White Lies

by Rachel Green

  He smiled at them. “That was a long couple of minutes.”

  “So I see.” Meinwen waited for Mary to put on her coat before opening the door. “Thanks for the chat.”

  “Let me know what you find out, won’t you?”

  “Of course.” She closed the door behind them but watched while they climbed into an old Ford. It was probably Peter’s, chosen because Mary didn’t want to draw attention to herself, but it would be worth finding out if she had access to the Mercedes.

  “What was all that about then?”

  “An apology of sorts.” Meinwen sat and picked up her drink. It had gone cold but she sipped at it anyway. “Both for the way we were treated at The Larches and for jumping out and causing you to crash.”

  “I told you I was swerving to avoid a bloke.” Dafydd stared at the door. “What a bastard, eh? Doing that and expecting no consequences.”

  “They said they’d pay for the repairs, only not until the insurance money comes through.”

  “But I told you I’ve only got third party.”

  “Not your insurance.” Meinwen mock-punched him. “Theirs.”

  “And what’s their insurance? I didn’t know you could get I-jumped-in-the-road-and-caused-an-accident-I-swear-I-wasn’t-drunk insurance.”

  “No, silly. Mary took out a policy on Richard so as soon as the murderer is caught everybody will be happy.”

  “Except Richard, obviously.” Dafydd grinned. “Does that mean we can go home now? I’m desperate for a proper cup of tea.”

  “In a little while. I need to make some calls first.” She pulled her keys from her bag. “Look, why don’t you go back to the cottage? I’ll meet you there as soon as I finished.”

  “Well I won’t say no. I’m famished, I am.”

  “Great. Put something on for tea? There’s rice and pasta in the cupboards and plenty of fresh vegetables in the pantry.”

  “Pantry? I didn’t know you even had a pantry.”

  “The cupboard in the kitchen where I keep the cleaning things.”

  “I didn’t know you had cleaning things.” Dafydd held up a hand against her halfhearted thump. “All right. I’m going. I might stop in at the market on my way and have another burger.”

  “If that’s what you want to do, do it. You’re a grown man now, Dafydd Thomas. Old enough to make your own decisions even if they’re stupid ones.”

  “And what’s wrong with a burger, may I ask. Thousands of people ear burgers every day.”

  “Yes, and look at them all.”

  Dafydd opened his mouth to make a retort and then seemed to lose the will for it. He nodded instead. “Perhaps you’re right. Will you be long?”

  “I hope not. Just make sure you’re there before I am or I won’t be able to get in.”

  “Right.” Dafydd opened the back door and looked out. “I’d get a move on if I were you. It looks as if it’s going to tip it down again.”

  “I will.” She climbed to her feet and shooed him out, then locked the door behind him. She’d left her laptop at home and had no way to find someone without doing an internet search. Her phone was too old to have an internet connection so the next best thing was to phone someone who did. She dialed.

  “Hello?”

  “Jimmy? It’s Meinwen here. Are you at the flat at Chervil Court?”

  “Erm. Yes. Why? Any news about John?”

  “Nothing new, though I’ve confirmed he knew Richard Godwin well.”

  “Oh. Right. They were...good friends, then?”

  “Lovers, yes. Now then, I need to find the estranged wife and I can’t ask the people at the house for reasons I won’t go into. Could you do an internet search for me? Do you know how to?”

  “I told you yesterday. I used to help the other guys with computer studies. I think I can manage a search.”

  “Okay, Sorry. Her name is Catherine Godwin and she–”

  “Hold on. I’m not at the computer.” She listened to his footsteps and the scrape of a chair. “Okay. Catherine Godwin?”

  “That’s right.” She could hear him tapping keys.

  “There are twenty eight of them.”

  “Oh. I wasn’t expecting so many. Okay. This one would be in her twenties”

  “Down to three. Yorkshire, Manchester and Glamorgan.”

  “Brilliant. Can you give me the addresses?” She copied them down into the back of her notebook. “I don’t suppose there are telephone numbers too? There are? Thanks.” She wrote those down as well. “She may have reverted to her maiden name. Would you search for Catherine Latt as well?”

  “No hits under that name at all. Not in England, anyway.”

  “Darn. Okay, Thanks, Jimmy.”

  “Will that be all, ma’am?” She could hear the sarcasm in his voice.

  “Pretty much. Have the police been to see you yet?”

  “Not yet. I was cherishing my last hour of freedom.”

  “You ought to go to them. It’ll give a better impression of your innocence.”

  “Yes, I suppose it would.”

  She rang off and dialed the first number on the list. “Hello? This is the office of Jones and Jones. I’m trying to trace Catherine Godwin, nee Latt in regard to an insurance claim regarding her husband. Would she be in residence there?”

  “Nay, hen. Mae Cathy’s ne’er been wed, ye ken?”

  “I see. Sorry to have troubled you.” She crossed the name off her list and tried the second with a similar result, then struck out on the third as well. Three dead ends left her with the options of calling Sergeant Peters or Gillian who, being a night solicitor, was generally unavailable during the day. She sat back, chewing the end of her pencil. What if Richard had tried to reconcile with Catherine after John’s death? Wouldn’t he have gone to her house?

  She freed her hair and packed her phone and notebook into her bag then donned her coat, switched off the lights and strode through the shop to the front door. She picked up her umbrella and left, locking the door carefully before retracing her steps back to Winston’s garage. Luckily, he was still there, squatting at the side of the Rolls Royce wearing white cotton gloves and brandishing what looked like a book of stamps.

  “Hey, girl. Couldn’t stay away, eh? Couldn’t resist my charms?” He pulled a stamp from the book and applied it to the wing of the car and rubbed at it with what looked like a blusher brush. She realized it was the gold leaf he’d mentioned earlier. She watched, fascinated by the process until he stood to give her his attention.

  “You said Richard had put a dent in the bumper last week. Now I know if I was driving a Rolls Royce I’d be extra careful about not damaging it so he must have been somewhere he wasn’t used to. Any idea where that might have been?”

  “Ah, you want to know where he was driving, eh? You want me to have a look at the sat-nav and see the previous destinations?”

  “That would be brilliant.” She gave him what she thought was her best smile.

  “Of course, you could just tell me what you’re looking for.”

  “Catherine. I need to speak to her about Richard’s will.”

  “Right, yes, because you can’t leave all that business to the solicitors and the police, can you?” He smiled, flashing perfect teeth Meinwen would have had to pay thousands for.

  “No. You know I have to do it myself before I can trust the results.”

  “So you don’t want me to tell you where she is?”

  “Ooh!” Meinwen thumped his chest and made him laugh. “Where is she then?”

  “The Christie Guest House, Lombard Street, Torbay.” He grinned. “I had to fetch him back from there once, that’s how I knew they weren’t divorced.”

  “They were still seeing each other?”

  “As far as I know.” He shrugged. “Can I get back to work now?”

  “Of course. Sorry.” She gave him a peck on his cheek. He smelled of oil and tobacco. “Thanks, Winston. You’re a star.” She headed out of the garage again.

&nb
sp; “Well I shine best at night.”

  She gave a final wave and turned the corner, putting up her umbrella as the first drops of rain spattered into the sycamore branches overhead. She took protection in the old-fashioned brick bus shelter, though it no longer had any glass in the windows and the inside was covered in graffiti and smelled of disinfectant and stale urine.

  She phoned directory inquiries for the number and was put through by the operator at an extra charge of sixty-five pence.

  “Hello, Joanna speaking. How may I help you?”

  “Hello. I’m looking for Catherine Godwin.” Meinwen raised her voice above the sound of the rain. “I was told she was staying there?”

  “I’m sorry. There’s no one by that name here.”

  “But this is the Christie Guest House?”

  “Yes, it is. Would you like to make a reservation?”

  “Yes. No.” Meinwen shook her head despite knowing the other hotel receptionist couldn’t see her. “I’m trying to locate my friend. Perhaps she was using another name, one I don’t know.”

  “Then I’m not sure I’d be able to help you anyway.”

  “Oh, of course.” Meinwen sighed. “Wait! Perhaps she used her maiden name. Catherine Latt?”

  “Ah, indeed. There was a Catherine Latt registered.”

  “Was?”

  “She left a week ago last Wednesday.”

  “I don’t suppose there was a–”

  “Forwarding address? No, although–”

  “What?”

  “I shouldn’t really tell you this, but a letter arrived for her the morning she left. It was postmarked Laverstone. I only remember because my grandmother used to live there.”

  “Did she? I’m calling from Laverstone. Perhaps I know her.”

  “You might. Doreen Prentiss? She used to live in the black and white house on Meadow Lane?”

  “No, I’m sorry. I can picture the house but not your grandmother, I’m afraid.”

  “Ah, well. It was a few years ago.”

  “Thank you anyway.” Meinwen closed the connection. Another dead end, but one that had drawn the loop back into a circle. Catherine was probably right here in Laverstone again. The question was, where?”

  It was time she went home and practiced what she preached. A little bit of witchcraft.

  Chapter 27

  It made a pleasant change to come home to a warm house where the lights shined merrily. Meinwen paused outside the gate looking at her cottage and seeing it, for the first time since she’d moved here, how others saw it. It was, she decided, a welcoming house, although the long path past the rectory next door would stand for some cheering up. She’d have to get hold of some of those solar powered garden lights they sold in the cheap shop just off the market. A few garden ornaments wouldn’t go amiss, either, and even if she didn’t like the mass-produced fairy statuary they would at least portray the right image to visitors.

  She pushed open the gate, headed up the path and closed her umbrella under the thatched porch roof before going in. It was warm in the sitting room. She dropped her bag on the occasional table and hung her coat on the back of the door. Music and the sound of splashing water filtered from upstairs. Dafydd was in the bath again. At least one could never accuse him of being a dirty boy.

  She stuck her head into the tiny stairwell. “I’m home. Do you want a cuppa?”

  “Hi. Yes, please. I’ve bought some proper tea and milk and stuff. I’ll be right down.”

  “No need.” She went into the kitchen and was half-cross and half-amused to see his purchases. A box of Lovey Dovey tea, a bag of sugar and two cook-in-the-oven curries. She checked the fridge. Sure enough, there was a large jug of semi-skimmed cow’s milk too. “Dafydd Thomas,” she said aloud. “What am I going to do with you?”

  She answered her own question by putting the kettle on and making a pot of tea to take upstairs. Black tea was something she generally avoided but she was secretly pleased he’d made the effort to find the one made in her hometown rather than a generic brand. She carried it up, pausing for a moment to adjust to the heat and steam in the bathroom. She put the tray on the sink unit and perched on the edge of the bath. “You’ve got a nerve.”

  “What?” Dafydd reached for the hand towel to dry his hands and face. He still had traces of shampoo in his hair. “Having a bath? You know I love baths.”

  “You know what I mean.” She picked up a hair elastic from the sink unit and tied her long curls back. “How can you dare bring caffeinated tea, processed sugar and cow’s milk into a witch’s house?”

  Dafydd grinned. “You said yourself lovey. ‘A witch will never refuse food or drink given in good faith.’ Well what’s me buying them if not good faith? Besides, how can you refuse tea from home? It took me three shops to find it. It’s not just any brand, I’ll have you know.”

  “I suppose not.” She reached to pour it. “Though I wouldn’t let anyone else. The energies in the house will all be crooked now. It’ll take me ages to sort out.”

  “Perhaps they’ll adjust to me being here.” He grinned as he took the cup from her, sipped at it and put it on the corner of the bath. “Perhaps the house will like proper tea.”

  “Go on with you.”

  “Why not? What was the house before you moved in? Christian, I’ll bet. It got used to you, didn’t it?”

  “Of course. I take care of it.” Meinwen reached for her tea, slipped and slid sideways into the bath. The shriek she gave was from fright, shock at the unexpectedly hot water and surprise at Dafydd’s hard-on, previously covered by the voluminous amount on bubbles he’d used. She opened and closed her mouth several times, unable to speak from the shock.

  “I would have asked you to join me.” Dafydd put an arm around her waist. “But it’s good to know you’re so eager.”

  “If I’d wanted to share a ridiculously small bathtub with you, I’d have got undressed first.” Meinwen struggled to climb out but her angle prevented it.

  “You look like an overturned turtle.” Dafydd laughed and pulled her further in, eliciting another shriek.

  “Not my boots. It’d take forever to get them dry and the soap will wash away the dubbin.”

  “All right.” he pulled one foot to the edge of the bath and undid the laces, casting the boot to the other side of the room before repeating the action with the second. Meinwen was forced to brace herself against the taps.

  “I’m going to have imprints on my back after this.” She pulled off her cardigan and blouse and dropped them to the already wet floor.

  “Of course you are.” Dafydd stripped off her socks. “It’s not good sex without a few imprints left behind.” He reached for the soap, rubbed it into a lather and began to wash her feet, beginning with her toes and moving up her legs. Every motion sent hot water over her body.

  “I meant from the taps.” She shifted position. “That’s better.” Her eyes closed. “Keep doing what you’re doing. It feels good.”

  “Sure.” He squirmed a little to move into a more favorable position, using the soap as a lubricant on his dick. He leaned forward to snag her panties with a finger, manipulating them down one leg by virtue of holding her heel then pulling her forward until she was impaled.

  “Despite all the prison jokes, soap is rubbish as a lube.” Meinwen sat up and slipped her legs past his waist, supporting herself by one arm around his back. She rocked gently, squeezing her vaginal muscles to draw his cock farther inside. Her skirt alternately floated on the surface and became plastered to her legs.

  “You seem pretty slippery to me.”

  “All natural, lover boy.” She added pelvic thrusts to her movements and was gratified to see his eyelids flutter. “Good?”

  “Good.” He lips twisted into a smile. “All good.”

  She increased the pressure of her contractions, smiling at the steadily increasing pitch of his whimpers as he approached orgasm. His legs and pelvis grew more rigid the closer he came and after only a few mi
nutes he began to buck, shooting his seed into her and the water out of the bath. She arched her back, willing herself to reach the same state of abandonment but it was too far to reach. She had to be comfortable to experience satisfaction and being in a bath with most of her clothes on did not constitute comfort.

  She held her position while his cock softened, only relaxing when it was ready to slip out with the minimum of movement. She fished for what remained of the soap to wash herself then flipped over to kneel over him and rose, slipping out of her sodden clothes and reaching for her robe as she stepped out of the bath.

  She picked up her cup. “Ooh, it’s still hot.”

  * * * *

  Some time later, after they’d shared an oven-ready curry, Meinwen opened her computer. She’d left Dafydd washing up, a fair division of labor after she’d cooked and mopped up the bathroom. She logged on with her Scribe avatar, watching the laptop cycle through loading her word processor and browser, automatically minimizing both to leave her desktop screen showing an artist’s depiction of a magic circle.

  “Here’s a little bit of magic for you, my lovely.” Meinwen patted the machine and logged on to her social network. “This would be witchcraft to someone from fifty years ago.” She scanned the contact list. Mrs. “The Bread” Morris was online. She worked at the bakery at the back of the supermarket and heard more gossip in the course of a day than most people would in a month of Sundays. Julie Turling from the bookshop was showing as online but occupied, though her sister Felicia wasn’t. She never was at night. Meinwen got on better with Felicia and often had lunch with her. She had to catch her at work, where she whiled away the hours supervising the gallery by browsing for art to buy or researching pieces already in her possession. Susan Pargeter at the Larches was online, too, though Jennifer wasn’t. Probably having to tend to the crocodile tears of the old bat.

  She tapped out a direct message to Susan. “Sorry about the drama today. I hope Jean wasn’t too upset.”

  She had to wait a minute or two for the reply.

  Cookie _Cutter: Hi. No. It was okay. She was already upset. You caught her at a bad time.

  Scribe: Bad time? Everyday is a bad time for Jean!