by Joan Smith
‘When did all this happen?’ asked Loretta.
‘Um – last summer, I think. Can that be right? Yes, I’m pretty sure – it was set up in the summer of ‘86, I remember reading about it at the time, and he said something about her going after a year – I don’t know what she can have been thinking of –’
‘But what was she doing in between?’ Loretta wondered aloud. ‘If she left last summer, I mean, and the health club job didn’t start till this month –’
‘Maybe she signed on,’ Sally suggested. ‘Though it’s hard to imagine Sandra signing on the dole.’
‘Certainly is,’ Loretta agreed, trying to get her thoughts in order. Sandra had rented her flat in Norfolk Gardens to Janet Weir in August, perhaps because she could no longer afford to live in it. If she had been unemployed, it would also explain how she’d got into the financial mess revealed by the letter from her bank. It didn’t cast any light on the cash in the suitcase, though, or the £2,000 she’d paid into her account at the end of November.
‘Gosh, Sally,’ Loretta exclaimed, ‘it gets more and more –’
‘Oh no,’ Sally wailed. ‘She’s woken up again. Sorry, Loretta, I’ll have to go and see to her. Poor little mite, I’m sure it’s something in the water – I’ll ring if I find out any more. Bye.’
‘Wait –’ Loretta heard the phone go down at Sally’s end and was left staring at the receiver. She sighed, bit her lip and returned it to its cradle. She hadn’t even had a chance to fix another time to talk, and this new piece of information . . .
She got up and went slowly back to her place on the sofa. Had Sandra eventually found a short-term, well-paid job outside London, concealing it from her family because – because she was ashamed of the circumstances in which she’d left the drug project? That was the most plausible explanation of her pretence that she was still living in Notting Hill. But what sort of job could it have been? It wasn’t as if women could go off and work on an oil rig, for instance. . .
Loretta picked up her letter to John Tracey, thinking that a few months ago she’d have been able to confide in him. She re-read what she’d written before Sally’s call, wondering why her congratulations on his engagement sounded so halfhearted. She added another sentence, writing that she was touched to be invited to the wedding, and of course she was longing to meet Soulla. The funny thing was that it was all true, yet the letter seemed stilted and formal. Loretta began a new paragraph, explaining the divorce procedure and informing Tracey that she was enclosing forms which needed his signature.
‘It seems fairly straightforward,’ she finished. ‘Let me know your plans and I’ll keep you posted from this end. I really do hope you’ll both be very happy, and we can still be friends. Much love from Loretta.’
She was folding the letter when something occurred to her and she smoothed it out to add a short PS: ‘Any idea where our marriage certificate is? I can’t find it anywhere.’
She slid the letter into a large envelope, along with the forms from the County Court, and was licking the flap when Bertie strolled into the room. He immediately jumped on to her knee, butting her hands with his head until she took the hint and put the envelope beside her on the sofa.
‘At least I’ve got you, Bertie,’ she said, bending her head and burying it in the soft fur of his neck.
Chapter 11
Loretta had just walked into her office next morning, a styrofoam cup containing tea in one hand, when the department secretary put her head round the door to say that Susie Lathlean from Vixen Press had already called twice. Loretta felt a moment’s apprehension, wondering if Susie had changed her mind about the book – surely not, after her enthusiastic letter earlier in the week – or wanted lots of changes.
Susie had good news, however. The manuscript had now been read by another Vixen editor, who liked it as much as she did, and the company wanted to include the book on its spring list for the following year, 1989. Susie said nothing about the title and Loretta didn’t mention it either, anxious not to introduce a jarring note into such an exhilarating conversation. She glowed with excitement as she discussed illustrations with Susie; although she had contributed chapters to various critical anthologies this was her first full-length book, and she was thrilled to think it would be published in little over a year.
‘One last thing,’ said Susie, when Loretta had agreed to compile a list of photographs and where they might be found. ‘Have you got an agent?’
‘An agent?’
‘Obviously not.’ Susie sounded relieved. ‘No problem – we prefer to negotiate direct with the author if we can. We’ve got a standard contract covering rights and so on, and I’ll come back to you on money – the managing director’s away till next week. Well, Loretta, we’re all absolutely delighted to be publishing you.’
‘Thanks very much.’
Loretta put down the phone, a slight frown on her face. She had been so delighted about completing the book that she hadn’t given a moment’s thought to money – or to the mysterious ‘rights’ Susie had mentioned. Perhaps she did need a literary agent, but she had no idea how to go about acquiring one. She thought for a moment, pondering the question of who might be able to advise her. The most prolific author in the English department was Henry Hedger, whose Popular Profiles series of short, gossipy biographies was rumoured to be, as someone in the college had jealously put it, ‘a nice little earner’. Loretta suspected that many readers of Dickens, Wilkie Collins and George Eliot owed much of their ‘knowledge’ of these authors to Henry’s racy little volumes. She didn’t like him much, and they had frequently clashed over questions of department policy, but on this subject he was almost certainly her best bet. Loretta finished her tea and stood up, intending to go and knock on Henry’s door, but at that moment the phone rang.
‘Hello?’
‘Good morning. Am I speaking to Dr Laura Lawson?’ A male voice, breezy and confident.
Loretta eye’s narrowed. ‘Urn – yes, you are – but it’s Loretta Lawson, actually.’
‘Funny – it’s got Laura Lawson here – Laura Anne, date of birth nineteen-eight-fifty-three.’
‘That’s right, that’s me – it’s just I don’t use either of those names. . . haven’t for years. Look, if you tell me who you are, I’ll see if I can help.’
‘Hang on, let’s get this straight. Your name’s Laura Anne Lawson but you use something else?’
Loretta raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Yes, I’ve just told you – everyone calls me Loretta.’
‘Why’s that then?’
‘Because –’ Loretta searched for words. ‘Because that’s the name I use – What is all this? How do you know my date of birth?’ It occurred to her that some organization she belonged to, perhaps one of her credit cards, must have sold her details to a double glazing firm. ‘If you’re trying to sell me something I can tell you right now I’m not interested.’ They had a nerve, she thought, ringing her at work.
There was a moment’s silence. ‘The name’s Farr, madam. Detective Sergeant Steve Farr, Lymington CID.’
‘Oh.’
‘I’ve been going through your statement, the one you gave on January the twelfth concerning Mrs Neil. You talked to my colleague, Mr Ghilardi, am I right?’
‘Ye-es. . .’
‘It says here,’ the voice went on, ‘that Mrs Neil was resident at your flat from December the twenty-fourth to December the thirty-first last year, when you came home to find her gone.’
‘Well, “resident” is putting it a bit strong. She slept on my sofa, that’s all.’
‘But I’m right in thinking you knew her well?’
‘If you’ve read my statement, you’ll know I hadn’t seen her for years,’ Loretta said shortly. ‘I was doing her a favour, I wouldn’t say she was a close friend.’
‘I’m sorry, you’re quite right,’ said Farr, and read from her statement. ‘I had not seen Mrs Neil for some years and was surprised when she rang me on Christmas Eve. . .
You had a lot to catch up on, then – had a bit of a chin-wag, am I right?’
Loretta’s brows drew together. ‘I wouldn’t say – we chatted, yes, but it was mostly small talk. We couldn’t help bumping into each other – it’s a small flat.’
‘And you talked about – what? What sort of thing?’
‘As I said, nothing in particular. I wasn’t there all that much. I was at my office –’
‘What, at Christmas?’ He sounded sceptical.
‘Between Christmas and New Year. I was finishing a book. Look, Mr Farr, I don’t know what this is about –’
‘Just routine, Miss – I’m sorry, Dr Lawson. I’ll only take up a couple more minutes of your time. Now, when you were having these chats with Mrs Neil about nothing in particular – the name Fleming come up at all? Bob Fleming?’
‘Fleming? No, I’m sure not. Is it important?’
He ignored the question. ‘Quite sure? She didn’t say – oh, if a bloke called Fleming rings up, can you tell him I’m not here?’
‘Heavens, no.’ Loretta hadn’t the least idea what the detective was talking about.
‘OK. No mention of Fleming.’ Loretta had the impression he was writing down her answers. ‘A couple more things, then I’ll let you get back to work. Did Mrs Neil – she brought things with her, I suppose? Clothes, make-up, that sort of thing? Some sort of bag, maybe more than one?’
Loretta was suddenly wary. Had the police found out about the cash in Sandra’s luggage? If so, should she mention it first? She had been putting off ringing Ghilardi while she mulled over how much to tell him, now the bags were no longer in her possession. If they already knew about the money, however, perhaps she didn’t need to say anything –
‘Dr Lawson?’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t hear. . .’
‘I asked you whether Mrs Neil had a bag with her.’
‘Oh yes.’ Loretta came to a decision. ‘She had a suitcase, a blue one, and a biggish holdall.’
‘And did she act as if – did you get the impression she was. . . protective about them? Didn’t like you going near them?’
‘Protective?’ Loretta stalled. They did know about the cash; Tom Neil must have told them as soon as he opened the suitcase. ‘No, I wouldn’t have said so. She kept them at the end of the sofa, and I can’t say I took much notice. . .’ She hesitated, wondering what Farr would expect her to say if she genuinely didn’t understand what lay behind his questions. ‘You still haven’t told me what this is about.’
‘Don’t worry, Dr Lawson, it’s all routine. You’ve no idea how many pointless questions we have to ask every day of the week. That’s police work for you. My wife says I never switch off – but you don’t want to waste time hearing what my wife says. These bags – sorry, a bag and a suitcase, I think you said? Where are they now?’
‘Where –’ Loretta was momentarily taken aback. Then it occurred to her that Farr was playing some silly game, crosschecking her story with Tom Neil’s. ‘I gave them to her husband – Sandra’s husband – last night. He came about half past seven, quarter to eight.’ That would tie in with what Neil had told them, she thought with satisfaction.
‘Took you quite some time to get round to it, didn’t it, Dr Lawson?’
‘I – I forgot. The accident was a terrible shock, and I suppose I didn’t think. . .’
‘And that’s all she had – one bag and one blue suitcase?’
‘Yes.’
‘So there’s nothing belonging to Mrs Neil in your flat now?’
‘Nothing.’
‘She didn’t – just checking – she didn’t ask you to look after anything for her?’
‘Such as?’ Loretta didn’t know what he was getting at.
‘Mmm – anything at all.’ Farr was evasive.
‘If you mean did she present me with a diamond necklace and ask me to guard it with my life, the answer is no,’ Loretta snapped. Why was Farr asking all these questions? Surely he wasn’t implying – he didn’t think there was more cash stowed away in Loretta’s flat?
‘I’m sorry, could you –’
‘I said you don’t seem very happy about answering my questions, Miss – Dr Lawson.’
‘I –’ Her throat was dry. ‘What do you expect? You haven’t given me a clue what all this is about –’
‘That’s not my job, Dr Lawson. It’s not my job to go round telling people what it’s all about.’
‘Maybe not, but –’
‘Anyway, I think we can leave it there – for the moment. Oh, sorry, there is one more thing. Always is, isn’t there? It says here Mrs Neil told you she’d been away from London for a while. Did she say where? Who she was working for?’
‘No, I’m sure she didn’t.’ Loretta was relieved by the change of subject. She had begun to think Farr wasn’t interested in tracking down the source of the cash.
‘Doesn’t sound like she told you much at all,’ Farr observed, and let the remark hang in the air.
‘I agreed to put her up for a few nights – we didn’t play Twenty Questions.’
‘Twenty Questions! Now that does take me back. Animal, vegetable or mineral. Well, Dr Lawson, I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than listen to me going on about prehistoric radio programmes.’ His tone changed abruptly. ‘Not planning any trips, are you? I may need to get another statement.’
Loretta bridled. ‘Look,’ she said indignantly, ‘it says in my statement I’m a university lecturer. Yesterday was the first day of the spring term. I have five hours of lectures each week, plus six of tutorials. I also have –’
‘Thanks very much, Dr Lawson. I’ll be in touch.’ The line went dead.
Loretta was left staring angrily at the phone. Who was Steve Farr, and why had he rung her instead of Ghilardi? On Tuesday, only three days ago, the case had been officially closed; now she was being interrogated by a detective sergeant. Her first instinct was to ring Ghilardi at once and ask him what had happened, but it occurred to her that someone else might answer the CID phone – going on past form this was almost certain to happen, she might even get Farr himself – and she didn’t want to let him know she was rattled.
Rattled? Loretta shook her head. What was she thinking of? She hadn’t done anything wrong, apart from succumbing to curiosity, and that from the best of motives. She played with the on-off switch of her computer terminal, watching the screen alternately light up and go grey. She realized that Farr had set out to make her feel guilty; that was his technique. Unlike Ghilardi – she gave the switch a final jab, turning the machine off, and told herself she wasn’t going to let Farr wreck her morning. What had she been doing before his call?
Oh yes, she had been on her way to consult Henry Hedger about literary agents. It took her a moment to remember why she needed advice on this subject, and when she did she was amazed at the ease with which Farr’s insinuations had driven the morning’s good news out of her head. She was about to be a published author, tc join the ranks of that select body she had so long admired from outside, and that was more important than worrying about what some policeman in Hampshire did or didn’t believe about her. Loretta got to her feet, slid out from behind her desk, and walked purposefully to the door.
Three-quarters of an hour later she returned to her office in a much more cheerful frame of mind, having been regaled by Henry with all the latest literary gossip. Her stock had risen considerably, she perceived, as soon as she’d told him about her book, and he’d given her dire warnings not to sign anything before speaking to a literary agent.
‘What rights are they asking for?’ he’d demanded. ‘Hang on to everything except British and Commonwealth – whatever you do, don’t sign away North America.’
‘I’m not sure – I don’t think it’s going to be a bestseller,’ Loretta had said rather timidly, still unsettled by the phone call.
Henry held up a hand. ‘You never know – look at Ackroyd. And he wasn’t even allowed to quote. Yours got much sex in it?
’
‘Well, there’s quite a lot about the way her sexuality informed her writing –’
‘Oh, sexuality isn’t any good.’ Henry shook his head. ‘I mean sex – did she have affairs? I can’t say I know much about her. American literature –’ He gave a dismissive wave.
‘She did have an affair, as a matter of fact,’ Loretta said guardedly, thinking of Morton Fullerton. ‘And she was divorced, which was fairly unusual. . .’
‘Better and better. Let me have a word with my agent –’ Henry was already punching numbers into his phone.
‘But –’
‘Is Zizzy in? It’s Henry Hedger. Could you get her to call me back at the office? Thanks.’ He wrote a name and number on a piece of paper and handed it to Loretta. ‘There you are. Zizzy’s very good. Tall and blonde – bit of a firebreather, as a matter of fact. I’m terrified of her, but so are most of the publishers she deals with. You’ll like her – birds of a feather and all that.’ He winked. ‘Better not ring till I’ve spoken to her – it’s personal introductions that count in this game.’
‘Thank you very much,’ Loretta had said, getting to her feet in a daze. How would Vixen react when she told them she’d acquired an agent? Always assuming the curiously named Zizzy Fox was prepared to take her on – though Henry had seemed very confident on her behalf. It was certainly the case that she didn’t know the first thing about rights and contracts; Henry had spluttered in disbelief when she admitted she couldn’t even tell him whether Vixen planned to publish the book in hardback or soft cover. . .