by Jane Renshaw
‘Nick White from All So?’
Karen grinned, nodding. ‘They’re probably your era.’
Gabby’s favourite boy band. ‘My sister would be having a heart attack if she was here. She was obsessed with him. How do you know it’s Nick White Nick White?’
‘Daisy told me.’ Daisy seemed to be Magdalena’s dogsbody – a little older than Karen and a lot more professional, but not, it seemed, immune to gossip. ‘She wanted my opinion on whether it would be acceptable to ask him for a selfie.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I told her to go for it.’
‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea.’
‘Yeah, she’ll probably get fired, and that would be doing her a favour. I mean, come on.’ She waved a hand around the kitchen. ‘No offence, but who wants to spend their life slaving away down here, festering in the rotten heart of the patriarchy?’
‘No offence?’
Karen shrugged. ‘Try one of the ones with the egg. They’re amazing.’
◆◆◆
As wordlessly instructed by the stony-faced, suited man she couldn’t believe was an actual butler – Really? In the Twenty-First Century? – Claire picked up the large divided dish of vegetables from the sideboard. Half of the dish contained asparagus and half tiny new potatoes. She was wearing a demure black cotton dress and pumps – they had actually supplied the pumps, new ones from a store containing a whole wall of shoe boxes – and her hair was tied back in a black band.
The soup had been served and cleared by Magdalena and Daisy.
Daisy, Claire and Karen were to serve the fish course. Karen had been entrusted with a sauce boat containing chive mayonnaise. Claire hoped she wasn’t going to tip it over anyone.
The dining room was immense, with a table on the same scale. There were twenty-two people sitting around it. She’d been instructed how to serve, but she hadn’t really been listening, so she watched Daisy, who had the platter of salmon. Mr Jarvie – an older version of Ferg, but with a fuller head of hair – was sitting at the head of the table. Daisy had started with the woman sitting on his right, and then moved on to the man on her right. That meant Mr Jarvie would be served last. Presumably it was all about the etiquette of hospitality. The host couldn’t be served before his guests, even kids like Damian and two young girls who looked about fifteen.
Claire offered the woman the dish, serving spoon and tongs angled helpfully towards her. The woman, who was talking to Mr Jarvie about hens, of all things, stopped to look round, not at Claire but at the dish of vegetables, with an expression of mild indignation.
What? she wanted to rap at her as the woman served herself asparagus.
Across the table, she caught Hector’s eye. He looked incredible, in his perfectly tailored dinner jacket, his pristine white shirt and stiff collar, his black tie...
She went down the table, offering the dish to each diner in turn. When she came to Damian, he murmured, ‘Other side,’ and she said, ‘Hmm?’
‘Serve from the other side.’
‘Other side of what?’
His eyes were full of laughter. ‘The person.’
Damn.
That must be why the butler dude was glaring at her. She backtracked and offered Damian the dish from his left side, and he scooped asparagus and potatoes onto his plate. ‘Thank you.’
Two people down from him was, indeed, Nick White from All So. Gabby would have been relieved she had served him from the correct side. He must be pushing forty now. He was chunkier than he’d been when All So had featured on every prepubescent girl’s wall, but he was still boy band cute, with a full mouth and a rather vacuous expression.
But he thanked her.
Other than Damian, so far, he was the only person at the table to have done so. The only person to have acknowledged her existence.
But on the other side of the table, when Claire reached her, Frieda went so far as to engage her in conversation. ‘Claire!’ she smiled up at her with what seemed genuine pleasure. ‘I hadn’t realised you’d be here. Is it all hands to the pump?’
‘Yes, all hands pumping away like mad.’
Frieda examined the dish. ‘This asparagus looks nice and fresh. Thank you.’
‘Made their money in Berlin in the thirties and forties,’ Ferg, on Frieda’s other side, boomed, and Claire saw the Twat, who was sitting next to Mrs Jarvie at the other end of the table, look up. ‘Need I say more?’
‘Well,’ said Frieda. ‘I’m sure there were some legitimate businesses flourishing in Berlin during that period. And it was all a very long time ago.’
‘Frieda’s right, Fergus.’ Mr Jarvie raised his voice to call down the table. ‘Every Berliner who made their fortune dealing in art during the War wasn’t necessarily in cahoots with the Nazis!’ And out of the side of his mouth, with a twinkle: ‘Only ninety-odd per cent of them. I’m sure the Webers were the exception that proved the rule – eh, Max?’
When he thought he was being clever, she’d noticed, Balfour Jarvie spoke out of the side of his mouth, like a wise-cracking actor in an old film. He shot Hector a look, as if checking for approval, but he needn’t have worried. Hector was smiling.
The Twat carried on the conversation he was having with the woman on his left, pretending not to have heard.
‘Although which of us can choose our antecedents, eh?’ Balfour barked a laugh. The bluff, hearty colonel, Claire decided, in that old film. But there was something rather likeable about him. ‘How many mass-murdering psychopaths can you boast, Hector, in your family tree?’
Hector seemed to give the question serious consideration. ‘Probably into double figures. A propensity to murder our neighbours does seem to run in the family.’
‘Ahahaha, maybe we should have thought twice before supplying you with a fish knife! But that’s aristos for you! Descended from a bunch of medieval gangsters and warlords. My great-grandfather, on the other hand, was a blameless manufacturer of ladies’ undergarments. Must make sure to mention that, Perdie, to the society hacks wanting copy on the engagement. Good bit of background.’ He smiled at her fondly. Claire suspected that he was the kind of man who would indulge his daughter to the nth degree but be super-critical of his son.
‘Oh, honestly, Dad,’ Perdita groaned. She had changed from the black dress into a burnt-orange one.
‘Big knickers and Nazis,’ said Hector. ‘Doesn’t get much better than that. The media will go wild.’
There was general laughter.
She watched the Twat. The look he gave Hector could have stripped paint. Surely it was genuine, the antipathy between them?
‘The Nazi connection is hardly a matter for levity,’ said an elderly woman.
‘There is no Nazi connection,’ the Twat, finally, was goaded into responding.
‘No no, of course not,’ said Balfour Jarvie.
Claire didn’t like the Twat, but this made her feel uncomfortable. She was always hyper-aware of anyone being picked on or marginalised. So she was glad when Perdita said, robustly, ‘There really isn’t, Dad.’
Claire moved on up the table. Frieda’s granddaughter Jess, who was seated next to Hector, looked up at her. ‘Hector’s been telling me you’re rapidly making yourself indispensable?’
‘That’s very kind of him to say so. I’m – settling in now, I think.’ And, because why the hell not, she whispered: ‘I didn’t realise you were married to... the actual Nick White. Sorry, you must be sick of people saying that.’
Jess grinned. ‘Never get sick of it. Still have to pinch myself.’ She looked down the table at her husband, and, although there was too much chatter all around them for him to have heard her, he looked back, his expression suddenly not vacuous at all.
Behind him, Butler Dude was staring at Claire in horror, eyes wide and almost beseeching. Presumably it was a sackable offence to initiate conversation with the people you were serving.
She moved on to Hector and, as she bent over him with the platter
, he murmured, ‘The indispensable Claire.’ The back of his neck above the impeccable white collar was tanned, leanly muscled, and she wanted to put her hand there, over the little stubbly hairs, over the exposed nape. There was something horribly vulnerable about the back of someone’s neck.
Why couldn’t he be something ordinary like an accountant or a lawyer? Someone she might have met at a party and gone out to dinner with and taken to meet Grannie? Why did he have to be a fucking criminal? She’d often felt sorry for the people she’d nicked, people who had fallen into crime, but she’d never felt it before so viscerally, so urgently.
Why couldn’t he just stop?
What kind of life was it for anyone, let alone a man like this?
What man art thou?
An honourable man living a dishonourable life. He was an honourable man. She was sure of it. All the evidence pointed to that conclusion – the giving away of huge sums of money, the care home he funded, the warmth with which people spoke of him... and, above all, the fact that he’d given his brother, a little boy who’d suffered so much, a happy home. A happy life.
Why did he have to be a criminal? Why did he have to make his living at the expense of others, by stealing what other people had worked for, had earned the right to enjoy?
He was turning in his seat, looking up at her quizzically.
He had helped himself to the veg and she guessed she should be moving on to the next person. But she wanted to fling the platter across the table and grab him, shake him, yell at him:
Why?
Why do you do it?
Butler Dude was gliding round the table towards her, his impassive gaze fixed on a point somewhere above her head. She smiled helplessly at Hector, grasped the platter tight, and moved on.
31
One of the many good things about Karen’s rabbit onesie – last year’s Christmas present from Mollie – was its nice deep pockets. She had three small silver items in them already and there was plenty of room for more. She padded across the huge hall, her rabbit paws making no sound on the Persian carpet, making for the table with a group of little animals on it she’d noticed earlier, when lugging stuff to and from the dining room: they looked like they might be jade. Chinese jade could be worth big bucks.
Ade would be really pleased if she could bring back something like that. Then maybe she could choose her moment to tell him about the phone. She was almost at the table when a loud thump reverberated through the hall and someone yelled:
‘Ur ur ur!’ Thump thump. ‘Urr urr!’ Thump. ‘Ur!’ Thump. ‘Ur!’ Thump. ‘Urrrrrr!’
Dammit.
It sounded like someone had fallen down the stairs. Not the main ones rising above her into the airy space of the galleried hall, but the servant’s ones, which were along the corridor behind the door she was standing next to.
Like something in a bad comedy.
Karen in her rabbit onesie would complete the picture, but she supposed she’d better go and see if he was hurt. It sounded like a man. Probably Ferg, drunk as a skunk. She pushed open the door and switched on the corridor light.
The Twat was lying at the foot of the stairs, groaning. If she’d known it was him she wouldn’t have bothered. But he’d seen her. He made a wordless sound.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Of course I am not “okay”! Someone just pushed me down the stairs!’
The next ten minutes were a nightmare. He made her help him to his feet and then started moaning about how his ankle was sprained. ‘Get me to my room!’ he demanded. ‘Call the police!’
‘Um, you fell down stairs?’ she muttered, as he grabbed her shoulder and leant all his weight on it. ‘Ow! Never mind your sprained ankle – you’re going to break my shoulder!’
There was no lift in this place, so she had to haul him up the main stairs, which at least were easier to negotiate than the servants’ ones, with broad shallow steps. All the way, he kept going on about how someone had pushed him and the police needed to be called. He was sweaty and had stinky alcohol breath, and she kept her face turned away from him the whole time. She was going to have to wash her onesie after this.
Finally she got him along the gallery bit of the first floor and into the corridor where his and Perdita’s room was. He shouted ‘Perdita!’ and the bedroom door opened and then Perdita was there in a silky nightie, saying ‘Oh my God!’ and he was going on again about how someone had pushed him down the stairs.
‘Get me my phone!’
Karen wriggled out from under his armpit and Perdita took her place.
‘What the hell is going on?’ Claire said at her elbow.
‘He’s drunk,’ Karen told her, wondering what Claire was doing sneaking about the house in the dark. Hmm, though. Hector’s room was on this corridor too. ‘I, um, got lost on my way to the loo and heard him fall down the stairs.’
Claire looked dubious, but all she said was, ‘Nice outfit.’
‘Thanks.’ Karen put her hands in the pockets to disguise the lumps in them.
Then the door to Hector’s room opened and Jess White came out in a short silky robe. So that wasn’t Hector’s room after all. She expected Jess to come and ask what was going on, but she didn’t, she took one quick look and dived across the corridor and into the room opposite. Perdita, meanwhile, was manoeuvring the Twat into their room, and he was yelling: ‘Get! Me! My! Fucking! PHONE!’
Now Hector was coming out of the room Jess had just left. Karen glanced at Claire. She was white as a sheet.
‘Bastard,’ Karen muttered.
Hector came strolling towards them. He was wearing plain navy pyjamas that looked newly ironed, and didn’t have a hair out of place. You’d never know he’d just been shagging someone else’s wife. ‘What’s happened?’
‘I’m calling the police,’ shouted the Twat from his and Perdita’s room. ‘Someone just tried to kill me!’
‘He fell down the stairs,’ said Karen, as Claire turned on her heel and stormed off up the corridor.
Hector pushed open the bedroom door. ‘Please tell me you’re not calling nine-nine-nine. Whatever happened, it’s hardly an emergency.’
‘Of course it’s a fucking emergency! Someone in this house wants me dead!’
Hector shook his head and came back out of the room, looking narrowly at Karen. ‘What the hell are you wearing?’
‘Yeah, like that’s the biggest question needs answering here.’ She puffed. ‘It’s a onesie.’
‘I see.’
‘You’re probably not familiar with the concept. You’re probably used to women in nightwear that’s on the flimsier side?’ But as she turned on her heel and stormed off in solidarity after Claire, she did in fact wish she was wearing something a bit more dignified than a fluffy pink and white rabbit onesie with massive floppy ears and a white pompom tail.
She could hear him chuckling to himself.
The absolute bastard.
32
Claire could see Frieda on the bridge, leaning on the stone parapet and looking down at the water far below, dressed in a long grey wool coat and a furry hat. Claire walked towards her, her boots sinking into the snow with every step. The snow had a crust on it but was powdery underneath. It was a gorgeous morning, still and frosty, and through the trees there was a pinky sunrise glow stretched in a long, ragged line under the clouds.
‘Playing hooky?’ said Frieda.
‘Yes, I should be in there skivvying.’ There was probably a horrible mess after the party, but Claire hadn’t even looked. She’d come straight out here after her shower, feeling in need of a brisk walk to get the endorphins flowing.
Frieda shrugged. ‘Why should you clear up other people’s mess, if they can’t be bothered doing so themselves?’
‘Because I’m paid to?’
Frieda turned and looked at the house, at the lights blazing from several windows. ‘After the disruption to everyone’s sleep caused by that... that man shouting and bawling, I’d have thought a lie-in fo
r the staff was in order. What on earth does Perdita see in him? She’s not marrying him for his money, presumably, coming from all this.’ She waved a hand at the house.
Claire didn’t know what to say.
‘Other people’s relationships – the ultimate mystery,’ Frieda added. ‘Talking of which...’ She inclined her head, and Claire looked round.
Damn. Hector, strolling onto the bridge. He wasn’t wearing a coat, just a very thick cable-knit jumper. Why did he have to be so appealing to look at?
‘We’re not in a relationship,’ Claire muttered, but Frieda only smiled and moved off across the bridge, waving a hand without looking back.
Claire marched in the other direction, past Hector, towards the house. ‘I don’t want to hear it,’ she threw over her shoulder, her breath puffing out into the air.
‘Please just hear me out.’ He was coming after her.
She stopped and turned.
He wasn’t an honourable man. His moral code was nonexistent. It had been staring her in the face right from the moment she’d been handed the file in the meeting room at Inverurie Police Station. She knew what kind of a man he was. She’d always known it.
She deserved this.
‘Jess and I were only talking,’ he said.
‘Whatever.’
He was smiling at her as if she was a teenager in a strop, and he was the adult trying to talk her down. ‘But before you ask, no, I can’t tell you what we were talking about.’
She wanted to believe him. Far too much.
‘In other news, the Twat is insisting his ankle’s broken and that someone tried to kill him last night. He’s naming no names, but I gather I’m the chief suspect. Something to put in your report, perhaps, although the police officers who attended last night aren’t attaching much credence to his story. The drunken ramblings of a twat.’
‘But –’