by David Barry
Mary nodded. ‘Yes, the school secretary was a bit snotty about taking them out for an extra week at half term - but what the hell!’
Dave frowned and stared down at the edge of the chipped table. ‘I hope the arrangements will be okay. Four of us squashed into a caravan for two weeks. Could be a bit cramped.’
‘At least it’ll be good to get away for a while.’
Dave caught her staring thoughtfully at the kitchen walls. He took her hand in his and squeezed. ‘I don’t mind doing this house up,’ he said. ‘Now that ... well, I’ve got a purpose, if you see what I mean.’
She offered him a sympathetic smile, the sort you offer the recently bereaved. ‘I think you’re a lovely bloke, Dave, I really do. And I’d like it to work out between us. The kids really respond well to you.’
‘I like them, an’ all.’
‘It’s just that....’
‘I knew there had to be a but.’
‘You’re not over her yet, are you? I’ve seen you staring at her photograph.’
‘It’s not what you think.’
Frowning, Mary asked, ‘What d’you mean?’
‘I’ll tell you one day.’
‘Why not now?’
Shaking his head, he rose from the table to make the tea. ‘Time’s not right. But I will tell you soon. I promise.’
‘Oh well, I guess I’ll just have to be a bit patient. Listen, Dave, when we get back in two weeks’ time, d’you think we could talk about the other bedroom?’
Dave spoke hurriedly, panic in his voice. ‘We’ll be OK as we are. You can manage with two bedrooms, can’t you?’
‘I just thought it would be nice if Simon and Thomas had separate bedrooms.’
‘No, I keep all my costumes in the third bedroom.’
‘Why d’you keep it locked?’
‘I’ve got lots of props and costumes in there. I don’t want them to get spoilt. I wouldn’t want Simon and Thomas to get into any trouble. You know what kids are like. Natural curiosity. They start mucking about and ... well, I like to keep all my stage gear in tip-top condition.’
She realised he was protesting too much. And the way he avoided looking at her as he spoke, busying himself with making the tea.
She wondered what on earth he kept in the third bedroom under lock and key. And she began to have doubts about where their relationship might lead. Especially as she knew very little about the private life of Dave Whitby.
Thirty - Six
As they were leaving the house, Mary stopped and glanced back at the cabinet in the hallway. It was in one of the drawers that Dave kept the key to the third bedroom, and this time he forgot to take it with him. So, as soon as she, Simon and Thomas returned from Cromer in a fortnight’s time, she intended to find out what the comedian was hiding in that room.
‘Come on, Mum; it’s a long way,’ Thomas urged from the doorway, which caused Dave to look round. And, as if he could read Mary’s mind, he clicked his fingers as if he had forgotten something.
‘Whoops!’ he exclaimed. ‘Nearly forgot.’
He walked back down the hall, retrieved the key from the cabinet, and stuck it in his pocket. He smiled nonchalantly at Mary as they left the house.
They drove in silence, until they were the other side of Southborough. Then Mary found she couldn’t contain her curiosity any longer.
‘That key you took from the hall cabinet: is that the key to bedroom number three?’
There was a slight pause before Dave answered. ‘Yes. Why?’
‘I just wondered. So why do you always take it with you when you go away?’
‘In case the house is burgled. I don’t want to make it easier for them. My stage props and costumes are irreplaceable.’
She knew he was lying. But why? And what was in that room?
***
After work, Savita took Nicky with her to TN4, a pub that used to be known by the more traditional name of The George. Nicky wasn’t sure what she was expecting in Savita’s boyfriend, but he turned out to be thin and intense looking, dressed in black, and sporting much silver jewellery. The impression he gave was of a mid-thirties man trying to hang on to his youth, dressed slightly Gothic, but somehow not quite succeeding. It was probably the lack of any piercings or tattoos that showed his lack of commitment to the image he was trying to create.
After she had been introduced to Damian, Nicky could see him giving Savita sidelong, questioning glances, probably wondering why his girlfriend had brought along a work colleague. Sensing Damian’s disquiet, Savita got straight to the point.
‘Nicky’s having terrible trouble with the boss at work.’
‘Fat pig!’ he exclaimed.
Savita giggled and said, ‘Yeah, or words to the effect.’
‘So what’s he done to you?’ Damian asked Nicky.
‘During the Christmas party, he really came on strong. Started groping me and saying corny things like: “You and I could make beautiful music together”.’
Damian made a throwing-up gesture with his finger in his mouth.
Savita said, ‘Then Nicky laughed at him and turned him down. Since then he’s been unbearable. Hasn’t he, Nicky?’
‘It got even worse after our Managing Director saw me in the precinct, handing out Animal Rights leaflets. He told Malcolm about it, and since then he’s made my life unbearable.’
Damian frowned intensely. ‘So why d’you stick with the job? Why not get something else?’
Nicky shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I suppose it’s because I don’t want to end up commuting to London every day. There aren’t many large insurance companies in Tunbridge Wells.’
As if to prompt her boyfriend into revealing his intentions to get back at Malcolm, Savita said, ‘Nicky hates Malcolm so much she’d like to see him dead.’
Nicky nodded gravely. ‘Right now wouldn’t be soon enough.’
‘Why don’t you tell her, Damian? I know she won’t tell anyone.’
After a long silence, Damian coughed lightly before he spoke. ‘I’m going to hide out in someone’s garden along the main road between Bexhill and Battle - that’s the road the hunt will have to set out along - then let Malcolm have it with a paintball. That should bring him down to earth with a crash.’
‘Paintball?’ Nicky said, frowning, wondering what he was talking about.
Savita explained. ‘Damian goes paintballing regularly. You know, it’s like war games, where one team stalk another, armed with paintball guns. Well, Damian’s going to get one of the paintball guns and some ammunition, and shoot the back of Malcolm’s horse.’
‘I’m going to have to get the equipment off the internet,’ said Damian. ‘Because when you go paintballing, everything is checked. In the wrong hands, those guns could be lethal weapons. Fire one at someone’s face who’s not wearing a mask and....’
He left the unfinished sentence hanging dramatically in the air.
‘But Malcolm won’t be wearing a mask,’ said Nicky, starting to worry about this plan, and worry about what she was getting into.
‘That’s why I’m aiming for the horse’s rump.’
‘Oh, but that’s cruel,’ Nicky protested. ‘I’ve got nothing against the poor horse.’
Damian shrugged. ‘Neither have I. But don’t worry. Horses are strong creatures. A little bruising won’t hurt it.’
‘No, you can’t do this. Because if you do, Malcolm will think it’s anti-hunt saboteurs. He won’t have a clue that it’s anything to do with his behaviour in the office. It’ll be a waste of time.’
‘But, Nicky,’ began Savita, ‘when we were at work, you said you’d love to see Malcolm knocked off his horse. What’s made you change your mind? Is it because you feel sorry for the horse?’
‘Partly. But it�
��s just occurred to me that unless he knows it’s us taking revenge for how he behaves in the office, he’ll just carry on in the same way.’
‘But whatever we do to Malcolm, we can’t let him know it was us two.’
Nicky nodded fervently. ‘Yes we can. We need to find a way of getting back at him so that he knows it was us, but can’t prove it.’
‘She’s right,’ Damian said to Savita. ‘What’s the point of revenge if he thinks it’s something to do with anti-hunt protesters? That’ll only make him more set in his attitudes.’
A sulky expression clouded Savita’s face. ‘But what about our plan?’
‘It was your plan, babe,’ said Damian. ‘And I told you the equipment would be costly. And if I get caught, I could be looking at a prison sentence. Nicky’s right. Let’s put out heads together and see what else we can come up with.’
Thirty - Seven
Claire slammed a dish of roast potatoes onto the table. Chloe didn’t look up from the magazine section of the Sunday paper she was reading. Andrew continued to toy irritatingly with the pepper mill, a sullen expression on his face..
‘Oh, joy!’ exclaimed Claire. ‘A family Sunday dinner. Just like old times.’
She turned to Mike. ‘Haven’t you finished carving yet?’
‘Give us a chance. It’s as tough as old boots.’
Claire’s voice rose an octave. ‘What!’ Then, noticing the mischievous glint in his eyes, added, ‘Oh, ha-bloody-ha! Why don’t you do the shopping for a change?’
Chloe dropped her magazine onto the floor and helped herself to potatoes. ‘Why are you so stressed out?’ she said, sounding so reasonable it annoyed her mother even more.
‘Because you and Andrew have done nothing but bicker all day. It’s not like you’re children anymore.’
‘It’s not my fault,’ said Chloe, pouting.
‘No, it never is. You go back to Newcastle tomorrow. I was looking forward to at least one last civilized meal together.’
‘I’m sorry. All I said was....’
‘I know what you said. As usual, you were trying to wind Andrew up.’
Chloe looked across at her brother and sniggered. ‘By the look on his face, I think I succeeded.’
‘Oh yeah!’ Andrew began, aggressively.
‘Now don’t start again!’ Claire yelled.
Mike put the platter of roast beef in the centre of the table, saying, ‘OK. Let’s cool it now. There you go. Tuck in.’
Claire felt she was over-heating. She flopped into the chair next to Chloe, blowing out her cheeks noisily. Mike sat opposite her. A strained silence descended.
‘Well!’ said Claire, after the scraping of cutlery began to grate. ‘This is fun!’
Chloe dropped her knife and fork with a clatter. ‘All I said to Andrew was that his behaviour is obsessive. You know it’s true. He knows it’s true. He just won’t admit it. One minute he’s hooked on computers, then it’s fruit machines. Now it’s some dead writer he met in the pub.’
‘Someone has to do something about it,’ said Andrew. ‘The police know nothing about it. Or they say they don’t.’
Chloe laughed. ‘So it’s ace detective Andrew Longridge to the rescue. Anyone notice the striking resemblance to Matt Damon?’
‘Shut your gob!’ Andrew yelled.
‘That’s it! I’ve had enough!’ shouted Claire.
‘“Shut your gob!”’ Chloe mimicked. ‘He’s regressed. Surely this can’t be the same bloke who unearthed the Tunbridge Wells conspiracy, a secret that’ll rock the world. Bring down the government.’
‘You think you’re so clever, don’t you?’ Andrew raged, his eyes blazing.
‘At least I’m not obsessional. You’re a real Trekie, you are. A sad anorak.’
Deeply hurt, Andrew pushed his chair away from the table and stood up. There were tears in his eyes.
‘Are you happy now? Claire yelled at Chloe, who hadn’t expected quite that reaction from her brother and looked shamefaced.
‘Don’t be silly, Andy,’ Mike said. ‘Sit down and finish your meal.’
But Andrew had already grabbed his coat from the hall. ‘I’m not hungry.’
‘I hope you’re satisfied,’ Claire said through gritted teeth. ‘Another meal ruined. I thought as you two got older, you might....’
The front door slammed. Claire looked pleadingly at Mike, who sighed loudly, shoved half a roast potato into his mouth and got up from the table.
‘I’ll try to catch him up,’ he mumbled through burning hot potato.
‘Have a talk to him, Mike. God knows - his behaviour is obsessional.’
‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ Mike replied as he left.
The front door slammed again. Claire looked at the remains of the wasted dinner then stared accusingly at her daughter. Chloe had tears pouring down her cheeks.
‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ she blubbered. ‘I know it’s all my fault but - I just can’t help it. I feel so ... so depressed. I still can’t get over what I’ve done. I feel empty. Like nothing else matters.’
Claire softened, putting an arm around her daughter’s shoulders. ‘I know it hurts now, Chloe. But you will get over it in time. I promise.’
Chloe let her head fall onto her mother’s shoulders. ‘And now I’ve ruined everyone’s Sunday.’
Claire didn’t say anything. Sympathetic though she was, she couldn’t resist letting silence work some guilt into her daughter.
***
As the taxi from Gatwick neared Tunbridge Wells, Jackie gripped Nigel’s hand tightly.
‘What’s wrong?’ he whispered, casting a self-conscious glance at the taxi driver.
‘I’ve got a confession to make. I told the girls a lie. I told them I was coming home tomorrow.’
‘What on earth for?’
‘Because of what Vanessa said about having a wild party.’
‘Now that wasn’t very sensible, was it?’ said Nigel, in his patronising tone. ‘If, as I suspect, it was an idle threat, your daughters will wonder why you lied to them. But if they do have a wild party, you returning earlier than expected isn’t going to change anything. When my son was in his mid-teens, my wife and I were away one weekend. And when we returned on the Sunday evening - rather like we are now - we knew Martin had held a party the night before. We found a dustbin filled with empties. But I had to hand it to Martin, there was no other evidence. He’d done a thorough job of clearing up. It’s the way Martin was brought up.’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Jackie in a monotone. ‘You’ve told me.’
Warming to his subject, and forgetting the taxi driver’s fly-on-the-wall presence, Nigel began to pontificate loudly.
‘I like to think I ran a tight ship. If Martin cooked himself something, there’d be no television until he’d washed up after him. Favourite programmes or not.’
Jackie tutted without meaning to. ‘That seems a bit extreme.’
‘Extreme! Good grief! If we all went around leaving things others to clear up for us....’
‘Like Vanessa and Nicky, you mean?’
‘You said it. I didn’t.’
‘No, but that’s what you were thinking.’
Nigel tittered. ‘How do you know what I was thinking?’ he said, trying to steer the argument into safer waters.
‘Oh, I just know you,’ Jackie replied, nestling close to her fiancé, who lapsed into thoughtful silence because of the possessive way she said it.
The taxi turned into Jackie’s road. As it neared her house, the taxi driver, who had been silent throughout the journey, suddenly became animated.
‘Listen to that! That is some CD player. It’s like a full scale rock concert.’
Alarmed, Jackie struggled to unbuckle her seat belt
as the taxi stopped outside her front gate. A pulsating beat came from somewhere beyond the high privet hedge which concealed the house from the road.
‘Oh no,’ she groaned. ‘It’s coming from my house.’
The taxi driver laughed cruelly. ‘Reminds me of the Isle of Wight, 1970. That was some concert.’
Thirty - Eight
After hurrying out of the house, Mike spotted Andrew about a hundred yards away, going along St. John’s Road towards the centre of Tunbridge Wells. Instead of following him, Mike went into the Kelsey Arms, bought himself a pint of bitter, then sat on one of the benches outside. He dialled Maggie’s number on his mobile. Her daughter answered and Mike heard her squabbling with her brother over who should deal with the phone call. The boy won and went to call his mother. When she came to the phone, Maggie answered ‘Hello?’ cautiously, as if she was expecting more bad news.
‘It’s Mike,’ he announced. ‘I know I said I’d ring on a weekday but I had to speak to you.’
‘Why? What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing’s wrong. I just wanted to hear your voice again.’
He heard her quick intake of breath and he felt insecure. Was she irritated by his phone call? Perhaps she didn’t want to see him again.
‘Mike,’ she said, ‘it’s Sunday. Why aren’t you at home?’
‘I’ve got some work to do,’ he lied. ‘And as I’m between customers, I thought I’d give you a bell.’
A motorbike shot by on the main road, the decibels loudly deafening. He didn’t hear what Maggie said.
‘Sorry?’
‘I said as long as you’re sure everything’s all right.’
‘Why wouldn’t it be? So when am I going to see you again? It’s been nearly two weeks since we....’
‘What about Thursday? About one o’clock.’
‘That’ll make it nearly three weeks. Can’t you make it sooner? What about tomorrow?’
‘No, I’m sorry. I can’t.’
‘Why not? Half term’s over now.’
‘No, Mike. I can’t.’ She sounded annoyed. ‘It has to be Thursday. Like it or lump it.’