Meanwhile, she had Sarah to deal with. In the last few days, Freddy had swung between never wanting to see Sarah again and imagining telling her exactly how she’d messed up Freddy’s relationship with her brother. Andy would never trust her again. Probably guessing Freddy was furious, Sarah had maintained digital silence; perhaps she’d gone back to Liverpool, tail between her legs. Freddy tried not to picture the dent on Ricky’s Mazda. It could have happened anywhere, Freddy muttered again as she waited for customers to crowd around the fish van. Hardly.
The morning passed in a blur – literally, as rain lashed against the windscreen faster than the wipers could clear it – and few customers braved the wet. Hour after hour, Freddy chugged the van up and down Newhaven’s streets, the cheery music on Radio Two deepening her gloom.
Freddy was beginning to see what Andy had meant. She was barely scraping a living. If it went on like this and Mags didn’t return soon, Freddy would pack it in. The saving grace was that Andy had – Don’t tell Ricky – given her a cut of the large pre-orders to local restaurants and a couple of market stallholders which she loaded onto the van each morning. The lowest-value order was £200.
She wondered if he’d offered this to Karen too. Freddy had to hand it to Karen – she must have gone all out to make the kind of money that had bought her car and posh clothes. Unless maybe she’d had a rich lover? The Karen Munday she’d known at the convent would not suffer anything approaching a sugar-daddy. Karen would need to be boss.
She’d had a couple of oddball situations on the fish round. A woman calling from an upstairs window with the code to her key safe because she was locked in. It had taken ten minutes because the woman insisted on giving clues to the numbers, which Freddy couldn’t get. ‘Tusks of an elephant’ had been two. She was told to post the keys through the letter box so that the woman could open the door. The woman had taken another five minutes to put on make-up. At last she’d emerged and asked for two skate. Freddy had no skate because Andy had advised they were expensive. Another woman was cross that Freddy had no live lobsters.
‘Did you use to have them when Karen was here?’
‘Never.’
A thump on the window. The other night’s near miss on the A26 still fresh, Freddy jumped with fright. Her terror wasn’t diminished at the sight of a man in a tight vest and shorts which might have passed for sexy on a Seventies heart-throb, but on a reptilian old man waving an Illy coffee tin was repulsive.
Gingerly, Freddy opened the van door, tempted to whack it aside when the man was slow to move out of the way.
It was nearly eleven and the man’s Illy tin reminded Freddy she was gagging for a coffee; next week, she’d bring a flask. She bet Karen Munday had handled difficult customers with her eyes shut.
‘You got my bream, dearie?’ Mr Reptile stroked a brush moustache that owed much to army blokes of Freddy’s dad’s generation.
‘Yes.’ Freddy raised the back hatch and again felt pleasure at the sight of her display. That morning in the fishery, she’d shovelled ice from the trolley onto the shelf. Big enough to hide a body, one packer had said. Fretting about Mags, never mind Rick, Freddy hadn’t seen the joke. As if back in Waitrose, she’d lovingly arranged her stock. Plaice, salmon, bream and bass fillets, an array of dabs and, today, prawns fresh off Ricky’s boat. Salmon steaks at the front for colour for the outlying villages. Freddy knew from Waitrose that salmon was a favoured easy meal of the middle class. Wrap in foil, squeeze a lemon over, add a couple of heads of dill. Decorate with lemon segments. Pop in the oven for twenty minutes. She had the patter. Packets of the smoked variety lined the back wall of the ‘shop’.
Andy had stowed the pre-orders in polystyrene boxes in the hold beneath the counter. The weighing scales fitted into a cubbyhole, along with knives and a wireless card reader. The fish van had been upgraded since her uncle Ray operated it in the eighties. The service had stopped when Ray Power, like his older brother, Fred, had died of a heart attack.
‘Red or black bream?’ That morning she’d taken a punt on the red; the quota was fixed low, making it expensive.
‘I’m white inside and out.’ He twitched his moustache. Fascist.
‘Red or black?’
‘Steady on, girl. Keep your bra on. Red.’ He unscrewed his coffee tin and tipped out a heap of coins and notes into his palm. ‘You’re not as amenable as the other lady, are you? Karen knew what I like.’
Freddy had learned to button it with revolting customers. The advantage of a sole operator (ha ha) was you could drive away.
‘What did you do to Karen?’ He leered at her.
‘I think we’re done here.’ Freddy slapped the bream back onto the ice and prepared to shut the van.
‘You can’t do that!’ he bleated.
‘What can’t she do, Alistair?’ A woman, a little older than Freddy, blow-dried hair swished in a side parting, a dash of red lipstick showing off white teeth, mauve puffa jacket slung over her shoulders, clutched a Mulberry purse. She was as put together as Alistair Moustache was falling apart.
‘She’s refusing to serve me.’ A spray of saliva came with the words. ‘Karen was a different kettle of fish.’ He laughed through his nose.
‘What about that time she stuffed a lemon sole down your trousers because you asked her to come upstairs?’ The woman widened her eyes at Freddy. ‘At least this way you don’t have to wash your smalls.’
‘Red bream. One.’ The man folded his arms as if a show was about to begin.
‘For goodness’ sake.’ The woman snatched the ten-pound note off him and passed it to Freddy. ‘Please would you deal with me? I’m Rosie, I’m Alistair’s human translator. Welcome to our street.’
‘Thanks.’ Freddy bagged the fish, ran it through the sealer and handed it to Rosie, who handed it to Alistair.
‘That wasn’t difficult, was it?’ Armed with his fish, Alistair was himself again.
‘Alistair, if you want your box ticked next week, try being civil to the community in which you hope to serve.’ Rosie dug around in her purse.
‘What about my skate? And I wanted turbot.’ His eyes were like dead fish.
Freddy’s heart sank. She couldn’t choose her customers any more than at Waitrose. Alistair was what Andy had called a pre-order. These were phone messages from local restaurants. Freddy found his fish at the bottom of a box at the back. She could feel him about to suggest she learn her routes and packed accordingly. Andy had fulfilled the list and stowed the stock on the van for her. There was a small quota for skate and turbot, both large and expensive fish. Freddy had one of each species on display in the van. Judging by the size of Alistair’s pre-order, most of the skate and the turbot that the fishery stocked had been reserved for him. Freddy was surprised at the low price. Alistair could spot a bargain. She took three twenties off him. No change; Andy had said pre-orders were rounded prices. Freddy bit her tongue to hide her grimace when she brushed Alistair’s fingers.
‘Karen did refuse to serve him,’ Rosie said when Alistair had gone back into his house. ‘He’s standing as an independent councillor. Being free of morals or a drop of the milk of human kindness appear to be no obstacle. He runs a wallet-busting bijou restaurant in Hastings, hence what he’s bought from you. Powers are clever at managing their quotas.’ Rosie frowned. ‘Enough of him. I was so sorry to hear about Karen. How hard for you all, losing a colleague. And in such dreadful circumstances.’
‘Yes.’ Freddy had been accepting condolences all week. Had Karen known she was so liked by her customers?
Rosie bought two plaice fillets, all the prawns and a large hake, which Freddy cut into strips. A good haul for one street. She accepted the small change that, at Waitrose, would have been irksome but on the round had proved vital.
‘…I used to see more of Karen than my friends. Terrible thing to happen when life was going her way. She’d just dropped an awful man. She said she was cashing in, whatever that meant. I did wonder if she planned to leave
you guys and look for pastures new. Forget that – I’m sure she was happy there.’ Rosie put her fist to her mouth in cartoon apology. ‘And her boy killed her? That is hard to fathom. Although boys can lose it, if it’s been them and Mum. My youngest nephew went on a coke spree when my sister fell for her accountant.’ She squatted down and retied the laces on her pink hi-tops. ‘Kids, eh? I decided to do the planet a favour and pass on that one.’
What was Karen cashing in? Not the fish round; it wasn’t Karen’s to sell. Did her brothers know Karen had planned to leave? Surely not, or Andy would have said.
‘Did you know Karen?’ Rosie asked.
‘Yes. No. A bit.’ Freddy struggled. Rosie had strayed beyond the usual fishmonger–customer to and fro. ‘I was at school with her.’ Freddy didn’t offer an example of how she had known Karen. Like when she’d taken Toni to the sick bay when Karen had pushed her off a wall. Toni had said she tripped. Mags had worried that Toni’s lie was as much a sin as Karen’s deed.
‘Hey, what if this man who Karen wanted to dump killed her?’ Rosie cradled her purchases, ‘I simply can’t believe it was Dan. Karen adored him, talked about him all the time. Ask me, he’s low-hanging fruit. The police should pick on a suspect their own size. It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve thrown their weight behind an erroneous assumption. Take the Yorkshire Ripper.’
‘I don’t think they are assuming anything.’ Although she was cross with Toni, Freddy felt compelled to stick up for her. ‘Did you tell the police?’
‘I mentioned the boyfriend. The woman wrote it down, but obviously they ignored it.’
Rosie tugged her puffa jacket closer around her and at her door called back, ‘I’ll look out for you next week and fight off Alistair for you.’
Freddy started to say that she could do her own fighting, but Rosie’s offer wasn’t like Sarah’s need to control her. They could fight him together.
What was Karen cashing in?
*
Sarah was already in the street. Leaning against her car, legs crossed, elbow cupped in a hand as if she was thinking great thoughts. In casual gear of button-down shirt, jeans and the same pink hi-tops as Rosie had worn. Casual though it was, her outfit would have matched the value of one of the pricier pre-orders.
The cool-chick pose used to work on Freddy every time. She’d melted at the sight of Sarah lounging in the Waitrose car park. But, as domestic disputes overtook, the magic dwindled. When Andy had opened Sarah’s letter, it vanished altogether. Now Freddy felt a burst of white-hot fury. She’d uninstalled Sarah’s tracker, so Sarah must have followed her.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ She pulled over, her fury increasing when she scraped the hubs against the kerb.
Languid, Sarah pushed off the bonnet and strolled over. By the time Freddy climbed out, Sarah had lifted the hatch and, with her super-concerned face, was contemplating Freddy’s wares.
‘Seriously, darling? You prefer chuntering around the sticks flogging fish to working at my firm with your own office?’ Sarah frowned up at the sky. ‘It’s going to rain.’
Freddy didn’t bother with a reply. Her answer to Sarah’s proposal that Freddy be the office manager for her business, mooted when they got together, was yes, she absolutely did prefer selling fish from a van. Even on a wet day with no customers.
‘I did not give you permission to tell my brothers I’m contesting Mum’s will.’
‘You are contesting it. Great!’ Sarah exclaimed. ‘I’m on your side, Freddy.’ A favourite line.
‘Read my lips: I am not contesting it.’ Freddy breathed heavily, her temper rising. ‘I had to pretend to Andy that I authorised you to write it or he’d have got you chucked out of the profession.’
‘I was acting in your best interest. I always do, babes.’ Sarah was unruffled.
‘I’ll be the judge of that.’ Freddy slid out the last pre-order. A consignment of Dover sole and prawns for a restaurant on the quay which boasted gourmet dishes of sustainably caught seafood. Newhaven had gone up since her day.
She had planned to go to the battery after she finished. Now she knew she wouldn’t find Mags there, it was more of a personal pilgrimage. Their shrine. She would have to lose Sarah.
‘How many times have I signed stuff for you – my family’s birthday cards, thank you notes – and you have never complained.’ Sarah’s hair was immaculate. Whenever she travelled for work, she located the best hairdresser in the area in advance to ensure a daily wash and blow dry. Sarah had the knack, whatever the circumstances, of maintaining her routine. Freddy envied her. Unforeseen events – her mum’s death was an extreme example – threw her into turmoil. Her own hair was salted by the sea and swept about by the wind.
‘That’s different and you know it. I told you to do nothing about the will.’ Freddy slammed shut the van and stalked over to the quay. She went around to the restaurant’s side door. A woman in dark glasses, a coat slung over her shoulders, answered the ring. She looked this way and that and, seeing Sarah, shrank back inside like a fugitive.
‘You’ll keep bringing this?’ She spoke in an undertone.
‘If we have what you order in that day’s catch.’ Freddy had answered this question from many pre-order customers. Did they expect her to be murdered too? Thinking of the A26 car, the idea chilled her.
‘Karen came every week. God rest her.’ The woman, ‘Mrs V’, according to the order, essayed a sign of the cross. She pushed a fat envelope of cash at Freddy. Freddy had stopped counting on receipt; it implied a lack of trust for clients who Andy said were prestigious. This order was worth £350, of which £50 would be Freddy’s. At this rate, she’d earn more than at Waitrose in less time. All pre-order customers paid in cash; this was fortunate, given the many digital dead spots – Lewes town centre, Piddinghoe church, Newhaven Fort – on the round, where a card wouldn’t work.
‘Like I said, if we have what you want.’ Freddy slipped the money into her leather bumbag. Another customer who missed Karen. Who’d have thought?
‘It’s dodgy selling to strangers in their houses,’ Sarah said as they walked back along the quay to the van. ‘I doubt your brothers keep a check on you. And you won’t let me track your phone.’ She paused to show nothing escaped her. ‘We could get them on employment rights, bet you’re on zero hours.’
‘Leave it.’ If Sarah got a toehold into the fishery’s working conditions, she’d be launching a class action. ‘There’s a list of pre-order addresses in the office and, anyway, I don’t go into people’s homes.’ Freddy took the book with Karen’s orders off the dashboard. Printed sheets listing the daily orders were interleaved between the pages. Karen drew a line through each completed order and added in the price – £100, £150, one was £2,000 – beside each item. In the last week of her life Karen had sold over three grands’ worth of pre-orders. Andy assembled the orders for Freddy. That morning he’d let slip that Karen used to do it. Freddy would offer to take over. It might thaw relations. Since Sarah’s letter, Andy had been Mr Frosty.
‘It’s not only fake utility workers and roofers duping old people. As I’m always having to tell some judge or other. What about those external workers who are victims of the resident of a house?’
‘What do you mean?’ Freddy berated herself. She’d been sucked into one of Sarah’s doom scenarios. When they first fell in love, Freddy had loved hearing the stories of Sarah’s clients – dodgy roofers and plasterers, bank robbers, fraudsters and gangsters. Sarah was the brave hero, there for those who, for whatever reason, had strayed off the legal beaten track.
‘…suppose an elderly woman wants you to change a light bulb?’
‘I’d refuse.’ Freddy was prompt.
‘You would not.’ Sarah was in her stride. ‘You’d have to agree. Your Catholic guilt would kick in. It would spread through the neighbourhood how the fishmonger left a pensioner in distress. You’d tell yourself it might encourage her to buy more fish. So, you climb onto the chair she’s
got ready and ask for the bulb. Silence. She must be hard of hearing. You ask again, louder. Still silence. You look down and there’s her psychopathic son grinning at you. In his hand is not a lightbulb but a carving knife.’ Sarah’s eyes blazed.
‘I’d escape.’ Freddy pictured Alistair with the knife. And no Rosie to help her.
‘Have you noticed that, whenever we think of being in a dangerous situation – a terrorist with a gun, a chase through tunnels – we always escape? We can’t imagine our own deaths.’ Sarah paced in front of the van as if laying out her strategy to an obdurate client. She catastrophised everyday life to the proportions her clients experienced.
‘I don’t imagine those situations.’ Although Freddy had heard the grind of the engine, bramble thorns cutting into her flesh, all week. In the reruns she always escaped and the driver died a painful death.
‘The knife-wielding man locks you in the cellar, where, later, he’ll wall you up. His sweet old ma hobbles to the van and chooses the fish of her fancy. Mr Knife relieves you of your cash.’
‘What about my van?’ Freddy felt the damp of the dark cellar against her back, a sick fear preventing her from thinking straight.
‘He drives it to wasteland; he’ll be familiar with likely sites.’ In full throttle, Sarah faced Freddy, the open van door between them. ‘Come on, Freddy, who’d report you missing? Not your brothers. If you disappear, so does your inheritance claim. I don’t trust that Andrew. Greed emanated from that man.’
‘When did you see Andy?’ Sarah had been to the fishery. ‘That man, as you call him, is my brother and what you smelled on him was devastation. He’d never for a minute think I’d do that to him. And he was right, I wouldn’t.’
‘He was quite rude,’ Sarah remarked airily. ‘I bumped into him this morning in the car park. Seems he lives opposite my hotel. I introduced myself.’
‘I was mending bridges with him. You’ve blown it.’ Freddy didn’t need to ask Sarah how she knew it had been Andy. Sarah always found things out. ‘When we were kids Andy was my best friend.’
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