by Carnegie, Jo
Gywn Hughes was Catherine’s reporter mate from the nationals. A brilliant journalist, he’d been responsible for some of the biggest news scoops of the last ten years. Catherine had persuaded him to do a piece on Soirée Sponsors and they’d hit it off. Gywn had been one of the main campaigners clearing Catherine’s mum’s name when the Crimson Killer case had hit the news the second time. On the off-chance she had given him a call about Pear Tree Holdings. If anyone could get to the bottom of things, it was Gywn.
He cut straight to the chase. ‘I’ve been asking round.’
‘Shoot.’
‘Not much, I’m afraid. The Isle of Man Companies House operate behind one big fat closed door. It’s a completely different system to the UK.’
‘The company directors are still listed though, aren’t they? They could at least tell you who owns it.’
Sirens wailed in the background. Gwyn exhaled down the phone; he was obviously smoking one of his frequent cigarettes.
‘They don’t know anything. They’re literally three old boys who live on the Isle of Man and get paid once a year to rock up and sign the forms to keep Pear Tree going. They could be directors for literally thousands of companies. It’s a nice little earner; I might move there when I retire.’
‘It sounds so dodgy, Gwyn. I can’t believe it’s legit.’
‘It’s completely legit. A lot of the supermarkets do it for tax reasons, plus it’s easier when you’re buying up vast swathes of land if nobody knows who you are. Especially if it’s a controversial development.’
‘Like Blaize Castle,’ she said grimly.
‘I haven’t given up yet, Catherine. You know what I’m like once I’ve got the bit between my teeth.’
‘Which is exactly why I came to you.’ She rubbed at a grease mark on the steering wheel. ‘You haven’t heard the name Beau Rainford in any of this, have you?’
‘That rich-boy property developer? You think he’s behind it?’
‘It was just a theory,’ she said quickly. ‘Forget it.’
‘Nah, this is too big even for a character like Beau Rainford. My hunch is it’s a big company. Probably a multinational that is being extra-cautious because of all the controversy about building on green-field sites.’
‘That’s what my husband said.’
‘I think he’s right.’
Catherine still couldn’t put her finger on it, but there was still something definitely off.
‘I’ll keep plugging away, I must admit you’ve piqued my interest,’ he told her. ‘How are things going in the country? Are you a jam-making expert now?’
‘Don’t joke,’ she sighed. ‘It’s not far off that.’
The reporter gave a throaty laugh. ‘I’ve got a call on the other line; I’ll be in touch.’
Chapter 22
Vanessa was on the phone to her PA, Tamzin. A plump blonde twenty-something, Tamzin was something of a godsend. Competent and organized, Conrad’s mood swings seemed to wash over her. She’d been with the Powells in London, and Vanessa couldn’t bear to let her go when they moved.
‘Don’t forget Selfridges are still holding on to the new Chanel for you,’ she was telling Vanessa.
Dylan was bending over outside. Vanessa craned her neck to get a good look at his bum. ‘I’m not sure when I’ll be in London next. Could you courier it to me?’
‘I don’t blame you, home must be a very attractive option at the moment.’
‘I’m sorry?’ Vanessa’s mind raced – what had Tamzin heard?
The girl laughed. ‘Given the choice between the beautiful Cotswolds and hot, smelly London I know what I’d prefer!’
At midday Vanessa took a tray of drinks out to the terrace. ‘Come and sit down!’ she called. ‘You must be parched.’
Dylan came up the lawn, black curls and bronzed skin making him look like a raffish pirate. There were rings of sweat under the arms of his vest, his dark armpit hair poking out the sides. For some reason Vanessa found it extremely erotic.
‘Please, take a seat,’ she said nonchalantly, as if taking refreshments with her staggeringly handsome gardener was an everyday occurrence.
Sukie was far more obvious. She’d been out in the garden all morning, watching Dylan in complete adoration. As he sat down, she jumped up and nestled her head in his crotch.
Lucky bitch, Vanessa found herself thinking. The glass she was holding slid through her hand. Dylan leant forward and caught it.
‘S-sorry,’ she stuttered. ‘Iced tea OK?’
‘Perfect.’
She wrenched her gaze away from the luminous eyes. ‘You said you had a dog, didn’t you?’ she asked him, pouring him a glass. Her hands were shaking.
‘Yup, an Irish wolfhound called Eddie. He’s holding the fort for me at home.’
‘Does Eddie live in the yurt with you?’
‘No, I built him his own one.’
‘Your dog’s got its own yurt?’
Dylan looked deadly serious. ‘Oh yeah. And his own toilet.’
‘Really?’
‘You bet.’
It took a second for the penny to drop. ‘Oh, very funny,’ she retorted.
He chuckled. ‘I had you there.’
She couldn’t help but smile back; there was something so wonderfully easy about him.
‘Did you have to get permission to stay places in your yurt?’ she asked.
Dylan tickled Sukie’s pink belly with his long tanned fingers. ‘Sometimes, but Foxglove Woods is a pretty private spot. I can always move on if anyone objects.’
It was such a nomadic life, never knowing where you would be at the end of every day. She couldn’t imagine it and said as much to him.
‘That’s exactly why I like it. I’ve got the air in my lungs and the sun on my back. That’s all I need.’
Vanessa looked down at her jewels, up at her beautiful house. These were the things that mattered. Tangible symbols of your own worth and status. How could he survive on so little?
‘What do your parents think about your lifestyle?’
‘They’re cool.’ He tickled Sukie’s ear. ‘They live on a farm in Andalucía with twenty-five stray cats. No wait, twenty-six. Mum just told me they’ve taken in another one.’
It was all starting to make sense. ‘I’ve got a brother as well,’ he told her. ‘If you want the whole family history.’
‘What does he do?’ She winked. ‘Train wolves in the wilds of Alaska?’
‘Actually, he’s a chartered surveyor who lives in Cambridge.’
Vanessa’s face dropped. ‘Oh. That was a joke. Not a very good one, sorry.’
He glanced up from stroking Sukie and gave her a smile. His gaze was magnetic. Vanessa felt like her body had dissolved into a million particles that were all racing round and bumping into each other.
‘H-how long are you staying?’ she asked.
‘Not sure yet.’ Dylan held her gaze. ‘It depends.’
She swallowed. ‘On what?’
‘What the hell is going on here?’ Conrad was standing behind them, Hugo Boss jacket slung over one shoulder. He didn’t look very happy.
‘Conrad!’ she jumped up. ‘I wasn’t expecting you back until later.’
‘Evidently not. What is that fucking hippy wagon doing on our driveway?’
‘I let Dylan park outside the house. I didn’t think you’d mind.’
‘Well, I do. I don’t want people thinking we’re putting up a load of crusties.’ Conrad jerked his hand over the table. ‘What’s this?’
‘I just stopped for lunch,’ Vanessa lied. ‘Seeing as it was hot, I thought Dylan would like to join me for an iced tea. You know, to say thank you for all his wonderful work,’ she added, wondering if that was over-egging the pudding.
Conrad narrowed his eyes at Dylan. ‘Thought you’d slack off to chat up my wife, did you?’
‘Conrad!’
‘Hello? I’m joking! As if you’d be interested in the hired help!’ He put a proprietorial a
rm round Vanessa’s shoulders. ‘Anyway, chappie, I’m afraid you haven’t passed your trial period.’
‘What trial period?’ she started to say, but Conrad’s nails dug warningly into her flesh. Dylan put Sukie down on the floor and got up.
‘Sorry, I wasn’t aware there was a contract.’
‘There isn’t!’ she protested, earning herself another sharp nail dig. Conrad looked down fondly at her.
‘Bless my darling wife; she’s never very good at confrontation.’ He smiled coldly. ‘I, on the other hand, won’t stand for sub-standard work.’ He fixed Dylan with a condescending stare. ‘You’ve had your chance to shine, chappie, and it hasn’t worked out.’
Vanessa watched in horror as he produced his Italian leather wallet and pulled out a slab of twenties. Peeling off two, he threw them down on the table.
‘I think that’s more than generous.’
Dylan’s face was expressionless. ‘It’s all right, I hadn’t done much today.’
‘You’ve worked all morning!’ she cried.
‘You heard the man, darling.’ Conrad pointed towards the side of the house. ‘I’ve spent enough time being good about this, now fuck off,’ he told Dylan. ‘And take that sorry excuse for a tin can with you.’
Vanessa looked wildly between them. ‘Dylan, I …’
‘It’s fine, really.’
Was that a hint of pity in the smile he gave her? Helpless, she watched him walk off. When he was out of sight she wrenched herself out of Conrad’s grip.
‘You bastard,’ she yelled. ‘That was totally out of order!’
He was up in her face in a second. ‘No, darling, you’re the one who’s out of order. I come back to find my wife offering herself up like some kind of slut with the hired help. Did you think you’d fit in a quick alfresco fuck before I got home?’
‘How dare you! Let go, you’re hurting me!’
‘Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you’ve been throwing yourself at him. Living out our Lady Chatterley fantasy, are we?’
She flushed again. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘I think you do. My God, he must have thought his luck was in. I might have started to get worried if I’d thought you still had a pulse between the legs.’
Releasing Vanessa’s arm, he strode back inside the house.
Chapter 23
The hot weather shimmered on. Weather forecasters started to predict the hottest June for decades, while newspapers warned of imminent hosepipe bans. Barbecues overtook Sunday roasts and the British public enjoyed waking up to uninterrupted skies every morning. Even daily headlines about the faltering economy and the next round of public-spending cuts couldn’t bring down the general joie de vivre.
In Beeversham, however, everyone was very much focused on the Big Day Out. That evening the SNOW committee were meeting at the Cooper-Stanleys’ sympathetic new-build in Lavender Close. By the time Catherine and John arrived, the others were already in the back garden being plied with Oyster Bay by the host.
Mel was in the glossy black kitchen, putting the finishing touches to a selection of canapés. She engulfed Catherine in a warm hug that reeked of Trésor. ‘How are you, darling?’
‘All the better for seeing you.’ Catherine looked at the spread before her. ‘This is all very impressive.’
‘M&S’s finest. You know I don’t even know how to turn the cooker on.’
Amanda bustled in. ‘Mel, do you have a water jug? There’s rather a lot of wine going round out there and we need to keep a clear head.’ She looked at the wall clock pointedly. ‘We should think about starting.’
‘I’ll take a tray out,’ offered Catherine.
‘You’re a darling. See you in two secs.’
Catherine found Mr Patel in the corridor, mesmerized by a huge professional portrait of Mel, lounging amongst acres of fluffy rug.
‘Don’t worry, Mr Patel,’ Catherine remarked cheerfully. ‘I think she’s wearing underwear.’
Mr Patel jumped violently. ‘Thank goodness for that!’ he said, rushing back out.
It was a beautiful summer evening. Wisps of clouds coasted across the red and pink sky as people helped themselves to prawn satay and caught up on the gossip. The Powells opening the Big Day Out was the main topic of conversation. People were very excited at the thought of rubbing shoulders with their resident celebrities.
‘I wonder what Vanessa Powell will wear,’ Ginny pondered. ‘She’s so stunning!’
‘Conrad Powell is such a dish, and so devoted to her!’ declared Amanda. She went in for another mini-tartlet. ‘If only the rest of us were so lucky.’
Poor Henry Belcher, who’d forgone a weekend of watching the Ashes to paint the downstairs loo, looked crushed.
‘What are we looking like press-wise, Catherine?’ Felix asked.
‘A bit better, now we’ve got the Powells on board. Cotswold FM have confirmed they’ll be doing a live broadcast, talking to Felix and a few locals etcetera, and the Cotswolds on Sunday want to do something too. I said an exclusive interview and shoot with the Powells might be slightly unrealistic, but I’m sure we can get a few quotes off them. Oh, and I might have an in with someone at the Daily Telegraph. You know how hot they are on green-belt building.’
The others looked impressed. ‘I forgot how well connected your wife was,’ Ginny told John.
‘Hardly,’ Catherine sighed. She decided not to tell them about the other papers she’d tried, unsuccessfully. It was scary how quickly even someone like her fell off the radar.
‘Where’s Jonty, by the way?’ Mr Patel asked. ‘I saw his name on the email.’
‘He’s been held up in London and sends his apologies,’ Felix told them.
Everyone exchanged a look.
‘Never mind, I can fill him in.’ Felix smiled decisively. ‘That’s the press sorted, who’s next?’
People weren’t having much success. Amanda Belcher had been gazumped on two bands. There was a dearth of children’s magicians. The Patels were struggling to fill the food and drink stalls.
‘Most people are booked for Chipping Norton’s food festival on the same day,’ Mr Patel told them gloomily. ‘We’re going to struggle to get the crowds, even with Conrad and Vanessa.’
‘Um, if I could maybe make a tiny suggestion.’ Henry Belcher gave an apologetic smile. ‘I wonder if all this tombola stuff is a bit predictable?’
‘It’s a fete, Henry,’ his wife said crossly. ‘What else do you expect people to do?’
Henry swallowed nervously. Going against the female rule in his family wasn’t something that happened often. Escaping Amanda’s fish-eyed stare, he appealed to the rest of the table.
‘How about rebranding the whole thing and calling it Beeversham’s “Big Charity Game Show”?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t quite follow, old chap,’ Felix said.
‘I’m not explaining myself very well,’ Henry said sheepishly. ‘Something Olympia was watching gave me the idea, one of these reality TV shows that seem very popular these days. Instead of your bog-standard fete, why don’t we have a game show theme? People could pay a small fee to enter, which we could donate to a local charity. We could get businesses from the area to donate prizes for the winners.’
He pulled out a sheet of paper from his notes. ‘It’s only rough, but I’ve made a few suggestions. The first one is Big Brother. I thought we could recreate it in our living room and people could look through the windows and watch. It could go on all day, with people being voted out every hour …’
Amanda Belcher looked aghast but Henry bravely ploughed on. ‘We could still have a petting corner but perhaps we could commandeer some more animals and put on a mini I’m a Celebrity … Get Me Out of Here!’
‘What on earth is that?’ Felix sounded baffled.
‘The jungle one, darling,’ Ginny told him. ‘Go on, Henry, I think this sounds marvellous!’
Henry smiled, encouraged by her reaction. ‘I thought we could al
so have a more straightforward game show like Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? or even one of the old classics like Mr and Mrs.’
‘OMG, amazing!’ Mel said. ‘We have to have The X Factor!’
‘Didn’t Churchminster village put on a Churchminster’s Got Talent a few years ago?’ Mrs Patel asked. ‘I hear it was a big success. We could hire a stage to put in the market square.’
Henry nodded enthusiastically. ‘Exactly what I was thinking! I was even wondering if we could do a Supermarket Sweep at the mini market. But only if you had old stock to get rid of,’ he added hurriedly, seeing Mr Patel’s face.
Amanda regained the powers of speech. ‘Henry, I don’t know what on earth has got into you! This is preposterous! We can’t turn Beeversham into a giant TV set for the day.’
Catherine watched Henry’s face drop. ‘It’s a brilliant idea!’ she said. ‘Henry’s right, we need something different to draw people in.’
‘I agree,’ Mel declared.
‘Me too,’ said Mike.
John put his hand up. ‘I suggest we vote.’
Felix had been looking a bit surprised by the change of events, but he nodded. ‘Let’s have a show of hands, then. All those in favour of changing it to Beeversham’s Big Charity Game Show.’
Everyone’s hand went in the air, apart from Amanda Belcher’s. There was a long silence. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ she said crossly.
Mel gave a hoot of laughter. ‘Big Brother, I love it!’
Over more wine the duties were quickly divvied up. Henry’s inspired idea had renewed enthusiasm and everyone had great fun discussing the logistics and whether they really could get a couple of snakes for I’m a Celebrity … Get Me Out of Here! from a reptile zoo. When Mike Cooper-Stanley bought out the excellent cognac he’d picked up in duty-free that week, even Mrs Patel didn’t say no.
Chapter 24
Vanessa side-stepped another cowpat and swore loudly. Her vision of arriving gracefully out of the foliage like an intrepid Joanna Lumley wasn’t going according to plan. Instead she was hot, hopelessly lost, and her new silk Etro pants had stains all down them from where she had tripped on a tree root and gone flying.