We sit for a while in silence, apart from the sound of us munching humbugs.
‘Home?’ Libby says.
‘Or maybe Jefferson’s to drown our sorrows? Greg won’t be back until 6pm at the earliest.’
As Libby prepares to drive away, the door to the property opens again and three people emerge; Kenneth, the young man who had answered the door, and an older woman. I duck down as much as I can inside the car and whisper to Libby, ‘Turn away, pretend you haven’t seen them.’
The three people get into the Morris Clubman and drive away.
‘Crikey,’ I say, momentarily lost for words. ‘We’ve found her, Libby, finally we’ve found her.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘One hundred percent. I’m certain that was Dorothy Elm.’
Libby turns the engine off as I get my notebook and camera out of my duffel bag.
‘You’re not going to believe it, but I’ve missed my chance to get a photo, again,’ I say, stuffing the camera back inside the bag. ‘At least let me make some notes.’
I turn to the Where? section of my notebook and write: 73 Faversham Road. Then, under the Who? section I add: A man, in his twenties? Clean shaven, long dark hair, no glasses, tall, about six feet? Helps out in Jefferson’s?
‘Now what?’ Libby says, watching me scribbling.
‘No idea. Maybe a drink and a debrief?’
We drive back to Tamarisk Bay and park up near to Jefferson’s.
‘Watch out,’ Richie says, as we order our milkshakes. ‘This could become an addiction.’
‘Better than a few other addictive substances I can think of though,’ I say, rummaging around in my bag for my purse. ‘Richie, have you got a minute?’
‘Sure, good to have an excuse to sit down. How are you doing? How’s that bump of yours?’
‘Growing,’ I say and smile.
‘Busy day?’ Libby says, raising her voice a little as Pinball Wizard blasts out from the jukebox.
‘Busy enough,’ Richie says, using a cloth to wipe over the table. ‘Always good to see my favourite regulars though.’
‘You usually have help on a Saturday, don’t you?’
‘Couldn’t manage without some days.’
‘The chap who helped out a couple of Saturdays ago, have you taken him on, or was that a one-off?’
‘Ray? Yeah, he was in this morning. I can’t always afford to pay him for the whole day, plus he said he had something on, some appointment or other, so he disappeared straight after lunch. Why?’
His gaze goes from me to Libby and then he nods his head, ‘Ah, I get it, I can see where this is going now. I have no idea if he’s already taken, we don’t get around to talking about our love lives. But he’ll probably be here next Saturday and don’t worry, I won’t say a word to him. Your secret is safe with me,’ he says grinning.
The café door opens and a foursome come in.
‘Sorry, that’s my cue to leave,’ Richie says.
‘Okay, let’s concentrate on serious matters,’ I say, watching Libby’s head swaying in time to the music.
‘There’s nothing more serious than potential boyfriend material.’
‘Just humour me. Do you think we can persuade Hugh to come with us to Faversham Road?’
‘I don’t think he’ll take much persuasion. Once he knows Dorothy’s address I can see us being surplus to requirements.’
‘How about we don’t tell him? Let’s think of an excuse to take him out for a drive, arrive at her house and keep everything crossed she’s at home.’
‘And that she’ll let us in.’
‘Ah, yes, that too.’
‘And my ideal date?’ Libby says, her face softening into a dreamy expression.
‘He’s probably an incidental visitor.’
‘Well, he can incidentally visit me any time he likes,’ Libby says, grinning.
Greg is euphoric when he bounces in just before 6pm. I’ve been home a while and preparations for tea are well underway.
‘Three nil, three nil,’ he chants, taking me in his arms and dancing me around the kitchen.
‘Superb,’ I say, hoping he won’t want to share too much of the detail with me. ‘Anything that makes you so happy gets a gold star from me. I’d only planned macaroni cheese, not much of a celebratory supper.’
‘Macaroni cheese, my beautiful wife by my side, and a good night on the telly, what else can a man ask for?’
‘A beer, maybe?’
‘Excellent plan,’ he says, going to the fridge. ‘What happened with the stake-out? Did it pay off?’
‘Er, yes,’ I reply, busying myself with laying the table. ‘We think we may have found Dorothy’s house.’
‘Only think?’
‘Well, we’re fairly certain.’
‘So, what’s your plan?’
‘If we can, I want to try to get Hugh round there. He’s the only one who will know for sure.’
‘How about tomorrow?’ he says, kicking off his boots.
‘Well yes, that would be brilliant, why, what are you doing tomorrow?’
‘Alex has offered to come round and take a look at the dripping bathroom tap. It’s probably a washer or something, but we might have to turn the water off. I was going to suggest you go round your dad’s. But maybe you can persuade your client to go on a nice Sunday drive?’
All I need to hope for now is that Libby is happy to give up her Sunday and that between us we can get Hugh and Dorothy together without the sky falling in.
Chapter 23
Rosetta Summer is not convinced that a cold December day is suitable for a ‘nice Sunday drive’. It is possible Hugh has seen through my ruse, and if he has then he is hiding it well. Rosetta fusses around him, suggesting he wears his warmest overcoat, a thick scarf around his neck and his Trilby perched on his head.
‘We’ll be in the car most of the time, and the heater is pretty efficient,’ I say to reassure them both. It was an easy decision to make. We would have struggled to get Hugh’s broad frame into the back seat of Libby’s Mini, and Bean certainly prevents me from squeezing in anywhere. Libby was also happy to admit that the combination of a sub-zero draught blasting in through her car doors, and a frail chap with a serious chest complaint, could only spell disaster.
‘Anyway, Greg doesn’t need our car today,’ I explained. ‘Why do you think he loves our house so much?’
‘Because the pub is four minutes’ walk away?’
‘Exactly.’
We bundle Hugh into the car and head down towards the seafront. One of the many wonderful things about living in a seaside resort is being able to enjoy it in the winter. On summer days we hide away, while the town is flooded with day-trippers from London. They queue outside the many fish and chip shops, lose their pennies and pounds playing the amusements on the Pier, and brave the shingle beach, regardless of the weather. But when winter arrives, the town belongs to the locals again. Today the whole length of the seafront is peopled with dog-walkers, elderly folk enjoying their Sunday afternoon constitutional, and families blowing away the cobwebs.
‘You’re taking me to see Dorothy, aren’t you?’ Hugh says, bringing my mind back to my companions. His question distracts me momentarily and I have to brake abruptly when a young boy steps off the pavement suddenly, just as my car is passing him. His father pulls him back, tugging at his arm, shouting at him. I don’t hear the words, but the father’s angry face and the boy’s instant tears tell me all I need to know.
‘Sorry everyone,’ I say, as we gently move forward again.
‘Should you be driving?’ Hugh says, turning towards me. He is in the front passenger seat, with Libby sitting directly behind him.
‘The boy took me by surprise,’ I say, my face flushing.
‘I’m not suggesting you are a bad driver,’ Hugh continues, reading my mind. ‘It’s just, well, your baby…’ He pauses, perhaps struggling for the most appropriate phrase.
‘You’re right, it won
’t be long before the space between Bean and the steering wheel will be non-existent.’
‘What about the van?’ Libby pipes up from the back seat. ‘Will you have to stop working at the library?’
‘Not sure, maybe. Although I have a cunning plan involving your grandmother,’ I say, catching Libby’s eye in the rear-view mirror.
‘You didn’t answer my question about Dorothy,’ Hugh says, an irritation in his voice I haven’t heard before.
I’m tempted not to respond as we are almost at our destination. ‘We’re not certain of anything right now, Hugh. It’s possible the house we’re planning to visit is where Dorothy lives. If we’re right, there’s a slim chance she’ll be home and an even slimmer chance she’ll open the door to us.’
He doesn’t reply, instead he starts to cough. The coughing is raucous and persistent. He struggles to catch his breath and when he does breathe there is a loud rasping wheeze from his chest. As soon as I see a space on the roadside, I pull over. Libby immediately jumps out of the car, opens Hugh’s passenger door and crouches down to his level. We look at Hugh’s contorted face and exchange a glance with each other, sharing mutual concern and fear. An image flashes through my mind of me sitting in the police interview room, trying to explain to DS Bright why I was driving a poorly man around the streets of Tidehaven on a bitterly cold Sunday afternoon, and what I said or did that caused him to stop breathing and die.
But thankfully, it looks as though it won’t come to that, at least not on this occasion, as gradually Hugh gets control of his breathing and the coughing settles down and then stops completely.
‘We’d better take you home,’ I say, looking at Libby, who nods in agreement.
‘No,’ Hugh says, firmly, ‘I’ll be fine, really. But could you switch the car heater off?’
Hugh was right. I’d been so intent on keeping him warm I hadn’t realised how stuffy the car had become. It was only when Libby opened the door and the cold, fresh air flooded in, that Hugh was able to get control of his breathing.
‘Well, if we do get to meet Dorothy, we’ll have to hope she doesn’t live in a hot house,’ I say, lightly, trying to defuse the tension.
Five minutes later we are parked opposite 73 Faversham Road.
‘Is that the house?’ Hugh asks. ‘I’ve waited a long time for this day.’ His voice is heavy with emotion. It’s as though he is about to be reunited with a lost love and yet everything he’s told me about Dorothy suggests anger and regret are more appropriate emotions.
‘You two wait here, or better still I’ll find my own way home. I can get a taxi,’ he says, turning to open the car door.
‘Oh no, you don’t,’ I say. ‘We haven’t come this far together to leave you now. We’ll go together or not at all.’
He grunts and shuffles in his seat. ‘I need to do this on my own. The conversation I plan to have with Dorothy is private. I wanted you to find her for me and you have. I’m grateful for that and I’ll pay you, as promised. But I’m asking you to go now. To be brutally honest, what Dorothy and I have to discuss is none of your business.’
‘Sorry, Hugh,’ I say, ‘but you’ve made it my business.’
I turn to Libby and indicate to her to get out of the car. We walk around to Hugh’s side of the car and I open the passenger door.
‘Will you be joining us?’ I say, pleased to be sounding in control of a situation that could easily spin off in an unpleasant direction at any point.
Hugh looks up at us, clearly disgruntled. After a few moments where we are all silent, he says, ‘you haven’t given me much choice. Let’s get this over with.’ He stretches his legs out of the car and stands.
‘Are you feeling okay?’ I ask him, aware that he is looking pale.
He shakes his head, but doesn’t reply.
Taking the lead, I cross the road, Hugh follows me and Libby brings up the rear. Now that I am close to the house, the poor state of repair is even more obvious. The plant pots that stand either side of the front door are chipped and covered with mildew. A few brown leaves sit on top of the soil in one of the pots and the other is empty, apart from a few broken twigs. The paint on the door must once have been white, but now it is various shades of murky cream and dull yellow. The sea salt that blasts through from the seafront throughout the winter means that properties need repainting often, but this house isn’t only suffering from the salt air. There is no door knocker, just a round buzzer, with a sign below it that reads, Press me. I glance at Libby before pressing it, her face reflecting the apprehension I am also feeling. There is no obvious noise from the buzzer, so I press it again. It is possible that the bell is ringing deep within the house somewhere, in which case my double pressing won’t get us off to a good start with Dorothy.
After a few moments, during which I am holding my breath, I can hear footsteps. There is the noise of a chain being slid across and then the door opens a little, enough for a conversation, but not enough to allow me to see the person on the other side of the door.
‘Yes, who is it?’ a woman’s voice says.
‘Excuse us, but we are looking for Dorothy Elm,’ I say.
‘Wrong house,’ she says and swiftly closes the door again.
‘Great,’ Libby says. ‘Now what.’
Until this moment, Hugh has been standing below me on the second step of the small stone staircase leading up to the front door. Now, he moves forward, putting his hand on my shoulder, indicating to me to stand aside. I step backwards, leaving the top step free for him and watch as he presses the buzzer again, firmly.
Once more we hear the chain slide across and the door eases open a crack.
‘If you don’t leave, I’ll call the police,’ the woman says.
‘That’s fine with me, Dorothy,’ Hugh says. ‘You go right ahead. We have plenty to tell them, don’t we?’
There is silence, both from inside the house and from the three people standing outside. For a few moments it’s as though the whole world has frozen, as no cars pass by and the only sound is the call of a distant seagull. Then there is the sound of the chain again, and the door opens fully to reveal a woman about fifty years old, dressed in a patterned housecoat, tied tightly around her narrow waist. Over the top of the housecoat she is wearing a thick cardigan that has one or two holes near the neck, where a moth or two has had a feast. One of the sleeves of the cardigan is bulging with the edge of a handkerchief showing below the cuff. Her face is heavily lined, her thin mouth closed, a sour expression in her eyes.
‘Hugh,’ she says, a brittle emphasis on the single word.
‘Yes,’ he says, his voice thick with emotion.
‘I’m Janie Juke and this is Libby Frobisher. We’re friends of Hugh,’ I say, offering my hand out to shake hers.
She stands with both hands in the pockets of her housecoat, leaving the three of us squashed into the area just inside the front door.
‘We’re sorry to intrude, it being a Sunday and everything, but can we come in?’ Libby says.
‘Friends, eh?’ Dorothy says, sizing up Libby and me as if we were auditioning for a part in a play. ‘Thought you’d need back up, did you, Hugh?’
Hugh appears to have lost the ability to speak or move.
‘Mrs Elm, it might be easier if we weren’t having this conversation in your hallway?’ I say, putting my hand on Hugh’s back to try to gently ease him forward.
‘Who said we were going to have a conversation?’ Dorothy says. ‘And it’s not Mrs Elm. Elm was my maiden name.’
‘You’ve married?’ Hugh says, finally appearing to have found his voice.
Dorothy doesn’t respond, but turns away from us and starts to walk along the hallway to the back of the house. ‘Now you’re here, you might as well come in,’ she says.
We follow her down the dark hallway and in through a doorway, which leads to a dining room. In the centre of the room is a large oval mahogany table, with six chairs positioned around its edges. The chairs are different shap
es and sizes, none matching. Across the centre of the table is a narrow piece of lace and on the centre of the lace sits a glass fruit bowl, containing a single shrivelled apple.
Dorothy pulls out one of the chairs and sits down. Taking her lead Libby and I also sit down opposite her, leaving only Hugh still standing.
‘I would have preferred to come alone,’ Hugh says.
‘Couldn’t get rid of your young hangers-on, eh?’ Dorothy says, a sneer on her face.
‘Mrs Juke and her friend have been very kind to me,’ Hugh says.
‘I bet they have,’ the sarcasm in Dorothy’s voice is undisguised.
‘You two must have a lot to discuss, why don’t Libby and I make us all a drink? Would you mind us rummaging around in your kitchen, Mrs…?’ I say, not knowing what to call her and certain that using a Christian name at this stage would not be well received.
‘You can call me Dorothy. There’s no milk, but if you don’t mind your tea black, that’s fine with me. The kitchen’s down the hall, second on the right.’
Dorothy ushers us out, closing the door behind us.
Chapter 24
Libby and I hover in the hallway for a moment, keeping as still as possible, with our faces up against the closed door.
‘Can you hear what they’re saying?’ she whispers.
I shake my head and taking her hand, I lead us both to the kitchen.
The size of Dorothy’s kitchen would make any chefs envious. Floor and wall cupboards cover almost all available space, except for a large cooker and an even larger fridge. There is a small window above the sink, with net curtains that have seen better days. With little or no natural light coming in, the room is dim and uninviting. I imagine how different it could be with a bustling cook, beavering away making cakes and biscuits, warming the space and filling the whole house with wafts of cinnamon, vanilla and mixed spice. The thought of it makes my stomach rumble.
‘Are we going to make a drink? Or shall we creep back and wait outside the door in case the conversation gets heated?’ Libby says.
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