‘Mmm,’ she agreed. She looked at him over the brimming glass. He looked dishevelled, his Roman cut untidy, the fringe flopping. His glasses needed cleaning. They were smeared with something muddy. Hadn’t she suspected him of being involved? Hadn’t she stopping trusting him? It was all lost in the mist of her mind. Thoughts swirled round like fragments of sound, disjointed and incoherent. She was almost dizzy with indecision. And this annoyed her too.
‘It feels funny to be back in the real world,’ she said. ‘The conference is so cut off from everything, as if we are living in a fictional world. I’m not surprised that people go out for a meal now and then, to get their feet back on solid ground.’
‘You remember that you’re at a conference, then?’
‘Of course I remember that I’m at a conference. I’m giving talks, aren’t I?’ She looked at Jed’s face, trying to get some clue from his expression. ‘I am, aren’t I? Or have I imagined it?’
‘No, you’re at a writers’ conference in Derbyshire and you’ve been giving lectures. You’re a crime writer. You have one more lecture to give tomorrow.’
Fancy almost choked on the straw. ‘Tomorrow? But I can’t. I can’t remember anything.’ She remembered a nightmare dream when she stood up in front of a room full of people and couldn’t remember a word of what she had to say. Perhaps she was still living that nightmare.
The girl was coming over with a big white plate for Jed. On it was a huge, steaming cod fillet covered in golden batter and a mountain of glistening chips. It smelt wonderful. She put down cutlery wrapped in a paper napkin and a small bowl of standard salad. No imagination. Lettuce, tomato, sliced beetroot and a sprinkling of cress and a small ramekin of dressing.
‘Enjoy,’ she said, without expression, as if she had been taught to say it.
‘The salad is for you,’ said Jed, pushing the bowl towards her.
‘Thanks a million,’ said Fancy, helping herself to a glistening chip. It was hot and nearly burnt her fingers and her mouth. But the taste was fantastic. She had been denying herself this taste for years – too much salt and too much fat. But this was a special occasion. She was beginning to realize that she had survived something and hoped that soon Jed would tell her. Meanwhile another little chip wouldn’t hurt. Forget cholesterol.
‘Don’t mind me. Help yourself,’ said Jed, adding a dollop of tomato sauce to the plate. They still had bottles in this pub, not plastic sachets, impossible to open.
He took some of her salad, to counteract the fat, he told himself. Fancy ate a few more chips, savouring the forbidden food, wiping the fat off her lips with a paper napkin. She also munched some limp lettuce, to show willing.
‘So what’s been happening to me?’ she asked between sips of her Rainbow Punch. ‘You said you would tell me when I felt better. I feel better now.’
Jed forked up a mouthful of succulent fish, wondering if she was strong enough to hear it all. He leaned forward, carefully, as if shielding her from all the people in the pub. She was looking at him, her dark eyes full of trust.
‘You were drugged with a date-rape drug, but it wasn’t a big dose. Then someone tried to drown you in the lake. They left you to drown. The old lake. The same lake where we found Melody Marchant.’
FOURTEEN
Wednesday Night
Fancy thought she would faint. It was like a macabre plot from one of her own crime novels. She could have written it. But could the Pink Pen Detective have solved the mystery? Probably not. She wasn’t that smart.
‘Is this true?’ she said in a low voice. ‘Is that why I can’t remember anything?’ She was frightened and bewildered.
‘The drug blanks out all your present memory. But not forever; it does come back sometimes. In time for your lecture, we hope. But you will never remember what happened to you while you were under the influence of the drug. You won’t remember who dragged you or carried you down to the lake. Or who pushed you into the water.’
‘Someone wants to kill me. The lake wasn’t a threat like the biscuit tin or the fire in a bucket. This was a definite attempt to kill me. But why? What have I done? What’s the motive?’
‘If only we knew,’ said Jed. ‘Then we might be able to help you.’
‘Have you been assigned to me?’ she said, sharply.
‘Yes.’
‘Did you save me, pull me out of the lake?’
‘Yes.’
‘So you’re not here at the conference because you’re a writer?’
‘Not exactly.’ Jed sighed. She would hate him even more now. ‘I do write. I like writing. I am writing a book about cold cases in my spare time. But this cold case has been erupting like a long-dead volcano. Your magazine article led us to opening up the case of The Missing Cover Girl. We’ve been investigating the money side. It’s a fraud investigation. Where has the money gone? All those brewery millions?’
Fancy shivered, but from fear, not the cold. ‘And I am in danger. Perhaps it’s revenge for publishing the case and attracting your attention to it.’
‘I’ve arranged for a WPC to come up from Derby, to keep you company, all the time, day and night, twenty-four hours.’
‘I don’t want a WPC, however nicely mannered and well behaved.’
‘You are going to have her around for twenty-four hours. I can’t sleep with you, can I? But she can.’ Fancy didn’t answer at first.
‘What’s her name?’
‘WPC Richmond. Dorothy Richmond. A very pleasant woman. You’ll like her. And she’s one hundred per cent reliable.’
‘There isn’t space in my bedroom. You know that.’
‘It’s only for one night. You can go home on Friday if you’re up to driving. I’ll be getting in touch with CID near where you live. They’ll keep an eye on you.’
‘What a busy little bee you are,’ said Fancy, sucking up the last of her punch. She laid emphasis on the bee. ‘Don’t you ever go home?’
There was no answer. Jed wasn’t going to tell her.
WPC Richmond was waiting in reception in the main house. Even though she was in civilian clothes, regular jeans and a grey anorak, there was no disguising that she was a policewoman. She was sturdily built, strong-looking, with minimal make-up, her brown hair pulled back into a short, stubby ponytail. She was carrying a briefcase. No handbag or anything feminine like a scarf. No earrings, no jewellery.
But she had a pleasant smile, good teeth.
‘Miss Jones?’ she said, coming forward briskly. ‘I’ve been sent here for the next twenty-four hours. I may then be relieved by another WPC.’
‘Good heavens,’ said Fancy. ‘I’ve never had a bodyguard before.’ She was feeling considerably better, though some areas were still completely blank. She couldn’t remember how she had got to the lake. ‘What fun. I feel like Whitney Houston in that film.…’
‘Not exactly a bodyguard,’ said Jed. ‘A companion.’
‘I hope you can do karate and all that self-defence stuff,’ said Fancy. ‘You see, I keep getting attacked in some form or another. It’s very disconcerting.’
She knew she was rambling nonsense, but she couldn’t seem to stop. She turned to Jed, who was trying to distance himself. He was obviously irritated with her flippancy. She’d annoyed him again.
‘I bet the disco has started by now. Shall we all go? A threesome would be awesome. Raise a few eyebrows.’
‘I don’t think you’re in a fit state to go dancing,’ said Jed. ‘You can barely walk. A good night’s sleep and you may become your normal, rational self.’
Fancy opened her mouth to speak, then forgot what she was going to say. Her mind still seemed to be going round in circles and it certainly wasn’t the punch, even one laced with redcurrants and pomegranates.
‘If you say so, Mr Edwards.’
‘Perhaps we should go to your room and make a nice cup of tea,’ said Dorothy Richmond, taking charge.
‘A nice cup of tea,’ said Fancy bitterly. ‘That’s all I seem to have
heard today.’
‘It always works.’
‘Tell me more. I’m agog.’ She was rambling again.
Dorothy Richmond took Fancy upstairs in the lift. Jed disappeared, anxious for some time on his own. He had things to do. He’d had little chance to search the ground near where he had found Fancy in the lake. At least the crime tape was still in place and the lake out of bounds to the conference delegates.
There should only be traces of his feet, Fancy’s and her assailant’s. He was hoping to find other significant traces. How was Fancy taken down there? She was a tall girl. Surely not in a wheelbarrow? The gardeners had several of those around. If it was some kind of vehicle, then there would be signs.
He had a flashlight with a strong beam. He made sure he had enough specimen bags in his pocket and his good hand was gloved. He hoped he wouldn’t meet anyone.
He did meet the roaming tabby who had adopted the conference centre as being marginally more interesting that his nearby domestic owners. Nobody talked to him at home, whereas everyone here petted him between lectures. Occasionally he got a morsel of ham or cheese from lunch.
‘Hello, Tabs,’ said Jed. ‘Don’t get in my way.’
‘I don’t know what we’re going to do about sleeping arrangements,’ said Fancy. ‘It’s a double bed but I’m not used to sharing with a complete stranger.’ Nor was she used to sharing it with anyone, she could have added.
‘Don’t worry, Miss Jones,’ said WPC Richmond. ‘I’m not going to sleep. My remit is to sit up all night and make sure you’re safe. I’ve brought some paperwork to do.’
‘That’s all I ever seem to hear these days.’
Fancy tried to tidy the room. It looked as if it had been hit by a cyclone. The bed was heaped with crumpled sheets and duvets. She straightened them out.
‘Good heavens,’ said Fancy. ‘Then we must get you a decent armchair. There’s only an upright chair to use at the desk. You can’t sit on that all night. I’ll phone management and get them to bring up something more comfortable. They’ll be glad it’s not me reporting another fire.’
The duty manager was glad. He promised a more comfortable chair in ten minutes. It arrived while Dorothy was making the tea. It wasn’t ideal, but at least it had arms and was padded. Bright orange. Clashed with the room décor.
He was puffing and blowing. ‘Not used to carrying furniture,’ he said. ‘We have porters for that. But you are special, Miss Jones. Our heroine.’
‘Very kind. Much appreciated,’ said Fancy, with what she hoped was a winning, heroine smile. ‘We won’t bother you again.’
She hoped not.
Fancy donated a couple of pillows to the basic armchair and took herself to bed. She had had enough of today and whatever had happened to her. Tomorrow might be better.
‘Goodnight, Dorothy,’ she said.
‘Goodnight, Miss Jones.’
‘Call me Fancy.’
Jed had no trouble in finding out how Fancy was taken down to the lake. The evidence was there on the ground, the path of crushed grass, the broken stems, the muddied track. She had been dragged down in some sort of sling. Maybe a rug, a blanket or a tablecloth. Something strong and big enough.
An owl hooted in the distance. It had spotted prey.
He couldn’t find any other evidence, except for another of Fancy’s pink pens. But it could have fallen out of her pocket.
The ground by the edge of the lake was churned up and told him nothing, but might reveal something to the forensics team. They would be down in the morning with their eagle eyes and tweezers and specimen bags. There would be soil particles on the soles of the shoes worn by the killer, but the thought of examining the shoes of all the delegates was daunting. Half of them had walked round the lake at some time. They would all be carrying evidence.
He heard the crunching of footsteps coming towards him. They did not seem to be trying to conceal the sound. It was the heavy tread of a big man.
‘Stop,’ said Jed. ‘Police.’
He flashed his torch in the direction of the intruder.
‘Police, eh? Are you going to arrest me for taking a midnight stroll? I’m only walking off an evening’s drinking before I take to my bed. Too many parties.’
Jed recognized the burly figure of Callum McKay, the lecturer on the novel. He was wearing the tweed jacket he had worn all week, with a fawn check shirt. Jed wondered if he had brought any other clothes.
‘Didn’t you see the scene-of-crime tape? You’re not supposed to be here.’
‘Of course I saw it, old boy. But I’m not going to let a bit of plastic stop me from walking round the lake; it’s my favourite place at Northcote. I’m sure your lads have done all the combing for evidence that they need. It’s only a small shrubbery and a small lake – hardly Kew Gardens.’
‘Did you walk round your favourite place this afternoon?’ Jed asked, lowering his flashlamp. ‘Sometime before supper?’
It was a shot in the dark. He might have seen something.
‘Yes, I did. It’s a wonderful place for ideas. I’m really stuck in my new book. It’s about a couple who swap houses and then the husband of one finds out he had affair with the wife of the other when they were both students. But I won’t bore you with the details. It’s very complicated.’
‘Did you see anything unusual or anyone else walking round the lake?’
‘No,’ he shook his head, shaggy hair falling over his brow. ‘Nothing.’
Callum McKay was a big man, muscles like an ox. He could easily have dragged Fancy down to the lake. But if he had wanted to drown her, he would have held her head down till she stopped breathing. He wouldn’t have left her floundering. And a plausible motive was missing.
‘Did you see Fancy Jones at all, alone or with anyone else?’
‘Fancy? No, I didn’t see her. Lovely woman. Writes terrific books. I’ve read them all. Can’t put them down.’
‘Did you see anyone else?’
‘Well, I thought I saw someone … but then I didn’t, if you know what I mean. Queer thing.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Are we ever sure of anything?’ Callum laughed. ‘I have a hell of a time remembering how to spell my own name. I can never remember how many l’s it’s got in it.’
‘Remember hell and spell and then you’ll always know,’ said Jed.
‘Say, that’s damned clever, old boy. Thanks. Hell and spell. I’ll remember that.’ He chuckled. ‘Hell and spell. All these years and I’ve never thought of that.’
Callum had seen something even if he couldn’t remember what it was.
The author lumbered away, muttering to himself. Jed gave up. It was too late, too cold and chilly to do any more. It would have to wait till the morning. He needed sleep. He texted Dorothy Richmond.
‘Is Miss Jones okay?’
‘Sleeping like a baby,’ was the reply. ‘No snoring.’
Jed shut off his mobile. He was missing out on life. It was time he pulled himself together. The damage to his arm had had more of an effect than he thought. He had decided to opt out of normality. The gremlins needed to be banished.
In a far corner of the grounds, where the drive went over the first speed bump, a figure was bending over a mound of cloth. It was one of the Jacobean patterned curtains that hung in all the Lakeside rooms.
The figure was cursing, striking match after match, but failing to ignite the material. It was wet and muddy, stank of lake water. The figure emptied out a rucksack of papers and books and began tearing pages out of the books, crunching the pages up into balls, piling them into a pyramid. The pages caught fire easily, curling tongues of flames licking the edges and racing along the print. It blazed into a mountain of heat, fuelled by more paper and then the rucksack itself.
The curtain began to steam, held over the fire, shielding the bonfire person from the fire itself. His fingers got cramp and he almost dropped the curtain. Coughing and choking on the smoke and the fumes, there was no re
spite from the roar of the flames.
Suddenly the curtain caught, flames devouring the dry hem and then the side seams like a wall of fire. It was dropped to the ground, where the material folded into itself, hissing and steaming.
Balls of burning paper skittered about, scorching dry leaves and stretches of grass. Plenty of those after the hot summer.
A sheet of flame shot up as the folded material ignited, sparks flying upward in a fireworks display. They showered the surrounding ground. Little fires broke out, greedily eating anything dry and crackling. A low-lying branch caught fire, the leaves curling in the heat.
The fire was spreading, running along the dry grass, leaving the smouldering curtain and half-burnt rucksack. The figure began to run. Not in the direction of the conference centre but towards the road.
Then it began to rain, quite heavily.
Jed stopped walking. He could smell the acrid burning but it was also raining. He’d already been thoroughly soaked once this evening. It wasn’t going to happen twice.
He gave up being a detective. Whatever was being burnt could wait till morning.
FIFTEEN
Thursday Morning
Fancy woke early, remembering everything, or almost everything. There was a missing gap after taking the cup of tea from white-badger, Peggy Carter, and then Dr Arthur talking to her about his poetry. Jed seemed to be around a lot, on and off, coming in and out of her room like a weather man.
She remembered the fish and chips, especially the succulent taste of the forbidden chips. And that brightly coloured drink with a kick, but no alcohol.
She turned over and saw a strange woman asleep in an armchair by the radiator, some papers on her lap and more fallen on the floor. The woman looked very uncomfortable. Then Fancy recalled her name, WPC Richmond – also a town on the River Thames – deployed by Jed to guard her through the night.
Some guard, fast asleep.
Thoughts eddied through her mind. Someone had drugged her and then left her to drown in the lake. Was it the same person or different people? Fancy shivered though she was not cold. She was more scared. It was no longer weird happenings and threat. Something had happened which could have killed her. And Jed had rescued her. She did not like the twists and turns that this drama was taking.
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