by Rosie Dean
I took a shower, a long shower. Soaping myself mechanically, I thought back to the morning when I’d soaked in the bath at Josh’s – three weeks ago. I leant my head against the tiles and allowed the water to massage my neck. None of it made sense.
I turned off the shower.
Wandering back and forth, from bathroom to bedroom to sitting room, it took me over an hour to get ready for work. My lovely ball dress was hanging on the outside of the wardrobe, sheathed in a clear polythene bag. Moving it to one side, I pulled out a grey, cotton dress and stepped into it. Sacha was right – this was serious shit indeed.
I needed to know more. Scrabbling in my handbag, I pulled out the leaflet PC Ryan had given me, with my crime reference number on it. I rang and waited, hoping against hope that there had been some mistake. Surely Josh had just been taken in to give more details on the incident. They’d probably call for me next…
Sadly, no. I was told by a softly-spoken girl that they were indeed talking to a suspect. Her voice came to me through a fog of disbelief.
‘Is it Josh Warwick?’ I asked.
‘I’m afraid I can’t release the identity, at present. But, as a victim, you will be informed in due course.’
‘Thank you,’ I whispered, and hung up.
As I cradled the phone in my hand, it trilled into life.
Lex.
Oh, wouldn’t it just be grand if he was ringing to crow about Josh? I decided to give him my professional greeting, ‘Millie Carmichael.’
‘Listen, I’m sorry to do this to you, Millie, but we’re dropping the Spritzah! Campaign. Charles and I are agreed, it’s not really going quite the way we intended.’
‘You mean, you’re dropping my campaign. You’re terminating the contract.’
‘Look, don’t take it personally. You did some marvellous work. We just don’t think the product’s ready for market. I’m sure you come across this kind of thing, all the time.’
The voice that once sounded so charming, now sounded plain smarmy. ‘I see. But we’ll still have to bill you for the work we’ve done so far.’
‘Of course. Look, must dash. No hard feelings, Millie? You’re a fabulous girl, you know.’
‘On a scale of one to ten, Lex, how fabulous? As fabulous as the music students at Clavering?’
‘Clavering?’ There was a pause. ‘Oh, Millie, don’t be sour.’
Sour? I looked at my phone and switched it off. The only thing stopping me from telling him to get stuffed was the fear he might not pay his bill.
What is it they say – as one door closes, another one whips your tits off?
I looked at the clock, eight-fifty. Shit. I was going to be late – again.
If I hadn’t had two important meetings to go in for, I’d have pulled a sickie.
Sometimes, work is a blessing. I remember after Dad died, I’d thrown myself into work to occupy my mind. Keeping busy had been essential. So, for the first two hours in the office, I hit the phones like my life depended on it, trying to drum up more business to seal Ostler’s fate, but either nobody was in or budgets were tight. My two meetings were a nightmare; my concentration wandered, and questions I asked – just to prove I was concentrating – turned out to have already been asked by other people. At one point, Graham scowled at me across the table and I swear he wrote Sack Millie on his notepad. He’d already heard me talking to accounts about sending the invoice out to Marshal & Crowe. Trouble was, we hadn’t received a purchase order yet – without that we couldn’t invoice.
Thank God it was Friday. But no summer ball for me, tomorrow. Not unless, by some miracle, Josh’s arrest turned out to be a horrible mistake. Marcus didn’t know everything. Just because the police had asked questions and taken Josh to the police station didn’t mean he was guilty. Hell! I’d been down at the police station myself, that didn’t make me a criminal.
After work, I went straight to Marshalhampton. As I drove past the cricket green, an old chap was bumping along on a mower, an unlit pipe clutched between his teeth. I figured there’d be a rich stream of hearsay in the pub but couldn’t bring myself to go in. Instead I carried on along the lane towards the vicarage. My heart thumped as I saw Josh’s sports car on the drive. He was home. I pulled onto the verge. That must mean he was innocent.
As I hurried up to the vicarage, my sandals click-clacked along the tarmac. I rang the doorbell.
Nothing.
I peered through the front window. No sign of life. I went back and rattled the door-knocker. Again, nothing. Thinking he might be at the church, I ran across the road and through the churchyard but the huge wooden door was locked.
For a teensy moment, I considered walking through to Marshalhampton House but that might risk bumping into Lex.
I drove back to the pub and went in. Leaning against the bar were two guys I recognised. I ordered an orange juice and leaned alongside them.
‘Hi, you’re on the cricket team, aren’t you?’ I asked.
They exchanged glances. The taller one spoke. ‘And you’re that girl who got locked in the church, aren’t you?’
‘That’s me. And now I’ve heard they might have arrested Josh for it, is that true?’
‘So they say. Who’d have thought it?’
And so the discussion continued, dripping with speculation and disbelief. Only when a chap sitting by the window called, ‘Look out, the cops are back!’ did it stop. I was fastest to the window, peering out as the car turned towards the vicarage. Josh’s profile was unmistakable through the rear window.
‘Looks like they’ve brought him home,’ someone said.
A wave of optimism washed over me. ‘I bet it’s just a fuss about nothing.’
‘Yeah, let’s hope so,’ someone said. ‘If those crooks got Josh’s keys, they could easily have planted drugs in his house.’
‘There were drugs? In the vicarage?’ I asked.
‘Apparently.’
I bet nobody in Marshalhampton knew Josh’s guilty secret…but the police would.
Bloody hell. Bloody, buggering, bollixing hell! Josh had drugs in the vicarage. It could have been a set-up, especially since nothing else had gone missing. Either way, he was in it up to his armpits. I tabled my orange juice and left.
This time, there was a police car on the vicarage drive. I drew a deep breath, rattled the door-knocker and waited. Nick Ryan, the policeman who’d interviewed us, opened the door. His professional scowl lifted in recognition. I shoved stray strands of hair behind my ears and folded my arms.
‘I’d like to speak to Josh, please.’
‘I’m sorry, Millie, I’m afraid you can’t.’
‘But I need to speak to him. Josh!’ I yelled, trying to look through the window.
Nick stepped forward. ‘I’m sorry, Millie. The conditions of his bail don’t permit him to have any contact with you.’
Bail? Then they really had arrested him. ‘Why not?’
‘Because you are a witness and a victim.’
‘Are you serious? Did Josh do it?’
Nick stepped forward. ‘Sorry, love. This isn’t the place to find out.’
‘Josh is responsible for…’ I touched my cheek.
Nick pulled the door closed behind him. ‘I have to ask you to leave, Millie. You can’t stay here. I’m very sorry.’
He was being so nice, I thought it was worth one more try. ‘I can’t believe he did it, Nick, can you?’
He stretched his neck as though his collar were too tight. The short white sleeves of his uniform shirt showed patches of perspiration. ‘Please leave, Millie. I don’t want to have to escort you off the premises.’
‘I have a right to know what’s going on.’
‘So do we all. Now please, leave quietly.’
I looked from the closed door to Nick. There was a twitter from the house-martins’ nest above, and the distant drone of the lawnmower on the cricket green. It was, in every other way, a beautiful evening. I looked at my watch. Perhaps, if I hung aro
und till the police had gone, I could persuade Josh to speak to me later.
But Nick was one step ahead of me. ‘And it’ll do no good coming back, because he won’t be here.’
‘Are you locking him up?’
‘No. Another condition of his bail means he’ll be based at his home in London – so he can carry on working.’
My heart sank. I didn’t have a clue where Josh lived. I had neither his mobile number nor his home address. Perhaps that told me all I needed to know.
I took one last look at the front door, but Josh wasn’t coming through it.
Chapter 30
I didn’t drive directly home but toured the back lanes of Hampshire, oblivious to the scenery. Instead, I was replaying conversations with Josh in the crypt; looking for some indication that he might have been involved. It was feasible. He’d already told me he wasn’t a full-time vicar; he could easily have run a drugs business from his base in London and hidden the goods in Hampshire. Nobody would have suspected it. And what was that phone call he took the other night, outside Lulu’s? A drop-off?
Marcus’s macho bulk was filling the sofa, yet again, when I got home. In less than three weeks he’d practically become a tenant. Dirty mugs littered the coffee table and an empty pizza box lay at his feet. He was watching some ghastly gangster movie with more gunshots than dialogue.
‘Hi, Millie,’ he said, tearing his eyes from the screen. ‘How’re you doing, love?’
‘Oh, you know.’
I thumped across the room, heels hard down on the faded Berber, and yanked open the fridge. I’d put a bottle of Cava in there to chill for tomorrow night, thinking I’d offer Josh a glass when he came to pick me up. I wasn’t leaving it there to taunt me for the next twenty-four hours. I pulled it out and split a nail trying to open it. Marcus said something which I didn’t hear so ignored, while I wrestled with the cork. Pointing it vaguely in his direction, I released it with a satisfying blast. There was an ejaculation of foam, which I slurped, before finding a glass.
‘What are we celebrating?’ Marcus asked.
‘Nothing. Where’s Sach?’
He pointed to the bathroom.
I thought I could smell my bath oil. ‘Night, then.’ I walked past him to my room and kicked the door closed. I sat on the edge of the bed and caught sight of myself in the mirror. I looked like a character in a low-budget movie – my haggard reflection juxtaposed with the glittering evening dress. So much for Millie’s Big Night Out. I knocked back the glass of Cava.
Lined up along the windowsill were my Good Luck cards from the show. I put the bottle and glass onto the dressing table, lifted Josh’s card and flicked the light on to read it. He had signed: Your cell-mate, Josh. How prophetic was that?
My eyes scanned the message again and again.
Dear Millie – I hope all goes well with Grease. I’m sure your dedication and enthusiasm will have rubbed off onto all the little Hamlets and they’ll do you proud.
Now the hard work’s over, sit back and enjoy it!
Was that really the kind of thing a drug dealer would send to the director of an amateur youth theatre?
Maybe. If he had a conscience.
‘But you don’t even know if he is guilty.’ I said aloud.
I went back into the sitting room. ‘Marcus, tell me what you know about Josh’s arrest.’
He paused the film and turned his attention to me. ‘I know a large wedge of cash was found with the drugs, and a plane ticket to Malaga.’
‘When was the ticket for?’
Marcus shrugged. ‘Pretty bloody soon, I should think.’
Would he have taken me to the Summer Ball and disappeared into the sunset? ‘That makes no sense. There’s the Summer Ball tomorrow and he told me he was playing at a jazz festival, next weekend. He even offered to get me tickets. Why would he do that if he was scuttling off to Malaga?’
‘Who says he was going for good? He might just have been nipping over there to stash the cash.’
‘Do you think he did it?’
He tilted his head. ‘He is a bit of a mystery man, and he does spend most of the week in London, so – yep. I’d say he was perfectly capable of doing it. In fact, the more you think about it, the more you have to admire him. I mean, who’d suspect a vicar in some backwater like Marshalhampton? It’s the ideal cover.’
How true.
Sacha emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in her dressing gown. At her entrance, Marcus hit the play button on the remote and resumed watching his film. She headed straight for me, arms outstretched. I leaned into her fragrant warmth and clung on. It would have been a shed load more comforting if it hadn’t been accompanied by a volley of Smith & Wessons. ‘You okay?’ she asked.
‘Hmmm.’
‘Wanna talk?’
Did I? It was nice just feeling her hand stroking my back. If I started talking about stuff it would open worm cans I didn’t want to open – like the one with Josh’s drug history in. After a few moments, I lifted my head from her shoulder. ‘Not at the moment, thanks. I’m going to have an early night.’
‘Okay,’ she whispered, smiling one of those watery smiles of sympathy. She probably used those a lot in her job. ‘Night, babes.’
‘Night.’
I went back into my room to google the Welkom homeless charity. Immediately, several references appeared. I clicked on the charity’s website. It had been set up by a Dutch entrepreneur, once homeless in London himself. I skipped to the Who we are section, and there he was – Josh Warwick. His role, his background and a word of encouragement to potential supporters filled the section. I’d done videos for charities, and I knew how tightly monitored their budgets were, so I knew Josh would have struggled to siphon off any funds for himself.
So far, so good.
I clicked through to check my personal emails and gasped to see a message from ReverendJWarwick. I stared at it for a moment, deeply hoping for an explanation.
Trembling, I clicked to open it. There was no message, just an attachment entitled For Millie. I double clicked it. The system asked if I wanted to download or open it. Daft question – of course I wanted to open it. However, as soon as I clicked OPEN something odd started to happen. My screen appeared to do the dance of the seven veils; lots of flashing images and wavy lines, followed by a black screen rapidly touring through a wallpaper of white text until finally, and rather dramatically, the screen turned a lovely shade of cobalt blue.
I clicked a number of keys.
Nothing.
I carried it through to the sitting-room, in the hope Marcus might have enough IT skills to get it back on its feet. Despite being a sun-gilded tractor-jockey, I was pretty sure he’d know something about PCs. Unfortunately, he’d disappeared into Sacha’s room and there was little chance of him emerging before morning.
I switched the machine off, counted to twenty and switched it on again. There was a flicker and the blue screen returned. It seemed Josh Warwick (assuming that was his name) didn’t want me to forget him – but for all the wrong reasons. I shivered. Perhaps it was a warning.
I paced the sitting room.
Go on, call the police! How many times had I yelled that at the telly, when some dopey, soon-to-be victim was telling everyone they would be fine?
Maybe I was over-reacting. It was only an email, after all.
But, an email that had completely trashed my computer.
It was nearly ten o’clock. I had a flash-back to Wednesday, when Josh had been so brilliant with Lulu. I remembered the pleasure of holding his hand…he hadn’t resisted. Then there was that walk along Poplar Crescent. Despite everything, I still felt a little vestige… of a fragment… of a tremor… of a thrill when I remembered how he made me feel that night. Why? Why would he be so charming and fun? He’d even charmed my mother – a woman never known to be taken in by anybody.
Mum.
‘Jeez!’
I grabbed my bag and keys. What if he did something nasty to her too? I n
eeded to warn her. But even as I ran down the stairs, a part of me knew I was going round to measure my disbelief against hers. I rang ahead.
‘Do you have a problem, Millie?’
‘No. I’m just passing and thought I’d pop in.’
‘Bueno. You can see my lovely new tub from Josh.’
‘Tub? What kind of tub?’
‘It’s full of Fuscias and Petunias.’
‘When did he give you that?’
‘Yesterday. Why?’
‘Mum. Did he come to see you?’ For all I knew, he could have buried a stash of drugs in the compost.
‘No, the garden centre delivered it. Millie, what’s this all about?’
‘I’ll tell you when I get there. I’m on Dimble Road. See you soon.’
As I pulled onto the drive, I saw the spectacular new tub by the front door; a fountain of flowers spilling over the rim.
Despite having planned what I’d say, the sight of Mum’s worried face scuttled my self control. Instead – facts, hypotheses and fears all tumbled out together. And, although she looked shocked and uttered the odd, Dios mio, she didn’t make it quite the drama I’d anticipated. But then, there probably wasn’t room for two drama queens in her little house.
After stroking Mungo’s ears for a moment, she said, ‘I don’t think Josh is a faker.’
‘You don’t?’
She then regaled me with a discussion they’d had about the state of the church today. He’d even quoted texts from the New Testament. ‘Cariña, he could not fake that.’
‘True.’ Hope shimmered momentarily and then, ‘Unless he’s very clever. He could have been masquerading as a vicar for the last six months.’
‘And you think the Bishop would let an impostor preach in one of his churches?’
‘The church belongs to the Marshal’s estate…Omigod! What if he and Lex are in cahoots? They have a history together and Lex is in and out of the country all the time.’
‘Millie – you let your imagination run away with you.’
‘It’s possible.’ I’d already completely miss-read the signals from Lex. It was entirely on the cards that I’d read volumes into my contact with Josh. That’s what happens to desperate women – they get conned.