Money Never Sleeps

by Whitelaw, Stella

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Fancy, confidence in tatters. ‘I’m a bag of nerves.’

  ‘How are your hands?’

  ‘Feeling better,’ she said. ‘I might have difficulty in holding a glass.’

  ‘I’ll get you a straw.’

  When Fancy walked into the main conference hall with the other panellists, it was full to capacity. Questions and Answers were always popular. The chairman, Fergus Nelson, chaired the panel, trying to make sure that each panellist had their fair chance of answering. There was usually one member of a panel who wanted to hog the whole event, thought their words were the only ones that counted, who had too much to say and needed shutting up.

  ‘Good morning, everyone,’ said Fergus. ‘Settle down. We’ve a lot to get through.’

  Fancy was not one to push herself forward but the chairman made sure she had a fair chance with replies, though she always kept her answers short and sweet. No publicity eulogy about herself and her current work.

  When she left the hall for the first break, Jed was waiting outside with a black coffee for her and a couple of biscuits. He looked as if he hadn’t slept or eaten for hours. He was drawn and lined, the sparkle gone.

  ‘I skipped the last question,’ he said. ‘We all know about double spacing.’

  ‘Don’t forget some of the delegates are white-badgers. New writers. Never been to anything like this before. It’s a revelation.’

  ‘Point taken. Can you manage? I need to get some more coffee. I want an adrenaline fix. I shall go straight to the head of the queue, ignore the looks.’

  ‘We’re a bit short of hands, between us,’ said Fancy, managing a joke. ‘We should invent some no-hands gadget for Dragons’ Den.’

  ‘And make a million.’

  They did not have a minute together. People were crowding round Fancy either to comment on the fire, commiserate about her hands or ask ancillary questions to ones already asked at the panel. Fancy could hold a cup. Her fingers were working outside the clumsy bandage. At least she got a seat on one of the garden benches.

  Fergus came up later. ‘Can you manage the second session, Fancy?’ he asked. ‘We shall quite understand if you want a rest. You didn’t get much sleep last night.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Fancy. ‘I can carry on.’

  She was actually on better form for the second panel session. Her wits seemed to have recovered and her remarks, off the cuff, were hilarious. She even managed to shut up the current trendy know-all, Ms I’m So Famous, with a remark that had everyone laughing.

  She couldn’t see a silver-streaked head among the audience. Perhaps Jed had gone for some much needed sleep. It didn’t matter. She had survived this morning, with him or without him.

  It was early lunch today because half of the delegates were off on an excursion to Chatsworth House, the nearby stately home. The other excursion offered was to a factory outlet, buying reject china in bulk, and touring the pottery.

  Fancy only wanted to fall into bed and sleep.

  Lunch was a rushed affair. Salad and ham, and either grated or cottage cheese was on offer with grated carrot or coleslaw. She couldn’t follow what choice she was being given. It was sit and be grateful time.

  Delegates rushed out to their coaches. Fancy was left with a whole table to clear. Nobody had touched the dessert – Bakewell tart and orange custard. She went to the frozen fruit table and selected the softest pear.

  She had a whole flask of coffee in front of her. And a whole afternoon ahead. She wondered if room 425 had been scrubbed and refurbished. She wanted to be back in her own room.

  Jed came and sat down at her table. He looked a few degrees better, less burdened. The landscape of his face had softened. He had had a sleep, even if only for an hour. He could revive on a nap. All policemen could. He poured himself a coffee from her flask.

  ‘No Chatsworth House?’

  ‘I know the history. I’ve read the Georgiana book. Horace Walpole thought it had an air of gloomy grandeur.’

  ‘Surely it’s research, somewhere full of ideas for future books?’

  ‘I don’t need any more ideas. My head is spinning with them.’

  ‘So what are your plans for this afternoon? There’s some sort of private rehearsal going on in the hall. A writing read-through in the Orchard Room and a last talk on non-fiction at 5 p.m.’

  ‘I’ve no plans.’

  Jed finished his coffee. ‘My car’s outside. Would you like a drive to Newstead Abbey? It’s not far, some part-ruins, some falling down. The poet, Lord Byron, once lived there, though he didn’t drown there, he drowned in Italy. Just a walk around, Fancy. Fresh air and nice grounds, somewhere different. A breath of the outside world. No strings.’

  Fancy nodded her thanks. It sounded perfect. Especially the no strings.

  Jed drove well in his adapted car. It was a small, low-slung two-seater with a soft top, dark blue, hardly the right car for a retired detective chief inspector. Extra levers on the steering wheel. Fancy did not recognize the make of car. She was not good on cars. Maybe a Vauxhall Sports? In minutes she had forgotten that he did not have two hands on the wheel.

  The afternoon began to warm up. She threw off her jacket and tossed it into the tiny space at the back of the car that might take a child or someone slim sitting sideways. She began to relax, fall into some kind of emotional slump.

  The conversation was light, ridiculous, funny.

  ‘I went out for lunch. I remembered Tuesday’s lunch is a rushed job. Fish and chips down at the local pub. But no marrowfat peas. They’re revolting,’ said Jed, taking a right turn.

  ‘You’ll never make old age,’ she said. ‘Fish and chips. All that cholesterol.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I will. I’m writing a book of true life cold crime stories. I’ve emailed MM half a dozen times but you never answer. That’s why I’m hoping to get some time to talk to you this week. This book is important to me. All those unsolved crimes that deserve to be solved; the villain still out there, walking the streets.’

  ‘I always answer my emails,’ said Fancy, indignantly. ‘Perhaps I wasn’t getting them. Perhaps there’s a hacker.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Because these cold cases are too near the truth? Because they could be solved if you publish what you know about them? It’s a thought.’

  ‘One of my stories featured in your MM. It really interested me. The Missing Cover Girl. Do you remember that issue? It was one of my first cold cases and one that we have never solved.’

  ‘Yes, I remember. It was alleged that he killed his wife because she caught him having an affair with her twin sister. But it was never proved and her body was never found. So he got away with it.’

  ‘We never cracked it either. Yet there were traces of blood spatters in the house. The wife was never seen again from that day forward. It was as if she disappeared from the face of the earth.’

  ‘Was it the wife’s blood?’

  ‘We could never prove it. Long before the days of DNA. Both sisters had the same blood group.’

  ‘Who reported the wife missing?’

  ‘Her mother. The husband said she had a history of running away and she would probably come back. But her passport and bank account were never touched. And it didn’t look as if she had taken anything with her. Even her handbag was still in the house.’

  ‘Did he marry the other twin?’

  ‘Yes, I believe he did eventually.’

  ‘After seven years. When his wife was officially declared dead?’

  ‘I guess so. I was busy on other cases by then, getting slowly promoted. Here we are. This is Newstead Abbey, somewhere behind all those trees.’

  He turned into the entrance drive, nodded to the gatekeeper on duty, who waved them through. It was a narrow drive, heavily canopied with trees and shrubs. Many of the shrubs were in flower and Fancy could feel herself relaxing as they left the busy roads and noise of traffic behind.

  The house came into view as
the drive turned into undulating parkland, dominating a big clearing of grass and paved walkways. She could see deer grazing in the distance. Several coaches were already parked near the house, visitors climbing out and stretching. Jed parked the car in a shady spot away from the crowds.

  Newstead House was both house and ruin. The ruined abbey walls leaned heavily on one side of the house. The tall stone arches looked precarious, as if they were about to fall at any moment. It was cordoned off with warning notices, keeping the curious at a distance.

  ‘That looks pretty old,’ said Fancy, gazing up. So much of the intricate stonework was still intact, a monument to stonemasons of old, carving their gargoyles and angels. The angels were ready to fly. Instinctively she ducked her head.

  ‘Twelfth century, I think. Would you like to see round the house, go on a tour? There’s a grand galleried hall where Byron used to do his shooting practice.’

  ‘I think I’d just like to walk round these lovely gardens,’ said Fancy. ‘My head’s too full to take in loads of information and history. I’d rather walk and relax.’

  ‘Good idea. Let’s walk, then. I’ll keep an eye on the time. You’ll want to be back at Northcote before supper. It’s your big evening.’

  ‘Don’t remind me. Perhaps you could have a puncture or two on the way back. Somebody would fill in for me. The panellist this morning who wouldn’t stop talking. She’d do it like a shot.’

  ‘Nonsense. You’ll be fine. You know your subject and what’s more you’re enthusiastic about writing. Everyone loves your course.’

  ‘A course is different to a talk. In a course you’re interacting with people, encouraging feedback and batting ideas around. A talk means I have to stand on that dratted platform with three hundred and fifty pairs of eyes glued on me. All my enthusiasm will drain out of me.’

  She didn’t add: and one pair of eyes who hates me enough to start a fire outside my bedroom. Jed could read her thoughts.

  ‘We might have scared him off,’ he said. ‘The fire was too public. A lot of people were involved. Everything else has been for you alone.’

  They were taking a path towards a pond, lake, river, whatever it was. It was shimmering water. Fancy shivered. Water made her think about Melody. The police were still interviewing everyone but no one was being told anything. The place was alive with rumours. Some over-imaginative idiot even had the nerve to say it was all a hoax, that the police were out-of-work actors, and Melody would reappear at Thursday night’s concert to sing Auld Lang Syne and present prizes.

  Fancy found the joke distasteful. She could still see the pale arm and the swirling chiffon material floating on the water. That hadn’t been a hoax. Someone had stolen Melody’s life. She had still a life ahead, children’s stories to write.

  But the walk through the gardens and the flowers was beautiful. Lots of new saplings were being planted. They dutifully looked at the oldest tree, which had its own plaque. It looked old and misshapen, wizened branches spread, touching the ground, almost too tired to stand up straight. Even the lake was tranquil and wafted cooling breezes across the water.

  It was turning into a scorching afternoon, the sun melting down through a cloudless sky. Fancy rolled up her sleeves and Jed loosened his collar. He did not touch her or take her hand. They’d only known each other a few days and had not reached the hand-holding stage though Fancy felt it would have been quite natural if he had reached out to her.

  She began to like him, to be less suspicious. He knew about suffering, his arm and that. He made fun of her but only in the kindest way.

  At a steep downward step she went to take his arm but it was the arm that couldn’t move and she almost fell. It was Jed who caught her with his good hand and steadied her.

  ‘If you want assistance at any time, you have to walk the other side of me,’ he said. ‘I’m a one-armed warrior.’

  ‘Sorry. I keep forgetting. I’ll remember that.’

  ‘Fancy an ice cream?’

  They stopped abruptly and laughed. A meandering middle-aged group on the path looked at them. They were from the coach party. They couldn’t see anything funny.

  ‘I’ve never been called an ice cream before,’ said Fancy.

  They were back at Northcote in good time for Fancy to shower and change for supper. She did not feel at all hungry but thought she should sit at the committee table that evening as she was the invited after-dinner speaker.

  She prayed that the menu would be light and tasty. She was getting the collywobbles and feeling sick with nerves. As it was a special occasion, she wore a long, straight, velvet skirt and a ruched-lace printed tunic top with adjustable side ties. It was very elegant. She tied her hair back and clipped on gold dangling earrings.

  The dining room was already full and tomato soup was being ladled out at the table into big bowls.

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Fancy, seeing herself dripping soup down her front and having to go on the platform wearing red splodges. Nor could she face the steak and kidney pie, so made do with a few fresh vegetables. It was tinned fruit salad and ice cream afterwards, which was not hard to eat. She swirled the lot around her dish into a creamy pink mud. Cold mud. It reminded her of the ice cream they had eaten at Newstead Abbey, the ice cream melting faster than they could eat it.

  ‘Would you like some more, Fancy?’ asked Jessie, who was serving that evening. ‘You’ve hardly eaten anything.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m too nervous,’ she said.

  ‘You’re nervous?’ exclaimed Fergus. ‘Yet you must have done dozens of these talks.’

  ‘I have, but it never gets any easier. Believe me, nerves never go away. I’ll skip coffee too,’ she added. ‘Don’t want to get caught short in the middle of my talk.’

  Fancy rose from the table amid a chorus of good luck wishes.

  ‘Bonne chance!’ said Jessie.

  They knew how she felt, and sympathized. But it was something she had to face alone. She walked outside along the garden path in the gathering gloom. Fergus would join her later and escort her into the conference hall once it was full. The walk to the scaffold.

  Jessie came running after her. ‘Fancy. You left your belt behind at the table. It must have dropped off. I found it on the floor.’

  She had Fancy’s pink leather belt in her hand. Fancy took it. She hadn’t been wearing the belt. She was wearing a loose tunic top that didn’t need one.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Fancy took the belt and held it limply. She dare not look at it. She knew instinctively by the feel of it that something was wrong. Someone had been into her Lakeside bedroom and taken it. She did not know what to do. There was a hard lump in her throat and it wasn’t a piece of chopped fruit salad.

  Jed came up beside her. He was wearing his Mafia outfit, all black, very sexy. ‘Break a leg,’ he said with a grin.

  She held out the belt. It hung loosely in her hand. It had been slashed in several places, slashed with a sharp knife.

  ‘Look at this,’ she said. ‘My belt. Slashed all along. That knife was meant for me.’

  EIGHT

  Tuesday Evening

  Jed whipped a clean plastic food bag from the kitchen and put the belt in it. He had a pal in Derby, another mate apparently, tops for fingerprints. Then he turned his attention to Fancy. She was paralyzed with fright. She stood on the path, in the growing dark, halfway to the conference hall, barely hearing what Fergus was saying to her.

  ‘It’s time to go in,’ Fergus urged. ‘Fancy? Come along, lass. They’re all waiting.’

  Fancy was not listening to him. That knife would be slashing her next. She could feel its cold blade against her skin.

  Jed was beside her again. He looked tall, dark and forbidding. Something different about him. He had put the evidence in a safe place and out of sight. He touched her arm. ‘Fancy? Speak to me. Say something.’

  ‘I can’t do it,’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes, you can,’ he said firmly. ‘You’re not going to let
some stupid prankster get the better of you. You know what you’re going to say. You’re going to give these budding writers hope. You’re going to tell them that failure is only an illusion.’

  Her heart missed a beat. She was a failure. ‘I can’t,’ she said.

  Jed turned to the chairman. ‘I’m going on with Fancy. Is that all right? It’s going to be a twosome. A kind of conversation. Ant and Dec-style, vaguely. I ask a few questions and Fancy will answer them. We’ve changed the format. A chat show, an interview-type talk.’

  Fancy did not know what he was talking about.

  ‘Anything,’ said Fergus, desperate now. ‘As long as Fancy goes on that platform. She can’t cancel at the very last moment. It would be a disaster.’

  Jed took Fancy’s arm with his good hand. ‘Come along, famous lady crime writer. Show them what you’re made of. Let’s go blow them off this planet. Put on that gorgeous smile, baby.’

  ‘I’m not—’

  ‘Yes, you are.’

  ‘Failure.’

  ‘I can’t even spell it.’

  Fancy found herself being propelled into the main conference hall. It was full. A sea of expectant faces turned towards her, many of whom she knew. The shelf was full. They were all her friends. She wished she was sitting up there with them.

  A second chair was hastily put on the platform and the lectern removed. Jed and Fancy were both going to sit for this talk. The technical man adjusted the height of the mikes in front of them.

  ‘It’s going to be a different kind of lecture this evening,’ said Fergus. ‘As you all know, Fancy has a couple of bad burns from last night’s incident and it is unfair to ask her to stand. And John Edwards, who has some professional experience of crime, has agreed to fire the questions at her. So a big hand, ladies and gentleman, for tonight’s speaker, the well-known crime writer, Miss Fancy Burne-Jones.’

  Fancy had to admire the way the chairman had made it sound as if it was all his idea. Though ‘fire the questions’ was a tactless phrase. Her first half-smile of the evening appeared. Jed took it as a good sign and sent her a silent signal of approval. They were ready to start.