The Case of the Curious Cook

by Cathy Ace

  As she made her way toward the staircase that would take her to the privacy of her room, Fred Cruickshank appeared at Althea’s left elbow, ‘Ah, there you are, Mrs Pugh. I understand you’ve been having a good old chat with several of our residents, and you even managed to spend a little time with one of our advisors, Mr Williams, this afternoon. He told me you were asking after one of our previous residents, a lady by the name of Daisy. Now would that be Daisy Davies, I wonder?’

  Althea smiled, despite an odd feeling of apprehension. ‘Yes, it would be, though I must admit I only just discovered she’d remarried toward the end of her life. For the third time, would you believe it, Mr Cruickshank.’

  ‘Always was a lively one, was our Daisy,’ said the man with a cold grin. ‘I wonder if you’d like to join me in the office for a little bit of a catch-up.’

  Althea didn’t fancy the idea at all, but it was clear to her she had no choice in the matter.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Christine’s Range Rover darted through the rush hour traffic crawling around Hyde Park Corner as fast as she dared push it. She leaned on her horn as some idiot in a Smart car crawled along at about two miles an hour in front of her, to no effect. As she avoided tourists scampering across the road in the most dangerous of spots, she couldn’t help but wonder what she’d find in Soho.

  She used the underground car park in Chinatown she knew was the best spot for accessing the West End, and headed toward the address on Greek Street Carol had sent her. The shop-front didn’t look particularly salubrious, but she walked in, her head held high and ready to face whatever might be thrown her way.

  She was surprised to discover a very pleasant set-up with no horrible sounds or smells, and not so much as a hint of large, bare-chested – or worse – bikers, which was what she’d feared. Instead, a petite Indonesian woman greeted Christine with a bow.

  A little flummoxed by this greeting, Christine explained she was hoping to see Baz.

  ‘He is with client. Will be for next hour. I do not interrupt his work. He is true artist. You like tea while you wait? Or you prefer come back later?’ replied the woman.

  Not wanting to miss her chance to talk to Lizzie’s ex, Christine agreed to tea and sat quietly.

  When she pulled out her mobile phone the young woman said, ‘No signal. Baz jams signal. Is not good for aura, he says.’

  Christine wondered how long it would take her to drink her scalding tea so she could get to the street outside and do some work, but, since she felt she had to at least make a show of accepting the woman’s hospitality she sipped it and said ‘Mmm’ a few times.

  Ten minutes later, she was itching to know if Carol had any more news for her, and was keen to carry out a few of her own online searches. She impressed upon the woman how important it was that she spoke with Baz, and ascertained he had another four appointments that evening, so wouldn’t be leaving any time soon. She realized tattoo artists didn’t keep regular office, or even shop, hours and felt more comfortable in her decision to pop to the pub across the road, from where she’d be able to keep an eye on the front door of the establishment.

  She ducked into the pub and ordered a bottle of fizzy water, then stood at the narrow shelf along the window, where she elbowed her way in and pulled out her phone, delighted to find she had access to Wi-Fi, though with a weak signal. Waving her phone about a bit, she wasn’t prepared for what she saw across the bar. It was Alexander, and he wasn’t alone. Who was he with? And what was he doing in what was, after all, a pretty seedy pub in Soho?

  A large column partially blocked her view of the section of the long, narrow pub where she’d spotted him, so she sidled over to a frosted-glass divider that set one area of the bar apart from the rest. Fortunately for Christine, she managed to find an angle whereby she could see into the nook where Alexander and his companions were sitting by using the reflection in the etched glass behind the bar. There he was. He was with a trio of men; the three of them were sitting on a leather-upholstered banquette, while Alexander was perched on a small stool facing them. He had his back to the bar, and therefore to Christine, but she recognized him immediately.

  Pulling out her phone and making a meal of pretending to check for messages, she snapped a few shots of the threesome. She didn’t recognize any of them, but wasn’t surprised about that. They were rather large men, and she had the suspicion they would all know how to handle themselves in a tight corner. The way they were dressed didn’t give her any clues about their lifestyles, other than they had what seemed to be expensive-looking leather or suede jackets on the seat beside them – not something they’d really have needed, given the warmth of the day. One of them got up and headed for the loo, quickly followed by a second.

  Christine smiled inwardly at the recollection of so many jokes told by men about how women always seem to use the lavatory in pairs. A few minutes later, as they were in the little vestibule area where the men’s and women’s facilities led into the main body of the pub, the two men paused for what they must have thought would be a moment of private conversation.

  ‘It’s not a bad offer. But I’m not sayin’ yes yet. He might sweeten it a bit.’ The man’s rasping voice suggested too many cigarettes over decades, and the slight slurring of his words further suggested the two pints Christine had seen him drink weren’t his first of the day.

  The man with whom he was almost nose-to-nose shrugged his agreement.

  As they settled back into their seats, Christine watched for a while, then could see all three men had reached an agreement with Alexander. Under cover of saying a fond farewell, she saw Alexander handing an envelope to the largest of the three. They left, he sat down again, and pulled out his phone to make a call.

  Christine was startled when her phone rang in her pocket. She saw the word ALEX on the screen. Instinctively pulling back behind the glass screen she answered, ‘Hello. Nice to hear from you.’ She tried to make her voice sound as normal as possible as she hurried across the pub toward the front door.

  ‘I’m going to be free tonight after all,’ said Alexander cheerily. ‘How about I pop over to yours, or would you like to meet at our little spot on Battersea High Street? I fancy a bit of Django-style music and some sinful dessert.’

  Christine panicked. Silently.

  It seemed Alexander took her silence as meaningful. ‘Not you – I don’t mean you as dessert. That would be presumptuous of me. I mean dessert at the restaurant.’

  Uncertain of what to say, Christine allowed her mind to whirl; she told Alexander she was just about to leave her parent’s house. ‘I dropped in to see Mammy and stayed on for a bit longer than I’d planned. How about I meet you at the restaurant at eight?’ She hoped that would give her enough time to speak to Baz, then get back to her flat and change her clothes.

  ‘Good plan. I’ll see you there, then.’

  ‘OK, must go.’ Christine cut off the call and raced across the street to the tattoo parlor.

  ‘You return in good time. Baz is free now,’ said the tiny hostess. ‘Come.’

  Christine was ushered into a back room filled with bizarre furnishings, most with an air of steam-punk about them. A tall, emaciated man wearing a sleeveless vest which displayed his own, impressive body-art, and with the most elaborate arrangement of facial hair Christine had ever seen, stood beside what looked like an old barber, or dentist’s chair.

  He grinned. All his teeth were silver. ‘Hi, I’m Baz. What can I do you for?’

  ‘I’m here about Lizzie Llewellyn,’ said Christine.

  ‘Really? I wondered when someone would show up to ask me about her. Journalist, are you, love?’

  ‘Private investigator.’ She handed him her card.

  ‘Cor, brilliant. Go on then – grill me!’ He slapped his thigh and roared with laughter. ‘Seriously, have a seat and ask me whatever you want. Miss her like crazy, I do, and I don’t care who knows it. Not though anyone’s asked. Who told you about me?’

  ‘Her bro
ther.’

  Baz looked shocked. ‘Nathaniel?’ Christine nodded. ‘Didn’t know he even knew about me. Terrible what he done. Can’t understand it. Why would a brother do that to his sister?’

  ‘You think he killed her?’

  ‘Duh! The whole world thinks he did. Knows he did. Found him guilty and thrown away the key, they have. Why? You working for him?’

  ‘No.’ Christine didn’t want to lie.

  Baz’s suspicious expression softened a little. ‘Who then?’

  ‘I’m not able to say.’

  He picked up one of his many stainless steel tools of the trade and started spinning it between his fingers. Christine tried to work out if he was trying to intimidate her. ‘But not him, himself?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘OK. Shoot.’

  ‘You and Lizzie used to live together, I understand.’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘And I also believe you were her tattoo artist.’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  Christine glanced around the artwork plastered all over the walls. ‘That’s one of hers, right?’ She nodded at a stark scene of girders and cranes. It stood out among the variety of tigers’ heads and snakes wrapped around various forms of daggers and swords.

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘We’re not going to get very far if that’s all you’re going to say,’ snapped Christine.

  ‘I’m answering you, aren’t I?’

  ‘True. Have you seen Lizzie in the past couple of years?’

  ‘How could I. She’s dead.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Look, love, detective or not, this is all rubbish. She’s dead. Her brother killed her, or haven’t you heard?’

  ‘What if I suggested to you Lizzie isn’t dead at all, but that she set up her brother so it looked like he killed her, then she disappeared?’

  Baz put down the tool he’d been fondling and sat on a leather-topped stool beside the massive chair. He twirled the stool around, much as a child would do, spinning and smiling. His eyes grew narrow as he used his feet to stop turning. ‘Is that what she’s gone and done?’

  ‘If she had, would you have any idea where she might hide out?’

  Baz gave the question some thought. ‘Having thought she was dead until about two minutes ago, no. But if she were to be anywhere, she’d still be making art, of that I’m certain. Obsessive is a word people bandy about these days until it’s almost lost its meaning. They should have saved it up for Lizzie. Always creating, and always one for the overload, she was. Reading, headphones on, drawing over a magnifying glass all at the same time. And eating. Always eating. Like a fruit bat was Lizzie. Never without a couple of apples, an orange – something all the time. Like living in a fruit shop it was, when she was at my place.’

  ‘Nothing else?’ Christine felt defeated.

  ‘What else do you want? I knew she hated her brother, but who wouldn’t? Told me any chance he had, he slagged her off something rotten. Always talking about how her stuff was rubbish, but his was great. And that mother of hers? Undermined her every chance she got, Lizzie said. Always standing next to Nathaniel when he was pulling the cover off some great big ugly thing he’d made, but for Lizzie? Didn’t even turn up at her big exhibition in London, she didn’t.’

  ‘The exhibition Jeremy Edgerton gave of Lizzie’s work?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s it.’

  ‘Her mother wasn’t invited.’

  Baz rolled his eyes. ‘Whatever the reason, she wasn’t there. Biggest night of Lizzie’s career, and no one from the family there at all. Hurt her a lot, that did. I could tell. I was with her. We hadn’t been together long then. Truth be told, we were only really together for a couple of months in any case. But after that exhibition? Disappeared for days, she did.’ He looked at Christine with a curious gleam in his eyes. ‘Yeah, disappeared for days.’

  Christine recognized what she believed to be the light of recollection in the man’s eyes. ‘What have you just remembered, Baz?’

  ‘It might be nothing,’ he replied, his voice guarded.

  ‘Try me.’

  She could tell he was thinking about his words before he spoke them aloud. ‘Came back to my place, upstairs, here, after about a week, she did. Told me she’d been to St David’s. In Wales. Said she needed to be as far west as she could get. Said “West was Best.” No idea what she meant.’

  ‘St David’s the place, or St David’s the cathedral?’

  ‘Same place, innit? Always going on about that part of the world. Narberth, Haverfordwest, Solva. Never been to any of them, me, but the names stick. Funny names.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘That it? I’ve got a bloke coming in for a big job on his back pretty soon.’

  ‘Just one more thing; why did you and Lizzie break up?’

  Baz’s face creased into a broad, rueful grin. ‘You met her, outside. Tammy works here now, so we can be together all the time. We both knew it was right the minute we clapped eyes on each other. Lizzie – well, she walked in when she shouldn’t have.’

  ‘Ah. Any fireworks?’

  Baz laughed aloud. ‘Fireworks? Yeah, you could say that. Really breathe fire, don’t they, them Welsh dragons? Well, Lizzie did, in any case. Anything not nailed down was smashed against the walls within a couple of minutes of her finding us in flagrante delicto, let’s just say that. We hid under the bedclothes till she started grabbing all her gear and stuffing it into a bag. I won’t tell you what she called us, because I’m not sure I can recall every specific term she used, but the overall sentiment was she’d never forgive either of us, and she wanted us both to suffer for our sins in every way imaginable – and then some. She left about an hour later, and the next thing I heard she’d disappeared, then they were doing her brother for killing her. Having seen Lizzie in full dragon-mode, I remember thinking the poor bloke might have had good cause to do her in.’

  Christine could tell Baz was getting a bit twitchy, and Tammy stuck her head through the door to announce Big Dave had arrived.

  ‘We done?’ asked Baz.

  ‘Yes. Thanks.’

  ‘So what do you reckon – she isn’t dead after all? Just hidin’?’

  ‘We’ll see. Do you think she’d do that? That she’d be capable of it?’

  Baz rose and stuck his hand toward Christine. ‘Say hi from me if you find her. Or maybe not. Nah – on second thoughts, don’t even mention my name.’

  Christine left and headed along Greek Street toward the car park in Chinatown.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Henry Twyst regarded his sister Clementine with impatience. Nurse Thomas was beside his sibling, watching over her charge, but Clemmie was managing to walk rather well with merely the aid of a cane. He was relieved to see it, and hoped she’d be out of his hair before too long.

  ‘There you are,’ he said loudly as his sister took a seat in the drawing room. ‘You’re a little more mobile today, I see. Good.’

  Stephanie greeted her sister-in-law with a kiss on the cheek. ‘I think you’re looking better all-round, Clemmie. Don’t you think she’s looking better, Nurse Thomas?’

  ‘I’ve been sitting in the sun for a while each day,’ replied Clemmie. ‘It’s rather pleasant. Of course, with skin like mine one does have to take great care to not overdo it.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Henry, ‘one wouldn’t want to lose that vampiric pallor, would one?’

  ‘I’ll have my G and T with lime, not lemon, please,’ called Clemmie.

  ‘Me too, please, Henry,’ added Stephanie, and Henry prepared the pre-dinner drinks with good humor.

  ‘For you, Nurse Thomas?’

  ‘A plain tonic water, thank you, Your Grace.’

  Soon the foursome were settled around the massive hearth, where, instead of a crackling fire they all stared at a well-buffed seventeenth-century brass coal-scuttle filled with dried wheat and poppy-heads.

  ‘Thank you for sparing time to talk about this before dinner, Clem
mie,’ opened Henry. ‘As you know, we’ll be celebrating Mother’s eightieth birthday under the public’s gaze at the fete soon, though of course we’ll have a private celebration on her real birthday. I thought we’d save up the proper gift-giving until then, but Stephanie has suggested it behoves both you and I to say a few words about our mother over the microphone. You know the sort of thing – address the assembled masses.’

  Clemmie shifted uncomfortably in her chair. ‘I hate speaking in public. You know that, Henry. You’re not too keen on it yourself, as I recall. You completely fluffed that bit at your own wedding, remember?’

  Henry recalled the sweaty palms, jelly knees and the un-laughing crowd only too well. ‘I know, I know, but one has learned over the years that it’s expected of one. And I do see my wife’s point—’ he smiled at Stephanie – ‘she makes a good one. Mother deserves to be praised in public and it should be we, her children, who do it.’

  Henry was pleased when Stephanie threw an encouraging smile toward his sister, but Clemmie was pouting. ‘I wouldn’t know what to say. Besides, Mother hates that sort of thing too. She’d be expected to produce some sort of a response, surely.’

  Henry was grateful when Stephanie waded in with: ‘Of course, I don’t know all about your life with your mother as a child, but Henry has mentioned how the three of you would ride horses together and take long walks with the dogs. You know, before the two of you went off to school, and when you came home during the holidays. Maybe you could talk about that? About how she gave you a love of the countryside. The people who live around here might also recall you walking through the village. The older ones, in any case.’

  ‘I used to hate those walks,’ said Clemmie petulantly, ‘and I don’t love the countryside. I can’t wait to get back up to London.’

  ‘You used to enjoy painting en plein when you were here on the estate, Clemmie,’ said Henry. ‘I recall our preferred styles were somewhat at odds with each other, but I know for a fact you found inspiration here. That must have a thread back to Mother somehow.’