work by Christmas.
Gradually there was less crime to talk about in the evenings, not least because the date for the trial had been fixed and I must not be corrupted. There’d even been desultory talk of my moving out for the duration. Secretly I was terrified. What if, as in Scheherazade’s case, once the tale was told, the relationship ended?
But Martin and I found other ways to pass the time and other things to talk about.
One of them was Greg. The mortgage situation meant that the demand for top-of-the-range properties had dried up. If things didn’t improve soon he’d be down to his last ten million. But he cheered himself up by putting his own house on the market, a modern and highly marketable place, and offering for the Old Barn. His was sold, subject to contract, within a week, and the Old Barn vendor not surprisingly jumped at Greg’s offer. He took me to see it the very same day.
‘Mine, my wench. Isn’t it a beauty?’
‘It is indeed, Greg. And you fell in love with it the first time you saw it, didn’t you?’
‘I did. I really did. You know, it’s a funny thing, but houses have always been just so much bricks and mortar. I couldn’t understand you getting all worked up about them. But this…’ He spread his arms expansively, for all the world as if he wanted to hug it. ‘Now, you said you could do the decor. Are you still up for it?’
‘Am I just.’
‘Mo’ll want to put in her three ha’pence worth, mind.’
‘Of course she will,’ I said cheerfully. So long as I could go home every night to Martin and scream with frustration at her stupidity, I had no problem working with Mo at all. And a job was a job.
The Thorpes were so delighted with the forthcoming auction and the probability of wealth beyond their imagination that they were at long last considering taking offers for their cottage below their original asking price. Only considering, as yet. They also invited Martin and the two young men whom they saw as their saviours round for a cup of tea. All three survived the experience.
The insurance company had decided that my house would have to be pulled down and rebuilt. Even if I wanted to live in the same area, it would be months before I could do so, and had the circumstances been different, I suppose I’d have carried on living in the Kenilworth police flat. In fact, of course, I was living with Martin. I sometimes felt unsettled, however, as if I were really a guest. I’d always had my own place, and the fact that the property was rented seemed to make me feel even more temporary. I never spelt out this unease to Martin, because it would force the issue of our relationship, something I was still reluctant to do. I also feared being totally dependent on him – I’d always had my own bank account, even when it had been empty. There wasn’t a problem as long as I was living on police money, but I really needed a career. So what would I do next?
The obvious option was to continue with my interior design work. There was, Allyn assured me, still work to be done on Aldred House, for which she had some vague ideas. She also had a steady stream of American friends who’d like to employ me. That would be excellent when they got round to firming up what seemed to be really jelly-like plans. But in the meantime, I came close to twiddling my thumbs. But suddenly something else turned up.
One day Greg came over to the Old Barn – where I was in discussions with a garden designer – huffing and puffing with delight. ‘I’ve only found a buyer for Sloe Cottage,’ he said, ‘and at not much below their original asking price, would you believe?’
I think I must have gasped, it hurt so much.
‘Tell me all about it!’ I said, trying to strap an eager smile to my face.
‘That’s just what I can’t do, my wench. It’s all hush-hush, see.’
‘Oh, Greg. Not more Russians.’
‘Not that I know of. It’s all kosher, though, I can tell you that. The lawyers say it is, anyway. Both lots.’
No one must know, he insisted, except the two solicitors. No, not even Claire or me. The irritation was softened a little, however, by a request from the new purchaser. Greg was to recommend an interior designer to strip every trace of the Thorpes from the building, and decorate it in a tasteful way from bathroom to kitchen. Money didn’t seem to be much of an object, but even given carte blanche I found I couldn’t exploit the owner. I just chose what was needful, and although everything was good quality, Allyn, who invited herself over several times to pass her own long hours, sneered that it was cheap.
‘It’s right, though, for this place,’ I insisted. ‘It never belonged to the lord of the manor, just to a decent hard-working artisan or farmer. The sort of stuff that looks perfect in your bedroom, for instance, would crowd this out.’
I don’t think she was convinced, but she did like my colour schemes and my suggestions for a cottage garden.
‘Say,’ she began as she made her way back to her car, ‘have they thought about your furnishing it too? Because I’ve got all that old stuff in the Elizabethan wing. Maybe you could pick some out and your friend Ambrose could value it.’
I suppressed a grin. Allyn was undoubtedly still grieving for Toby, but it seemed to me that she and Am were getting on remarkably well, not just on the tennis court, and I wished them both luck. I floated the idea of the furniture to Greg so that he could consult the mystery buyer, and ended up doing a deal.
Finally every last drop of paint had been applied, every curtain hung and every piece of furniture put in place, and I had to hand the keys back to Greg.
He pushed my drooping mouth into a grin. ‘Come on, my wench, it isn’t the end of the world.’
I looked him straight in the eye. ‘And how would you have felt if you’d had to sell the Old Barn to someone else?’
To my amazement, he gave me a hug. ‘Ah, you’re right there. It’s the home I’ve always wanted.’ He looked surprised by his own confession. ‘And I have to say, between you, you and Mo have made it a palace. I reelly like them big fridges…’
So what of my career as an actor?
Who would ha
ve thought that Vena Burford would decline a chance to be centre stage, holding everyone’s attention? That’s exactly what I did do, at the trial, which was held at Birmingham Crown Court. Because the police couldn’t be sure they’d mopped up every last member of a very extended gang, and because of the various attempts on my life, it was suggested that I should give my evidence anonymously, behind a screen. If anyone had suggested such a thing a year ago I’d have laughed in their face. As it was, I jumped at the offer, not least because it would help protect Martin, too. So there were no studied pauses, no clever changes of posture – just a straight, direct narrative. Defence counsel did their best to ruffle me, and one even tried to suggest that I’d been responsible for Kenneth Carter’s fall. But I was allowed to stand down pretty well unscathed. And at long last the verdicts came in on all the defendants. If Carter ever emerged from his coma, he’d have found he had a life sentence, just like Frederick, who turned out not to be Frederick – or even Fryderyk – at all. He was in fact Jaroslav Czarnecki, a Pole with several other eye-chart aliases, and exactly what Greta and Interpol had suggested he was – a mastermind of much of the nastiness in Europe. So much for my stereotyping all nasty Europeans as Albanians, though there were a couple of them, plus three Bulgarians and a couple of Serbs, in his entourage. He was sentenced to thirty years, with deportation at the end of his sentence. Greta was found not guilty.
Staging Death Page 29