Thicker Than Water (Alexandra Best Investigations Book 1)

by Jean Saunders

  ‘All right, Einstein. Then think.’ Daneman clamped his lips together and put his hands behind his head.

  As his body odour wafted across the room, Jeremy visibly moved back a fraction. How on earth could Caroline have ever fancied him... ?

  She had always been so fastidious and reserved, even before she became deaf. But from the way Daneman had once described their bedroom activities so lasciviously to him, it would seem as if that had changed drastically, at least as far as the affair with Daneman was concerned.

  ‘You do still have her, I suppose? She is still safe?’ he persisted, but still not wanting to know more.

  He had been adamant about not being personally involved. Now, far too late, he realized he only had Daneman’s word for everything. He said she wanted to work, but even that could be lies on Daneman’s part.

  Jeremy cursed himself for having had to bring Daneman into the plan, and even more so that he had only been to the cottage once himself, just to check that it was empty when she had gone off with her lover. It hadn’t been a proper kidnapping anyway, Jeremy had excused himself at the time, since she had gone so willingly.

  And on his one visit to check, the cottage had certainly looked deserted, but he should have checked again.

  Daneman gave him a withering look.

  ‘Don’t be a bloody fool. Of course I’ve got her, and I’ve got the scars to prove it.’ He turned his head sideways to show the fingernail scratches on his neck.

  ‘So let’s get practical. If this woman’s no journalist, who is she?’ he went on curtly.

  ‘Well, for a start I’ll lay odds that her name’s not Audrey Barnes,’ Jeremy said, remembering.

  ‘Try it. Look her up in the phone book.’

  After checking through pages of people called Barnes, they phoned more than a dozen with varying responses, some irate, some slamming down the phone at once.

  ‘You’ve probably got a few women on the skids now, their husbands demanding to know who’s calling them so late at night,’ Daneman said with a leer. ‘This is pointless, anyway. Didn’t she give you a business card, for Christ’s sake?’

  ‘No she didn’t. Just a post office box number where I could send the concert tickets.’

  Jeremy was getting more incensed by the minute at what he considered this toe-rag’s censure. How was he supposed to know the woman wasn’t genuine? People were always trying to get free tickets for concerts, and he admitted that it had played to his vanity when the woman called.

  ‘That’s it then!’ Daneman said. ‘We send her an anonymous note asking her to meet you at the cottage if she wants to hear something to her advantage.’

  ‘And you think she’ll bite, do you?’

  ‘Why not? She had to be there for a reason in the first place, and we need to find out what it was. You don’t give the exact address of the place or say who you are, dummy. You just say the cottage. If she’s not a journalist she’ll know where to go. She won’t be expecting the writer to be you, and you’ll take her off guard the minute she recognises you. And you’d better get on to it pretty damn quick. Call me on my mobile when it’s done.’

  ‘Are you mad? You don’t actually expect me to go there and confront her, do you? What am I supposed to do when she recognizes me, since she has no idea of my connection with Caroline?’

  He panicked at once, completely out of his depth at the prospect, and by the cunning way Daneman’s mind worked. He couldn’t even follow it properly. He’d be well used to this sort of thing; Jeremy wasn’t.

  ‘That’s up to you. Pay her off. Silence her if you have to. Do your own thinking for once.’

  He left the flat, and Jeremy splurged air freshener about the place. His innards were turning to water, and he’d give anything not to have to follow this through. But the more he thought about it the more he knew Daneman was right. They had to know who the woman was. Catching her off guard was the only way to do it. But what the hell he was going to say to explain himself was completely beyond him.

  ***

  Alex didn’t check her post office box number every day. Most of the time there was nothing in it anyway. But this time, along with several other items, there was a long brown envelope written in handwriting that she knew at once was clumsily disguised. She’d been in the business too long not to know when a slanting, every-which-way scrawl wasn’t genuine.

  She didn’t open it until she got back to her office. It could be from a client not wanting their name to be known, or a threat to ‘do you in, missus’, as had happened more than once. Or a note sent with a lurid and unsavoury description of what the person intended doing to her, like several she’d had previously, and which had found their way to the waste-paper bin pretty smartly. You didn’t want to waste time pondering over whether or not such messages might be from kids mucking about, or worse.

  The other letters were merely circulars. Alex made herself some coffee and decided that a doughnut wouldn’t do any harm. Then she slit open the last envelope, anticipating some tacky correspondence, but since you could never be sure... and then she sat up quickly, her heart thumping.

  Far from being intimidated — and knowing that was a feeling that would come later — her eyes sparkled as she scanned the pathetically worded message.

  ‘How corny can you get, meatball?’ she addressed the letter. ‘Cutting letters out of newspapers went out with the Ark. Though I suppose it would have been scratchings on tablets of stone in those days—’

  She realized she was babbling out loud. Not that there was anyone to hear. Still... first sign of madness, so they said... she looked at the letter again.

  MEET ME AT THE COTTAGE SUNDAY, the haphazard letters said. IT WILL BE WORTH YOUR WHILE.

  She calmed down still more as her thoughts raced. There was only one cottage on her immediate horizon. Caroline’s. This thing had to refer to Greenwell Cottage, since they hadn’t bothered to specify the address or give any further details. But somebody knew she had been there. She felt a sudden deep suspicion.

  It wasn’t that effing Gary, was it? She wouldn’t completely rule it out. She’d held him off a bit lately, and it was just the kind of trick he’d enjoy, getting her down there on their own in that idyllic little cottage...

  Against her will, Alex didn’t find the thought of it exactly unexciting. He was a vigorous lover, she’d say that for him, and she knew he was still hot for her. His favourite comment was that he relished screwing a classy dame.

  And if it was him, why not play along? Her hormones were working overtime now. Why bloody not? Take time out. Pretend this was for real, go down there and find him there, waiting... except that he didn’t know the address of the place.

  ‘Slow down, girl,’ she admonished herself severely. ‘This is no time for fantasies. What if it is real? What if the guy who sent the letter knows where Caroline is, and really does have some information? He must know I’m looking for her.’

  Despite her shivery reaction to the alternative possibility that she might well be in danger herself, she smiled ruefully as the melodramatics took over. She was getting nowhere at all. But he — if it was a he — didn’t know that. Apparently.

  She thought fast. Sunday was nearly a week away, so the guy had evidently given her time to check her post office box. She wasn’t sure whether or not Gary knew she didn’t do it too often. She knew he was aware of the number, because he would have seen the envelope with Jeremy Laver’s concert tickets in it. It had to be him. Didn’t it?

  Half of her hoped that it was, and the other half didn’t. Because if it wasn’t Gary, someone had genuine information about Caroline, and whatever the risk to herself, it could be a breakthrough at last. She couldn’t pass up the chance of following this through. It was what PIs did, whatever the danger and however sleazy the method of communication.

  Anyway, she was seeing Gary that evening, and she’d soon damn well find out if it was him. They were going to the cinema and he’d expect to be invited back to her flat af
terwards. Her part of the bargain for a good night out…

  ***

  Around midnight, Gary raised his head from the depths of her bedclothes, leaned on his elbows and looked down at her voluptuous body, glistening in the light from the bedside lamp. Sex was a healthy and energetic form of exercise to him, and it beat going to the gym every time. Alex normally participated fully. But not tonight.

  ‘You’ve got something on your mind, babe,’ he complained at her failure to respond with her usual squeals.

  She pulled his mouth down to hers, tasting herself on his lips, contrite (and somewhat surprised) that she had allowed her thoughts to go elsewhere than on achieving orgasm.

  ‘Maybe I’m impatient for the real thing to begin,’ she whispered seductively, her hand moving downwards obligingly.

  After a few seconds scrutinizing her flushed cheeks, Gary moved over, and lay flat on his back beside her.

  ‘Nah. Anyway, I’ve lost the urge now — and before you say that’s a first, it’s only temporary. So tell me what’s up.’

  Well, not you, that’s for sure, Alex almost said, but knowing he’d take it as a slur on his manly ability, she managed to resist it.

  ‘It’s this missing woman case. I can’t seem to get her out of my mind,’ she said at last.

  He was instantly offended. ‘Well, that’s just great. Three in a bed was never my style, lady, even in thought, and I don’t appreciate the idea of that stuffy dame being here between us—’

  ‘Stuffy? I told you about the sexy underwear Caroline had in her bedroom. There was nothing stuffy about that!’

  ‘All the same, let’s leave her out. Unless you’ve got something particular to tell me.’

  She hesitated. ‘Not really. But I shan’t be able to see you on Sunday like we arranged, Gary.’

  He swivelled his dark head around to watch her face. She was watching him too, wondering if he would give himself away, or if there was anything to give away.

  She gave a tiny sigh. This job certainly had its exciting moments, but sometimes it was just too frustrating. You never knew who to trust and who was about to betray you. Just like poor Caroline. If you couldn’t trust your own father — and possibly your own cousin — then who could you trust?

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Why not what?’ she murmured, still caught up in Caroline’s predicament.

  ‘Why can’t you see me on Sunday? If you’re going somewhere to do with the case, can’t I come? I’m not doing anything — then or now,’ he added with a grin.

  ‘Do you want to see the cottage?’ she said, watching him unblinkingly. There wasn’t a flicker in his eyes.

  He whistled. ‘Darlin’, when you look at me like that with those green dazzlers, I’d go with you anywhere,’ he said.

  ‘Sunday then. Around nine o’clock. I’ll drive,’ she said in a strangled voice, because she could tell that he was getting randy again. Very randy. And she was in no mood to resist now that the question of Caroline was out of the way.

  But later, she knew she had to show him the anonymous letter. Since he was agreeing to go to the cottage with her, it seemed the polite thing to do after they had just spent a glorious couple of hours thrashing about in her bed and then showering together. There was no point in pretending the proposed visit to Wilsingham was just a female whim.

  They sat in companionable closeness on the sofa in towelling bathrobes now, and she handed him the envelope.

  ‘What’s this?’ he grinned. ‘Are you paying me now?’

  ‘It’s the reason we’re going to Caroline’s cottage on Sunday,’ she said, wishing he wouldn’t turn everything into a sexual innuendo. ‘Read it, Gary.’

  He opened the envelope and stared at the ill-fitting newsprint letters that made up the message. Once he had read it, his voice was full of derision.

  ‘Good God, this is straight out of an Agatha Christie novel. You’re not taking it seriously!’

  ‘I have to,’ Alex said. ‘I need to know who sent it. And since I don’t think it was you—’

  She gave a sudden cry as he gripped her wrist, and her coffee spilled, making a dark stain on the white towelling bathrobe. She resisted the thought that in an Agatha Christie novel it would be likened to blood. An omen.

  ‘Did you think it was me? What kind of a game do you think I’m playing, Alex?’

  She scrubbed furiously at the coffee stain with a tissue.

  ‘I didn’t — well, only for a second — I just wondered if it was a trick to get me down there — you know, on our own—’

  ‘For sex? I don’t need to lure you out of town to get you to drop your knickers, babe,’ he said crudely.

  She ignored that. ‘It’s my job to be suspicious, that’s all. And it could have been you.’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t. So that leaves who?’

  ‘That’s what I’ve got to find out. But I do want you to come with me,’ she said in a rush now. ‘I’m scared, if you must know. If somebody has kidnapped Caroline, then that somebody must also know that I’m looking for her.’

  ‘She’s a bit old for kidnapping, isn’t she?’

  But Alex could see he was mollified at the thought of her being scared. The little woman and all that, while he was the big strong minder... the hell of it was that if she thought about it for long enough, she knew she was good and scared at the thought of whoever might be lying in wait for her at the cottage.

  ‘He didn’t say what time Sunday,’ Gary said.

  ‘That’s why we’ll get there early. I want to be there first so I can see him coming. And before you make any crude remarks about that, just tell me you’ll support me in this, Gary, please.’

  To her relief he only said that nine o’clock on Sunday sounded more like the crack of dawn to him. But at least he agreed, and she had to be thankful for that.

  ***

  He arrived at the flat sharp on time on Sunday morning, but Alex had been ready for ages. She hadn’t been able to sleep since six. Despite her preference for working alone, she had involved Gary now, but she would dearly have liked it to be Nick Frobisher instead. He had the solidity of the police force behind him, and you never knew when you needed it.

  But she dare not do it. For one thing it would incense Norman Price and kill off her retainer and therefore her chance of the winter cruise; for another it would alert the stranger at the cottage if he got the slightest whiff that the police were around.

  More seriously — and something that should have got first priority in her mind, she thought shamefacedly — it might well put Caroline’s life in danger as well as her own.

  As it was, she knew she had to keep Gary out of sight until the opportune moment. When that moment would arrive she didn’t have the faintest idea. She was simply going on instinct, leaning on him as her insurance, her safety-net.

  They reached Wilsingham right after lunch, after having a bite to eat at a pub along the way. It wouldn’t have been wise to go to the Little Harp Inn, and anyway, she doubted that they did food on a Sunday, or if they opened at all until the evening. It was that kind of sleepy-town place.

  Alex clenched her teeth together as Gary whistled loudly while they cruised through the village and neared the cottage. His voice was anything but complimentary when they reached it.

  ‘Gawd, this is real Hansel and Gretel stuff. The kind of place that would drive you to drink within a week. I’d have thought your bird would be glad to be out of it.’

  ‘Sometimes Gary, you can be so bloody insensitive,’ Alex snapped, thankful that the village seemed as quiet as death compared to London on a Sunday morning.

  But she had to agree. And wasn’t it W.C. Fields who said that Philadelphia was half as big as New York cemetery and twice as dead? Or something like it, anyway. He could just as well have been thinking of Wilsingham at the time.

  They had reached the cottage without seeing a soul, and Alex parked the car in the lane. It hardly mattered that it would be seen by anyone coming here. The s
tranger who supposedly had information would expect to see a vehicle.

  The place was so familiar to her now. The white picket fence and the creaking gate; the garden that looked so sadly neglected with the encroaching weeds; and the quaintness of the cottage itself. She stood outside for a moment, breathing in the sweet scent of the overblown roses.

  She could just imagine how a private person like Caroline loved the isolation of it all, and she felt a huge sense of pity for her in being deprived of her chosen place of freedom.

  ‘Have you got a key then, or are we going to stand here like idiots all day?’ Gary said. breaking her concentration. ‘I want to see where this nympho lived.’

  Alex fumbled in her bag, feeling the sting of tears in her eyes. It was so bloody, bloody unfair. Caroline had had a life here, and it had been snatched away from her by God knew who, and this miserable sodding moron couldn’t wait to get inside to poke around her personal things.

  She pushed the key in the lock and turned it, and they went inside. The usual stale smell of unlived-in property rose to their nostrils, and Gary sniffed audibly as he looked around and then walked over to Caroline’s desk.

  ‘So this is where she did her crossword stuff, is it?’

  ‘Leave it, Gary,’ Alex said sharply, as he started to shuffle papers around. ‘She’ll want to find everything the same as before when she comes home.’

  She avoided his eyes as she spoke. The insidious dread that Caroline might not come home at all was starting to fester in her mind. She didn’t want to consider it, but the thought wouldn’t go away. She wanted to find Caroline safe and well. She already thought of her as a friend, even though it was fatal to get so involved with someone she didn’t even know. She must be going mad.

  But there was just so much against Caroline — her loveless background that Alex could identify with so well; her obnoxious father; her strange cousin; and whoever had decided to deprive her of her freedom and presumably of the one great love in her life: M, the unknown quantity.

  Try as she might to ignore it, that damn word FREEDOM kept coming into Alex’s mind. The word Caroline herself set such store by in her diary. The one thing she no longer had. Might never have.