Besides which, he had no intention of letting outsiders start probing into his business dealings. There was just too much that didn’t add up, and too many ways he could be done for fiddling the books. He didn’t relish the thought of prison for fraud and Income Tax evasion.
If only that bloody detective woman would get on with it and do her stuff, then with a good bit of sob-stuff manipulation and persuasion on his part, however much it galled him. Caroline was going to solve all his troubles.
Unexpectedly, he felt a stab of remorse for the reason he wanted her found. He didn’t want her hurt, damn it, just available... this lapse into a rare feeling of filial concern must have been to do with the fact that he was feeling bloody sorry for himself.
He realized Nick Frobisher wasn’t finished with him yet. ‘What about letting your family know? Is there a wife, or a son or daughter you’d like us to contact?’ Nick said next.
The magnanimous feelings towards Caroline vanished at once. ‘My family’s my business, and there’s nobody I want to get involved. I know my rights, and I don’t want anybody prying into my private affairs, and that includes you.’
‘Then if that’s your last word, Mr Price, there’s not a lot we can do to help you.’
‘Thank God for that,’ Price snapped.
He watched as the DI left the ward, and let out a long breath. He wasn’t concerned about the mention of contacting anybody. It was routine stuff. The duty nurse had guardedly asked the same thing. They all thought you wanted family members hovering over you like vultures. And he wasn’t about to mention Caroline’s disappearance to the police at this stage of the game.
They wouldn’t be too interested, he thought cynically. Missing persons didn’t attract a great deal of interest to the plod unless they were under age or suspected of some crime.
He instantly forgot the lot of them and bellowed for the nurse to fetch him a bed-pan. Since they were insisting that he stayed in bed for a couple more days, they could bloody well do the jobs they were being paid to do.
***
Alex was secretly relieved to know that Norman Price was safely out of harm’s way for a week. She was sorry he’d been mugged, of course. It was a horrible thing to happen to anybody, but at least he wouldn’t be constantly calling her to know what progress she was making.
By the time he came out of hospital, she might have some real news for him. She crossed everything as she thought it.
The morning after her discovery of the freebies. she wrote a letter to the box number on the newsletter heading. The production wasn’t bad, but some of the content was quite amateurish, with lots of bitty information, and various sketches that Alex could have done considerably better herself.
The editor obviously fancied him or herself as a desk-top publisher. Alex had seen a lot better. But as the content would have been specifically targeted to reach the readership for which it was intended, that was all that mattered.
She worded her letter carefully after the obligatory opening, not wanting to give too much away at this stage.
‘I need to contact someone urgently, and I think you may be able to help. Rather than discuss it in writing, I would appreciate it if you could give me an address where I can come to see you. I would be grateful if you could contact me as soon as possible,’ she ended.
She used her headed notepaper. There was no point in disguising the fact that there was some special reason in her request. There was a section in the freebie where readers could write in hoping to make contact with lost friends, or making new ones, and if the editor thought she was merely one of those people, her letter could be put on hold. It had to be seen to be official.
There was nothing more to do then, but wait to see if she got a reply. She prayed that the box was opened more frequently than hers. Since finding Jeremy’s anonymous letter, she had been wary of opening her own, but nothing untoward had transpired since then.
Over the next few days, she realized Gary was leaving her strictly alone. Even more ominously, so was DI Nick Frobisher. She had half expected him to come storming into her office, demanding to know what she knew about any daughter of Norman Price’s. But maybe the nurse hadn’t had the gumption to mention it to him at all, and she was quite sure Price himself wouldn’t have done so.
In any case, why would Nick think that Price’s daughter was involved with whatever case she was on? Ostrich-like, Alex lulled herself into a false sense of security.
Three days after she had written the letter to the freebie, her phone rang mid-morning.
‘Alexandra Best,’ she said.
‘Good morning, Miss Best,’ a female voice replied. ‘My name is Edwina Selby-Jones. You wrote to me a few days ago, and I understand you want to talk to me on an urgent matter.’
Alex’s mind went blank for a moment. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t recognize your name, Miss Selby—’
‘That’s all right. And it’s Mrs, by the way. I’m the editor of the See-All, Hear-All newsletter.’
Alex wasn’t often taken off guard. Nor did she normally reply so clumsily to a contact.
‘Oh... but I didn’t think... forgive me, but I didn’t expect... I thought you’d be writing to me.’
There was a reassuring laugh at the other end.
‘You thought I’d be aurally-challenged and unable to speak to you on the telephone, I dare say.’
‘Well — yes. I suppose I did. And now I’m mortified to think I made such an assumption—’
‘My dear lady, you musn’t be. It’s a mistake that people make all the time. Actually, I do have some degree of deafness, but not enough that a special piece of equipment on my telephone can’t correct.’
‘I see,’ Alex said, feeling ridiculously humbled.
‘And you simply supposed that because I’m the editor of a newsletter for the non-hearing community that I would be deaf too. Elementary, my dear Watson-Best!’
Alex warmed to her. ‘You have a delicious sense of humour, if I may say so, Mrs Selby-Jones.’
‘Certainly you may. Deafness doesn’t exclude that facility,’ came the reply, with just the hint of a barb in it now. ‘So do you want to discuss your business over the phone, or would you still prefer to come and see me?’
‘I’d definitely prefer a visit if you don’t mind. And as soon as it’s convenient for you.’
‘How about tomorrow afternoon?’
‘Perfect!’
She scribbled down the address of the house. As she had guessed, it wasn’t business premises, nor in London. She wondered just what the distribution area could be, but that probably had no bearing on Caroline’s contribution to the freebie. If it was her contribution. She still had to find that out for certain, but comparing the grids in the newsletter and the ones she had taken from the cottage on her first visit there, Alex was in little doubt about that.
Her spirits lifted. It was the first really positive lead she had got. Not to Caroline’s whereabouts yet, of course, but at least this woman editor must know her and could possibly give her further information as to friends and acquaintances. For all that Norman Price was so sneering about the fact that she didn’t make friends, everybody knew someone. Nobody could live in a complete vacuum.
The grandly styled Mrs Edwina Selby-Jones might even be Caroline’s confidante, despite the distance between them. Edwina Selby-Jones might even know where she was right now. Caroline might actually be somewhere in the area, keeping out of sight for whatever reason. Out of Norman’s way, perhaps...
Alex was excited by the thought that she might be closing in on Caroline at last. And tomorrow she was going to drive down to Bournemouth and meet this Edwina Selby-Jones. It might be necessary to stay a couple of days. In fact, the more she thought about it, she knew darn well she was going to stay for a couple of days. A small break was justified, providing it coincided with work.
She didn’t know Bournemouth, but a quick look through the A-Z told her there were plenty of hotels in the area. Being out
of town had other advantages too. It would get her out of the way in case Nick came snooping around again. It would get Gary off her back — or her front, as the case might be.
By now, Alex’s spirits were lifting by the minute. God bless Edwina Selby-Jones, whoever she was. Caroline must be acquainted with her, if only by post. Except that it was always possible that with Caroline being as introverted as she appeared to be, she always sent her crossword grids to the freebie’s post office box number.
In that case she could be as anonymous as she liked. Except for payment. The accounts department had to send her payments somewhere. Bingo again.
No, however many points and counterpoints Alex thought there might be, she refused to let herself get downhearted. As her dad might have said, she had a feeling in her water that she was on the brink of discovering Caroline Price at last.
***
It was a long drive down to Bournemouth, but Alex allowed plenty of time, and once well on her way she relinquished the main roads and drove leisurely through the New Forest.
It was ironic that the glorious forested area reminded her so much of the Yorkshire Dales where she had grown up. In reality, she knew there wasn’t the remotest similarity. except for the clean fresh air and the scent of the trees and foliage that was so lacking in smoky old London. The dales were softer in character than the moors, but there was still a grandeur and starkness about them. Much as she loved the city now, there were times when the old tug of nostalgia could still catch her unawares.
She didn’t know what to expect when she first came in sight of the sea. Like most people who had always lived well away from the coast, it gave her a breathtaking sense of power and space. And she was exhilarated by the sight of the high cliffs coupled with the rippling waves on the beach.
She could just picture Caroline here, striding along the shore in those long Laura Ashley skirts of hers, head down against the wind, complete in her own company. Or maybe with M, she thought suddenly! Maybe this was one of their secret hideaways... in some little love-nest well away from their everyday lives.
And who was letting herself get overly fanciful now? she chided herself, as an impatient motorist behind her began tooting his horn. She resisted the urge to give him a two-finger salute and speeded up along the coast road, and concentrated on finding the road where Mrs Selby-Jones lived.
The house gave her something of a shock. It stood well back from a wide, tree-lined avenue in elegant surroundings over-looking the sea. It was practically a mansion, and obviously belonged to someone with Money. It was hardly the place where Alex had expected to find someone dabbling in self-publishing a freebie for the aurally-challenged. She bit her lip, hating the phrase, and wishing it hadn’t come into her mind, even though Mrs Selby-Jones had put it there.
Did the people concerned really like it or appreciate it, she wondered? She remembered an old blind man in the dales who would have spit blood had he been called visually-challenged.
Effing nonsense, he’d have called it. I’m blind as a bat and there’s nowt else to say about it — and I’ll challenge any folk who say owt different. Alex grinned, hearing the echo of his rich Yorkshire tones in her head.
Anyway, this was definitely the place. She drove into the curving driveway and parked her car outside the imposing double front doors alongside the spanking new Range Rover. She almost expected a flunkey to come rushing out and ask her what the hell she thought she was doing here.
Her nerve didn’t often fail her, and she considered she could cope with any situation, but no job had ever sent her to a place of this splendour before.
‘Come on, where’s your sense of pride?’ she muttered. ‘They can’t eat you, and you have a job to do, remember? Put on your professional face and stop gawping.’
And at least she could communicate with Mrs Edwina Selby-Jones. They had spoken on the phone, and she had seemed a perfectly pleasant woman. She knew what work Alex did, so she had better get on and do it before somebody inside those long mullioned windows thought she was some market researcher about to come canvassing, in which case she’d probably get short shrift from a snooty minion.
A housekeeper answered the door. Predictable. Now that she saw the house, she wouldn’t have expected Mrs Edwina Selby-Jones to answer the door herself. Try as she might she could no longer get the woman’s full title out of her head.
She handed the housekeeper her business card and smiled with more confidence than she felt.
‘Would you please tell Mrs Selby-Jones I’m here? She’s expecting me.’
‘Follow me, please, miss.’
The woman stood aside for Alex to go inside and, as she followed her into a luxurious sitting-room, she noted that the interior was as splendid as the exterior promised. The carpets were of deep, luxurious pile, the furniture was ornate and richly decorated. and there were costly Chinese ornaments on every surface. Whoever lived here was clearly a collector and well-travelled.
For one crazy second, Alex almost expected Lloyd Grossman to appear and demand to know ‘Who lives in a house like this?’
The illusion — and the query — faded when a well-preserved elderly lady appeared in the room and held out her beringed hand to her. Those rings didn’t come out of a Christmas cracker either, Alex thought inelegantly. She must be toting around several thousand pounds worth of diamonds on her fingers alone. Her dress was made of silk, her skin was carefully made-up, and her well-controlled, rigidly waved hair looked as if she had just come out of a top-class salon.
Talk about how the other half lived. To someone whose at-home attire consisted mostly of jeans and T-shirts, the vision of such obvious wealth threw Alex, leaving her momentarily tongue-tied.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Best. I’m glad to see you’re right on time. I do admire punctuality in a person, being hopelessly tardy at everything myself.’
Mrs Edwina Selby-Jones greeted her with the consummate ease of a rich woman who could probably get away with being late for her own funeral.
‘May I offer you some refreshment? Tea or coffee?’
‘Some coffee would be very welcome, thank you,’ Alex murmured, quite sure that the Lady of the House wouldn’t need to make it herself.
Seconds later, as if by magic, a maid appeared and received the instructions, and they made small talk — or rather, Mrs Edwina Selby-Jones made small talk — until the maid returned and served them with coffee and biscuits.
Almost too nervous to pick up the delicate bone china cup, Alex instantly saw herself as the unfortunately flummoxed neighbour in Keeping Up Appearances.
And she obviously watched far too much television, she told herself severely. But thankfully the idiotic memory dispelled the brief attack of nerves, and reminded her of who she was, and why she was here.
‘Now then, Miss Best, what can I do for you?’ Mrs Selby-Jones prompted. ‘I understand it’s a matter of some urgency.’
Alex assumed her professional pose. ‘It is. I’m trying to trace someone, and I have a strong feeling that she may be the person who compiles the crosswords in your newsletter.’
‘Oh dear.’
Alex felt her heart sink. She was totally unable to read anything in the woman’s expression, or her intonation. But the starkness of the reply was ominous enough.
‘I assure you that this is a legitimate and confidential enquiry, Mrs Selby-Jones. The person in question has done nothing wrong, but I do need to find her as soon as possible. Her name is Caroline Price, so I would be grateful for any information you can give me as to her whereabouts.’
There was total blankness on the lady’s face.
‘Do you recognize the name?’ Alex persisted.
‘I’m afraid I do not. But that’s unsurprising in the circumstances.’
‘What circumstances would those be, Mrs Selby-Jones — if you don’t mind my asking?’ Alex asked carefully, seeing all her care-fully constructed answers to the mystery collapsing like a house of cards.
She had
been so sure. Was still sure that the crosswords had Caroline’s stamp on them. Every compiler had a personal work method and used their own style of clues, whether it was cryptically impossible, or anagrammatically, or blatantly obvious. And this one was definitely Caroline’s.
For one wild moment she wondered if there was something sinister in Mrs Edwina Selby-Jones’s reluctance to admit to knowing Caroline. But the idea vanished at once. Whoever else wanted Caroline’s inheritance it was a certainty that this woman didn’t need it. The whole place oozed luxury, and wouldn’t have disgraced royalty.
‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, my dear,’ Mrs Selby-Jones said more gently. ‘But you see, we don’t operate in the same way as regular newspapers or magazines. Any outside contributors remain anonymous. It’s one of our peculiarities, if you like.’
‘But they must send in their stuff to you. Caroline must send her crosswords — and receive payment — I presume. They all live somewhere, so you must have names and addresses, surely. It’s business procedure.’
She was aware that she might be stepping on hallowed ground as far as probing into someone else’s business methods went, but it seemed mighty suspicious to her. Everyone needed money to live, and payment for their work. Businesses had to account to tax inspectors and the like.
Mrs Selby-Jones gave a slight smile. ‘You might care to see our operations room, Miss Best, and then you can see for yourself that everything is above board.’
‘I’m quite sure it is, and I didn’t mean to imply—’
She followed the lady meekly out of the room, feeling that she had been reprimanded, yet in so genteel a manner that it hadn’t seemed like a reproof at all. But then, everything here seemed surreal. This lady obviously didn’t need to run a business of any sort. She should be gracing coffee mornings and bridge parties and who was being stereotypical now!
They entered a large room where three young women were busily at work on computers and lay-outs for the newsletter. It was so quiet in there you could have heard the proverbial pin drop, and none of them looked around when they entered. Alex and Mrs Selby-Jones stood silently for a moment, and then the hostess turned to her.
Thicker Than Water (Alexandra Best Investigations Book 1) Page 16