by DH Smith
‘Well timed,’ said Jack.
Joanna strode past him, up the stairs and into the flat. He followed her and closed the front door.
‘If only one could read minds,’ said Joanna as she unbuttoned her coat. It was light green, coming to her knees. Under it she wore jeans and a tight, sky blue T-shirt.
‘You’ve changed your clothes,’ he said.
‘At long damn last. I made a big fuss. Crime scene, crime scene they went on, until sick of me they gave in, and togged me up in plastic gear and let me go in the bedroom and sort out a few things. Closely watched every second. Don’t touch this, don’t touch that.’
‘And you brought a few bits and pieces in the suitcase?’ added Jack.
She clicked the latches and flipped it open. Inside were sheets and towels.
‘I’m not sleeping in talc,’ she said.
Jack noted her assumption. Carol briefly crossed his mind. But Carol was over the other side of the galaxy. He took the bedding and towels out of the suitcase and placed them on the table.
‘Two sheets,’ he counted, ‘four pillowcases and two towels. You should have been a chambermaid.’ She screwed up her face as he added, ‘I hope that doesn’t leave you with a bare mattress at home.’
She smiled wryly. ‘We have a few more, sweetie.’ She flicked her fingers. ‘Sod it. I forgot a duvet cover. We’ll have to use both sheets.’
She strode across and embraced him. He fell into her warm flesh. They kissed standing for a little while and then fell onto the sofa. After a minute or so, she said:
‘We should make up the bed.’
They went into the bedroom and began stripping the bed.
‘He’s now certain I killed your husband,’ Jack said, taking the old pillow cases off and throwing them on the floor.
‘Because I’m sleeping with you,’ she mused, dragging off the sheet. ‘He might think we are in it together.’
He had a sudden thought. ‘There’s fifty thousand quid in my bank account that I have no explanation for. It’s nothing to do with you, is it?’
‘I don’t pay for sex,’ she said.
She threw the duvet on the floor and they spread out a clean sheet.
‘So where the hell has it come from? All it says on the statement is Goldfinch. Totally meaningless to me.’
They went round the mattress tucking in. There was plenty of sheet to tuck under, Jack realising Joanna and Leon’s bed must be king size plus. They took a pillow each and a case.
‘It’s from Leon,’ she said thoughtfully.
‘Why would he give me all that money? Anonymously.’
‘That’s what I’m trying to work out,’ she said.
He sat on the bed, a pillow half covered in his lap. And it hit him.
‘He was trying to fit me up,’ he exclaimed.
‘What for?’
He tugged at her arm.
‘Your murder.’
She sank onto the bed. ‘The evil bugger.’
‘My tools for a weapon, all that money in my bank account…’
‘He pushes us in bed together,’ she added.
He held her hand. ‘Not a lot of pushing necessary.’
She sucked her bottom lip. ‘You are so right,’ she said. ‘He was going to kill me. I wonder how. Frame you. The money’s from him alright. I’d already phoned my lawyer to begin divorce proceedings. And he knew I’d have gone for every penny I could get in settlement.’
I bet you would, thought Jack.
‘He was a tight bastard,’ she said.
‘And you’re Miss Generous.’
‘Not with money,’ she said. ‘Other things.’ She waved a stern finger at him. ‘And that fifty thousand – I want it back.’
‘Sue me.’
She spread her arms in banner headlines. ‘Socialist Counts On Capitalist Court!’
‘Your husband gave me the cash,’ he said reasonably, ‘in exchange for twenty years in the nick.’
‘Except the bet was called off.’ She held out her hands. ‘Look, I’m alive.’
‘So you are.’
She glanced at her watch. ‘We’ll sort out the finances tomorrow. In the meantime, let’s not waste these clean sheets.’
Chapter 43
Busy day.
Joanna had rushed off in the morning, heading for breakfast with her accountant. Then over to her recently acquired Housing Office in Stratford. She’d refused his coffee, said her accountant made decent stuff.
Alone, he scribbled a list to do in the day ahead: back to the summerhouse, buy Dan’s door, hold on to it this time, fix said door, police station at 2 pm with bank statements, fairy books to Mia, and get some time with Carol. Joanna last night had to be a one-off, though he doubted Carol would see it that way. He should have said no to Joanna, but he had been feeling low.
The excuse for everything.
Driving through the rush hour mêlée on the way to Walthamstow, he contemplated Joanna. How would she have reacted if he had said no to her visit? She might’ve sacked him. But then he had £50,000 of her money. Which she wanted back.
Well he had it. But had better not spend it.
Bloody traffic, crawling along, each occupant breathing in the fumes of the car in front. How many years did this pollution take off your life? Increasing your risk of cancer and God knows what else. But he had to drive, part of the job. Small building work involved so much fetching and carrying. But that was one of the things he liked about it. The variability and uncertainty. Each job tested his skill.
But not these bloody cars. All with one person in. Just like him. No wonder the planet is fucked.
Number one, buy the door for Dan’s place. Go to the same place in Walthamstow he’d bought the first. Then dump it at Dan’s – and over to Joanna’s. Coming and going like a yo-yo. A bit of summerhouse work, then the meeting. He was tempted to nip up the bus lane – but they sometimes had cameras. He couldn’t risk a fine, especially when he hardly knew how much money he had. That cash Ward had given him, of course. He should bank some of it, not just leave it in a drawer. He must do his books, and stick a bill into Joanna.
Carol.
She was the one. Joanna had property and plans he could never be part of, nor would want ever to be. She was a foxy schemer, and would dump him in five minutes, that’s if she hadn’t already. Carol was more his size, hated Ward’s slums as much as he did. Just not quite as pushy and sexy, though he’d like to be persuaded.
She’d looked inviting enough at the party. And afterwards – until Joanna showed up. Always back to her. The wife that Leon was planning to murder, and load it onto him. My God – if that had gone through! He imagined the trial: with the unaccounted for money in his account, sleeping with Joanna too, and who knows what other fabricated evidence and witnesses Leon would have set up.
Except someone had chopped down Leon Ward first. Bashed his head in with Jack’s hammer and chisel. Could Joanna have done it? She was a cool operator; he wouldn’t put it past her. She had a steely ruthlessness, hated Ward like poison, was greedy enough to want all his money and not just a divorce settlement, no matter how many millions that might have poured on her.
But then again, Leon was in a cesspool of hatred. His slum empire, all the dirty deeds he had done over the years to get there. How many people at his party wanted him dead, while eating his canapés and toasting him in champagne. All it would have taken was one to stay behind. Hide. Heads break easy enough; brains are as soft as putty.
This wasn’t going to work; the traffic was barely moving on Lea Bridge Road. He’d never get to the wholesalers at this rate. Jack turned down a side street, leaving hooting and swearing motorists behind him. Sorry, Dan, he thought. He’d have another try for the door in the afternoon after his visit to the cop shop. He did a loop round the back roads, cutting through to Whipps Cross Road, pushing his way into the traffic, and set off up the Woodford New Road to Chigwell.
Chapter 44
Donna was singi
ng ‘All I want is a room somewhere’ from My Fair Lady. Her flat was her own again and she’d seen Eric. She couldn’t stop smiling, she was bubbling over.
The downstairs was mostly free from the crime scene: the lounge, her kitchen, but not the laundry yet. She wasn’t allowed in there, just in case there was something in the washing. She’d seen two policewomen draped in plastic, sorting through sheets and shirts, examining them closely.
The police had said the main bedroom upstairs would be free in an hour or two, the guest bedroom and snooker room were already signed off. And that would leave just Joanna’s and Leon’s rooms in the crime scene.
What a beautiful morning!
Joanna and Carol were in the lounge going through figures. Donna was making them poached egg on toast with coffee. The sun was shining, and she’d phoned Eric earlier, amazed she could do that. So easy. Hear his voice, talk about his day. The wonder of inconsequential chat. The two of them were going to see a film later in the week. Eric would decide which.
Change was in the air here too. Well, a murder does alter the environment. There was less work for her to do in the house. Leon had been demanding about his food. But he was gone, and she’d never got on that well with Joanna. Anytime she could get a month’s notice. Leon had protected her, gave her the granny flat and a permanent job – but did the dirty on her when it came to Eric.
Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad thing to move. She had her savings; they would keep her a while. She could find a flat near Eric, look for a job, maybe in a school or something. Perhaps she should start looking herself and not wait for Joanna’s guillotine.
The toast popped up. She took the four slices out and buttered them. Best French butter, always insisted on by Leon. Two slices of wholegrain toast on each plate, both slices topped with poached egg. She poured the coffee out of the cafetiere into the cups, and took the tray into the lounge.
Joanna barely looked up from her laptop.
‘Good morning, Donna,’ said Carol and gave her a beaming smile. ‘Oh, that looks delicious.’
‘I’ll be glad when the police are gone,’ said Donna, ‘so I can do the laundry.’
‘Won’t we all,’ mumbled Joanna.
She left them to it and went back to her kitchen. There, she looked out of the back window into the garden. Jack had just arrived. She popped a couple of slices of bread in the toaster, and went to the fridge for some bacon. There was enough coffee.
She’d tell him her good news. It was good to have someone to chat to. Carol she liked, but Joanna kept her so busy. Carol and Jack should get together. She’d put in a good word for him.
What a beautiful morning!
Chapter 45
Joanna looked at her watch impatiently.
‘Go and get Jack. It’s five past. And while you are at it, ask Donna for another coffee.’
Carol rose from the sofa, straightened the skirt of her suit, and went into the hall. Joanna was ready for them this morning, pleased to have her house back. Most of it. All the downstairs but the laundry, the bedroom soon, they said. It had better be. They could keep Leon’s room but she would like her office back. Still, Carol had bought her a new laptop this morning. Good to have a spare anyway. She’d downloaded all her data from the Cloud. So remarkably easy these days. You could work anywhere.
Except perhaps at Donna’s.
This afternoon the fairy girls were coming. The intention was to offload them onto Carol, who would be editor. And she’d be Editor in Chief – but hoped that was simply a title. She wanted no more of the bloody books. Well, she’d go to the odd conference. She enjoyed being fussed over on the US circuit. But Carol would do the day to day.
Where were they? Carol bantering with Jack no doubt. She’d have a word with her. Raise her standards. A tradesman is good for a night or two. But not a relationship. Carol should be thinking about the way up. Leon had certainly worked for her. His go-getting energy; it was what had first attracted her to him. He’d been on the rise. Whereas Jack was decent, but he’d be a small builder all his life.
Look upwards. Climb.
It was why she had all this. And sex – well, she was attractive, rich and strong. She’d dally about with whoever until someone choice came her way. She could afford to be choosy. She was a catch. This house, her looks and fashion sense, and fifty million in various assets… She failed to understand the Jacks of this world. So little ambition, when there was a universe to grab.
Carol and Jack entered. They looked a little sheepish. She wondered what they’d been talking about. She rather wished Carol would keep her paws off Jack. For the next week or two anyway. Then she was welcome to him.
And Joanna would come to the wedding bearing gifts.
Carol and Jack sat on the sofa. Love, shmuv.
‘My property,’ she began, tapping her pad with her pen.
‘Your slums,’ corrected Carol.
She ignored her. ‘I’ve seen my accountant this morning and seen Timms. So I’m up to speed. I have 110 houses. Book value £30 million or more.’
‘You couldn’t sell them,’ said Jack. ‘Not as they are.’
She went on. ‘They realise roughly £5 million a year in rent and £3 million on the loan agreements.’ She stopped and looked at them both. ‘I don’t want to throw that away.’
‘It represents a lot of human misery,’ said Carol.
‘I am not a charity.’
Jack said, ‘You’ve got this reporter nosing about. I’d bet he knows a fair bit of the dirt already, and then the murder got him very interested.’
Joanna rubbed her chin. ‘I could just get Tweedledee and Tweedledum on him. Give him a scare.’
‘What?’ exclaimed Carol.
‘Leon’s henchmen. They could pay him a visit. Smash his flat, break a leg.’ She flapped a hand. ‘Whatever they do.’
‘I’m in the wrong space,’ said Jack looking to Carol. ‘Maybe I should just go back to working on the summerhouse.’
‘It’s one of my options,’ said Joanna firmly. ‘That’s what we are here to talk about. Aren’t we?’
Carol said, ‘I don’t know how Mr Ward kept this under wraps so long.’
Joanna shrugged. ‘He paid people off, Carol. That’s the way it’s done. Council, cops. I talked to Timms. They budgeted for it. And they sent the boys round from time to time.’
‘Do you really want to do that?’ asked Jack.
‘Not personally.’ She sighed. ‘I spoke to my accountant about setting up shell companies. And he’s pessimistic. He said Leon should have done it ages ago.’ She flapped an airy hand. ‘Before we had the nosy journalist, before Leon got done in.’
‘Let’s get this straight,’ said Carol. ‘You don’t mind being a slum landlord.’
‘It’s very lucrative.’
‘But you don’t want to be seen as a slum landlord.’
‘Correct.’
Jack laughed.
Donna entered with coffee and pastries on a tray. She put the tray down on the low table in front of the sofa. Jack gave her a wink and Carol gave a wave.
‘That’ll be all, Donna,’ said Joanna.
Donna left. Carol passed round the coffees.
‘I’ll have the Danish slice,’ said Joanna.
‘Either’ll do me,’ said Jack.
Carol passed round the pastries. For half a minute they drank and ate. Joanna sat back and waited. She thought, I’ve made my position clear. Let’s see what the socialists have to offer.
Carol said, ‘As I see it, Joanna, you have three options. Option one – carry on as now. With a journalist out for the big exposé and the cops bound to be in there soon, if they are not already. Option two – clear the properties of tenants. They are all on one year licences. So over a year, they could all be out. Then do whatever tarting up is necessary – and sell the lot. Option three – be a good landlord.’
Jack laughed, and spluttered over his cake. ‘Sorry, sorry. I just cannot imagine Joanna as a good landlord.’<
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Carol looked at him fiercely. ‘It’s an option.’
‘It is an option,’ agreed Joanna. ‘Whatever else one might say, it is an option.’
‘The reporter is coming here at three,’ said Carol. ‘And we have to know what we are going to say to him.’
‘Let’s give him a holding statement,’ said Joanna. ‘Say I didn’t know what Leon was up to and I’m investigating.’
Carol shook her head. ‘That won’t wash. The story could go viral in the next few days.’ She indicated banner headlines with her arms. ‘Bluebell Woods Is A Slum Landlord!’
‘That’d be uncomfortable,’ mused Joanna. ‘Might kill the children’s book sales.’
‘You must be seen to be improving things,’ insisted Jack.
‘OK, Mr Workers’ Party. What do I do?’
‘Do a clean up of the fronts,’ he said. ‘Then a health and safety check – and make good. And dump your loan shark company.’
‘What the fuck!’ exclaimed Joanna, throwing up her arms. ‘My loan company makes three million a year.’
‘By using violence and intimidation,’ joined in Carol. ‘Chop it out and show you’re serious.’
‘Three million quid!’ exclaimed Joanna. ‘I cannot believe you’re saying this.’
‘Keep it and you’ll get crucified,’ said Carol. ‘The media will be all over you. Dump it. And all the tenants will speak up for you.’
‘And I’ll be in the poor house. What do they call it? On benefits.’
‘Not quite,’ exclaimed Jack.
‘I can’t do it,’ Joanna burst out. ‘It’s nonsensical economics. Get rid of the loan scheme? I am nobody’s fairy godmother.’
‘Good headline,’ said Carol.
‘Oh fuck off.’
‘Think of the misery it causes,’ said Jack, having a go. ‘Families who can’t afford food because of your extortionate loans, living in the dark because they can’t pay for electricity…’
‘Don’t give me sob tales. Profit and loss – that’s the way I work.’
‘Profit,’ said Carol, ‘maybe three million – but for how long? Loss – reputation, maybe a jail sentence.’