NINE
Tuesday Night
‘Marchant was their maiden name? Are you sure?’
‘Yes, but no one remembers maiden names. It never registers. Who would think it important? Their mother, Mrs Marchant, was open about her name and it was there in the records. It was something that went completely unnoticed. Till now.’
‘Thelma Harlow disappeared thirty years ago.’
‘A long time ago.’
‘Melody Marchant could have been from some other branch of the family.’
‘Yes, she could. But we don’t know yet. They’re running more sophisticated DNA tests now. It only takes a few days. It used to take weeks.’
‘Are you trying to link this unsolved murder with me, the fire, the lump of concrete and all the other things?’
‘I can’t see how or why yet, but it is possible. You are here. Melody was here. I’m reopening The Missing Cover Girl cold case and you publish a magazine called Macabre Mysteries, which ran the story previously.’
Fancy leaned against the wall, her shoulders slumped. It was quite cold now, the plaster chilled and hard against her back. She couldn’t remember when she had last slept well. And she needed more sleep.
‘I’m too tired to take all this in. Thank you, Jed, for helping me with my talk. I couldn’t have done it without you. It went very well, amazingly well, and it was because of your support. It was a great idea and the only way I could have got through the evening.’
‘You needed a straight man. I was there and I knew I could shield you from anything unpleasant. I’ve provided protection in far worse situations.’
‘A bodyguard?’
‘Did you see that film? Whitney Houston? Great film.’
Fancy didn’t want to talk any more. She inserted her key and opened the bedroom door. ‘Thank you again, Jed. Goodnight and thank you for a lovely afternoon at Newstead Abbey. It seems a hundred years ago now.’
‘It was a hundred years, a completely different world.’ Jed saw that Fancy was drooping. ‘I’m sleeping in the room across the corridor with the door open, don’t forget.’
Fancy absorbed the new arrangement. He would be near, which was perfect. ‘Sleeping across the corridor with the door open seems a good idea. I’ll be able to yell for help.’
‘I hope you won’t have to. I’ll check your room first.’
There was no sign of the fire. A new shower curtain had been fitted and every inch of tile scrubbed and cleaned. Even the smell of fire had gone. Her room was back to normal. Someone had put some mauve flowers on the windowsill.
‘Are you going to be all right?’
‘I could sleep through an earthquake.’
‘I don’t think your hoaxer could manage an earthquake. Goodnight, Fancy.’
‘Goodnight, Jed.’
She could barely drag herself through her normal bedtime routine. She managed to take off her make-up and clean her teeth, but her clothes went into a heap on a chair without being hung up. Bed was a haven and she wrapped herself into the duvet, wallowing in the self-infused warmth. As she slipped into sleep, she started not to care if anything happened to her.
Her best-seller would not get published but that would not matter any more. Authors disappear. They often did. No more working late into the night at a solitary computer. No landfill of tax demands. No more editorial arguments, no more proofreading. Proofreading was her personal nightmare.
But she did not sleep for long. Something woke her in the early hours of the morning. She looked at her luminous bedside clock. It was 2.20 a.m. Not a quadrant. She did not know what had woken her. She dared not move in case it provoked some further unwanted activity.
She moved silently out of bed and stood by the window, keeping well back. A watery moon cast its pale light over the grass verge and path, and the grassy knoll where the Orchard Room stood. Nothing seemed to be happening. No parties. No very late bedfellows. The writers’ conference had retired for the night. The manager on the late shift duty could watch television in peace.
Fancy was not sure. Something did not seem right. She needed to find out for herself, to put her mind at rest. She pulled on some black trousers, and a long-sleeved black fleece, black trainers, no socks. She put a couple of pink pens in her pocket; they had sharp nibs. And, as a final thought, she picked up her nail scissors. Not that she would ever use them to defend herself. But they made her feel safer.
Jed’s door was open a few inches and she could hear his regular breathing. He was sleeping deeply, worn out by the day’s activities. She wished she could stay with him but knew it would be foolish. It would be over by the weekend and everyone would disperse to their homes all over England, many to Scotland. Some would be flying back to Switzerland or France..
She would go home to her church lodge, get the window repaired, get on with her book. So many words a day.
She might never see Jed again. He would go back to his life, maybe to his wife, if he had one. She didn’t know. She had never asked. Nor had he ever mentioned a wife, waiting at home, ironing, making jam and chutney.
She crept down the stairs, not using the lift, along the corridor to the front entrance. It was eerily quiet with only a low-wattage light on. It sent no shadows into corners. A few empty bottles and glasses had been abandoned on the central table. Some late-night party that the bar staff did not have the energy to clear up.
The front door opened with the smallest of clicks and Fancy went out onto the path. It was cold and she was glad of the comfort and warmth of the fleece. She had read somewhere that fleece was made from recycled plastic bags. She went down the slope and into the shadow close to the wall of Lakeside. The moon had clouded over and it was dark. She kept close to the wall, hoping she would not wake any light sleepers on the ground floor. She began a circuit of Lakeside, round both sides, through the car park, skirting the older, sturdy ABC building that was clothed in darkness. The main entrance to Lakeside was also closed and dark with only a small bulb glowing over the counter.
Nothing was happening. No one was about. But she sensed something or someone. She heard a noise. Footsteps were crossing the gravel of the main car park, by the entrance hall of the old Victorian mansion. She ducked down behind some bushes and moved between the trees that circled the main driveway to the house.
A man was getting into a car. It was a metallic silver Vauxhall with a roof rack. At two o’clock in the morning? It could hardly be staff and Fancy knew that staff parked way back, out of sight. No one would be working this late.
She tried to fix on some aspect of the man, something to remember, like a detective would. He looked middle-aged. About early fifties, wearing dark clothes, a waterproof parka and a flat cap. She thought she caught the glint of spectacles. He closed the door and switched on the headlights. They beamed away from the school, down the drive. He slid the car into gear and moved away, almost without noise.
The car rolled down the drive, over the speed bumps, towards the entrance gates and the lane that lead up to the main road. In a minute he was out of sight. Fancy breathed deeply. She suddenly felt free. There was something about the man and the car that had spelt trouble, and now he had gone.
Could she put this fear into a book? She had no idea. She needed to get back to her room and rescue what hours were left of the night. She took the shortest way back to Lakeside with complete confidence. She was the only person awake.
Except for the tabby cat who crossed her path. He was also out late, hunting mice from the nearby fields. He twisted himself round her ankles.
Fancy stroked his striped head and back, and he arched, purring. ‘I’ve nothing for you, puss,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’
She took the stairs again. Jed was still asleep, his breathing like an ancient Greek’s, strong and regular. If only she could crawl in beside him and curl up against his back. She knew she would sleep as deeply.
But common sense told her not to be so foolish. She hated common sense. It was so boring. S
he went back to her room and closed the door, activating the self-lock. But she still put a chair against the door. She made a cup of tea, but later in bed, was asleep before it was half drunk.
Her dreams were weird. A blue thermos flask, a cliff path and the sea lashing against rocks far below. The sea was clear and blue, sparkling. The place meant nothing but gave her a sense of serenity. She did not want to wake up. But she had to.
There was an urgent knocking on her door. And Jed’s voice came though her submerged dreams. She floundered in shreds of consciousness.
‘Fancy! Fancy, wake up! Are you all right?’
Fancy sat up, blinking. She recognized his voice, the urgency.
She staggered to the door, stubbing her bare toes on a chair, which was extremely painful. She pulled the chair away and opened the door, forgetting the briefness of her teddy bear nightshirt.
‘Jed? What is it? I was asleep,’ she mumbled.
‘I had to make sure you were all right.’
‘I’m all right. Why? What is it?’
‘Come and see.’
They were standing in the corridor, both less than half dressed. It was idiotic. Fancy hoped no one was watching.
Jed slept in shorts. His chest was brown and bare with a sprinkling of dark hair. He took her arm and pulled her into his bedroom, took her across to the window. ‘Look. Down there.’
Below in the car park, a car was ablaze, flames shooting up into the night sky, glowing like a bonfire. It was parked some distance from the other cars, although alarmed owners were running into the car park, anxious to move their vehicles away from the blaze. Sparks could travel.
‘Where’s your car?’ Fancy asked.
‘It’s safe. Parked on the upper level. Is yours there too?’
‘Yes, no point in walking miles with luggage and books.’
‘I was worried in case you were in the car,’ said Jed, drawing her away from the window. ‘So many odd things have happened to you.’
‘For heaven’s sake,’ said Fancy. ‘Why would I get into some strange car in the middle of the night? I’m not that stupid.’
‘You might have been drugged, taken prisoner, hostage, dragged there. I don’t know. I just had to make sure you were okay.’
Fancy calmed down. She could see his point but he had woken her from a lovely dream and that was almost unforgivable. One could never get back to a good dream. It was gone forever.
‘Can I go back to bed now?’ she asked.
‘Yes, sorry to have woken you. I had to check.’
‘Was there anyone in the car?’
‘No, I don’t think so. I couldn’t see anyone. Hear that noise? The fire brigade has arrived. Hoses out. Everything’s under control now. The night duty manager will be asking for danger money at this rate.’
‘Everyone will be glad to go home on Friday morning. All this excitement.’
‘Will you be glad to go home?’ Jed asked.
How could Fancy answer in all truth? She wanted to go home, longed for her own bed, her computer and books, yet she did not want to leave him. She wanted to stay here with Jed, whatever happened. He had become her rock. Yet she knew nothing about him. He might be a rock of salt.
‘I’ve a window to get repaired,’ she said. ‘A saint with some lambs. Funny how I don’t like my church lodge quite so much any more. No views. Only a few walls and dustbins And the traffic is diabolical.’
She went back into her bedroom, repeated the locking procedure and drank the cold tea. She had not told Jed that she recognized the car. The blazing car had been a metallic silver Vauxhall with a roof rack.
Sleep was more elusive this time. She tossed and stretched, tried going through plot lines, tried to remember her next lecture. She could not remember a word of it. It was going to be a disaster.
‘Sorry, folks, I can’t remember what we were going to do today. I know I was going to start and then an hour later, I would end.’ They might laugh. ‘But the in-between bit is a blur. Just talk among yourselves.’
She gave up trying to sleep, switched on the light and found a recent novel. If she couldn’t sleep, then she would read. Let some other writer transport her to another world, cast it with dream people, weave some magic.
She must have fallen asleep with the book still open at a page. No reflection on the author or his story; her eyes had given up, refused to stay open. Dawn was filtering through her window, the palest of colours tinting the sky, a brush of light, night bleeding into morning.
‘Is this Wednesday?’ she asked herself. ‘I’ve lost count of the days.’
Yes, it was Wednesday. Two more days and Northcote would be all over. Life would revert to normal. Everyone would go home to jobs, children, swearing eternal friendship, exchanging email addresses and phone numbers, hugs and kisses. As if life could ever be the same after this time together.
Would Jed kiss her goodbye? Probably not. She would put her cold face on before he could plant a kiss on her cheek.
She showered and put on an easy, crinkled white shirt with her black jeans, with a butterfly cover-up. The weather had changed abruptly; it looked bleak, grey and cold outside. She needed the comfort of warmer clothes. For once she was in time for half a breakfast. Grapefruit, hash browns and baked beans, coffee. No bacon, no sausage. She could not face the cold brown roof tiles, even with butter and marmalade. Everyone was talking about the burnt-out car.
The fire incident officer was around again, prodding the remains of the vehicle, now a pile of soot and twisted metal. ‘Looks like you’ve got an arsonist,’ he said. ‘There are signs of some sort of fire source. It was thrown over the car. Thank goodness no one was inside. They would have been incinerated.’
‘Is it getting worse?’ Jed asked. ‘Fire in a bucket, now a car on fire?’
‘There may not be any connection. Perhaps the car is copycat.’
‘Will it be the old house next or the conference hall?’
‘Don’t look on the dark side, sir. I’m sure there’s an explanation for all this. After all, they are writers.’
Jed could have sworn at him, silenced him in a completely unprofessional way. His clenched fist hurt, nails digging into flesh. He swallowed his anger. ‘Writers are ordinary, normal people with a longing to write, to create stories, to write something that other people will want to read. They don’t start fires.’
‘If you say so, sir.’
‘I do say so. Would you like some coffee?’ Jed tried to be civil.
‘No, thank you. I have to arrange for the wreck to be removed for forensic examination. It’s still a criminal offence.’
Fancy skipped the first workshop of the day, walked round the garden, talked to a few people, apologized to the writer whose manuscript had been burnt to cinders in a bucket.
‘You must let me pay for a fresh photocopy,’ said Fancy. The writer wore a white badge, was anxious, wide-eyed, starting out. You never knew, she might be the next J K Rowling or Ruth Rendell. Fancy fished for a card in her bag. ‘Send it to me at home and I promise to read it. Every word. And I’ll send a critique.’
‘That would be wonderful, Fancy. Thank you so much. I do hope you were not hurt in any way.’
‘Only my hands,’ said Fancy. She had thrown away the corrupt bandages and wrapped her hands in cling film. They were healing and looked pink and healthy. She had good, healthy genes.
The police were still interviewing and were going through the catering and management staff now. No one knew anything. How could they? They were busy cooking and caring for three hundred people. They didn’t have time to walk round the old lake in the dark.
Fancy’s third lecture flowed. She was not sure why. It might be because she had done her homework and the structure was firmly formed in her head. It might be because she knew her subject. It might be because she liked her group and wanted them to enjoy writing fiction, as she did.
‘So today, my friends, we are going to work. No more jokes. Down to serious work.
Pen to paper. Mind in gear. Ideas at the ready. We are going to look for clues and invent red herrings. Has everyone got a pen?’
There was the usual clamour for one of her pink pens.
The hour fled by with hoots of laughter and more good ideas. Fancy thought, fleetingly, that she might pinch some of them. She could use them, slightly amended. She could see short stories, novels, non-fiction, her invisible world. But she sat flat on her greedy appetite and discussed with the delegates how to best use their ideas in their work. How could she have thought, even for a moment, of using their ideas?
Break time on the lawn was welcome. She drank two black coffees. The week was nearly over. She wanted to get back to her current writing; it was too long to be away from her book. It hadn’t gone cold on her but she felt a chilly distance. Whereas normally the story lived with her, every moment of the day, now there were whole hours when she did not give it a thought.
‘Guess who the car belonged to,’ Jed said, trying to balance a coffee and a biscuit in one hand. She did not offer to help. She knew that much now.
‘Tonight’s speaker?’
‘No, Melody’s husband. He’s the farmer who’d driven up from Cornwall. Not exactly a good week for him. First Melody and now his car.’
‘Was he staying here?’ Fancy wondered why she had seen the silver car drive away from Northcote at two in the morning, before the fire. It didn’t make sense.
‘Yes, they’d given him a room in the main house. No one knew he was here. He wanted his presence to be kept quiet, so that the programme was not upset. It was what Melody would have wanted, he said.’
Fancy thought about her arrival and Melody’s warm greeting.
‘She was a lovely lady. She’d once been very beautiful – it’s easy to see that. I only met her on Saturday when I arrived, but she was very kind and helpful. I feel so sorry for her husband.’
‘Partner. A bit younger than Melody, I should think. Big strapping chap, typical farmer.’
‘A farmer is the perfect partner for a writer. He’s out all day, from the crack of dawn, doing farming type things. Hopefully the farm provides lots of good food so she need never go to Waitrose again. Oh dear, Melody need never go shopping again, of course. I’d forgotten.’
Money Never Sleeps Page 10