‘And they seemed to be on friendly terms, you say?’ he asked her, trying very hard to quell the jealous note which crept into his voice.
‘Oh, yes, they were getting on like a house on fire. You know, chatting and laughing, like old friends do. He may even be a secret boyfriend, which would explain why she pitched me a tale that she was seeing her aunt, but that’s her business, isn’t it?’
Jonathan’s insides were in turmoil, but he kept his voice steady. ‘Have you ever seen him before?’
‘No, but then again, I don’t know everyone in town. He didn’t appear to be local. A bit too slick for Combury Cross, in my opinion, although he could be a weekend visitor or even a second-homer.’ She sniffed disparagingly at the latter.
‘Well, thanks anyway for doing this.’ Jonathan opened a desk drawer. ‘How much do I owe you for your time?’
‘Nothing. And I’d rather you didn’t ask me again. Hazel is my friend. She isn’t snooty, even if she's been to college and all. Unlike some people I can think of.’ Alison glanced darkly through the glass partition at Tabitha’s empty desk. ‘I feel like a traitor for spying on her, and I only did it to prove that you couldn’t be more wrong about her.’
‘Your loyalty does you credit.’ Jonathan smiled, but received only an impassive stare in return. ‘Just so you know, I did this for my father’s sake. For some reason he’s got it into his head that she’s up to no good. Losing his company took its toll. I hope you understand.’
Alison appeared to soften. ‘Of course I do. I’m very fond of the old guy. If checking up on Hazel makes him happy, I’m all for it. Lord knows, George could do with a break.’
As she was about to leave, Jonathan said, ‘It’s probably best if you don’t tell Hazel anything about this. No need to make her feel we don’t like her.’
Because we do, he thought. Very much.
The loss of her favourite coat was a blow, but Hazel put it down to bad luck and nothing else. She realised that if she wanted to, she could easily become paranoid about it, but she didn’t want to think badly of anyone she knew. It definitely wasn’t Lawrence, because her handbag had been by her feet the whole time they were in the café together, and therefore out of his reach.
She came to the conclusion that she must have dropped the ticket at some point, and that someone had stumbled across it, eyeing the opportunity for a new coat. Although it was galling that anyone could be so dishonest, there was nothing she could do about it, and she didn’t mention it to Aunt Rose when she returned to the nursing home.
Her great-aunt was tired, and Hazel felt a stab of concern that the old lady was no longer strong. They spent a pleasant hour together talking about nothing in particular and, when the carer came to wheel Aunt Rose into the dining room for tea, Hazel got up to leave.
Aunt Rose put her hand on her arm. ‘She’s still on the payroll, you know.’
‘I beg your pardon? Who’s still on the payroll?’
‘That girl.’
Hazel frowned, unsure what to make of that. She suspected that Aunt Rose was referring to Tabitha, which puzzled her, because of course Tabitha was still on the payroll at Gough Associates. Why would her aunt need to point this out? She decided not to delve deeper because, if Aunt Rose was showing the first signs of dementia – something Hazel had thought before – she didn’t want to say or do anything which would cause her distress. She merely squeezed the old lady’s hand.
‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll see you again next weekend. Hope you feel better then.’
‘I’m fine, fit as a fiddle,’ Aunt Rose assured her. Although Hazel didn’t know whether the old lady was referring to her body or her mind, she just smiled and nodded.
‘Now, be off with you before you miss your bus!’ Aunt Rose chided.
Cheered by her aunt’s optimism, Hazel plucked up the courage to call Lawrence on Monday. He didn’t seem bothered when she explained that over the weekend her boss had arranged for the last business unit to be let. Instead, he invited her out for dinner in town the following evening – an invitation she accepted gladly, if only to get away from the strained atmosphere.
On the day of her date, Hazel finished work in good time then dithered over what to wear. Lawrence was incredibly attractive, and she wanted to look her best. As she stared at herself in the mirror, having tossed one outfit after another aside in frustration, she couldn’t help feeling that someone with Tabitha’s blonde and leggy looks was a far better match for him.
Sighing, she settled on a skirt with geometric swirls in green, yellow and white – colours that she knew suited her well – with a plain white shirt and a black jacket. She finished off the look with her favourite pearl stud earrings
‘You look nice,’ said Lawrence, when he picked her up outside the gates to the manor, and gave her a quick peck on the cheek.
‘You too,’ she replied.That was an understatement. Lawrence looked fantastic in a charcoal grey suit with a Nehru collar and a white V-neck T-shirt, a style which wouldn’t have looked out of place in Monte Carlo. His yellow Lotus sports car completed the playboy image.
‘Wow!’
Lawrence opened the passenger door for her. ‘You like it?’
‘It’s fabulous!’
‘I’m glad to hear it. It’s my favourite, you see.’
‘Your favourite?’ Hazel strapped herself in the seatbelt. ‘You’ve got more than one?’
He shrugged. ‘Only a couple.’
‘Gosh, I didn’t know being an accountant could be so lucrative.’
‘I’m involved in a few other things as well.’
‘Evidently,’ she said drily.
She didn’t have time to comment further as Lawrence pressed the accelerator, and they took off at a break-neck speed. The ride was the thrill of a lifetime. The engine rumbled like a black panther, and Hazel’s hair stood on end as Lawrence rounded the corners with a skill worthy of Michael Schumacher.
I could get used to this, she thought, and then felt ashamed of herself. It wasn’t like her to be impressed by the trappings of a wealthy lifestyle. And besides, no matter how hard she tried to ignore it, there was something about Lawrence which didn’t quite add up.
Unable to put her finger on it, she pushed the thought aside and resolved to enjoy the evening.
It proved to be as entertaining as their previous meeting. Lawrence regaled her with stories of his ex-colleagues and explained to her the trials and tribulations of setting up a small business. Hazel told him that she still hadn’t managed to solve the mystery of the outbuilding, and then confided in him how uneasy she felt about her run-in with Jonathan.
Lawrence sent her a concerned look. ‘You say you suspected a burglary. Has it occurred to you that something illegal might be happening at the manor itself?’
Hazel thought of Jonathan’s baggy sweaters and unruly hair, and the way he interacted with his boys. She shook her head. ‘I can’t believe Jonathan would be involved in anything illegal. It just doesn’t seem like his style.’
‘Oh, Hazel, you’re such an innocent!’ Lawrence laughed, but he had enough sense to change the subject when he saw her irritated frown.
But his comment had annoyed her. She liked Lawrence and was dazzled by his good looks, but she still hated being patronised.
Was she really so blind that she couldn’t see what was happening right under her own nose? Well, we’ll see about that.
That was why, later that evening after Lawrence had driven her home, she sneaked out of the house again, this time armed with a torch and a small stepladder she’d found in the scullery.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Halfway through the park, she realised her folly. The fence was secured by a keypad lock, and even with the stepladder she wouldn’t be able to scale it without cutting herself to shreds on the razor wire.
For a moment she hesitated, torn between the impossibility of her venture and the need to show Lawrence that she wasn’t mistaken about Jonathan. She was sure she co
uldn’t be. Then she stiffened her resolve and carried on.
If I can’t get in, that’ll be the end of it, she thought.
As she’d hoped, the shed lay in darkness, but it was also securely locked. Chewing her lip, she decided to walk around the fence to see if there was an area where it would be easier to climb, but was disappointed. She returned to the locked gate and gave it a frustrated yank.
Then it came to her: the 4-digit number she’d seen on Jonathan’s blotter what seemed like ages ago now. Could that be the code for the lock, and had Jonathan scribbled it on his desk in order not to forget it? It was worth a try.
Quickly she keyed in the four numbers as she remembered them – one, five, seven, two – and was rewarded when the lock clicked open. Congratulating herself on her cleverness, she slipped through the gate and closed it behind her.
Now she faced an even bigger challenge; how to get inside the building itself. The shed had a padlock of mammoth proportions.
However, that proved to be easier than she’d expected. Someone, probably George, had left a high window open, and Hazel set up the stepladder right underneath. Even with the ladder, it was a scramble getting up to the window and an even greater scramble sliding through it. She landed in an undignified heap on the other side, on what appeared to be a stack of large plastic bags.
Dusting herself down, she switched on her torch and saw that the bags contained nothing more interesting than compost, fertiliser and topsoil. The whole shed was one giant hothouse. The walls were brick-built, but the roof was glass with the sky an inky black above, and everywhere she turned there were plants – some as tall as eight feet, and none of them specimens that she recognised.
Added to that there was a foetid stench in the air, of rotting vegetation perhaps, which surprised her because although the smell in a greenhouse was often strong and earthy, it was usually pleasant too.
What was George doing in here? The place was a veritable jungle.
Quietly, Hazel explored the hothouse while lighting the narrow path between the flower beds ahead of her. To the rear of the building there was a high work table with several bottles and flasks connected with a mass of tubes. In one of the bottles a sickly green liquid was bubbling over a Bunsen burner and, just as she realised that this was where the smell originated, she became aware of movement to her right.
Her heart jumped into her throat and she fled the way she’d come, tripping over a root and tumbling headlong into a tall triffid-like plant. She screamed as it enfolded her in pale green leaves, pushing a cluster of fuchsia pink flowers into her face, and she fought to disentangle herself.
‘Careful, you’ll wreck it.’
A torch shone in her face, and a hand pulled her up, none too gently, and out of the plant’s unwelcome embrace.
‘This is the second time I’ve caught you sneaking around.’ Jonathan held her wrist in a vice-like grip. ‘What exactly are you up to?’
‘I, er ...’ Hazel’s mind raced to think up a suitable explanation, but nothing believable sprang to mind. ‘I thought the place was on fire. It looked that way from my window.’
Jonathan wasn’t mollified. ‘Well, clearly it’s not, so you can go now. And don’t let me catch you here again.’
He let go of her so abruptly she had to grab onto the triffid for support. The leaves rustled ominously, and she drew back with a shriek. ‘T-that thing,’ she stammered. ‘What is it?’
‘Why? Did you think it was going to eat you?’
‘Well, I ... ’ she tailed off, feeling the colour rise in her cheeks.
Jonathan glared at her for a moment, then he threw his head back and laughed. ‘You’re priceless! You’ll quite happily walk in the middle of the road in the driving rain, or climb inside a hothouse full of flesh-eating plants without any thought. Whatever next?’
‘Are they flesh-eating?’ Instinctively, Hazel leaned into him for protection.
‘No, I’m just winding you up.’
Sulkily she pulled away, wincing as she put the weight down on her left foot. She must have hurt it when she stumbled, but that didn’t give him the right to laugh at her. ‘I’m glad someone finds this funny.’
‘Actually, I don’t.’ Jonathan turned serious again. ‘I still think you owe me an explanation for what you’re doing here.’
‘Snooping.’ She sent him a mutinous look.
‘Yes, I got that part. What I don’t understand is when someone tells you a place is dangerous, and you’re supposed to stay away from it for your own safety, why do you do the opposite?’
‘I was curious, and that’s the truth.’
He stared into her eyes as if he was trying to make up his mind whether to believe her or not. What he saw must have convinced him, because in the end he nodded.
Relaxing, Hazel added, ‘Anyway, telling me not to do something is like a red rag to a bull.’
‘I'll have to remember that. But first you need to get out of here before my father finds you and has an apoplexy. Did you hurt yourself when you tripped? Can you walk?’
‘Yes, I think s– aww!’ A sharp pain shot up through her leg, and she bit her lip to stop herself from crying out further.
‘Did you twist your ankle?’
Hazel winced as he bent down and put a cool hand on it. ‘I must’ve done. But don’t worry, I can hobble.’
‘Not on my watch. Here, hold this.’ He shoved his torch at her, then without further ado, lifted her up in his arms as if she weighed nothing and carried her out of the hothouse.
‘What are you doing? This is ridiculous! I’m not a child.’
‘No, you’re not.’ His voice sounded deeper somehow and Hazel shivered, but not with fear.
The moon had come out, and when she lifted her face to his, the pithy remark died on her lips at the look in his eyes. Gone was the merriment which had first attracted her to him, nor did they hold that peculiar suspicion she’d experienced from him in the last week or so. In contrast, they were dark and intense, and his arms, although strong and firm, held her very gently as if he feared she would snap in half.
Her breath caught in her throat. She knew she should distance herself from him – a relationship would never work – but it was as if her body couldn’t, or wouldn’t, cooperate.
Sighing, she dropped her head on his shoulder as he carried her into the house.
Reality came back with a bang when she noticed that he turned right at the top of the grand staircase instead of left.
‘This isn’t the way to my apartment.’
‘I’m not taking you back there. I want to have a proper look at your ankle, and my first-aid kit happens to be in my private bathroom.’
‘Oh.’
The magical moment had gone, and she allowed him to take her to his quarters, where he set her down on a battered, brown leather sofa in his living room. Pulling up a small footstool, he placed her injured foot on it, propped up by a cushion, and then disappeared down a hallway which led to the bathroom and, presumably, his and the boys’ bedrooms. While he was gone, Hazel drank in her surroundings.
Jonathan’s place consisted of a large L-shaped living room, with windows facing towards the front as well as the east side of the park. The sofa stood in front of a grand fireplace, separated by a Persian rug. One corner of the room was taken up by a dining table and chairs, where the remnants of the boys’ tea was still in evidence, and a desk and book shelves occupied another. The desk was strewn with pens, papers, folders, several mugs and, incongruously, a fire station built out of Lego bricks.
The whole place was just so like Jonathan that Hazel couldn’t help smiling.
Jonathan returned carrying a first-aid box, a glass of water, and a packet of aspirin.
‘Here, this will help with the pain.’
Hazel popped two tablets in her mouth, while Jonathan took off her trainer and sock, and rolled up her trouser leg. Her ankle was swollen to almost twice its size, and she winced as he gently turned her foot this way and th
at.
‘You’ve definitely twisted your ankle, quite badly by the looks of it, but I don’t think anything is broken. I wouldn’t be able to do this if you had.’ Grinning, he looked up, and Hazel’s heart did a little jig. ‘I’m going to put some arnica cream on it for the bruising, and then a dressing around it for support. Don’t put too much weight on it over the next few days.’
‘I can still work, can’t I?’ Hazel asked. ‘You know, answer the phone and stuff.’
‘At least take a couple of days to rest. There’s nothing urgent on your desk, is there?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Good, that settles it.’
‘But ... ’
‘No ‘buts’. A sprained ankle needs rest.’
Leaning back on the sofa, Hazel tried to relax while Jonathan’s cool and efficient hands bandaged her foot, but his closeness and gentleness – combined with her own confusion – was making this very hard.
In the end, to cover up her embarrassment, she said, ‘You’ve done this before, haven’t you?’
‘I’m a dad; I can deal with bumps and bruises, and the like.’ He paused in what he was doing and met her eyes. ‘What I find difficult about being a parent is knowing whether I’m giving my children enough emotionally. I often feel I’m coming up short there.’
‘They miss you when they go away to school.’
‘They said that?’
Hazel nodded.
‘Maybe I need to look into local schools for them. That way we’d be together more, and they’d have friends in the area.’
‘Why did you choose boarding school, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘It seemed like a good idea at the time.’ Jonathan finished bandaging Hazel’s foot and rested it back on the footstool. ‘I went to one myself and so did Dad. And Arabella, well, she had very specific ideas about what was expected of people from our social circle.’
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