In His Wildest Dreams

by Marie Treanor

  “Apparently,” Izzy said wryly. She shrugged and felt the back of her neck prickle. Her spine tingled. Without turning, she knew Glenn Brody had entered the room. Internal warning system…

  She wanted to stop talking, especially since her tongue now showed a distressing tendency to cling to the roof of her mouth. But Chrissy was waiting for an answer, and if Brody was her true employer, he deserved to hear it. Forcing herself, she said, “I didn’t come to Ardknocken for the work. I came because it’s a good place to bring up a kid. And because I can work from anywhere. When there is any work.”

  As she finished, he came right up to the desk, apparently dividing his attention between Izzy and Chrissy.

  Chrissy’s gaze flickered up to him, then back to Izzy as she sipped her coffee.

  “Well,” Chrissy said, setting her mug down on the desk. “For what it’s worth, you’d probably fit in here pretty well. None of us is doing what we originally set out to do and we’re all learning, so if you want the job, it’s yours—eh, Glenn?”

  Brody’s lips twisted into a wry smile Izzy was at a loss to account for. “Sure,” he said, leaning one hip against the side of the desk. He wore the baggy jumper again, but it didn’t make him look cuddly. You still wouldn’t want to run into him in a dark alley. Or a well-lit one, come to that.

  Or would you? Izzy’s wicked side whispered. She cleared her throat. “What are the wages?”

  “Minimum,” Chrissy said apologetically.

  Izzy caught her lips between her teeth and released it. “Cash in hand?”

  He was looking at her again. She could feel his gaze burning her face, although she kept her own eyes determinedly on Chrissy’s.

  Chrissy glanced up at Brody. Izzy felt rather than saw his infinitesimal nod, and then Chrissy said, “Okay.”

  What the hell am I doing? Izzy counted silently, to ten, calming the surge of panic, and then drew one more deep breath. “When do I start?”

  If she was going to work here, she was damned if she’d be afraid of him. Deliberately, she turned her head, tipped up her chin and looked him in the eye. And it was surprisingly easy. She couldn’t quite read the expression there, although there was something almost resigned about it. And yet when he breathed out, it sounded as if he’d been holding his breath.

  It was he who broke her gaze to turn to Chrissy. “Now might be good. I phoned the TV people, and they’re coming at the end of the week.”

  Izzy, who’d just gone back to admiring the view from the window, jerked her head back round. “What TV people?” she demanded.

  Chrissy’s eyebrows flew up in clear surprise at this reaction. Izzy bit her lip, forced herself to relax.

  “They’re doing one of those haunted house programmes,” Chrissy said. “Fiona Marr’s fronting it to give some gravitas, and Glenn’s screwed an enormous fee out of them for the privilege of searching out the ghost of Ardknocken House.”

  Well, that solved the mystery of Fiona’s presence in Ardknocken. Unfortunately, she’d be back.

  Chrissy said, “Why, would that be a problem?”

  “No, no,” Izzy said hastily. “I just hate cameras, but as long as they’re not pointing them at the living, I suppose I don’t need to worry.” After all, she was unlikely even to run into Fiona, and if she did, Fiona would neither remember nor recognize Izzy. She was too out of context here.

  “It’s a condition and a deal breaker,” Brody said unexpectedly. “No interviews or even filming anyone without individual prior written consent. One or two people here wouldn’t be very happy about their whereabouts being broadcast to the nation. Anyway it’s boll—rubbish. No ghosts here.”

  Izzy found herself smiling, not so much with relief, but because he’d pulled himself up for bad language. From such a man, it was unexpected and oddly warming, but he immediately straightened up and walked out of the room.

  “Don’t let him bother you,” Chrissy said, no doubt catching Izzy’s surprise. She lifted her cup to her lips once more and took a couple of sips. “He does that.”

  Although Izzy wasn’t quite sure what she meant, she veered away from following that particular curiosity. Instead, she asked, “How did you get involved in all this? Are you also…?” She broke off. “Um, none of my business. Sorry, mouth ahead of brain again.”

  But Chrissy only laughed. “Am I also an ex-guest of Her Majesty? No, I’m not, although I have spent much of my adult life in and out of prisons, and it is where I met Glenn. It used to be my job to prepare prisoners for their return to society. It was, frankly, depressing how little use I could be. Then, one day when I was at Barlinnie, Glenn came up to me with this idea. I encouraged him, although I must admit I was looking for the scam angle. Never expected to hear of him again, once he was out—unless it was to be told he was back inside—but well, here I am, and trust me, it beats the parole service.”

  Izzy regarded the dregs still left at the bottom of her cup. “Did you know all these men, then? From your previous job?”

  “Most of them. Glenn knew all of them, either from prison, or from before. It’s how we’re sure of them. Our only hard-and-fast exclusions are for sex crimes or crimes against kids. I try to be tolerant, and Glenn has to be, considering, but we’re both pretty sound readers of character. So far, it works.”

  It was a partnership, Izzy thought, quickly finishing her coffee. Although how far or how deep it went was none of her concern. She was here to clean, to make enough money to feed Jack and her, and pay Louise rent, and, hopefully, still have enough to buy Jack a few Christmas presents. She had no need, and less desire, to involve herself with these people. Surprising and oddly interesting as they were.

  She stood up. “Thanks for the coffee. I can work until two thirty if you like.”

  “Knock yourself out,” Chrissy invited.

  Chapter Four

  “Is that you, Izzy?” Louise’s voice followed her up the outside steps to the self-contained flat at the top of the B&B before she’d even put her key in the door.

  “Yes, Jack and me,” she said. “Who were you expecting?”

  “Well, I hadn’t seen you since you went off up there. I was worried!”

  “Twit,” Izzy said affectionately. “Coffee?”

  “Sure.” Louise climbed the stairs and followed her and Jack inside, barely containing herself until she burst out, “So how did it go?”

  “Fine. They offered me it, and I took it. Got a few hours in today too.”

  Louise’s mouth turned down, her eyebrows shot up. Clearly, she was appalled. “How was it?” she asked faintly. “Is it—safe?”

  “Of course, it’s safe! Everyone’s very—um—polite,” she said hastily. “In an informal sort of a way. Oh, and I’ve solved the Fiona Marr mystery.”

  Despite distracting Louise with this story, she was quite relieved when the phone rang, just as Jack turned up the volume on the television. Izzy bolted into the tiny kitchen. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Izzy, it’s Harry MacConnell.”

  “Harry,” she said in surprise. “Hello. Everything okay?”

  “Yes, of course. Just remembering I offered you tea one night. How about tomorrow? You and Jack could come straight from school, if you like.”

  For a moment, Izzy was speechless. She’d imagined Harry was simply making conversation. Now she began to wonder if he wasn’t actually interested in her. Wow. A couple of men had asked her out when she’d first moved here, but she’d turned them down, citing Jack as an excuse to preserve dignity all round. No one had ever used Jack as a positive strategy before. And she didn’t know what to do.

  Louise’s figure loomed in the kitchen doorway, eyes alight with curiosity. But even without Louise, word would get around. The village would have her married to Harry before the end of the week.

  But who cared? Why read so much into a friendly gesture? If it’d bee
n Morag or Louise, she wouldn’t have thought twice.

  “Thanks,” she said, just before the silence became awkward. “We’d love to, wouldn’t we, Jack?”

  Jack didn’t even hear, but Louise seemed to be pleased enough for both of them.

  At her new job the following morning, after she’d cleared up the post-breakfast mess in the big dining room, Izzy crossed the hall with the vacuum cleaner and discovered a stranger standing at the open front door.

  He was young-ish, tall, dark and well-dressed in a business suit and tie beneath a smart grey wool overcoat.

  “Hello,” he called at sight of her.

  “Hello,” Izzy said, going forward to meet him. “Can I help you?”

  “I hope so! I’m looking for Mr. Glenn Brody.”

  “I’m not exactly sure where he is,” Izzy confessed. “Come in and speak to Chrissy, who seems to keep track of everyone.”

  However, the stranger had barely stepped over the door before Glenn himself almost exploded past him into the hall and spun around to face him.

  “I’m Brody. Who are you?” He stood between the stranger and Izzy. In fact, he seemed to stand between the stranger and the rest of the house. Like some overprotective dog.

  The stranger blinked in some alarm. Izzy knew how he felt. The air was suddenly redolent with tension, with incipient violence. Izzy, her stomach twisting with unease, stepped to the side, peering anxiously from one man to the other. She couldn’t tell if the stranger was some innocent annoyance like a double-glazing salesman, or, more scary, some threat from Brody’s past. Or present.

  The stranger smiled just a little uncertainly. “Alan Fenton.” He didn’t offer his hand—as if he knew it wouldn’t be accepted or perhaps was afraid it would be. Instead, he reached inside his coat.

  “Don’t,” Brody said.

  Never in her life had Izzy heard such danger in one word. His voice wasn’t even particularly harsh. Perhaps the threat came simply from the violence of his cold eyes, or the loose way his arms hung by his sides, as if poised for action.

  Izzy’s mouth went dry. What did she do now? Stay here and try to persuade two large men not to knock lumps out of each other? Call Chrissy? Run for the hills? Right now, the last option seemed best.

  The stranger, Alan Fenton, stood frozen with his hand half-inside his coat. “Ah, I was only going for my business cards.”

  “You can talk, can’t you?”

  The stranger dropped both his arms to his sides. “Very well. I’m a lawyer, from Fenton and MacKay in Glasgow. We’re a reputable firm, specializing in criminal cases.”

  “I don’t have any outstanding criminal cases.”

  “My concern is about your last one. We’ve unearthed new evidence that casts serious doubt on your conviction. Mr. Brody, you could be in for some serious compensation.”

  Brody’s eyes never wavered. “Don’t make me laugh. And I already have a lawyer.”

  “I was asked to look into this,” Alan Fenton said with dignity, “by Miss Christine Lennox.”

  “She was mistaken. If I ever need the services of a lawyer, it won’t be you, so don’t come here again.”

  At that moment, Chrissy emerged from her office. The timing was so good, Izzy suspected she’d been lurking by the door to hear the outcome before she intervened.

  “Mr. Fenton,” she said breezily. “Thanks for coming all the way up here. Cup of tea?”

  “Mr. Fenton’s just leaving,” Brody said stonily.

  “I was telling him about your case,” Chrissy said.

  “So I hear. But we’re agreed now we have no business together, eh, Mr. Fenton?”

  Fenton raised both hands like a man on the receiving end of a stickup. Izzy thought they shook slightly. “Whatever you say. But I would have thought a man with a property of this size would welcome a few hundred thousand. To say nothing of reversing an injustice.”

  “I don’t like lawyers,” Brody said conversationally.

  “You’ll like this one,” Chrissy retorted. “He’s got evidence you didn’t do it.”

  “He can’t have. Good-bye, Mr. Fenton.”

  Fenton’s gaze flickered to Chrissy, skimmed over Izzy’s paralyzed person, and back to Brody.

  “Miss Lennox knows where to find me,” he said abruptly, and turning on his heel, he strode out of the house.

  Chrissy was breathing like a steam engine. “What is the matter with you?”

  Brody turned on her, caught sight of Izzy standing there with the vacuum cleaner at her feet, and blinked as if he’d forgotten her existence, never mind her presence. Muttering something under his breath, he strode past her to Chrissy’s office, grabbing the girl’s arm and hauling her with him. The door slammed.

  Izzy’s heart was drumming. She bit her lip, wondering what the hell to do. He was angry. She couldn’t doubt that, although he’d never once raised his voice. Nor was it much of a comfort that Chrissy hadn’t looked remotely frightened as Brody had dragged her off. Chrissy wasn’t afraid of much.

  Izzy was.

  She crept nearer to the office and listened.

  Chrissy was saying, “There’s evidence, now, Glenn. You didn’t do it. Ignoring the compensation stuff, don’t you want to clear your name?”

  “No. It won’t give me back the last ten years, will it? Just leave it alone. It’s nothing to do with you, and I won’t be talking to any lawyers.”

  “Why the fuck not?” Chrissy demanded. “If you didn’t do it…”

  “I did it, Chrissy, all right? I killed the gangster, Tommy Grant, because he was in my way. Now, leave it.”

  “You’re covering for someone,” Chrissy said mutinously. “It’s Suzy Grant, isn’t it? Tommy’s wife. I know you didn’t kill him. And I won’t leave it.”

  There was a short, ominous silence. Izzy’s hand crept to the door handle, ready to intervene—although what good she’d be to Chrissy against Glenn Brody, she’d no idea. A witness, maybe…

  Brody said carefully, “If you get all this raked up again, all you’ll achieve is me back in jail. I’m not going back, Chrissy.”

  Quick footsteps sounded on the office floor, stomping toward the door. Izzy fled.

  It was a curious little scene, and Izzy found herself replaying it many times in her head as she worked. For some reason, she rather liked the idea of Brody being innocent of murder. It made her position here more comfortable. And yet he denied innocence, even with the prospect of massive compensation.

  The other thing that struck her as she mopped the hall floor, recalling exactly where everyone had stood in the confrontation with Alan Fenton, was that Brody, whether or not he’d killed Tommy Grant, had looked positively frightening. And Fenton had been scared. It had stood out in his eyes, and it had been there in his tense posture, in the faint trembling of his hands as he’d thrust them into the air to make his point. And Izzy had been terrified of the potential violence emanating from Brody in waves.

  And yet Chrissy, the person who knew him best, hadn’t been remotely frightened. Angry, yes. But there had been no fear in Chrissy’s face or in her voice as she’d faced Brody down. Was that just her character? Something she’d learned in dealing with often terrifying prisoners—show no fear? Or had she actually known that Brody wouldn’t hurt either her or Fenton?

  People weren’t all they appeared. No one knew that better than Izzy. Brody looked undeniably frightening; even in repose, it was like a default setting. And he’d turned up the volume deliberately with Fenton. And yet when she’d first spoken to him outside the tea room, he’d seemed totally different—human, flustered, even humorous.

  She recalled him arriving like a bat out of hell to confront Fenton, as if angry that a stranger had somehow got past his security, and ready to deal with the unexpected threat he seemed to perceive. He hadn’t known who Fenton was, but he’d be
en more than prepared to throw him out physically. Maybe he’d imagined he needed to protect himself, or his property, or even his people.

  A policeman had once told her that in the ganglands of Glasgow, memories were long. Brody must have enemies still; enemies, perhaps, who were even prepared to track him down here, miles away from the action of the city.

  Maybe Mrs. Campbell at the post office was right after all, and Brody and his works should be sent packing before Ardknocken turned into a gang battlefield.

  That idea was so ludicrous that Izzy actually smiled, just as the two men who’d been working on the driveway walked into the house in their muddy boots.

  “Sorry, hen,” one said apologetically and thumped his companion none too gently on the shoulder. “Take your boots off! Can’t you see the lassie’s just cleaned the floor?”

  “Aye, sorry,” the other one muttered. And they both actually took their boots off and padded across the damp floor in their socks.

  “Thanks, guys,” Izzy called after them and got a funny little over-the-shoulder wave in return.

  She wondered what they’d done to land in clink. She wondered if it mattered now.

  Just as Glenn had known it would, Chrissy’s feeding of titbits to the lawyers brought out all the other sharks. He’d just finished the outhouse roof that afternoon and was lowering himself to the ground, when his phone rang. It was Archie, who was working with Dougie to clear the driveway.

  “Got a bad case of filth at the gates,” Archie observed.

  “Which side of the gates?” Glenn was already striding round the house toward the driveway.

  “Outside. Just watching. Thought you’d like to know.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  There could be no missing the car. They’d parked it right outside the gate, and two plainclothes cops sat in the front seats. Glenn didn’t need to ask how Archie had recognized them for what they were.

  Glenn nodded curtly to his friends as he walked right past them. “Play nice, Glenn,” Dougie murmured.

  It had been ten years since he’d seen Detective Inspector MacDonald, but he still recognized him immediately. He’d been right. Chrissy’s lawyer had started a feeding frenzy that he really needed to fend off.