A Whiff of Scandal

by Carole Matthews

  ‘Yes, Anise.’

  ‘Accident?’

  ‘Dan’s looking after her until the ambulance arrives. Very capably, I might add.’

  ‘Anise? Accident?’ Basil repeated in a dazed way.

  Perhaps he had believed Anise was invincible, Angelica thought. Perhaps they all did. A shiver of fear ran through her. It was the first time she had seen her sister vulnerable. She sent a quick prayer to God that he spare her sister. And if he did spare her, could he also make her nicer.

  ‘Yes,’ Angelica said. ‘We think she’s broken her leg. Help is on its way.’

  ‘Accident? Anise?’ Pennies obviously took a long time to drop into Basil’s slot. He looked blankly at Angelica. ‘I must go to her side,’ he said.

  ‘Come on, then.’ Angelica held her arm out for him. ‘I’ll help you.’ She levered him out of the folding deck chair by his lilac shell suit. ‘Perhaps we’ll find you a little snifter of brandy, Basil. You look like you could do with it.’ But then he always did, she thought.

  Rose appeared in the driveway at the same time as the ambulance did. Her jacket was slung round her shoulders and she was huddling into it like a hibernating doormouse. The blue light rotated with a languid rhythm, illuminating her face with a pale, translucent sheen. She looked flushed and fraught and very fanciable, Dan thought miserably. He stood watching helplessly as the ambulance men loaded the still-whimpering Anise into the back of the ambulance. Crossing to where Rose stood, he laid his arm across her shoulders and squeezed gently. ‘I’m going to drive Angelica and Basil to the hospital and wait with them. I don’t know how long I’ll be.’

  She looked up at him and there were dark smudges under her eyes. ‘Do you want me to come too?’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘You look tired. Besides, three is a crowd, four would probably count as a mob. Have you finished your client?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why don’t you put your feet up and relax. I’ll call by later and let you know how she is.’

  ‘Was it our fault, Dan?’

  ‘Ladies of a certain age shouldn’t climb stepladders to spy on their neighbours.’ He looked at her ruefully. ‘And I shouldn’t have charged over there like a raging bull. I’ll apologise to her when she’s compos mentis again. Though it’s doubtful she’ll forgive me.’

  Angelica came to join them. ‘The ambulance is about to leave. Are you ready, Dan?’

  ‘I’ll go and get the car.’

  ‘Should you really be driving?’ Rose asked. ‘What about your back?’

  ‘You must be a miracle worker,’ Dan said. ‘I can’t feel a thing.’

  ‘Be careful.’ Rose looked at him tenderly and touched his arm.

  He wanted to kiss her – on her nose, on her mouth, on her throat, on her . . .

  Angelica shuffled impatiently next to him.

  ‘I’m coming,’ he said. The ambulance started to reverse. He looked at Rose. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  Their eyes locked and they exchanged ‘a look’. It was the only way Dan could describe it. It was a look that signalled a shift in their relationship, the subtle movement to a deeper, more intimate understanding of each other. A look that said, I need you as you need me. A look that said, the future is for us. The knowledge of it thrilled through his veins.

  ‘Possibly a lot later,’ he added.

  ‘I’ll be waiting,’ she said.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  ‘You don’t look your normal self, Frank.’ Reg finished pulling his pint and placed it on the bar in front of him. It was a quiet night in the Black Horse. A few locals who had nursed the same half-pint of bitter for the last hour played dominoes in the corner of the snug. Despite the fact that the dominoes were almost devoid of spots, they shunned the brand new old-fashioned pub games that Reg had bought in to keep the lawyers and the oil men entertained – classics such as shove-ha’penny, draughts and cribbage. They went down a storm with Perrier water and Lollo Rosso.

  Frank pulled the glass to him and regarded its contents coolly. ‘Got a lot on my mind, Reg.’

  ‘Would some pork scratchings help to take some of it away?’ Reg waved one of the last three dozen remaining packets at him. ‘On the house?’

  Frank shook his head. ‘No thanks, Reg. I’d probably break a tooth on one and then I’d have even more to worry about. It’s been one of those days.’

  Reg opened the packet himself. After regarding one of the pork scratchings disdainfully, he popped it into his mouth with a grimace. ‘It’s not like you to worry, Frank. You’re the one that normally sorts out other people’s problems.’

  Frank took a gulp of beer and wiped the froth from his lips. ‘Well, this time I’ve got problems of my own.’

  ‘Anything I can help with?’ Reg leaned on the bar, his elbows oblivious of the damp beer towel beneath them.

  ‘No,’ Frank said seriously. ‘But thanks for asking, mate.’

  ‘What are mates for?’ Reg said stoutly. He took a swig of his whisky – the first one of the night. Or maybe the second. And smacked his lips in appreciation. ‘One of your boys was in here earlier. That Detective Constable Elecampane. Is he a friend of yours?’ Reg inquired.

  ‘He’s no friend of mine,’ Frank answered grimly.

  ‘Funny bugger,’ Reg said directly. ‘Can’t say I’m overfond of him myself. He was making up to Cassia Wales. Or she was making up to him, it was hard to tell which.’

  Frank’s interest quickened. ‘Was he now?’

  ‘Anyway,’ Reg carried on, ‘they left together, snug as two bugs in a rug, and her old man’s away in the Bahamas.’ He gave Frank a knowing look.

  Frank put his pint down. ‘Is he now?’

  ‘I think she’s a bit of a one on the quiet,’ Reg said sagely. ‘She comes in here full of airs and graces but she certainly looked like she was up for a bit of rough. No offence meant, Frank.’

  ‘None taken, Reg.’ Frank pursed his lips. ‘And what time did you say that was?’

  Reg glanced at the clock. It was shaped like a pint of Guinness and the second hand moved round stealthily with a glob of imitation froth on the end. ‘An hour or so ago at a guess. Not that long.’

  Frank drained his pint. ‘Fill that up for me again, Reg. I’ll be back in a minute.’

  He strode purposefully out of the door, leaving an open-mouthed Reg trying to work out what exactly he had said.

  DC Elecampane’s car was parked outside the pub. Frank hadn’t noticed it when he came in and he wondered why. It was a flashy motor, arrogant and showy. All go-faster stripes and fur trimmings. The lads at the station jokingly called it the ‘Crumpet Catcher’, which didn’t seem quite so funny now. Had Melissa been caught in it? The thought of it made him feel sick. Sicker than the thought of Elecampane in his bed.

  The car had a sticker in the back window saying ‘COPPERS DO IT IN HANDCUFFS’. Frank didn’t realise just how appropriate that statement was, but the thought of Melissa handcuffed to the bed – their bed – in the buff, gave him the red mist of rage that he needed to complete his task.

  Frank had never experienced cold fury before. He had always been a reasonable man. Calm, collected, conservative. He was known for it. Now reason deserted him. Well, not entirely all reason. He wanted to smash Elecampane’s car into a pulp. He wanted to shatter its smug little windscreen, punch it on its pugnacious little nose and kick the chrome off its shiny pristine hubcaps. But that would be criminal damage and Frank Cox had never done anything criminal in his life. What little reason he had left told him that criminally damaging Elecampane would be infinitely more rewarding than a futile skirmish with a clapped-out Ford Scorpio.

  He turned his attention to Lavender Hill, striding up to the Wales’s house, determination written in bold capitals across his face. It was a large house. Palatial compared to his own neat terraced cottage. It had been built in the late seventies and, typical of properties of that era, offered precious little that was aesthetically pleasing. Fra
nk scanned the glass-panelled front door. There appeared to be no bell, just a brass door knocker that was fashioned in the shape of a deformed fox with a rigid brush. It was as tasteless as Melissa’s choice of a twenty-four-tune doorbell had been. Or what remained of it. Whatever they replaced it with, it wouldn’t be one of these things.

  Frank rapped at the door with the paws of the unlikely looking fox. ‘Cassia,’ he shouted through the letter box – also brass. ‘Get that bastard Elecampane out here. Now!’

  He paced the length of the front porch until with much clinking and clunking of brass door locks, Cassia Wales appeared furtively at the front door. Her hair made Basil’s look as if it was styled by Nicky Clarke. She was flushed and florid and wore a short cotton kimono with a fierce red dragon embroidered over the fullness of her siliconed breast. Presumably a gift from one of Greg’s conferences in the Far East. ‘What do you want, Frank?’ she asked timidly.

  ‘Get him out here!’ Frank snarled.

  ‘He won’t come,’ she said.

  ‘Then I’ll come in and make him.’ He pushed Cassia to one side.

  ‘There’s no need for that.’ Bob appeared behind her in the hall. He sauntered to the front door wearing only his Dennis the Menace boxer shorts and leaned casually on the frame. A smarmy grin spread across his face. ‘How’s Melissa?’ he said smugly.

  Frank grabbed him by the arm, shocking the smile from his face, and pulled him into the drive. ‘People like you give the force a bad name,’ he said tightly. He drew back his arm and before Bob knew what had hit him, Frank had – cannoning him to the ground with a powerful right hook to the jaw.

  Bob lay dazed on the block-paved drive, his eyes spinning erratically like a row of plums in a fruit machine. He licked his lip, which was split, a bloody line trickling from his mouth. His hand lifted tentatively and touched his jaw.

  Frank wagged his finger at him aggressively. ‘Don’t you come near my wife again, elephant’s brain,’ he said darkly. He showed him the fist that had just made such fine contact with his chin, waving it with menace for good measure. ‘That was just a taster.’ He turned, brushing his hands together as if to remove some unwanted dirt, and walked calmly away down Lavender Hill.

  Bob sprang to his feet. ‘I don’t need her any more anyway!’ he shouted after Frank. He flicked his thumb towards Cassia. ‘This one only cost me two gin and tonics. She may not have been as good, but she was a darn sight cheaper!’

  Frank carried on walking steadily down the hill. Bob snorted unhappily and turned back towards the house. Cassia’s face was blacker than thunder. There was as much steam coming out of her nostrils as there was from the dragon at her breast, which was now heaving with indignant rage.

  ‘You cheeky jumped-up bastard!’ she spat. ‘I don’t know exactly what’s been going on, but I don’t like the sound of it.’

  A thrill of panic ran through Bob. ‘That was for his benefit,’ he said ingratiatingly. ‘I didn’t mean it.’ He put on his best wheedling tone. ‘You were well worth two gin and tonics.’

  The steam from Cassia’s flaring nostrils was joined by steam from her ears. She stepped towards him. ‘Say that again!’ she ordered.

  ‘I just said—’

  ‘No.’ Cassia held up her hand. ‘Don’t bother.’ She struck a pose inspired by the late Bruce Lee and with a punch that rivalled Frank’s, Bob Elecampane was sent sprawling, once again, to the ground.

  She disappeared into the house and a moment later returned with a bundle of clothes. Bob lay inert on the block paving, all vital signs having temporarily ceased. Dennis the Menace grinned maniacally from his boxer shorts. It was a chill night and, if she was lucky, he might die of hypothermia. With a humourless smile, Cassia tossed the clothes on top of him and closed the door.

  ‘You took your time,’ Reg said as Frank sat down on his bar stool again. He placed his pint in front of him.

  ‘I had a small errand to run, Reg,’ he replied. ‘A very small errand.’

  ‘Well, it’s certainly cheered you up, mate.’

  Frank rubbed his knuckles and with a slow smile picked up his pint. ‘You know, I think it has,’ he said, his grin widening. ‘I think I might have a packet of your finest pork scratchings after all, Reg. Suddenly, I’m feeling much, much better.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  A five-hour wait in casualty wasn’t unusual, the nurse assured Dan pleasantly when he complained for the twentieth time. He returned to his seat, crestfallen. It was the nature of the NHS in the 1990s – under-paid, under-staffed and under threat of closure.

  They all sat in silence on hard orange plastic chairs, Angelica fussing around bringing them, at regular intervals, cups of disgusting grey fluid from a vending machine that purported to be tea, while Anise groaned unnervingly with pain. Around them people bled quietly from various slashes, bashes and gashes into grubby handkerchiefs and wished for death to come upon them rather than suffer the interminable wait for a proper bandage. Only those that vomited brought prompt attention for themselves. They were whisked briskly into one of the cubicles populated by white-coated, white-faced youthful doctors, where people went in but curiously never seemed to come out again. Dan looked up from his three-year-old copy of Woman’s Own and the joys of using a loofah to eradicate stubborn cellulite, checked his watch yet again and thought about trying to persuade Anise to vomit so that he could go home and see Rose.

  It was gone one o’clock in the morning by the time he eventually steered the Discovery up Lavender Hill and along the mud-gouged ruts of the dark lane. Basil sat next to him in the front seat, while Angelica rocked rhythmically in the back. They were all bleary-eyed and bone-weary. Anise’s leg had been x-rayed and then she was wheeled off to the wards.

  Dan glanced at Rose’s cottage as he passed. There was a light on in the hall but, other than that, it seemed to be in darkness and what was left of his spirit deflated like a leaky balloon. She had probably been tucked up in her bed for hours and who could blame her? He should have phoned her from the hospital, but at the time he felt it would negate his excuse for calling on her when he got back. And he desperately wanted an excuse to call on her.

  ‘Can I offer you a cup of tea, Dan?’ Angelica said as they pulled up outside her front door. ‘One that actually tastes like tea.’

  He turned in his seat. ‘No thanks, Angelica. I’d better get back, Gardenia doesn’t know where I am. She may be worried.’ But it was unlikely, he added to himself.

  She patted his arm. ‘Thank you for all you’ve done.’

  ‘I feel awful about the whole thing,’ he admitted.

  ‘You shouldn’t,’ she reassured him. ‘Anyway, she’s in good hands now. Finally.’ She turned to their companion. ‘Basil, may I tempt you?’

  ‘Would it be too much trouble, dear lady?’

  ‘Not at all. I’d be glad of the company for a few minutes. This is the first time I’ve ever come home to an empty house. Anise has always been there before, waiting up for me.’ She sighed thoughtfully. ‘A bit like a jailer really.’

  ‘Then let me do the honours.’ Basil swung out of his seat and opened the door for Angelica. With an unexpected display of chivalry, he took her arm and helped her from the car. She giggled girlishly and Dan watched them as he escorted her gallantly to the front door, his lilac shell suit fluorescing vividly in the moonlight. Wasn’t it supposed to be Anise that Basil had the hots for? Basil stood by attentively as Angelica dug in her handbag for her key and for once in his life he didn’t look stark staring mad.

  Angelica turned and waved. Dan took his cue and swung the car out of the drive, taking a final forlorn, longing glance towards the sleeping Rose who had said she would wait – but hadn’t.

  Builder’s Bottom was also in darkness, but this time he felt a wave of relief. It meant that Gardenia wouldn’t be standing behind the door brandishing a rolling pin. Not that she’d ever done that, but there was always a first time.

  He unlocked the door quietly
and tiptoed into the kitchen, grateful for once that Fluffy had lost the urge to bark at anyone who invaded his home and instead tried to beat them to death with the enthusiastic wagging of his tail. It was an unusual ploy for a guard dog and one that Dan was rarely pleased to encourage. Fortunately, the burglary rate in Great Brayford was minimal and Fluffy had not been called upon to put the method of defence by over-affection into practice.

  Dan fed him – because Gardenia hadn’t – and then sat nursing a scalding cup of tea between his hands, wishing that Fluffy would make less noise chasing his metal bowl round the York stone floor. It was ridiculous, this was his home, built by the sweat of his brow – and his brother Alan’s – paid for by the toil of his hands, yet increasingly he was dreading coming home and being made to feel unwanted and uncomfortable. An interloper in his own lounge. This couldn’t go on. He had said it before, but now it was time for action.

  Something had to be done about the situation. Rose wouldn’t wait for him for ever. What would they be doing now if she had still been awake? He closed his eyes and images of her silken skin, the intoxicating smell of the elusive perfumes that enveloped her, and the firm, gentle, strong, stroke of her hands tingled his tired senses. His mouth would be travelling the delicious curves of her body, their limbs entwined like wrestling octopuses, their bodies on fire with heat, desire and lust. Then he would have to contend with her bra.

  Dan sighed and took a sip of his tea. He put his finger to his lips, encouraging Fluffy to eat less boisterously. He had never been good at bras. It was a lack of practical experience. Gardenia was the only woman whose underwear he had intimate knowledge of and after some youthful fumbling, Gardenia had decided it was easier and considerably quicker to take off her bra herself.

  Sex was never like it was in films. A whole scene could be dedicated to peeling off each other’s clothes. Five minutes to tempt one reluctant, confining button to freedom. Not a pot belly or a saggy breast in sight either.