A Meeting of Minds: A Superintendent Mike Yeadings Mystery (Superintendent Mike Yeadings Mysteries)

by Clare Curzon

  He watched Salmon making up his mind to come clean. ‘From the continent,’ he prompted him innocently. ‘The Netherlands, mostly.’

  ‘Which is also our main supplier of illicit drugs,’ Salmon at last admitted. That implication was a card he’d intended to hold close to his chest.

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Well, there’s this thing Childe was setting up. He says orchids, and oleanders and such. But for my money he’s on to something a damn sight more profitable.’

  ‘I wondered how soon you’d get round to him,’ Yeadings said drily. ‘Well, if that’s the bee in your bonnet you’d better get after it at speed, because the most you have to hold him on at present is the dubious removal of Miss Winter’s laptop computer.’

  ‘We’ve let him go,’ Salmon admitted tightly. ‘On bail.’

  He’d have done better to withdraw the charge entirely, Yeadings considered; but Childe free to go his own way was some relief. He hoped the man was brash enough not to trim whatever ambitions he’d set his heart on. And perhaps when the laptop gave up its secrets they’d get to know some history of Sheila Winter’s introduction to the ex-con.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Beattie left it until after ten o’clock before she went to rouse her upstairs neighbour.

  ‘You shouldn’t have bothered,’ Vanessa complained, squinting at the breakfast tray. ‘I think I’ll lie in for a while. I had a really diabolical night, awake for hours and hours. My poor head simply pounds.’

  Beattie addressed a space above the pounding head. ‘Today you’ll need to check on your fridge and cupboards; make out a shopping list. Else you’ll go hungry.’

  What a disagreeable old person, Vanessa thought, a delicate hand across her eyes.

  A sort of washerwoman, standing there all lumpy, intent on organising her into distasteful activities. What on earth would she suggest next?

  ‘Isn’t there someone who could come and stay with you for a few days? – until you’re feeling more ready to take over for yourself.’

  ‘No, there isn’t. I’m not so fortunate as you, with that sweet daughter of yours. Where is Rosemary? I thought she might have called in this morning.’

  ‘Gone to work, I suppose. She can’t take any more time off to sort things out. And she’s not my daughter. Just a young woman I’ve grown very fond of over the years.’

  ‘Not yours?’ Vanessa struggled feebly to sit up, then thought better of it. ‘I’m sure everyone thinks you’re related. But it’s true, you’re not in the least alike.’

  She ran a distracted hand through her corn-silk hair. ‘In which case, I wonder if she’d consider …’

  ‘Consider what?’ Beattie asked suspiciously. ‘She has her own life to lead, you know.’

  ‘Of course. But if she’s on her own … as I am … And I could do such a lot for her …’ Vanessa struggled again to sit up against her pillows. ‘Take her about; up to town. Show her things. Go to theatres; shopping. A young girl like that – and she’s really quite pretty. But she could make so much more of herself. She should be mixing with more interesting people; not hiding away in the country.’

  Beattie’s jaw set. Give the wretched woman half a chance and she’d be aping the Edwardian chaperon, living off a debutante’s brief season. If she’d tried to push that existence on to Sheila, no wonder she went in the opposite direction and opted for gardening. Really, Vanessa was impossible.

  ‘You’ll find Rosemary enjoys life as it is. And she’s plenty of friends at work.’

  ‘That’s what poor Sheila thought, but she was wrong. Choosing such an unsuitable occupation! If she was so keen on flowers, her father could have bought her a little shop somewhere pleasant, like Knightsbridge. Life would have been so much more fun for us both. But that garden place! And employing quite unpleasant people. That was asking for trouble.’

  ‘Her dad was really proud of her,’ said Beattie defensively. ‘I’m sure you’ll find she ‘ad lots of admirers.’

  Vanessa didn’t seem to be listening. ‘What’s to become of me?’ she wailed. ‘I’m utterly alone now. I can’t stay here. I simply won’t.’

  Beattie settled the tray on the bedside table. ‘Breakfast’s there if you want it. It’s still there if you don’t. Please yourself. But then you would anyway. I’ve got me ironing to get on with downstairs.’ And she padded out.

  Left on her own, Vanessa lifted the cover on the two crisply grilled rashers, halves of tomato and buttery scrambled egg. She shuddered delicately, pushed away the duvet and gingerly reached her feet to the floor.

  Perhaps she might manage the tea. It looked pale enough., and there was a little bowl with thinly sliced lemon. All it needed was some life added. She thought there must still be a half of single malt in the drawer with her tights. Just a smidgen, to make the tea drinkable.

  Hugging the bottle close she climbed back into bed, poured a cup and doctored it. It tasted strange: not her preferred brand of tea. She lifted the lid and unsteadily poured the liquid back into the pot, then refilled her cup with the last of the whisky.

  Drinking it exhausted her. She lay back, the day yawning before her. She’d gone out by taxi yesterday to have her hair and manicure done. She must think of some other place to go. If only someone would whisk her away.

  Rosemary could drive. It would be more sensible for the girl to move in, just for a while. Then little by little she would discover the advantages. She could rent out her own flat, and just think what a saving that would be. There must be a way she could be prevailed upon at least to try it. She didn’t seem to have an important job. Maybe, if it was pointed out, she’d see the point of giving that up too.

  The girl was too fond of that old woman downstairs. Stroking her fine eyebrows, Vanessa nodded at herself in the mirror doors of the wardrobe. She would explain how it could save Beattie’s poor old feet on the stairs if someone was on the spot to do all that was necessary.

  The thought itself seemed to lift the burden a little. She found the energy to shower and dress. When she had made up her face to complement the coral-flecked tweed trouser suit, she remembered the other person who should be concerned for her welfare.

  Dr Fenner was in a seminar and had forgotten to switch off his mobile phone. The call cut across an oral presentation by a young student who always doubted his own ability. He hesitated, spluttered, lost the thread of his argument and stammered to a finish.

  ‘Don’t be put off,’ Fenner ordered. ‘It’s nothing important.’ He glanced at the number that had come up and promptly switched off. It wasn’t familiar, but he recognised the area code. If Superintendent Yeadings wished to discuss his daughter’s death he could find a more convenient moment.

  An hour later, when he was free for lunch, Fenner remembered and returned the call. Vanessa answered, starting in at once on a catalogue of complaints. He cut her short.

  ‘There’s just one thing you should know, Vanessa. Sheila has named me as her executor, so you will shortly be hearing from my solicitor about your inheritance. Her entire interest in Greenvale Garden Centre is bequeathed to you. You will need to take advice on how best to deal with that. What you choose to do is no concern of mine, but there is no reason why you shouldn’t arrange to have a regular income from it to keep you in comfort for the rest of your life.’

  ‘What would I want with that place?’ Her voice was querulous. ‘What did she leave you?’

  ‘Quite rightly, nothing. Beyond the business, she had little enough to leave. There are one or two small personal bequests to staff and friends, but beyond that everything comes to you.’

  Vanessa replaced the receiver with his voice still ringing in her head: ‘Nothing.’ Gabriel had been left nothing! Despite that pointless correspondence which he’d kept up with Sheila over the years, here now was what she’d really thought of him! It was gratifying, and more than made up for any disappointment over her own, paltry legacy.

  She paced between the drawing-room windows, arms crossed and h
ugging her breasts. Sheila had lumbered her with the garden business and this godforsaken country apartment. She would sell both and get back to London. She’d always fancied one of those modern penthouse flats in docklands. She’d have it done up in vibrant colours by a fashionable designer, throw out all the traditional stuff she had now and go minimal. Inside, it would be huge. Marvellous for parties. She could fill it with fascinating people: actors, directors, artists, writers. It would be a new life. Who knew what it might lead to? She felt liberated, euphoric with hope.

  From one of the front windows she saw Sheila’s silver car appear from the side of the house and depart by the long drive. She found her hands were shaking. Something was wrong about that. Sheila was away, wasn’t she? That’s what all the fuss had been about yesterday. If she’d gone already how could she be leaving now?

  Vanessa felt her way towards the nearer sofa and fell against it, holding her head with both hands. This was one of her silly turns. Sometimes things got so muddled. For quite a while, days sometimes or longer, it didn’t happen. Then, without warning, she just couldn’t tell where she was, because her memory was all jumbled. It was hard to work out the order things had happened in. Or even what had happened. Sometimes time seemed to go backwards, or bits were left out. Life became unreliable, mocking her.

  At times she suspected that events she’d been most sure of had maybe never occurred. That was the worst part: being afraid that nothing which mattered had ever been real; only a sort of puffball fungus in her mind, or a half-remembered part of a play, but much more sinister than let’s pretend. It was like being a puppet, with no script. Isolated in – in a void.

  It wasn’t just her hands shaking now. Her whole body was possessed by the tremor. She had to lie down, cover herself up, shut out the fear. Stop being, she told herself. If she couldn’t force herself to fall asleep, maybe it would just happen on its own. As it had done, several times before.

  She awoke at about three o’clock. It was still light, and after a few minutes she thought she could recall fragments of the morning. She was almost sure she’d been talking to Gabriel, but had no idea of what he’d said. Something vaguely pleasing, and that wasn’t the feeling she usually got from thinking of him. Yet the idea floated up; a little island appearing out of a misted lake.

  Mist. Yes, for days now there had been mist. Around this godforsaken house it lay over the water meadows like sheets of fine, fine muslin. But outside this mist there was something she’d meant to do. See somebody? Who, then?

  Rosemary! Yes – Rosemary, who was going to move in. But not here. Somewhere else. They had a new plan. She tried to focus on that but it escaped her. Where were they going? No familiar walls came to mind; no floors, or doors leading into rooms she’d lived in before: nothing.

  Rosemary. Where was the girl when you wanted her?

  Vanessa dragged herself up, went out, walked unsteadily the length of the gallery. She had raised a hand to ring the other flat’s bell when the door opened in her face. Not the girl she was expecting, but the boy.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ said Neil. ‘Sorry, but you startled me. Hello.’

  He looked almost guilty, but managed a grin. ‘I mended Ros’s gas boiler yesterday. Just checking it’s still OK.’

  She stared at him. ‘Can you drive?’ The question came out of itself, unrelated to what she had just been thinking.

  It startled him. He guessed she’d caught sight of the car as it passed under her windows. ‘Well, yes.’

  She looked odd. Odder than usual, actually; awkward, as if she’d forgotten how she meant to go on. Maybe he could swing her round a bit; get himself off the hook. ‘It’s a great car.’

  His hopeful smile reached her, and for a moment she remembered what had pleased her before. Gabriel, left nothing. ‘The garden centre,’ she said. ‘It’s mine now.’

  ‘Ah. You’d like to go and see it?’ Mafeking relieved! With luck he’d get to drive the car again, and this time with her blessing.

  She wasn’t sure. She’d been expecting Rosemary, and this young man confused her. But if that was what he wanted, why not? He was a charming youngster. Graciously she gave him her hand.

  ‘You’ll need to put something warm on,’ he said. ‘I’ll bring the car round to the front, shall I? You come down when you’re ready.’

  Briefly, as they drove, the oyster sky showed fragile strips of turquoise, but evening was closing in. The mists from morning still hung under clumped trees, faintly bluish like thinned milk, waiting to creep out and take over the open fields again. Even in the car there was the faintest, smoky taste of fog. As they turned into the drive to Greenvale, coloured lights of welcome suddenly sprang out, turning the outer dusk into dark.

  ‘Getting geared up for Christmas,’ the boy said. He wondered if Marty would still be away by then. The sooner he went, the better chance that they’d get Christmas together. It shouldn’t matter. Christmas was just another day in the calendar, but they usually made something of whatever it was supposed to stand for. Childishly he liked the extra eating and drinking; wrapping and opening presents. So now he was all for the coloured lights and gilt angels, however tawdry and vulgar.

  Passing through the glitzy entrance, Vanessa observed the queues at checkout points. People’s trolleys were crammed with evergreens, pink or scarlet poinsettias, potted cyclamens and azaleas, plastic garlands, vases, tubs, small conifers, boxes of fancy crackers.

  The whole huge glasshouse shimmered with red, green and blue lights. It reminded her of childhood visits to the pantomime. This was the Transformation Scene summoned in a flash of magnesium at a wave of the Fairy Queen’s wand. (Santa’s Grotto was already being constructed behind screens beside the lift which would provide ‘Flight by Airship to Lapland’: children £2; 1 adult accompanied by a child FREE.)

  With every step into this wonderland Vanessa yielded more to the enchantment. And this was all hers: this bustling activity, the myriad stacks of goods for sale, these uniformed assistants, the customers with their cash and cheques and credit cards. Her empire – all perfectly functioning on its own, with Sheila gone.

  A woman in a green overall, balanced on a step-ladder, was re-arranging gargantuan artificial flowers in a monster vase. Vanessa pulled at her skirt. ‘This is mine,’ she told her.

  ‘Pardon, madam?’

  Neil was trying to draw her away. Vanessa gesticulated to include the whole scene.

  The woman began to climb down. ‘What is it you want, madam? Let me find someone to serve you.’

  And then, before the boy’s appalled eyes, it began, Vanessa suddenly revitalised, marching about the aisles, ordering armloads of cut or artificial flowers, shoals – van loads – of useless, eye-catching stuff, until a little knot of assistants gathered round, gazing at her in puzzled disbelief.

  ‘She’s Mrs Winter,’ Neil hissed in excuse. He hadn’t reckoned with her behaving like a madwoman ‘She’s Sheila Winter’s mother.’

  They must all have known the news by now. The police invasion and closure of the office, and Barry Childe’s being held for questioning was made public in last night’s Evening Echo. The staff would have been on tenterhooks all day, worrying what was to become of their jobs.

  ‘Look, there’s a coffee shop or something, isn’t there?’ he asked in desperation. ‘Vanessa, shall we go there? Have a bit of a rest, eh?’

  She didn’t think much of the set-up in there. While she allowed herself to be served with coffee and a choc chip muffin, she was euphorically redesigning the decor, the uniforms, the staff, the china. At least she left the menu unaltered. Neil supposed, rightly enough, that she knew next to nothing about food preparation.

  Three green-overalled plant salesmen were hanging about uneasily eyeing them as they ate. When he went to the cashier to pay he asked her to ring through and put a stay on the gargantuan order. ‘Mrs Winter’ll have to arrange for somewhere to store the goods first,’ he explained. They seemed relieved. One raised a query about the
invoices.

  ‘Leave them for the present,’ he said. ‘She may want to adjust the quantities before delivery, but we’ll take some cut flowers for the house if you’ll put them on her account.’

  ‘Miss Winter’s usual order?’

  ‘That seems a good idea. You know the address.’

  They let him pay for the coffees and muffins. It seemed that staff and company directors didn’t get anything for free.

  Set off-balance by Vanessa’s eccentric outburst, he found the journey back a horror. Much worse than that; it was a replay of reality. He hadn’t allowed for the difference night might make, never having driven this car in the dark. The unfamiliar dashboard and siting of controls played on his initial nervousness, but facing the oncoming glare of headlights from traffic homing at speed in the treacherous country lanes made his guts seize up. He found himself responding with almost hysterical acceleration. The car bucked and shuddered; its tyres screamed on comering.

  He was back in another time, another car, with another woman alongside. That fatal time. It was going to happen over again. He thought he felt the impact and the chaos of spinning, heard again the splintering swear of metal. The taste of blood soured his mouth, and his nostrils were filled with the sickly sweetness of it. He knew he would crash again. And die.

  Shaking uncontrollably, he swung the wheel, tore at speed into the grass verge, slewing the big car as he savagely braked, then sat there in the terrible following silence, his head sunk on his chest. He’d hit a ditch and the bank beyond it. The windscreen was blurred by the pressure of dense hawthorn branches. Vanessa’s head lolled on his shoulder.

  Dear God, not again. Had he killed this one too?

  Then she laughed, a rook-like caw. ‘Wheeeeh!’ Drunk on speed, but she’d be no bloody use for helping get the fucking car back on the road.

  Nothing for it, he guessed, but to phone the emergency services. There’d been a yellow AA badge on the front bumper. He started pulling things out of the glove compartment, which no-bloody-body ever used for gloves. Sheila had been a practical sort of person. Chances were he’d find the phone number somewhere in there.