Rotten Apples

by Natasha Cooper

  Mr Gaskarth looked around the room, as though he were pricing the furniture and paintings, and then grinned. ‘I’ll take a cheque from you, Mrs Worth.’

  ‘Great,’ said Willow and wrote one out, meticulously noting all the relevant details on the counterfoil and deducting the sum from her running total.

  When he had gone, she studied the reports more carefully, trying to find any evidence of the corruption Len Scoffer had suspected. Both Kate and Jason received money from sources other than their salary, but, reading further down the reports, Willow discovered that the odd sums were payments by wholly reputable magazines and newspapers for published articles.

  Kate’s greatest expenditure after the mortgage on her Pimlico flat was her monthly Access account. Willow was amused to see that her guess about Kate’s dry-cleaning bills had been right. They were huge in comparison with her total expenditure. On the other hand she did not spend anything in any of the well known clothes shops, which did seem surprising.

  Willow looked at the list of cheque payees more closely, identifying each one with ease except for a company called Frohberg, which recurred nearly every other month. Looking them up in the telephone directory, Willow saw that they supplied ‘couture fabrics’and began to understand.

  If her clothes were made for her, it was not surprising that they were so well fitted. On the other hand, it was still surprising that she had quite so many custom-made suits.

  Her direct debits were unexciting, as were Jason’s. But there were regular payments in two of the other lists that gave Willow a shock. Len Scoffer transferred sixty pounds into his wife’s account on the second of every month, presumably for housekeeping. Willow wondered how much Mrs Scoffer had had to buy with that. If it were only food for the two of them, then it might be enough, but if she had no other income and was expected to buy her clothes or pay the household bills, it would be outrageously little in comparison with her husband’s earnings.

  Turning back to the list of regular payments that had been made from Scoffer’s account over the past year, Willow could see none to the telephone, electricity or gas companies, although there were regular amounts to his local council, presumably for the council tax, and the water company.

  Of all the targets of her investigation, Scoffer saved the most. Jason Tillter made no investments at all and had a large overdraft. Kate paid one hundred pounds a month into an investment trust but otherwise spent everything she earned. Neither Scoffer nor Jason made any cheque payments to a charity, although Kate subscribed small amounts to both Mind and Crisis, and the minister made a large, regular donation to Amnesty International.

  But the most interesting item in the entire bundle of paper was a monthly standing order for three hundred pounds paid by the minister to a Miss Andrea Salderton. Willow read through everything the detective had given her before ringing his office.

  ‘Miss Andrea Salderton?’ he said as soon as Willow had given him her name. ‘Interesting, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but if you realised that, why didn’t you look into it?’

  ‘No pay, no look,’ said the detective, laughing. ‘Besides, how was I to know you’d find it as tantalising as I do? You didn’t give me any idea what it was you were looking for.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Willow, irritated by his jocularity but needing his skills and contacts. ‘I want to know who she is, where she lives, what she does for a living, why he pays her.’ She stopped talking, suddenly aware of yet another reason why the minister might have wanted Scoffer’s tactics investigated. ‘And which her local tax office is.’

  ‘Can do. Health records of any interest?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. Well, yes, actually they might help. And anything else you can turn up quickly.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. If it looks as though it’s getting very expensive, I’ll let you know. Goodbye, Mrs Worth.’

  Putting down the telephone, Willow tried to remember how she had introduced herself. It was most unlikely to have been as ‘Mrs Thomas Worth’; she never called herself that. Presumably Gaskarth had run a check on her too. It was an unpleasant thought and she had a moment’s sympathy for Miss Andrea Salderton, whoever she might be.

  The telephone rang again. Willow picked it up to discover Serena Fydgett on the other end.

  ‘I thought it was urgent that we speak,’ she said irritably. ‘I’ve been obediently trying to ring you for the past half-hour but you’ve been constantly engaged.’

  ‘Sony. The hospital rang me. I had to talk to them,’ said Willow, lying in an attempt to placate the other woman, who was clearly furious about something. ‘I wanted to ask whether I could come and talk to you today—and perhaps to your nephew as well, if he’s still with you?’

  ‘Why?’ The single word emerged from the telephone like an angry bark.

  ‘It’s just that I’m trying to sort out my own thoughts on who might have started the fire, and I’d like to check one or two things out with you both.’

  ‘You’re beginning to sound like the police, Willow.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. You must know I don’t think you had anything to do with the arson. It’s just that I need to get my mind clear about what the police are up to and why. They won’t tell me, despite the fact that I’m involved. If I could talk to Robert about his interrogation, that would help. I…’ Willow made herself sound pathetic. ‘I need to know what’s going on. That’s why I was in a bit of a panic when I spoke to your clerk and told him how urgent it was that we speak.’

  ‘Oh, I see. All right Why not? Provided you promise to be careful with Robert. When d’you want to come?’

  ‘Well, now, really. If he’s there and it’s not inconvenient to you. Where are you?’

  Serena gave her an address in Stockwell. Willow pressed the fingers of each hand into the palms of the other and then bent the fingers to and fro, trying to decide whether she could bear to drive or not She did not like taking minicabs from firms she did not know, and the thought of trying to find a taxi in Stockwell when she had finished with the Fydgetts decided her. She took her car. After all, it had power steering and she never had to grip the wheel.

  The journey was not too bad and she found Serena’s address without difficulty. But she was surprised. In the shadow of a tangle of horrible modern tower blocks was a lovely circle of big, early nineteenth-century houses, marred only by the scrubby fenced lawn in the centre, which seemed to have more dog excrement than grass within its low railings. Parking outside Serena’s house, Willow switched on the car’s alarm and locked the doors carefully.

  ‘I never knew this was here,’ said Willow as Serena opened the door. ‘And I lived down the road in Clapham for nearly twenty years. It’s charming.’

  ‘I must say I like it, although there are drawbacks. I’ve had to put in an alarm that’s wired directly to the police station.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Willow, glad that she had protected her gleaming car as best she could. ‘Like that, is it? Have you been burgled often?’

  ‘Nine times in my first nine years; but not since I got the alarm. But you haven’t come to talk about crime prevention. Rob and I are just having some tea in the kitchen. Coming?’

  Willow received a pleasing but blurred impression of wooden cupboards, rustic terracotta tiles and copper pans. She concentrated on the boy who was perched on the edge of the table, both hands clasped round a scarlet-and-gold mug.

  ‘This is my nephew, Robert Fydgett. Rob, this is Willow King, a friend of mine. I told you about her. She was in that fire.’

  Still gripping his mug and making no move to stand up, the boy nodded. Willow saw that he was already about six foot tall, but gangly. Yellow-tipped spots protruded through the sparse black stubble on his chin and spread across his large nose and forehead. His wide mouth hung slightly open and he looked sullen as well as gormless. One day, when he had got used to his height, filled out and grown into his features, he would probably be very attractive, but that time seeme
d years away.

  Despite her suspicions and her anger, Willow ached for him. ‘How are you?’ she asked, smiling.

  ‘Okay,’ he said in a sepulchrally deep voice.

  ‘I’m doing all right now,’ Willow answered, as though he had returned her greeting. Holding up her bandaged hands, she added: ‘These were really the worst and they’re miles better. I was saved by a climber, you know.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, flushing violently. ‘I read in the paper. Jonathan Fergusson-Miller, wasn’t it? He’s cool.’

  ‘Didn’t he do something pretty spectacular in the Himalayas last year?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said the boy, beginning to look more relaxed. ‘Kangchenjunga.’

  ‘Oh, I love that,’ said Willow, turning to Serena. ‘You know, from the Swallows and Amazons. Wasn’t that what they called one of the hills above the lake?’

  ‘I think they call them fells up there in the Lake District,’ said Serena drily. ‘Tea, Willow, or would you rather have coffee?’

  ‘Coffee, please.’ It was clear that Serena was not going to leave her nephew unprotected. Willow could hardly blame her for that, but it was inconvenient.

  ‘Robert, I can imagine that you’ve had a hellish time with the police, and, unlike them, I don’t for one minute think that you started the fire.’

  ‘Why?’ He sounded surprised.

  ‘I can’t imagine why you should do anything so stupid.’ Willow smiled at him again, with as much warmth as she could manage. ‘Did they tell you why they suspect you?’

  ‘They banged on about me climbing out of school,’ he said, still blushing.

  ‘You do sometimes, don’t you?’

  ‘Sure.’ He smiled, but his lips quivered and he clamped them shut again. His eyes slid sideways and he added casually, ‘Good practice for when I get to real mountains.’

  ‘When did you last climb out?’

  There was a long pause. He looked down into his mug and then at his feet, and finally at his aunt who stood holding the boiling kettle and staring at him.

  ‘Rob?’ she said.

  ‘At night?’ he asked, looking back at Willow.

  ‘Any time,’ she said at once. Serena poured water on to the coffee grounds in a glass jug and brought it to the table with a clean mug. She sat down before her nephew had answered. Willow pulled out a chair, too. He stood, looking unhappy, belligerent and, she thought, ashamed.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Willow, ‘just tell me.’

  He shook his head and looked up at the ceiling. Suspecting tears, Willow looked at his aunt and jerked her head towards the door. Serena shook her head slowly, mouthing the word: ‘No.’

  ‘What is it, Robert?’ Willow asked very gently.

  He breathed deeply and shook his head.

  ‘Was it on the night of the fire, or the night before that?’ Willow asked when it was clear that they were going to get nothing out of him without some more pressure. His face cleared at once.

  ‘Oh, no!’

  ‘Then what’s the trouble?’

  He shook his head again and walked to the sink, where he poured the contents of his mug down the drain. Refilling it with cold water from the tap, he drank it down, gulping noisily, and then refilled the mug again.

  ‘Serena,’ said Willow quietly, forgetting the details of their earlier conversation, ‘were you with Rob when the police talked to him?’

  ‘No, but I got a lot of the details out of the headmaster before I took Rob out of school for the duration.’

  ‘Did they ask that?’

  She shook her dark head. After a while Robert came back to the table.

  ‘Do we have to do this?’ he muttered.

  ‘Not if you can’t bear it. And I can understand how you must be feeling,’ said Willow, looking at him directly and recognising all the hostility Serena had described at their first meeting. She thought that she saw not only fury but also violent hatred in his brown eyes. He said nothing. She tried again.

  ‘You know I really do understand what it’s like to—’

  He slammed both his fists down on the table, making the two women jump.

  ‘No one could understand,’ he said and ran clumsily out of the room.

  There was silence until Serena blew out a long breath and said, ‘Perhaps I ought to thank you for getting through to him. It’s the first time I’ve seen any sign of tears, and he ought to be crying. Good God! What’s he doing now?’

  They both heard a tremendous cracking, tearing sound followed by the rush of pouring water.

  ‘Aunt S!’ yelled Robert from the floor above. ‘The place is exploding!’

  ‘Get down here at once,’ she shouted back, running to the door. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘The ceiling’s down. There’s water everywhere. I don’t fancy the stairs.’

  Willow followed Serena through the door into the hall. They stood there together staring upwards in horror as a huge rolling wave of water came at them down the stairs, spilling out of the banisters.

  ‘What the hell is it?’ Willow said, moving back.

  ‘It must be the cold water tank in the roof. Rob? Are you all right?’

  ‘Fine. It’s all coming down the stairs. Or most of it.’

  ‘A plumber!’ exclaimed Serena. ‘I wish I knew a good one. The last I tried was a cowboy who charged me hundreds for a simple unfreezing job. Willow, do you…?’

  ‘Actually, yes,’ Willow said, returning to the kitchen for her shoulder bag. Inside it was the black notebook in which she had been writing notes for her report. Among them was the name and address of the successful plumber whose tax affairs had so exercised Len Scoffer. ‘Shall I ring him?’

  ‘Please.’

  As Willow turned away the water reached the bottom step, splashing up her legs and skirt and finding its way across the hall floor and in through the open doorways. Serena ran to the front door, yanking it open. Very little water even reached it. All the floors seemed to slope the other way. Willow shouted at Serena to open the door to the garden and thought of towels, old newspapers, blotting paper. None of them could have made any impression on the quantity of water pooling on the ground floor of the beautiful house.

  The sickly, horrible smell of wet wool was already rising from the carpets, and the water was marking everything it touched. Wading through it towards the telephone, Willow heard Serena swear.

  A moment later she was connected to the plumber.

  ‘You just caught me,’ said a cheerful voice. ‘Between jobs. What can I do for you?’

  ‘There’s been a most frightful flood,’ said Willow, not minding that she sounded hysterical. ‘We think it must be the water tank in the roof.’

  ‘Come down the stairs, did it? Often does.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Water always takes the line of least resistance,’ he said. ‘Just like me, love. Still coming, I take it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Willow, who could hear it rushing down from the smashed ceiling.

  ‘It’ll be the ballcock, see. Nothing to push it up and stop the water flowing in from the mains. I’ll be round and deal with that at least. And then we’ll have a look-see. Do you know where the electricity mains are?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘You never know where the water’ll get to and if there’s any dicky wiring, the whole place’ll go up. You need to turn it off at the mains.’

  ‘All right, I’ll do that,’ said Willow, finding that her brain was beginning to work again. ‘I mean, it’s not my house. I’ll get it done at once. Please hurry.’

  Serena knew where the main fuse box was and went to push the heavy red switch upwards.

  ‘What about the freezer?’ said Willow. ‘Oh God, and the burglar alarm? You don’t want the police to come racing round here in defence of your silver cupboard.’

  ‘The alarm has its own batteries. The fitter said they last for twelve hours,’ said Serena, ‘but you’re right. I’ll ring the police in case
anything goes wrong. Rob? Are you all right? You’d better come down. We’ve got a plumber coming. Rob?’ She sounded anxious. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m in the roof,’ came his distant voice. ‘I think I can get the ballcock tied up so that I can stop the water coming into the tank.’

  The two women looked at each other in astonishment.

  ‘How wonderful!’ said Willow, meaning both that the water would stop and that Robert would have been able to do something useful. She remembered his school project on supplying utilities to private houses.

  ‘There must be hundreds of gallons,’ said Serena in despair, looking around her ruined stairs and hall. Willow thought of the dangers of soaked joists and falling ceilings and rot of all kinds and shuddered for her. Feeling her hands smarting, she looked down and saw that something was seeping through the bandages. Sniffing one hand after the other, she smelled nothing but the antiseptic scent of the ointment.

  ‘Hadn’t you better get something done about those?’ said Serena. ‘It looks as though the blisters have burst.’

  ‘I’ll call in at the clinic on my way home,’ Willow said, shaking her hands as though that could get rid of the new pain. ‘But I don’t want to leave you to face the plumber alone.’

  ‘I think I can probably manage that,’ Serena said with a touch of sarcasm. ‘If your hands need dressing you’d better get them seen to.’

  ‘They’ll be okay,’ said Willow, aware that they were still oozing. ‘What will you and Rob do? You can hardly live in the house in this state.’

  ‘I don’t see why not. And I’d hate to leave it unmanned. We’ll see what the plumber has to say. Rob, you are marvellous,’ she added as her nephew appeared, looking wet and grimy. ‘Where did you learn to deal with ballcocks?’

  ‘Someone had to be a bit handy at home. Mum was the most cackhanded… Sorry,’ he said and rushed into the kitchen. The sound of running water and a lot of splashing reached the two women, who waited outside for him to sort himself out.

  The plumber arrived in a battered white van five minutes later. He nodded to Serena, took one look at the water all around and called his apprentice. Together, with a heavy-looking extending ladder, they ran up the dripping stairs. Serena followed them. Willow waited at the foot of the staircase.