Illusions (Alexandra Best Investigations Book 2)

by Jean Saunders

  ‘Conditioner?’ he enquired, his face very close to hers.

  ‘On the shelf,’ she said huskily, praying that this wouldn’t go on much longer... and at the same time hoping that it would.

  ‘Next time we do this, we’ll do it in the shower, when you’re feeling as up to it as I am,’ Nick said finally, his mouth touching hers, and with a definite smile in his voice.

  Oh God, he knew!

  She smiled back weakly as he moved away to reach for a towel to wrap around her head.

  ‘Who said there’s going to be a next time?’

  ‘I think we both know that there will, however long it takes you to make up your God-damned female mind,’ he said, arrogant as usual. ‘Now, where’s the hair-dryer?’

  ‘Not now, thanks. I’ll do it later,’ she said hastily, knowing this had gone on long enough. ‘I want to talk to you, and it’s important, Nick.’

  ‘And this isn’t?’

  Then he held up his hands, palms towards her as she made to protest. ‘OK, OK, so what do you want to talk about?’

  She suddenly thought of something. ‘My head went totally woolly with this flu, but I seem to recall that you left a message for me to get in touch with you too. Was it something to do with major-whoever?’

  Nick frowned. ‘Oh yes, the Harold Dawes character. I got his address, if you’re interested. Some seedy little place south of the river, by the sound of it.’

  ‘Good. Because I think he may have been in the flat, and I want it stopped,’ she said, choking up again at the thought of someone touching her things.

  ‘What do you mean? Has he been threatening you?’

  His aggression on her behalf was absolute, and she loved him for it. But she needed a moment more to gather her senses.

  ‘Nick, I think I’ll have to make some coffee before I can say any more. My mouth’s horribly dry and I’m starting to feel dehydrated—’

  ‘Sit right where you are and I’ll do it. Do you want it laced with anything?’

  ‘At four o’clock in the afternoon?’ she said weakly.

  ‘To hell with the time. A drop of brandy would do you good. Do you have any?’

  ‘In the sideboard. All right, but you’d better have some too. You may need it.’

  Though she knew he would have seen and heard far worse things than she had to tell him. What was one tin-pot little black-mailing scam and a couple of murders to an experienced copper who had experienced far more grisly things in the course of his career? But this was a copper with a far more tender streak in him than she ever gave him credit for…

  You thought you knew somebody, but there were always things you didn’t know. Everyone had secrets. Private thoughts. And not all of them were bad.

  He came back with two large mugs of coffee with a good swig of brandy in each. It tasted hot, strong, and deliciously decadent. And at this rate, any remaining bugs in her system would be well and truly snuffed out, she thought. Or doped to the eyeballs, if bugs had eyeballs…

  ‘So now tell me,’ said Nick the professional. ‘What do you mean by saying you think this major who isn’t a major, has been in the flat? Didn’t you see him? And if you did, what did he say to get you so jittery?’

  ‘He didn’t say anything. And no, I never saw him. I don’t know for sure that it was him. Maybe I’m getting it all out of proportion,’ she said, knowing how impossibly vague it all sounded to somebody who dealt strictly in facts.

  ‘And maybe you’re not. Come on, Alex. Don’t back down now. I know something’s been getting at you for weeks, and that it’s something to do with these Wolstenholme women. So just where does this Harold Dawes character come in?’

  She drew a deep breath, ignoring the question for a moment.

  ‘Nick, I don’t like admitting defeat in any of my cases, but I think this one has got a bit ugly.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Moira was being stalked. It was why she got in touch with me in the first place. It didn’t sound terribly sinister, just the usual stuff, phone calls, letters and so on, and I didn’t think it would have worried such a strong-minded woman unduly. But I always sensed there was something more behind her contacting me in the first place, and that it was to do with her mother’s murder.’

  ‘There was no doubt about the loner who did that. It was an open and shut case. And you know bloody well that stalking is a legal offence. If the woman had had any sense, she should have reported it officially.’

  ‘I know all that. But she chose me instead. Anyway, that’s not what I’m concerned with at the moment. The police knew who killed Moira’s mother all right, but they never got to the bottom of why he did it. They didn’t even try, as far as I could see. They were just happy to get a result.’

  She caught the snappy look in Nick’s eyes at the implied censure of the police force en masse, and rushed on. ‘Well, he was hardly the type to have been one of Madame Leanora’s clients, was he? But apart from the murderer, there was the major’s appearance at the funeral. I never really knew why he was there, and Moira said she didn’t even know him, nor why he pre-tended to be a Special Branch bloke when we went to Leanora’s premises in Worthing—’

  ‘Hey, hey, slow down! You’re losing me now. There’s obviously been a hell of a lot going on that I don’t know—’

  ‘That’s why my clients trust me. I’m discreet,’ she said defensively, ‘and when they don’t want the police involved, I have to respect their wishes.’

  ‘But now you don’t have a client any more, and yet you say it’s getting ugly,’ Nick repeated. ‘The woman’s dead, Alex, and it’s out of your hands. It’s a police job to investigate a murder, but if you have any information to give them, you’d better open up. You know that.’

  ‘That’s not why I called you,’ she repeated, hardly knowing why she was prevaricating again. ‘But now I’m the one getting the occasional weird phone call, and a bunch of dead flowers was sent through the post, and then some slimeball had broken into my office and left his mark — and I know damn well someone’s been in the flat too, without leaving any evidence except the nasty feeling of having my privacy invaded—’

  She gasped for breath as she rushed on without pause. She had to say it like that, or she knew she would never say it at all. But she had to admit that the way the words came out made her sound more paranoid than anything else. And she was well aware that something had stopped her mentioning the notebook.

  ‘So you think you’re being stalked,’ Nick said flatly.

  ‘I don’t think so. I know so! Haven’t you been listening at all?’

  All the same, she knew it was small fry compared with the way the real celebs of this world were stalked. She honestly couldn’t say she felt as if someone was constantly watching her, noting every move she made, and bombarding her with obscene phone calls or notes. It was hardly death-threat stuff, and she hadn’t been physically abused — yet.

  ‘You did right to come to me if you think this self-styled major aka Harold Dawes is behind it all. I can put a surveillance on him if you do, Alex,’ Nick went on.

  But already she sensed from his tone that he thought she could be making too much of all this — and in his job he had far more important cases to follow up than to plant an officer on house-watch because of a girlfriend’s whim. Nor did she want to seem too interested by asking him outright for the address. Not yet. Her instinct to conclude the case herself hadn’t been entirely dampened or scared off.

  ‘No. I’m not making an official complaint, and now that I’ve said it out loud, I think I probably am over-reacting.’

  ‘As you so often do,’ Nick said coolly.

  But his eyes were still alert, and she knew he didn’t altogether believe her sudden back-tracking.

  ‘Anyway, if somebody was getting at me because he wanted me to stop prying on Moira’s behalf, there’s no more need, is there? She’s dead, and the case is closed.’

  ‘You’re sure about that?’

 
; ‘Yes, I’m sure she’s dead,’ she said, tongue-in-cheek, and trying not to shudder at the memory of Moira’s open-mouthed face staring up at her with those glassy dead eyes.

  And she wasn’t telling him about the surprise of getting Moira’s post-demise retainer, either. Any more than she was letting on that his words had given her a new purpose.

  Surveillance on Harold Dawes was exactly what she intended to do for herself, once she had got hold of his address. And she was angry to think that she hadn’t tried looking him up in the telephone book before now. So much had been going on... but that was just a sloppy excuse for incompetence, and she was definitely slipping.

  Because she was quite sure now that he was working for somebody, and the sooner she found out who it was, the sooner she would know who she was up against. She owed it to Moira. And to Leanora. And the silent cheer at the back of her senses had nothing to do with either of them. It was more to do with her professional need to conclude a case satisfactorily.

  ‘Nick, I think I just panicked, and I needed to see you to feel reassured. But this definitely isn’t an official complaint. I’ve no intention of making a statement, so you can forget that. If I hadn’t been feeling so bloody weak after the flu, you know very well it wouldn’t have been my style to call you in on such a feeble pretext.’

  ‘Pity,’ he grinned, pulling her closer and not wasting the moment. ‘I rather like feeling needed.’

  ‘Well, you’d better make the most of it, because it sure as hell won’t last!’

  But she submitted to a few very enjoyable kisses, and then felt guiltily relieved when he got a call on his mobile, recalling him back to base. If he hadn’t, God knew how this day might have ended. As it was, as soon as he left, she checked her phone book, only to find that there was no H. Dawes or Harold Dawes listed at all.

  The whole episode was beginning to make her feel claustrophobic with frustration, and she needed some fresh air. The staleness of the flat after her incarceration inside it was getting to her now. She dried her hair and made herself look reasonably presentable for the first time since returning from Worthing, and then she went out.

  This time, Leanora’s notebook was safely in her bag, and she didn’t intend to make a move without it, ignoring the fact that it didn’t matter anyway, since the intruder had already got what he wanted out of it.

  She let herself into her office cautiously, breathing a sigh of relief to see that the slight film of dust everywhere after a week of disuse was completely undisturbed.

  As a last piece of self-acknowledged paranoia now, she knew she had to check that there was nothing untoward in the post here before she did anything else. But the letters were all harmless, and mostly advertising junk that went straight into the bin.

  Only then, did she pick up the office phone and get through to directory enquiries. She couldn’t give a definite street address, but she said she thought the place she wanted might be in the Lambeth area. Nick had said south of the river, and it was the first name she thought of.

  Firstly she requested the number of a Major Harry Deveraux since it sounded more upmarket than asking for plain Harold Dawes. As expected, there was no joy in that, so then she gave his real name.

  ‘What street, please, caller?’ the voice requested.

  ‘Again, I don’t know exactly, only that it’s also in the Lambeth area,’ Alex said crisply, her accent becoming more cut-glass as she sensed the operator’s growing impatience. ‘There’s one more thing, though. The number may be ex-directory, but it’s vital that my department traces the gentleman, so if you could just confirm the address for us that will be enough,’ she improvised.

  And the woman could do her own bit of guessing about the fictitious department.

  ‘I’m sorry. I can’t help you if the number is ex-directory,’ the operator’s terse voice came back at her before the line went dead.

  Shit. She should have known that, Alex fumed. She did know it. She wasn’t born yesterday. It had just been a long-shot, and it was a blip in her memory not to have remembered that she wouldn’t have got the information. Anyway, if Dawes had a phone at all, it could just as easily be a mobile. Now she had no option but to ask Nick for his address.

  She sat limply on her office chair, only just noticing that she was sweating profusely. She felt a hundred years old instead of twenty-six, and even driving her car to the office in the London traffic had been a traumatic experience in the aftermath of flu and a few days in bed. She longed to be there now, and bed was exactly where she was going to spend the next few hours.

  But once she got there, the hours stretched into another day and another few bouts of sickness, by which time Alex decided that blue mould on stale bread was definitely not to be recommended. The only thing in favour of all this throwing up was that she was sure she must have lost a stone in weight, and she snarled at the bathroom scales when they confirmed that she had only lost two miserable pounds.

  And to hell with Harold Dawes for now. She needed to get properly fit if she was planning on spending hours watching his comings and goings. As her stomach gnawed in rebellion, she grudgingly heated a ready-meal of lemon chicken and rice in the microwave, and was mightily relieved to keep it down.

  The digestives were all gone, but she discovered the remains of a packet of chocolate biscuits in the bottom of a cupboard, and just one, or even two, wouldn’t hurt. She needed pampering, for God’s sake.

  She was feeling fractionally better by the following day, and resolved to be back at work on the next. When her phone rang around eight o’clock that evening, she switched off the inane quiz show on the television, and picked up the receiver without a second thought as to who it might be.

  She had made up her mind that she wasn’t going to be scared or intimidated by Dawes any more. Remembering how he had flaunted his way around the cruise ship in the guise of the appallingly arrogant major, she could soon cut him down to size now.

  Screw you, major…

  ‘Alexandra Best,’ she said coolly into her phone.

  ‘Do you want to come to a party, doll?’

  She didn’t know what or who she had expected to hear, but it certainly wasn’t that particular voice again.

  ‘Gary! Is that you?’

  ‘The one and only. So whaddya say? Are you up for it?’

  Alex began to laugh. Only Gary Hollis could phone her out of nowhere and expect her to be ready and waiting for whatever mad idea he had in mind.

  ‘Up for what? No, don’t answer that, Gary,’ she said, as she heard his sexy chuckle. ‘I’m quite glad to hear from you, actually. It’s been a while. So how have you been?’

  She groaned, listening to herself. She sounded like one of those bright and jolly middle-aged counsellors you heard on TV documentaries. ‘And where are you?’ she added.

  ‘Not a million miles away. So are you coming to this party or not? You’ll need to be ready in three minutes.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Gary, don’t be stupid! How can I possibly be ready for anything in that time?’

  She bit her lip, knowing his expertise at seeing innuendoes, even when there were none intended, and she had just let him right in.

  ‘Hey, I seem to remember—’ he began sexily, and then she heard other voices in the background, and she frowned, because one of them sounded familiar.

  Then Gary spoke again. ‘Somebody else wants to talk to you, Alex. I’ll put her on.’

  Her? What the hell was this? Before Alex could think properly, she heard Charmaine from the flat below.

  ‘Alex, I’ve only just discovered that Gary knows you, and I know you haven’t been well, but remember I told you about my party. You must come. It’ll do you good.’

  At the bright, giggly young voice, Alex felt even more like the middle-aged neighbour who needed taking out of herself now, and she bristled at once.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so. I’m still a bit under the weather, and I’d only be a drag—’ she said resentfully.

&
nbsp; ‘Hey baby,’ she heard Gary’s voice break in. ‘I’m coming up to get you in three minutes, and if you’re not dressed and ready —well, that’s OK by me too—’

  Charmaine evidently grabbed the phone from him again, and Alex had to hold the receiver away from her ear to ward off the screaming laughter coming through.

  ‘Isn’t he just wild, Alex? And I’m green with envy that you got to him first. Now, are you coming or not?’

  Please, Gary, don’t make anything of that remark, Alex begged silently, knowing it would be in his head, and probably else-where too.

  ‘I can’t be ready in three minutes. Tell Gary to make it ten,’ she said quickly.

  She hung up, knowing she must be mad to even think about going to one of Charmaine’s parties. But she knew Gary too. He’d be here sharp on time, and if she didn’t appear with him, she’d never hear the end of it from Charmaine, and her reputation would be in shreds. And who was acting prudish and middle-aged now! And as if anybody cared.

  ***

  She was out of her jeans and t-shirt before she thought twice. A shower took all of two minutes — just the vital bits — and her hair was OK, thanks to Nick. She pushed the memory of his sensual hands out of her mind as she wriggled into a slithery black dress, cheering silently as it slid over her hips with the minimum of effort. Flu wasn’t all bad news.

  She was just fixing her lipstick and applying blusher to get some more colour into her cheeks when the doorbell rang. And her heart was beating wildly as she went to answer it.

  Gary whistled loudly. She had forgotten that whistle. He did it incessantly when he was thinking, and it had often driven her mad... but right now all she could think about was that it was good to see him again, and that he looked great.

  He came into the room, kicking the door shut. He hugged her tightly, and she could smell the freshness of his aftershave as his hands reached down to caress her buttocks.

  ‘I always said you had a great arse, didn’t I?’ he whispered wickedly in her ear.

  Oh yes. Same old Gary. Same old finesse... or lack of it. She pushed him away from her, laughing.