Thicker Than Water (Alexandra Best Investigations Book 1)

by Jean Saunders

  She had forgotten she had even mentioned supper, but seconds later he was gone, while her mouth was still watering at the thought of spare ribs smothered in sweet and sour sauce, and succulent stir-fried vegetables. Her thighs positively swelled in anticipation...

  If there was anything to compare with sex, it was food, she thought longingly. And then reversed the thought. There was no comparison at all.

  ***

  She didn’t like being organized, and if it hadn’t been for the tempting thought of taking another look at Price Chemicals she would have told him to get lost. In any case, she had already decided that her next move was to return to Wilsingham village and check out the locals, to get a better picture of Caroline. But she realized she couldn’t contact Gary to tell him she had changed her mind about tomorrow. She had no address for him, other than Kingston on Thames. Nor did she have a telephone number, nor any knowledge of the courier firm he worked for. In a way, he was as anonymous as Caroline Price. She had decided to trust him, and she did, more or less, but she knew as little about him — less in fact — than she did about Caroline or her father.

  It still bothered her. not least because she was sure he’d seen her as an easy pick-up. Which she had been, of course. Anyway, there was no changing things now, but the courier delivery shouldn’t take more than an hour there and back, allowing for traffic.

  And then she would do as she intended and go to Wilsingham. Alone. It might be a good idea to check into the local pub for the night, she decided. People always opened up more if strangers were seen to be spending money. Her thoughts rambled on as she tried to sleep on a night that was hot and sticky and airless, and far better spent without company.

  ***

  Next morning, sitting in the shade on the pillion seat of the bike while Gary did his delivery, she wondered why she had agreed to go with him at all. There was no point. She could hardly march into Price’s office and ask him for the cousin’s name and address, since she wasn’t supposed to know the details of his business, anyway. She knew Price was there because his car was in its prominent parking space, and while Gary was delivering his package and taking stock of the interior she removed the heavy crash helmet for a few moments to wipe away the dampness in her neck.

  ‘Nothing to report,’ he said regretfully when he came back to the Harley. ‘I couldn’t get further than the warehouse, and was sent on my way sharpish. Whatever’s going on in there, the mood’s pretty scratchy. So where next?’

  ‘Back to my office and a parting of the ways. I need to think, but thanks for the ride, Gary,’ she said firmly.

  ‘And that’s it?’

  ‘That’s it. Don’t you have other work to do?’

  Or are you just playing with me, keeping tabs on me?

  He shrugged. ‘Yeah, you’re right. Back to London then, and I’ll see you around.’

  The bike roared back to town, and Alex knew the exact meaning of her heart being in her mouth. She waved him off with a feeling of relief, thankful to have survived a hair-raising journey, and with no mention of another meeting.

  And then it was down to business. She found the number of the Little Harp Inn at Wilsingham, and called to book a room for the night. She had already brought her overnight bag from home. Better to do it in advance as a regular tourist than just turn up and create undue curiosity.

  The phone rang just as she was leaving, and she had switched on the office answering machine, so she didn’t bother to pick up the receiver. Then she froze as she heard Norman Price’s furious voice.

  ‘I don’t like snoopers, Miss Best, and I understood you worked alone. I told you I wanted no police or outside interference, which includes boyfriends on motor cycles. Our contract is now terminated.’

  The line went dead, and Alex felt her blood boil with fury. Snooping was exactly what she was expected to do in order to find his daughter. But how did he know she had been to his factory?

  Unless Gary had informed him. The idea hit her with the force of a bullet, and she didn’t like what she was thinking. If Gary was the cousin, with some devious double-dealing game of his own, he could have done this to stop Norman continuing to hire her.

  But why the hell would Gary have deciphered the diary so cleverly if he was involved? And he wasn’t M. Even in her state of heightened nerves, she knew that the way Caroline had described some of M’s salacious love-making that bordered on perversion, wasn’t Gary’s way. She felt the slow trickle of sweat down her back, and then her heart slowed down as she realized how Price knew she’d been at his factory.

  The memories clicked into place. She had taken off her crash helmet, and for those few minutes her distinctive red hair had been clearly visible. Price must have seen her from his office window. It had to be that. And since he now knew that she was aware of his business concerns, she switched off the answering machine, picked up the phone and dialled his business number.

  Once she had contacted him, she snapped into the mouthpiece, ‘Mr Price, I assure you I am working entirely alone, and it was total coincidence that my friend gave me a ride to your premises this morning. But I wouldn’t be worth much in my line if I hadn’t already checked out your business. You wanted a professional and you got one.’

  She held her breath. If Price was acquainted with Gary, if he was the cousin — he would surely give the game away. She was well attuned to nuances in a voice, and in Price’s now there was nothing but continued rage.

  ‘I told you our contract is terminated—’

  And Alex could see her winter cruise disappearing like a mirage.

  ‘That’s up to you, of course. But as I’ve already begun my investigations and am fully aware that a missing person is a serious matter, I might feel it ethical to hand over the details to the police,’ she said silkily.

  Alex held her breath, wondering if she had gone too far, and if he would believe her. Missing adults never produced such poignant or frantic enquiries as a missing child, though they had to be investigated too, of course. Her legs shook and she had to lean against the desk for support, as the silence at the other end lengthened.

  And then he snarled, ‘This is blackmail, you bitch—’

  ‘Not at all. It’s normal procedure,’ she invented wildly. ‘But if you decide to continue to retain me, I suggest you give me some details about your daughter’s cousin, Mr Price. He may be able to help me in tracking down her disappearance.’

  And if he’s young and dark and horny and rides a Harley Davidson motor bike, I don’t want to know.

  The silence lengthened again, and then the voice was more clipped, but still full of anger. ‘Very well. His name is Jeremy Laver and he calls himself a classical musician. I haven’t seen him in years and have no idea where he’s living now, but if you’re any good I daresay that’s enough for you to go on. But I’m not paying you to find him: it’s my daughter who’s missing—’

  ‘I’m aware of that, Mr Price. And I’ll be in touch as soon as I have any news.’

  She put down the phone before he could reply, and switched on the answering machine again before scribbling down the name of Jeremy Laver. Her hands were still shaking, but partly with relief because the cousin didn’t sound remotely like Gary Hollis. The memory that flashed into her mind at that moment, was the sight of him briefly dancing with some girl at the Rainbow Club, and his sense of rhythm was zilch.

  But contacting Jeremy Laver was going to be put on the back burner for the present. She was going to continue with her plan to go to Wilsingham to talk to the locals and find out what she could about the occupant of Greenwell Cottage.

  If Gary deigned to call her again, here or at the flat, too bad.

  ***

  She reached Wilsingham late in the afternoon and checked into the Little Harp Inn. Her room was low-beamed, creaky and chintzy, with an en-suite corner that had once been a cupboard but did the job adequately enough. Once she had unpacked, Alex returned to the bar and spent a few minutes chatting to the open-faced l
andlady as if she was an enthusiastic city girl who had just discovered the delights of the countryside.

  Even though the words ‘darling little thatched cottages’ and ‘quaint old country ways’ stuck in her throat, she uttered them sincerely and loudly, aware that several old salts in the corner of the bar were listening to every word.

  ‘They’ll be able to tell you more about our old country ways, if you’ve a mind to learn more, miss,’ the landlady said, nodding towards them. “Specially if there’s a jar or two alongside ‘em for wetting their whistles, if you get my meanin’,’ she added with a wink.

  ‘I certainly do,’ Alex said. ‘I want to wander around to get a feel of the village right now, but do you think those people will be in here tonight?’

  She felt slightly light-headed, talking about the two old men as if they were waxworks, but the woman merely laughed.

  ‘Bless you, my dear, they’re as good as fixtures. You go about your business now, and I’ll tell ‘em to keep a seat warm for you tonight.’

  Alex smiled at them as she passed through the bar, guessing that the landlady would soon be telling them they were in for a night of free beer if they dug into their store of village lore. She wore a T-shirt, jeans and trainers now, her camera slung around her neck, the typical tourist. And her heart lifted as she began the stroll around the village.

  This was the best part of her job, she admitted, and on a day like this, blue and golden with summer, it was easy to forget she was here to do a job at all. But she was... and in the post-office-cum-shop she bought some postcards.

  ‘This is such a pretty village,’ she said to the woman in the flower-patterned overall behind the counter. ‘It’s like stepping back in time — in the nicest possible way, of course,’ she added. ‘The thatched cottages are really adorable.’

  ‘You might not think so if you lived in one, miss. They can harbour insects and even mice when the thatch gets a bit tatty. And the birds like to nest in ‘em too. We’ve had ours done up recently,’ she added proudly.

  ‘Oh, but they’re part of our heritage, aren’t they? I want to photograph some of them for my parents. Would people object, do you think?’

  ‘Shouldn’t think so.’ Alex could almost hear the regret in the woman’s voice that her done-up cottage wasn’t going to be one of the ones photographed for posterity now.

  ‘Are any of them unoccupied, though? I wouldn’t want to offend people.’

  The postmistress shrugged. ‘There’s not many that stay unoccupied for long. Soon as they’re for sale, city folk come and snap ‘em up. No offence, mind.’

  ‘None taken,’ Alex murmured, falling into the same mode of talking. ‘There was one I noticed at the end of a lane, very secluded. Does anyone live there?’

  ‘That’ll be Greenwell Cottage. Belongs to a woman, but she keeps herself to herself. They say she’s mute, but I don’t know about that. She has a visitor in a big car now and then, but she don’t bother us, and we don’t bother her. That’s the way folks are here, miss,’ she added meaningfully. ‘Now, do you want stamps for them cards or not?’

  ‘Oh — yes please,’ Alex said hastily, knowing she should keep up the illusion of tourist.

  It was odd. She always thought village folk had their noses in everyone else’s business — but if Caroline was as cold and stand-offish as she appeared to them, it might well have resulted in the villagers shunning her and leaving her strictly alone.

  Which wasn’t going to help Alex Best’s case at all.

  She stepped out into the sunshine with her purchases and strode more purposefully towards the end of the village and the lane leading to Greenwell Cottage. In her bag she had the key of the cottage, and she knew perfectly well there was nobody in it. There was only the aura that Caroline had left behind, and whatever clues to her disappearance that Norman Price had been too impatient to let her find on her first visit. But this time she was alone, and her sense of anticipation was high as she pushed open the gate, ignoring the encroaching weeds that brushed against her legs as she walked up the path to the front door.

  Chapter 4

  The familiar scent of the cottage enveloped her. Every house had its own distinctive smell, whether of history or ownership. and this one was no exception. Alex stood perfectly still as she had done before, but this time it was not merely to absorb the atmosphere; this time she was listening for the slightest sound that would tell her she was not alone. There was always the chance that Caroline might have returned, and the case would be over before it had properly begun.

  It was pointless to call Caroline’s name, of course, since she wouldn’t hear it. Alex wondered why she hadn’t kept a dog to alert her to visitors, since the cottage was so isolated from the rest of the village. Though from what Price had told her of his daughter’s resentment and strong will, she probably wouldn’t admit to any kind of nervousness.

  But the character sketch Alex was building of the missing woman in her mind was far from complete. Caroline was still an enigma. The staid, reclusive workaholic and the raving nympho, to use Gary’s term for her, didn’t altogether add up.

  Or maybe it did. Everyone showed a different face to different people. It was one of the first rules you learned as a private eye. Never take people at face value. Always look deeper. Scratch the smoothest surface and see what rough edges are there. She could almost recite the clichéd words of the self-help manual.

  And wasn’t she just the same? She wasn’t at all what she appeared to be. She was just a small-time girl from the Yorkshire Dales who’d polished up her accent and citified her appearance, and set herself up doing a sometimes dangerous job, but one that was more often mundane and plodding. And only occasionally exciting.

  A sudden noise set her nerves jumping. A stealthily moving cat in the unkempt garden had leapt at a bird, and sent it squawking for the safety of the higher branches of a tree. Alex pressed her hand over her thudding heart.

  ‘Slow down, you fool,’ she informed it. ‘A missing client is one thing. The corpse of the PI in a deserted cottage is quite another.’

  She shivered. There was no real reason to suspect FOUL PLAY, which she always thought of in capitals to reduce it to farce, and to dismiss the idea of discovering anything nasty. But all the same, the possibility was always there.

  ‘Where are you, Caroline?’ she muttered. ‘Give me a clue, there’s a sweetie.’

  Her gaze was caught by the crossword grids, still neatly stacked, and the carefully covered computer and copier. Caroline was methodical in all things, she observed, and she’d be willing to bet the desk drawers were just as tidily arranged. The door key didn’t fit them and she was reluctant to force them. It wasn’t in the rules... But try as she might, she couldn’t find another key anywhere.

  Anyway, there was nothing here to help. There was nothing. If Caroline received letters, she kept them well hidden, and how she received payment for her work Alex had no idea. However it was, Caroline seemed to have successfully turned herself into a one-woman self-sufficiency.

  A grudging feeling of admiration filled Alex’s mind. She didn’t blame Caroline one bit for brushing off the obnoxious Father Price. Nor for getting a life that was far beyond what one might expect from the image of her in the photographs. She wasn’t that bad, either, Alex thought indignantly, however scathing Gary had been of her appearance. With a bit of makeup and a different hair-style she could be at least what people would call handsome... even striking.

  She moved slowly about the cottage, trying to absorb Caroline’s aura once more. Trying to be Caroline, and totally failing. How did a deaf person tick? How did she ever conduct a business successfully? And just how successful was she? Maybe the anonymous M was a pimp, and she really was a high-class call-girl. There were plenty of weirdos who would pay big money for any kind of deviation from the norm. A woman who couldn’t hear the depths of their crudeness would appeal to some. Especially one who couldn’t answer, or scream...

  It was a s
kin-crawling thought, and Alex bristled on Caroline’s behalf. She wasn’t dumb, and it was only the dregs of humanity who considered a deaf girl an oddity. People were more enlightened these days... except that she knew damn well that there was a huge section who didn’t give a monkey’s for political correctness, so who was she kidding?

  She went into Caroline’s bedroom again, and gazed through the tiny window at the surrounding countryside. Was this where she entertained her lover, the mysterious M? Did she watch for him to come to her from this window, where you couldn’t even see the road except for the lane leading to the cottage? It was so secluded it was all too easy to think yourself into another world here. Isolated, lonely, alone... vulnerable... all the negative words floated through Alex’s mind.

  She drew back from the window with a gasp, her heart thudding. The sunlight dazzled, and the breeze rustling through the trees threw strange shadows, even in daylight. She had seen nothing of any substance, just a shadowy movement that had caught her eye. But all her instincts told her it was no prowling cat, or unseasonally early shedding of leaves.

  Her gut feeling told her it was a human shadow. Someone was out there, watching her. Some local busybody, perhaps, wondering what she was doing here. Or kids, trying to scare her, or the kidnapper, if kidnapper there was. Knowing of Caroline’s expected inheritance, and anticipating what could be at stake for Father Price if he didn’t get his hands on it, the likelihood of kid-napping was high on Alex’s agenda now. Yet there had been no ransom demand...

  ‘Calm down, you idiot,’ she muttered, feeling her back against the wall, literally. ‘What kind of a private di— eye — are you, for God’s sake? Danger is meant to be your business. Courage is your middle name.’

  She heard the hollow words come out of her dry lips. Saying them aloud was meant to be a mantra, a comfort, a confidence-booster. It didn’t work. It never worked. Alex told herself she intended to write a coda to that bloody self-help manual on detective work she had bought, to remind foolish, wannabe ‘tecs to go try something easier, like brain surgery.