‘It won’t do you any good,’ said Isabel. ‘There was another cleaner who came before you but she didn’t take any notice. I kept knocking but she never answered.’
‘I’m afraid that I shall be getting out of here somehow,’ said Connie. The man was bonkers if he thought she was going to stay at Crow Edge just to keep this poor woman company. It was like being in a Stephen King horror story. Misery. Although, in this instance, Mr Savant did his hobbling with meringues, eclairs and Devil’s food cake.
*
Brandon drove slowly past the old house so that he could see down the drive and was at first totally relieved to see that Connie’s car was still there. But his second thought squashed any delight he might have felt because it was now nearly three hours since she should have left Crow Edge. So what was she still doing in there? Connie would have let him know if she was going to be late, he felt sure of it. Brandon could not shake off the suspicion that something wasn’t quite right. In fact that’s exactly what Connie had said about the place when they had been talking about it the previous week. She also told him that she’d been wary of her client, and that he’d been drunk. Brandon decided that he’d call into Crow Edge and find out what had happened to her; he’d rather Connie was avoiding him than be in any danger. He turned his car around at the first available opportunity and pulled into Mr Savant’s drive. A chill wriggled down his spine as he rang the doorbell. He’d always thought this a strange-looking house whenever he passed it. No one answered so he rang and rang again repeatedly. Someone was in, though, because there was music playing loudly enough to hear from outside and the curtain in the large front window had just moved.
Brandon had been about to try the handle when the door opened a few inches and part of a man’s face appeared in the space.
‘What do you want?’ he said.
‘I’m looking for C . . . Marilyn Smith. Your cleaner. I need to speak to her urgently.’
‘I don’t know anyone by that name,’ said Mr Savant and made to shut the door. Brandon, knowing that was a lie, rammed his shoulder against it, hard enough to force his way in.
‘I need to know where she is – and now,’ he said, charging past Mr Savant into the large square hallway. ‘Connie,’ he called. ‘Connie, where are you?’ But he couldn’t hear anything for the music. Followed at a close distance by Mr Savant, Brandon strode towards the huge gramophone and lifted the needle off the record. The silence made his ears ring.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Mr Savant made a grab for Brandon’s arm, but he was no match for the younger man’s strength.
‘Connie, where are you?’
In the secret room, Connie heard that blessed voice and her whole body flooded with joy.
‘Brandon! In here, in here. Behind the wall.’ Brandon heard Connie’s muted voice.
He felt along the wooden panels. ‘Where? I can’t get in.’ Brandon cried out as something solid and heavy hit him in the shoulder. He spun round and raised his fist, but he couldn’t hit the elderly man square in the jaw, which is where his punch would have landed, so he pushed him backwards with all his strength instead and Mr Savant toppled but, at least, had a soft landing on his sofa.
In the hidden room, Connie was manic with relief. ‘There’s a lever, Brandon. It’s . . .’ She turned to Isabel to be reminded.
‘Five panels up, ten in from the window,’ said Isabel. She was huddled in the sheet, shaking and frightened. There was silence as Brandon searched, then there was a crunch, a creak, a sliver of light, and Connie and Brandon threw themselves at each other and he held her so tightly against him that he squeezed all the air from her. Then he pulled her away from him to study her face as he stroked her hair back from it.
‘Are you all right? Did he harm you?’
‘I’m fine,’ replied Connie. Now that you’re here.
‘I was so worried.’ He crushed her to him again. She could feel his breath on her neck.
‘Please don’t get the police,’ cried Isabel. She could hear Mr Savant sobbing hard.
Brandon looked beyond Connie into the room at the gargantuan woman on a sofa scattered with throws and cushions.
‘We’re going to have to, love,’ said Connie, not wanting Brandon Locke to ever let her go.
Chapter 92
Four police cars, a fire engine and two ambulances were there within fifteen minutes. The fireman had to break down the wall to release Isabel as she was too large to fit through the panelled door. She was very distressed at the sight of Mr Savant being read his rights; he looked shrunken and confused. Connie wasn’t so forgiving.
‘That poor girl,’ she said, watching the ambulance men trying to manoeuvre her out. Delayed panic crashed into Connie’s head about what might have been if Brandon hadn’t arrived to save her and she started shaking. She felt Brandon’s arm slip around her, rubbing warmth back into her and just for a moment, she let herself believe that this was her husband. Being Mrs Brandon Locke would be such a different life from being Mrs Jimmy Diamond.
There were policemen everywhere, more had arrived. Brandon sat with Connie whilst one of them took notes from her. Then one of the paramedics asked to check her over. He was urging her to go to hospital.
‘He didn’t touch me,’ said Connie. ‘I’m all right.’
‘Can she leave?’ asked Brandon.
‘We’ve got your contact details. We’ll obviously need to be in touch,’ said a policewoman with a kind face and voice to match.
Outside, Isabel was at last being lifted into the ambulance. She called over desperately. She was in pain from being jolted and lifted and moved. ‘Marilyn, are you okay?’ Her hand came out from under the thick blanket which had been wrapped around her.
‘I’m fine. Are you?’ replied Connie, gripping it tightly.
‘My family are coming.’ Isabel was crying softly.
‘You let everyone look after you,’ said Connie. ‘I’ll come and see you.’
‘Thank you, thank you.’ Isabel was holding her hand even harder. ‘What will happen to Julian?’
Connie was sure that some part of her would consider feeling sorry for Julian Savant in the future, but not at the moment.
‘You just concentrate on yourself. Let the doctors see to you and let another set of people see to him.’
‘Come on, let me take you to my house for a while,’ said Brandon, leading Connie off. ‘ We can collect your car later.’
There were three cars and a van parked nearby on the main road. A photographer with a long-range camera was being herded back from the drive entrance by a policeman. Brandon opened his car door for Connie and shielded her from the searching lens with the bulk of his body. Then he got into the driver’s seat and set off quickly for the safety of lovely Box House.
*
‘My God, you will never guess,’ said Ivanka, reading from the new Daily Trumpet local news page on the internet. ‘Remember that Mr Savant who lives in the haunted house? He has been arrested. He had two sex slaves in his house.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ scoffed Della. ‘He was nearly seventy.’
‘Is true. Look.’
Della and Jimmy came to read over Ivanka’s shoulder. The news report didn’t contain much detail, but the comments underneath from neighbours and gossipy sensationalists provided substantial padding.
‘You can’t rely on what’s written there for facts. Look, someone has said there was a man carried out on a trolley who looked dead because he was completely covered in a blanket, someone else has said that a man and a woman came out of the house and drove off together,’ said Jimmy. ‘Sex slaves my arse.’
‘This is the Daily Trumpet after all,’ said Della. ‘They reported yesterday that a vet had to tranquillise the mayor for running amok in the park when it was a mare. When I come back from the loo, I’ll put the kettle on.’
She found she was shaking when she locked herself in the toilet to ring Connie and make sure she was all right because she knew she clean
ed for Mr Savant on Wednesdays. Della laughed with relief when Connie picked up, said she was fine and, though she might be there slightly later than planned, she’d fill her in with the details at Lady Muck HQ.
*
Brandon made Connie a hot chocolate.
‘I don’t care if you hate chocolate, you’re having this,’ he said, stirring it as he brought it over to the kitchen table, where she was sitting. ‘It’s warm, it’s sweet and it’s nourishing.’
Connie had no intention of protesting. She lifted the mug to her mouth and inhaled the rich scent of raspberries swirled up in the creamy chocolate. It tasted as good as it smelled, like a liquid summer pudding.
‘How did you know where I’d be?’ asked Connie.
‘I remembered us talking about the house you went to before me. I only wish I hadn’t left it so long before I drove out there. I dread to think what would have happened if that woman hadn’t come to the door.’ He blew out his cheeks and raised his eyebrows as he sat down on the chair next to her.
‘What woman?’
‘I fell asleep on the sofa. Someone woke me up at half-past one ringing the bell. A woman with a little boy, her grandchild I presume from their ages. She said she was sorry for disturbing me, but did I have the time. It was then that I realised you were late. I rang the Lady Muck number but it went straight to voicemail so I thought I’d better check things out.’ He nodded as if thinking to himself. ‘It was all a bit weird when I think about it. I’d never seen her before, and there’s a pub in sight, so why wouldn’t you go there to ask?’
The hairs stood up on the back of Connie’s neck.
‘What did she look like?’
‘Er m . . . dark grey hair, loose curls to the shoulder. Slim, about five foot seven. She had a navy-blue coat on, buttoned right up to the top.’
‘And the little boy?’ Connie’s throat was dry, constricted.
‘Very blond, large eyes . . .’ Brandon stopped. The kid’s eyes had reminded him of Connie’s, but he thought it might freak her out to say that. ‘Can’t think of anything else, just a small kid, holding her hand. Why?’
She didn’t say that she thought it might be her mother and her son come to help her. He’d think she was mad. It’s a coincidence, Connie, said her head. Don’t be hysterical. It’s not your mum. She didn’t come back to save you. It was a woman out walking who wanted to know what the time was.
‘Just curious.’
‘Drink,’ said Brandon, pushing the mug in her hands upwards. Connie obeyed, gulping down a mouthful. That woman, whoever she was, might have indirectly saved her life. It had to be her mum. And she was with Max. Connie’s eyes glittered with tears. She made a small noise in her throat that was half laughter, half sob.
‘You all right?’ Brandon asked, his hand touching her shoulder in concern.
Connie nodded and smiled. ‘Yes, yes, I really am.’
‘Boy, what a couple of days,’ said Brandon. ‘Could we fit any more drama into it?’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘I thought that maybe you’d decided not to come to the house today.’
‘I said I would and I would have,’ replied Connie. ‘Had I not been thrown into a secret room as a companion to a fellow prisoner.’
Brandon reached for her hand; it was small and soft in his own much larger one.
‘Will you still go ahead with your plan to leave your husband?’
He was stroking her fingers and making her brain fuzzy and not wanting to concentrate on anything but the sensation.
‘If you mean: did the events of today make me realise that I should try to pull out all the stops and rescue my marriage, then you are way off target with your thinking.’
She wasn’t imagining that she saw Brandon’s shoulders sag a little with relief.
‘By the end of tomorrow I’ll be single again,’ she went on, ‘and I’ll have to work my backside off to make sure that both myself and my company survive. I imagine that Jimmy will play dirty when he realises what I’ve done.’
‘You’ll survive whatever rockets he launches at you, I have no doubt,’ Brandon said, his brown eyes glossy with admiration and something else that she daren’t acknowledge. This was the wrong time for them to fall in love.
‘I don’t want you to be my cleaner any more,’ said Brandon.
‘I understand,’ nodded Connie. As hard as it was to hear, he was right and she had been about to say the same.
‘No, you don’t. I want you . . . us . . . to be . . . more. I love being with you, Connie. I can’t stop thinking about you.’
Oh, these were words which she shouldn’t take to heart and yet she very much wanted to seize them and hold them to her like a warm, soft cushion.
Connie put her hand gently on his face.
‘You and I both know what happens when you rush into rebound relationships.’
‘You’re not Helena,’ said Brandon, taking her hand from his cheek and kissing the palm.
‘Thank God you noticed,’ smiled Connie. Oh, she wanted to lean forwards and feel those lips on her own. But her head was bursting at the seams. She had a band of wonderful women who must take priority for the foreseeable future. She was primed to fight now, not to love. This was the worst timing ever.
‘I’m falling for you, Miss Pink Knickers,’ said Brandon. ‘But I know you need time. Don’t forget me, will you. You came back into my life when I needed some more inspiration. I think that means we are kind of spiritually tied, so I know our paths will cross again. They have to. It’s written in the stars.’
He’s so absolutely gorgeous, thought Connie, but too many people were relying on her not to let her ship capsize. She had used the women for her own ends, now she owed them security.
‘Drive me back for my car, please,’ said Connie.
‘Only if you kiss me. Just once more. So I have a memory of you every time I work with chocolate and raspberries.’
Connie leaned forward and savoured Brandon’s arms closing around her, his lips on hers, his fingers in her hair. Her gallant chocolatier, who would make her think of kisses and brown eyes and strong square hands, cherries, Indian vanilla pods and summer pudding-filled hearts whenever there was a whisper of chocolate in the air.
Chapter 93
Della had finished her third coffee when Connie arrived in Lady Muck HQ. To Connie’s surprise, Della threw her arms around her as soon as she reached the top of the stairs; then, as if remembering that she didn’t do that sort of thing, she took a step backwards.
‘I was so worried about you, Connie,’ she said.
‘Oh Della, I’m sorry I’m so late . . .’ Connie began, but Della wouldn’t hear the apology.
‘It doesn’t matter. I don’t have much else to do in the evenings. Are you all right? I only wish I’d listened when the girls said they’d heard strange voices in Mr Savant’s house.’
‘ To be fair, anyone would be more inclined to believe there was a ghost in an ex-undertaker’s house than a forty-stone woman locked up in a secret room.’
‘Forty stone?’
‘I’m guessing. She was very large.’
‘The poor girl,’ said Della.
‘I rang the hospital but they won’t tell me a thing. I imagine there are a lot of reporters chasing a story.’
‘You’re lucky they haven’t come after you,’ said Della.
‘Isabel – that’s the girl – thinks my name is Marilyn Smith. If any reporters speak to her and she gives them that name, I’m hoping that’ll hold them off from tracing me. At least until tomorrow is over. Coffee?’
‘Yes, please.’ Della didn’t say she was all coffee-ed out.
‘Oh, and Jimmy has found the number out for Lady Muck. I found four missed calls on my mobile from his office number. He didn’t leave any message,’ Connie revealed. ‘I’m guessing he didn’t recognise my voice from the recorded message though.’
‘It was only a matter of time before he—’
In her
bag, Connie’s Lady Muck mobile phone rumbled loudly. She pulled it out quickly and flashed a panicked look at Della.
‘It’s him again.’ Talk of the devil and he’s sure to appear. One of her mum’s classic sayings.
‘Keep calm,’ Della said. ‘Speak to him.’
Connie took a deep breath and conjured up her inner Marilyn. She remained on her feet to take the call. Power phone calls were better taken when standing, she’d read. Della stood close so she could listen in.
‘Lady Muck Cleaning Services, how may I help you?’
*
Jimmy hadn’t been expecting quite so satiny a voice. It had crossed his mind that when he rang the number, Della would have picked up. He now realised that was nonsense. Lady Muck sounded glamorous and cultured. He imagined that she was wearing a powder blue Jaeger suit and toying with a string of pearls at her neck.
‘Jimmy Diamond, Diamond Shine Cleaning Services. I believe you’re my rival,’ he said in a voice packed full of bolshieness.
‘I believe I am, yes. So what can I do for you, Mr Diamond?’ trilled the voice at the other end.
‘Can we cut the crap, Lady,’ he said, the title irreverent in tone rather than respectful. ‘I want to know how you’ve ended up with most of my workforce.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ replied Lady Muck. ‘Maybe it’s something to do with the benefits we offer our ladies and that we value their work.’ She was privately educated, Jimmy could tell. She was exuding superiority and confidence – and she was as cool as a glacier with Ray-Bans on. He was really having to bite his tongue.
‘That’s corporate bullshit and you know it.’
‘Maybe it would help if we had a meeting. We could talk over all your concerns.’
Blimey – Jimmy hadn’t been expecting that so easily.
‘Yes, the sooner the better,’ he said.
‘Tomorrow. Let’s say five o’clock.’
‘Where are you based?’
‘Penistone, but we’ll aim for neutral territory. F.U.J. Holdings in Maltstone. It’s above the old White Wedding bridal shop opposite to the Garden Centre, do you know it?’
Afternoon Tea at the Sunflower Café Page 39