by Liz Evans
Barbra the first was in a white calf-length crocheted frock, a big floppy-brimmed matching hat, pale face and eyelashes like tarantulas. The two bridesmaids were squeezed into matching maroon crocheted numbers and encircled by the arms of the best man, who towered over them by a good head.
The prettiest thing in the shot was the groom. Even the naff flared trousers, velvet jacket, hair touching his collar and Zapata moustache didn’t detract from the fact he was male crumpet.
‘Good-looking bloke,’ I said neutrally.
‘And he knew it. He and Bri spent longer in front of the mirror than us girls.’
‘Bri?’
She tapped a manicured nail on the large bloke cuddling the bridesmaids. ‘Best man. Best mate. Him and Sean worked the fairgrounds together. Me and my mate double-dated them. Only she had the sense to say ta for a great summer and marry a butcher from Birmingham. And I thought I was so flaming clever getting Sean to the registry office.’
A wistful dreaminess clouded her eyes for a minute as she focused beyond my left shoulder. ‘God, he was hot. Sex on a stick. I don’t reckon we went outside the flat for the first three months. Still, all good things ... He went off the idea after I got pregnant with Carly. Well, off it with me - he was on anything else with good legs and a pulse around those flats.’
‘I’m sorry.’
She shrugged, poured out more coffee, tasted it and wrinkled her nose. With a shrill whistle, she lifted the silver pot and told the waiter to fetch a fresh one.
‘It was my own fault. I knew what he was like before I bought me wedding frock. I thought I could change him. By the time our Lee came along, I’d given up trying. I finally slung him out just after Lee started school.’
‘Do you still see him?’
‘Only when I’ve had a few too many vodkas. He died eight, nine years ago. Place he was staying in burnt down. They got me to identify the body. What was left of it. I don’t know how the ambulance and fire lot do it year after year. They ought to pay ‘em a bleeding fortune, if you ask me.’
‘And speaking of fortunes... ?’ I tapped the folder sitting beside my plate.
‘Sorry, I’m rambling. Thing is, my Lee’s been going down the usual route since he was old enough to climb out of his cot—’
‘Action Man, space monsters, football, acne, girls?’ I suggested.
‘Car theft, breaking and entering, drugs.’ Barbra cleared space for the fresh coffee. ‘Shall I be mother?’
‘Why not? You sound better qualified for it than me.’
‘Nobody’s ever qualified to be a parent.’ My client spoke with feeling. ‘I mean, you see those cute kids in their prams and you figure it must be a doddle. Everyone does it - right?’
‘I haven’t.’
She looked me over. ‘You’ve still got plenty of time to try it, lady. How old are you? Twenty-seven, eight?’
‘More or less.’ Hastily, I changed the subject back to her efforts at carrying on the Delaney clan. ‘So Lee was never going to qualify for Kid Most Likely to Succeed?’
‘Not unless they’re giving out medals for being evil little Ess- Oh-Bees.’ She added two artificial sweeteners to her own cup and pushed the sugar in my direction. ‘I tried to bring him up right, I really did. Sean never gave us a penny after he left. Oh, he’d turn up with an armful of sweets and toys for the kids about twice a year, but it was me had to pay for their clothes and food and keep a roof over them. And I never scrounged for it like some. Always paid my own way. Managing a classy underwear shop was the best number I ever had. But it was hotel work mostly - until the burglaries. Lee must have done a couple of dozen, but he only got caught twice. Word got round: steer clear of Barbra Delaney. I think I was officially listed as a hazard on insurance forms in the end - Tick box if you have now - or might at any time in the future-consider employing Barbra Ann Delaney.’
‘What about Carly?’
‘Carly?’
‘Doesn’t she have any influence? Big sisters can apply a particularly subtle form of arm-twisting. I know - I am one.’
Barbra stared blankly for a moment. ‘Carly died when she was nine. Leukaemia.’
I refused to feel guilty. It was her own fault for mentioning the other kid without giving me the full story. ‘Where’s Lee now?’
‘I’ve no idea. He’s like his dad. He’ll turn up when he wants something.’
‘Fair enough. So, getting back to the fortune .. .’
‘Oh yeah. That. Few years ago I answered this ad for a live-in housekeeper out at Wakens Keep. You know it?’
I did. We had a lot of similar villages scattered over the Weald. A few hundred years ago they’d been collections of rundown farm workers’ cottages grouped around whatever passed for the pub and the local church. Essentially I suppose they still were, except the cottages had been converted into ‘desirable period country dwellings’ and were now priced far beyond the few remaining farm workers’ pay packets. Wakens Keep was about twenty miles inland from Seatoun and located at the northern edge of the Downs as they started to rise from the flat farmlands and salt marshes that stretched to the coast.
‘Barney had just retired and bought a place out there. He wanted a bit of company more than anything, I reckon. He was a widower, see. No kids.’
‘Barney being ... ?’
‘Barney Syryjczyk. My second husband.’
‘So how come you’re still calling yourself Delaney?
‘I got fed up having to chant S-y-r-y-j-c-z-y-k every time I gave my name.’ She squeezed the last dregs of coffee from the pot. ‘Anyhow, fifteen months later I’m saying “I do” again. Only second time round, I got hitched on a beach in the Seychelles in a designer frock that cost two thousand quid.’
She flicked the plastic sheets in the leather folder again. It was much as you’d imagine a tropical wedding to be: palm trees, yellow beach, sparkling azure ocean and everyone trying to look like they don’t feel like idiots standing around dressed like this amongst a bunch of bikini-wearing spectators.
Barney was half a head shorter than his betrothed. He appeared to have bought his wedding suit in the hopes of growing into it, which seemed a bit optimistic, since I’d have put him at seventy if he was a day.
‘Sixty-five,’ Barbra corrected me. ‘He was already ill. I know everyone thinks I married a sick old man for his cash, but I don’t care. Truth is, I never even knew he had that kind of money. Oh, I guessed he was comfortable, but rich - no way. I mean, the house was just ordinary, not some fancy big mansion. Then he lets me have it: he’s a flaming millionaire.’
‘Tough break.’
‘Yeah.’ She grinned again. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to go on, only I don’t get the chance very often. I’m not trying to kid anyone I was in love with Barney. But I did love him in a way. He was a real treat after the losers I’d picked up with after Sean. Ever heard of McCurrie’s Foods?’
‘Can’t say I have. What are they into - haggis tikka?’
‘They started off in jams, marmalades, pickles, and then moved on to cooking sauces, pre-packed spice mixtures, all that sort of thing.’ She picked up another jar of Mr McGregor’s Genuine Chunky Highland Marmalade. ‘They make this stuff. At least they used to until they got taken over by some American conglomerate. Barney’s first wife was a McCurrie. He inherited her share of the business, and when they sold out, he did very nicely, thank you, ma’am.’ She replaced the jar and sighed wistfully. ‘We had a great time together, me and Barney. We did all the things he’d ever wanted to do: the Grand Prix in Monaco; Empire State Building; Great Wall of China; Honolulu beach. First class all the way. Then he died.’
‘Unexpectedly?’
‘I didn’t expect it, but maybe he did. We never saw the doctors much except for the last few weeks. His first wife had all the treatments and it hadn’t helped, so he decided not to bother, and live each day as his last. So I guess when it was the last day, it wasn’t such a surprise to him.’
One of the waitresse
s opened a window, allowing a fresh breeze to carry the scents of ozone and seaweed into the room. Then she spoilt it all by turning on the portable TV in the corner. A solemn-faced reporter stood in front of a hospital somewhere, informing the country in tones of mock concern that two more cases of diphtheria had been diagnosed. It was the third cluster of cases in as many weeks, with the other patients being held in isolation in London and Dover. The picture cut to an equally solemn shot of the local MP in a business-like Gucci-style navy jacket and pearls, earnestly assuring everyone that the authorities were doing all they could to trace the source of the outbreak and there was no need for anyone to panic.
‘Turn the flaming thing off, love,’ Barbra called. ‘I can’t stand politicians. They just love the sound of their own voices. I never watch them. It’s time the Government got their act together and threw them out.’
‘The politicians?’
‘The foreigners. The so-called political refugees. Bringing all their illnesses over here. They don’t have the same standards as us. We used to have ’em at some of the hotels. Good rooms too, not any old rubbish. I wouldn’t like to tell you what we found in some of those rooms after they’d gone.’
She made no attempt to keep her voice down, despite the fact that the waiting staff in Seatoun tended to be moonlighting foreign language students or catering staff from the continent doing a year over here to improve their language skills.
I must have looked uncomfortable, because she smiled and waved at the waitress resetting tables. The girl nodded shyly and returned the salute.
‘You don’t need to worry I’m offending anyone here,’ Barbra said. ‘I’m only saying what most people think but haven’t got the guts to say out loud. They don’t all stick together just because they come from across the Channel. Most of them treat foreigners worse than we do.’
With its back terrace which had steps leading down directly to the beach, the Rock Hotel had one of the best positions in town. Striped deckchairs, raspberry-pink sun-worshippers and pale-¬skinned castle-builders were already staking out their places. It looked like a seaside town ought to look like for once; and I wanted to get out there and enjoy.
‘The will?’ I prompted, abandoning subtlety in favour of the direct prod.
‘The will,’ Barbra repeated. ‘Well, I’ve told you what I want.’
‘To find the names and addresses of some complete strangers so you can leave all Barney’s worldly goods to them.’
‘Vetch said you were a bright girl.’
‘What about Lee? Aren’t you going to cut him in?’
‘Lee spent most of his life messing up my chances. I don’t intend to leave him a penny. In fact, that’s why I want you to find out if any of that lot have been in bother with the law. I’m not talking about parking tickets. Or someone who was inside twenty years ago. I can live with that. But I’m not cutting my Lee out just to leave a flaming fortune to some other—’
‘Mother’s pain in the arse?’
‘You said it.’
‘Why this, though? Leaving it to the local dogs’ home would have the same effect.’
‘I thought about that, but see this?’ She held back the corner of her jacket and pinched a fingerful of the T-shirt underneath. ‘Two hundred - give or take. I know I could have got it cheaper down the local shops and most people wouldn’t know the difference. But I know. I like sitting here knowing me knickers cost more than most folks spend on a night out. And I like the idea of passing that feeling on to someone else when I’m gone. I’ve got enough cash now to do anything I damn well like. So if I get this idea in me head to hire someone to run around fetching me names and addresses, I don’t have to think that’s five years’ gas bills I’m blowing. I think; I call Vetch; I get you.’
‘Fair enough.’ I put the folder of photos in my own bag and asked how she’d chosen the lucky legatees.
‘That was the trickiest bit,’ she admitted. ‘I had all these ideas, but in the end it was giving me a headache. Finally I woke up with the birds one morning and thought, to hell with this, it’s getting to be no fun at all. So I drove out to St Biddy’s and snapped the first three out of the local store. And here you are.’
I took a notebook from my bag. ‘You’d best give me your own details and I’ll get a contract drawn up. Did Vetch tell you my rates?’
‘Sure. I’ll pay, but I don’t expect to be ripped off.’
I thought she already had been, by whoever had sold her the two-hundred-quid T-shirt, but I gave her a look which I hoped radiated professional outrage at the very idea - and moved the leather folder to rest my notebook on the tablecloth. It fell open at another shot of Barbra. But this one looked to be about three stone heavier than bridal-Barbie, with badly streaked hair, prominent nose and dimpled flesh larding its way from under the shorts and stretch top. The other side of the double spread was of a young girl with too-thin arms and eyes too large for the face that peeped out from under a floppy-brimmed hat.
‘Yeah, that’s me too,’ Barbra said, reaching across to retrieve her property and placing a palm over the girl’s picture in a way that shut me out.
She twisted a lock of her fair bob. ‘Personal stylist.’ She tweaked out the suit jacket again. ‘Personal style consultant.’ Both hands smoothed the flat midriff. ‘Personal fitness trainer.’ She tapped her slim nose. ‘Plastic surgeon. Believe me, whoever said money couldn’t buy happiness was shopping in the wrong store.’
‘Speaking of shoppers, do I tell your beneficiaries the reason you want their personal details?’
‘Absolutely not! Don’t get me wrong, I have every intention of living to an extremely old age and spending every damn penny I’ve got in the bank. But since they reckon the best way to make God laugh is to tell Her your plans, I’m just planning for the unexpected. What I definitely don’t want is for any of my lucky choices to start thinking of me as a loan company and turning up on me doorstep asking for a sub on their future fortune. These names stay between you, me and my solicitor - and I want that put in the contract. Got it?’
‘Whatever you say.’ I glanced around. The dining room was completely deserted except for us. ‘So,’ I said, ‘why don’t you tell me the real agenda here, Barbra?’
‘Sorry?’ She’d been about to reapply her lipstick. The tube froze two inches from her lips.
‘You said you’d decided it would be safer to split Barney’s cash a few different ways. Safer for who exactly? Barney’s hardly in a position to worry. It makes no odds to me; just bumps up the number of hours I’m going to bill you. So I guess that leaves you.’
For a moment she stayed still. Then the lipstick continued on its trajectory. ‘Vetch was right. You are smart.’ She snapped the mirror closed. ‘Yeah, OK. There is something else. Last month I was up in London seeing my solicitor. I’d come out of the offices and was waiting at the lights to cross, and somebody pushed me into the traffic. If it wasn’t for a taxi driver with fast reactions, I wouldn’t be sitting here now.’
‘Did you see who did it?’
‘No. By the time all the shouting was over, whoever it was had gone. But the taxi driver said there was a bloke behind me, about six feet tall, wearing one of those grey sweatshirt tops with the hood up. Said the man had his hand out towards my back just before I took a nose-dive under his wheels. I guess driving a taxi you get used to keeping your eye on the pavements.’
‘Did you report it to the police?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I couldn’t prove anything. Anyway, who wants to admit their only kid is prepared to murder them?’
‘Are you sure it was Lee? It doesn’t sound like much of a description to go on.’
‘Who else has a motive? I haven’t any other family. If I end up as strawberry jam under a bus, Lee will get the lot.’
‘Hence the will.’
‘Exactly. I’ll feel safer when Lee knows there’s no chance of getting a penny if I drop off the twig. And
just in case he gets ambitious, I’m dividing the cash up. Even the dimmest copper is going to work out who dunnit if a bunch of strangers with only that will in common start having fatal accidents.’
‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ I said, thinking of the dimmest copper I knew. I also thought it unlikely that a small-time crook like Lee Delaney was suddenly going to evolve into a mass murderer. But then again, it was a no-hassle fee for easy work, so why argue?
I said goodbye to Barbra on the steps of the hotel, promised to drop the contract over, and strolled back to the office through sun-filled streets in a mood to love the whole world.
As I came into sight of Vetch’s premises, a large black weight engraved ‘Gotcha, Smithie’ descended from thirty thousand feet and knocked the complacency straight through the soles of my shoes.
The thing I’d dreaded was here with a vengeance.
3
And vengeance had used her talons to slit open the envelope.
It couldn’t have taken me more than five seconds to sprint to the office doors after I’d spotted the postman strolling away from the steps. But in that time Janice had managed to home in on the one letter I would have given my last bottle of plonk to keep away from her, and whip out the contents.
I have to say it didn’t exactly require the eyesight of a bald eagle to spot it. Amongst the pile of white and buff, a twelve-inch-high green envelope addressed in deep black copperplate does tend to scream ‘Open me immediately!’
And Janice had taken Great-Aunt Gertie’s invitation straight to her malicious little soul, and was doing just that.
‘Is that yours?’ I asked, trying to keep my voice from rising.
‘Of course it’s not. My friends send birthday cards to me home, not work. Doesn’t this Gertrude know where you live?’
She did. But unfortunately I’d once let slip to G-A Gertie that I didn’t pay any rent for my flat. This was principally because the owner didn’t know I lived there, a situation that wasn’t entirely my fault since none of the tenants in the house had any idea who actually owned the property. We’d all moved in and established squatter’s rights to the part-converted flats at various times, and nobody had ever challenged our right to be there. Except for G-A Gertie.