by Ann Granger
I didn’t need reminding that I was pretty uncomfortable now, and wriggling about wouldn’t help. I leaned back and tried to ignore my waterlogged state and how stupid I must look to anyone driving past. Perhaps they’d think I was drunk or drugged. Perhaps they’d call the cops on that account. I wished I had a headset so I could at least listen to some music. I began thinking about Norman’s spare room and whether I could really live there. It wasn’t Zog on the landing or Sid in the attic who put me off. I’ve shared living space with all kinds of people and most of them just want to be left alone. What worried me was all that combustible newsprint downstairs and Norman adding to it daily like some sort of demented squirrel.
Someone was coming, walking down the pavement towards me from the further end of the tree-lined avenue. The figure slipped in and out of view disconcertingly as alternately it stepped into the shadow of a tree then out into a dull pool of streetlight. As it got nearer, I saw it was a female figure, not tall, and bulked out with padded jacket and heavy bag slung over one shoulder. On the other side, she carried some kind of long, thin dark case. As she came nearer I saw it was a violin case and I thought of Holmes again. The girl was almost on me. She emerged from the darkness beneath a tree into the reach of the nearest lamp, and I saw her face lit with a pale fluorescent glow.
I couldn’t stop myself. I just said, out loud, ‘Nicola.’
I had no doubt it was the girl in the school photograph. She’d pulled up the hood on her quilted jacket but her long fair hair, lank with drizzle, spilled out. Beneath the jacket she wore a dark-coloured skirt, dark-coloured tights and sensible laced shoes. I guessed they formed part of some private school uniform. They don’t change much. I’d worn much the same during my time in private education. I hoped Nicola was making more of her chances than I had.
She’d heard me and had stopped. Her eyes fixed me in a puzzled but not cautious stare. She had the self-confidence which goes with being bright, pretty, loved and well-off. A little princess.
‘Do I know you?’ Her voice was equally confident, slightly accusing.
‘No,’ I said.
‘You called my name.’
‘No,’ I repeated like a dummy.
‘I heard you. You said “Nicola”.’ Now the accusation was open in her voice.
‘No I didn’t,’ I denied. ‘I coughed.’
She didn’t buy it. She still stood there, glaring now at being contradicted when she was sure she was right.
‘I’ve got a bad chest,’ I said plaintively. ‘I got it sleeping rough. Got any spare change?’
That settled it.
‘No, I haven’t!’ she snapped. ‘And if I did, I wouldn’t give it to you!’
She strode away. I watched her cross the street to the Wildes’ house and let herself in with her own key. I judged it politic to remove myself from my seat for a few minutes. She’d very likely tell someone at home about me. I got up and retreated behind one of the trees. Not a moment too soon. Nicola must have burst in with a tale of being waylaid by a beggar. The blind at the front window was pushed aside and a face stared out, Flora’s, fixed and angry. Seeing the empty seat, she looked back over her shoulder at someone in the room. Nicola appeared, also peering into the night in the direction of the seat. She shrugged. They both left the window and the blind dropped back into place.
I waited a few minutes and then re-emerged, even wetter if that was possible. I was glad Jerry hadn’t come to the window. It indicated he wasn’t already home. I was aware that I didn’t even know if he commuted to and from work daily in a regular pattern. I could be wasting my time. He could work from home. He might all this time have been sitting in that cosy farmhouse kitchen, warm as toast, while I mouldered out here like Patience on a monument. But now I was encouraged to stick it out. He had to come, sooner or later. Mind you, I might get double pneumonia first.
In the meantime, I had plenty to occupy my mind. If it wasn’t for Janice Morgan and her investigations into Mrs Marks, my quest would now be over as far as Nicola was concerned. I could honestly go back to my mother and say I’d seen and spoken to her. Even Mum couldn’t insist on more. But Morgan and her thoroughness had put paid to that. Seeing my sister, speaking to her, had also put paid to any peace of mind I’d had left. I felt odd, a bit shaky. I told myself it was the cold but I knew it wasn’t, it was emotion. She was real. She was flesh and blood, my flesh and blood. Had my mother ever considered what this moment would be like for me? But then, neither had I. I’d worried what it would do to Nicola, but never what it would do to me.
I continued to sit there for the best part of an hour. Every time a car turned into the street I got ready, hoping it would be Jerry Wilde, but it never was. My joints were setting stiff. I got up and walked up and down a bit. Cold was eating into my bones. I was hungry and thirsty and, perversely, wanted to spend a penny.
I was considering nipping behind the tree again for this purpose when headlights played across the road junction. Another vehicle turned into the street. It was travelling slowly, drawing up outside the Wildes’ place. The driver climbed out. I was already moving forward, all discomfort forgotten. The street lighting played havoc with colours but the shape of that four-by-four and the glimpse of its driver were enough for me. I lurched across the road in my loose boot, calling, ‘Hey! Ben! Ben Cornish! Wait!’
Chapter Thirteen
My reaction was the antithesis of good detective work. I should have noted the caller’s identity and stayed where I was until Jerry turned up, as per my original plan. That I didn’t do this was partly because I was surprised to see Ben and shouted out his name on an impulse, much as I’d called out Nicola’s. But I fancy that subconsciously I knew I couldn’t physically wait out there in the dark and wet for much longer. Moss would be growing on me soon. I had to make contact with Jerry some other way, and providence was offering me one. Besides which, I’m an amateur.
‘Fran?’ Ben was saying, staring at me in astonishment, as well he might. He had watched the approach of the dark booted shape hobbling towards him with a mix of fascination and horror. Now he could see who it was, things weren’t improved. Drowned rats didn’t come into it.
‘Ben,’ I begged through chattering teeth, ‘we’ve got to talk. Please – don’t ring the bell. I must talk to you first, before you see the Wildes.’
He hesitated for only a split second. ‘Get in the car,’ he said. ‘There’s a pub just up the road.’
I climbed into the four-by-four, and only as Ben pulled us away from the kerb did it occur to my frozen brain to wonder what on earth he was doing there.
It was early in the evening for drinkers and he was able to park in the tiny car park to the side of the pub. As we made our way inside, he asked: ‘Why are you limping? Have you hurt your leg?’
‘No, just busted a bootlace,’ I told him.
‘Oh.’ He held the door open for me, a gent. Inside it was blessedly warm and dry. Also welcome was the sign that read Toilets.
‘Just a tick,’ I said. ‘Back in a minute.’
‘What do you want to drink?’ he called after me as I lurched away.
I called back that I’d like a coffee. Anything hot. It was the sort of pub which did coffee and food. I took a better look at it as I returned from my comfort stop. This was an upmarket watering hole for well-heeled local residents and tourists who’d come out here to visit the Gardens. It was spotlessly clean and all the tables shone. Each had a small brass disc with a number set into it, and above the bar was a VDU which showed what you’d ordered. All around the walls, a touch of culture, shelves of books. A quick squint at these suggested they’d been bought up as a job lot by the yard. There were titles covering every subject, from old romances of the Mazo de la Roche variety to out-of-date textbooks on physics and medicine. I wondered if anyone ever took one down and read it.
At this early hour of the evening, in any case, there was only a sprinkling of customers. The one or two who noticed me looked disappro
ving, as did the barman stationed beneath his flickering VDU. He had his name, Josh, pinned to his shirt and looked more of a yuppie than his clientele. Hey, Josh, I felt like saying, I used to live in Rotherhithe, where the regulars know who the barman is without it being stuck on his front with a sissy brooch. Nor do barmen there need a computer to tell them what you’ve ordered. They’ve got lightning-fast brains when it comes to totting up the score. They have proper names like Ron and Frank and they go in for weight training. They need to.
Josh’s opinion of me clearly reflected mine of him. I was lowering the tone of the establishment. He might have asked me to leave had I not joined Ben, who was waiting for me, a bottle of lager in front of him. A cup of coffee at my place sent enticing steam curls into the air.
‘Thanks,’ I said, grabbing it. The doors opened to admit another couple. The girl wore a long fake-fur coat and her escort a City overcoat. They looked as if they’d just returned from a shopping trip to Harrods. Perhaps they had. The barman was all over them. They all glanced at me. Josh whispered. I was sure he was apologising.
‘You look a bit wet. How long had you been out there?’ Ben was asking. He was looking amused. I think he guessed at the silent duel going on between me and Josh.
I confessed it had been quite a while. I’d done my best while in the Ladies’ to dry myself off in front of the hot-air blower and tidy up, but the improvement was marginal.
He didn’t comment. He waited until I’d drunk my coffee and showed signs of returning to room temperature. Then he asked, ‘Would you like to eat?’
I told him it was OK, but he didn’t believe me.
‘I think you should eat something.’ His voice was quietly determined.
I gave in without too much argument. I was ravenous. The menu stood on the table and the list matched the establishment. I picked on the least fancily titled thing, the special hamburger and chips.
Ben went to the bar and ordered. I was rooting around in my pocket for money when he got back but he waved it away. ‘No problem. Just tell me what’s going on.’
He was asking the impossible. How was I ever going to be able to explain any of this to anyone? If I could’ve kept one step ahead of the game, I might have been able to handle things better. But I hadn’t, not once Jerry knew I was on the trail.
‘I should have realised, when I called on Mrs Mackenzie, that she’d phone the Wildes,’ I said. ‘That sort of screwed things up for me.’
‘Aunt Dot was worried. She talked it over with me and I advised her to phone Jerry Wilde.’ Ben paused. ‘I phoned him myself, too, later. I gave him the address of the hospice. I reckoned if you were on the level’ – Ben’s gaze grew speculative – ‘and the Wildes and your mother were old friends, Jerry would want to visit her. He certainly sounded pretty upset. Whether that was on account of your mother being so ill or not, I don’t know. To be honest, I did think, when you called on Aunt Dot, that you were only telling us half the story.’
‘I told you and your aunt the truth and as much as you needed to know,’ I said. ‘My mother’s in the hospice. She did know the Wildes years ago. Yes, Jerry did try to visit her after you phoned, but she wasn’t up to seeing anyone that day.’
‘But there’s more to it than that,’ Ben said quietly.
‘More, but I can’t tell you.’ I frowned. ‘How well do you yourself know Jerry and Flora? I mean, when I visited your aunt, you didn’t say you knew them at all.’
‘You didn’t ask me. I knew them quite well when I was a kid, when they lived near Aunt Dot. They didn’t have Nicola then, and Flora made a bit of a fuss of me. I was about seven or eight. My parents—’
Again he hesitated at the mention of his parents. ‘They were away a lot. I spent a lot of time with Aunt Dot and her husband, Uncle William. He’s been dead a while. But I still keep an eye on Aunt Dot. She kept an eye on me all those years, after all. You should have seen her house then. It was full of those little dogs she used to breed. Every time the doorbell rang, they went berserk. Uncle William had his koi carp and other fancy fish for a hobby. He was a nice chap, an old-fashioned, home-loving nine-to-fiver.’ Ben smiled. ‘He thought a day trip to Boulogne was foreign travel enough for any man. He worked in an architect’s office.’
That rang a bell. ‘Is Jerry Wilde an architect, by any chance?’ I asked. I was thinking how knowledgeable he’d been about Royal Holloway College. Moreover, if he was, it would have been a link between him and the Mackenzies, suggesting why Mrs Mackenzie had kept in touch all these years.
‘That’s right. They were a really nice couple and we were all sorry when, after Nicola was born, they moved away. Aunt Dot sent them a Christmas card every year, and I wrote “and Ben” after her name. Later I got too old for that sort of thing and started sending my own cards. Flora always sent an individual one to me, right from the start. When I was still at school, she sent funny ones. Now she sends the usual scenes of festive cheer. That’s as far as it went until recently, when I started doing some research at the Botanical Gardens here at Kew, in the hothouses.’
‘Best place,’ I mumbled, thinking of my chilled wait.
He grinned. ‘Best place for my research, certainly. Have you ever been there?’ When I shook my head, he went on, ‘You ought to pay a visit while I’m there so I can show you what I’m doing. Well, I thought, as I was in the area, that I’d look the Wildes up. I’ve called round there a few times since. It’s been nice meeting up with them again, seeing how they are, how big Nicola’s grown. I remember her as just a baby. She’s a fantastic violinist, you know.’
I did know, because Wilde had been at pains to tell me, but I was spared having to discuss Nicola .by the appearance of the hamburger, which arrived with plentiful chips and salad, carried by Josh. The burger looked great. Josh looked miffed. He set it down in front of me rather as he might have put down a bowl of Winalot in front of the family dog.
‘Enjoy your meal,’ he said starchily.
‘Where’s the mayo?’ I asked. ‘I like mayo on my chips.’
He didn’t quite snarl at me. He fetched the mayonnaise in a dinky little bowl (no plastic sachets here), and dropped it down in front of me without another word. In addition to everything else, I had betrayed myself as a food philistine. However, I was embarrassed when I realised Josh wasn’t returning with a second plate.
‘You’re not eating?’ I asked Ben.
‘Later.’
‘With the Wildes?’
He nodded.
I was tempted to advise him to eat here first, remembering all that fat-free shopping. But I restrained my impulse in favour of good manners. ‘Then I’m making you late. They’ll be wondering where you are.’
‘Don’t worry about it. I was a tad early. Jerry’s not due back for a bit.’
Just as well I had called off my wait. ‘Ben,’ I said, ‘I need to talk to Jerry. The thing is, I don’t want Flora to know about it, or their daughter. Flora would flip at the mention of my name. That’s why I couldn’t go to the house and was hanging about outside waiting for Jerry. He won’t be too happy either. I know how dodgy it all sounds, but I can’t explain it to you because it involves others and I’m just not free to do it. Can you just give a message to Jerry for me? That Fran wants a word, that’s all. It’s important. I can meet him in any public place.’ I stressed the word ‘public’. I wasn’t going anywhere secluded with Jerry Wilde.
‘And how is Jerry going to take it when I give him this message?’ Ben raised a quizzical eyebrow.
‘Not well,’ I confessed. ‘But he’ll want to see me. Ben, believe me, I’m not making trouble for the Wildes. I’m trying to help them. Will you do it?’
He drew a deep breath and held it for a moment before slowly expelling it. ‘All right. I’ll pass the message on to him tonight. Have you got a phone number?’
I hadn’t got any paper. Ben hunted in his pocket and brought out a miscellany of string, plant ties, pencil stubs, those little plastic markers you sti
ck in seedbeds and, finally, some sort of bill with muddy fingerprints on it.
‘Gardener’s pockets!’ he said ruefully. ‘You name it, gardeners carry it round with them. You can write on the back of this.’ He pushed the bill towards me, together with a pencil stub.
I wrote out the shop’s phone number and explained that it was a newsagent’s but that any message would certainly reach me, as they were friends.