A Few Little Lies

by Sue Welfare

  Alicia wondered how many scotches Caroline Rees had had before she left home.

  ‘Have you met Guy Phelps yet?’ Alicia asked, trying hard to steer the conversation back to safer ground.

  Caroline Rees rounded on her. ‘We’re going to lose the seat you know, Alicia.’

  Alicia Markham reddened and squared her shoulders. ‘Guy Phelps –’

  Caroline sighed. ‘Is a complete and utter dickhead. Everyone knows you’ve selected Phelps because he’s a yes man. Do you think you’re going to be able to persuade people that he’s Jack reincarnated just because he’s a local boy? Come on, Alicia, get a grip. People loved Jack Rees because he was a complete rogue. Bastard.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘He must have been the most unsuitable Conservative MP in living history.’ A sad, single hot tear ran down her elegant face. She sniffed, pulling herself upright. ‘Can I have another scotch?’

  Alicia swallowed hard. ‘I rather think you’ve had enough, Caroline. Everyone will be here soon.’

  Caroline lifted an eyebrow. ‘They’ll find out about Jack, you know, splash his little indiscretions all over the front page. Probably do something on BBC2, fallen heroes.’ She sniffed again and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. ‘Nothing people like better than shooting a folk hero down, once they’re dead, of course. The dead are fair game –’

  There was a knock at the door. Alicia was relieved and hurried across to answer it. The steward nodded. ‘Mr Edwin Halliday is here, Mrs Markham.’

  Alicia sighed. ‘Thank God for that,’ she muttered in an undertone. She nodded to Caroline. ‘If you’ll excuse me, my dear.’ She indicated the grieving widow to the steward. ‘Get Mrs Rees a cup of coffee will you,’ she said quietly. ‘Make it black.’

  Alicia glided back out into the main room, painting on her party smile. Caroline Rees disturbed her deeply. In some ways, although Alicia was loath to admit it, she had preferred Jack. At the very least he didn’t pretend – what you saw was what you got. Caroline Rees, by stunning unsettling contrast, was a delightful woman when she was on show, the perfect politician’s wife, but in private … Alicia shivered as she approached Edwin Halliday. She almost felt sorry for Jack.

  ‘My dear Mrs Markham, how very nice to see you again,’ Edwin Halliday said, engulfing her tiny hand in both of his. ‘It’s a terrible shame that we have to renew our acquaintance under such tragic circumstances.’

  Guy Phelps was already on his feet, as was to be expected, nosing his way into the edge of the group. Alicia stared at him for a few seconds. Caroline Rees was right about Guy, of course, that’s why Alicia had been at such great pains to ensure his selection. Finally, a man at Westminster she would be able to control. But the memory of the decision she had engineered was dissipated the instant Edwin Halliday turned his smile on her.

  ‘Man that is born of woman has but a short time to live …’

  Dora Hall glanced up at the vicar by the graveside in Fairbeach’s cemetery and suppressed a Sheila-style sniff of disapproval. His voice rose dramatically.

  There was a large crowd huddled around the graveside for Jack Rees’ funeral, including a bevy of local party supporters – and their chairwoman, Alicia Markham, surrounded by her initiates. Dora peered at them. Presumably one of the men in overcoats was the new Conservative candidate. The king is dead, long live the king.

  Dora recognised the Labour candidate, the Lib Dem man – her concentration slipped a notch and moved on until she spotted Calvin Roberts standing in the shelter of a yew tree. She lifted a hand in greeting. He frowned miserably in her direction.

  The press had been penned up in a special area. Dora glimpsed the face of Josephine Hammond from the Fairbeach Gazette amongst the huddle, but presumably, today, Dora was no more than a minnow amongst a shoal of far bigger fish. If the girl noticed her, she gave no indication.

  Jack’s widow and his two step-daughters stood by the graveside, very stiff and upright. The newly bereaved Mrs Jack Rees was wearing a very chic little black suit and a pillbox hat with a veil. At regular intervals she dabbed one eye with a stunningly white handkerchief and looked tastefully grief-stricken.

  Dora tried very hard to be sad and not cynical.

  ‘Ashes to ashes …’

  Dora glanced around the faces of the other mourners. She knew most of them. Amongst the dignitaries – the mayor and his wife, the chairman of the local chamber of trade, councillors and businessmen – were an awful lot of ordinary Fairbeach people. The groups were interspersed with other unknown faces, presumably from London. Strangers, who, for a little while, were united in their love and respect for Jack Rees.

  Across the grave, a single, beautifully stage-managed tear trickled down the face of Jack Rees’ widow as she sprinkled a handful of soil on the coffin. There was a lightning strike of flashbulbs.

  Disgusted, Dora turned away and huffed out a long breath. Calvin eased his way through the crowd towards her. He looked decidedly unhappy.

  ‘Good turnout,’ said Dora conversationally. Calvin made a small tight noise in his throat.

  Dora stared up at him. ‘What’s the matter? Are you all right? Did you get my message on your machine?’

  ‘I did. I’m sorry to hear about the burglary.’ He sniffed and then a cacophony of angry words tumbled out. ‘You’re not going to believe this – someone broke into my office as well. I can’t bloody well believe it. Makes you wonder what the damned police are up to. Kids running riot all over the place – bloody disgusting.’ His heavy features reddened dramatically as he drew in a sharp breath.

  Dora stared at him in astonishment. ‘You were burgled?’

  Calvin wrinkled up his nose. Dora wasn’t sure whether he was hurt, angry or shaken. She felt very much the same.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Last night. Little bastards. Went through every office in the bloody building. Nicked the petty cash and smashed everything else to smithereens. You would not believe the mess.’ He smiled grimly. ‘Or maybe you would. Police came round first thing this morning. Said there wasn’t much hope of catching the little sods.’ He peered at her. ‘How are you, anyway?’

  Dora shrugged. ‘I really don’t know. Sheila’s been round to give me a hand to clear up. I’m not sure which is worse really, her or the vandals. The police told me there wasn’t much chance they’d catch the culprits either.’

  ‘Bloody typical, they haven’t got to deal with the mess – files everywhere, drawers emptied – the insurance will cover the damage, but that isn’t the point, is it?’ He took a vicious puff on his cigar and lifted his hands in resignation. ‘What can you do?’

  Dora fixed him with a long cool stare. ‘You really want my advice, Calvin? I’d seriously reconsider muzzling Lillian Bliss.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t think she had anything to do with this, do you?’

  ‘Seems a bit of a coincidence to me. One night my address is broadcast to the nation and the next day I’m burgled. Your address is all over my office and the same night someone does your place as well. Bit fishy –’

  ‘The whole of the building was done,’ Calvin protested. ‘Lillian had nothing to do with it. What did the police say to you?’

  ‘It was magpies, apparently. By the way, where is Lillian this morning, Bunny?’

  Calvin frowned. ‘Stop it, Dora. We have a purely professional relationship.’

  ‘She makes you pay for it, does she?’

  Calvin glared at her. ‘Lillian’s in Cambridge doing a book signing. I thought I’d already told you about that. Then later today we’re holding a short press conference, more of a photo call really. You ought to be more grateful. She’s generated an awful lot of interest, pre-publication sales for the new book are really creeping up.’

  Dora lifted her eyebrows. ‘Well, that makes it all right then, doesn’t it? If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get back to the clearing up.’

  ‘Still on for lunch tomorrow?’

  Dora snorted. ‘Too right, I ha
ven’t got a single unbroken plate left in the house.’

  ‘Need a lift home?’ He tugged at his sleeves and then pulled a cheroot from his inside pocket. ‘I’m going back through town, wouldn’t take me too far out of my way –’

  Dora shook her head. ‘No thanks.’

  The mourners were beginning to disperse. Dora headed away from the main group towards the side gate which would take her onto a short cut.

  ‘Dora?’

  Instinctively, she turned round at the sound of her name.

  Hurrying across the grass was a man in a long black coat. She stopped and tried to focus on his face.

  ‘My God,’ she hissed under her breath, as a name formed in her mind. As soon as the thought hardened her stomach performed a dramatic back flip.

  Chief Inspector Jonathan Melrose. Jon Melrose – the man she had left her husband for. Not that Jon knew, not that she would ever tell him. She had never so much as kissed him, but it had been the awful, ice-cold certainty that she could and would, if the offer ever came up, that had made her look at her marriage with different eyes.

  Jon Melrose had unknowingly changed her life forever, and now he was standing with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his good funeral coat not more than an arm’s length away.

  He grinned at her. ‘Hi, I thought it was you. Long time no see.’

  Dora smiled. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Not bad. Look, I’m on duty at the moment, all these bigwigs need a bit of sheep-dogging by the local plod. I just wanted to say, I saw the report on your burglary first thing this morning. I was going to give you a ring.’ He stopped and smiled. ‘Saved me a phone call meeting you here. I wonder if you’d mind me dropping by later?’

  Dora opened her mouth; too many times recently no words had come out. To her relief there was an answer all ready and waiting.

  ‘Sure. Why not?’ she said lightly. ‘Do you know where I live?’

  ‘It’s on the incident report. Don’t worry, I’ll find it.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘I’ve got to be getting back. Can’t keep the VIPs waiting. Once they’ve stopped shaking hands they start to get twitchy and wandering off on their own. I’ll see you later.’

  Dora watched him jog back towards a group of distinguished-looking men, wondering why it felt as if she had become a passenger in her own life.

  The intercom bell rang briefly. It was later that same day and Dora was sitting in her office looking at the computer screen. Outside, the street light’s glow announced the coming evening, though Dora had no sense of the time. Catiana Moran’s latest, unfinished novel scrolled up slowly, line by line. She could see the words but her mind didn’t seem to be able to decipher them.

  The furniture had all been replaced and tidied, books rearranged, cupboards repacked, papers sorted, but the sense of calm and stillness was absent, as if the atmosphere had been ransacked along with the rest of the flat. She’d left the phone unconnected. The last thing she needed was more frantic voices to stir the slowly settling dust. She glanced at the receiver with its cord all neatly bound around, tying the words in. She really ought to ring Kate.

  Her mind was butterflying. Lillian Bliss looked very much how she had fantasised her alter ego might look. Taller, bigger hair – far bigger mouth. She winced and stroked the scrolling words thoughtfully with her finger. The screen was cold.

  Beside her keyboard was the novel Catiana had autographed.

  The doorbell rang again. It sounded very distant. Dora shook herself as if she was trying to slough off fatigue. The bell rang more insistently. She leant across and pressed the button.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello, Dora, it’s me.’

  Dora blinked. Four simple words in a voice from the past that made her gut contract.

  ‘Jon?’

  ‘Would you mind if I come up?’

  ‘Two minutes, I’m just changing,’ Dora lied and clambered to her feet.

  She flitted around the room in desperation, turning off the computer, tidying away Catiana’s unexpurgated thoughts. Hurrying into the sitting room, she bundled the debris of the day into the cupboard near the fireplace, plumped cushions, straightened curtains and switched on a table lamp, while a nagging internal voice told her how ridiculous it was. After all, Jon Melrose had just dropped by to talk about the burglary.

  Which made her wonder, if that were the case, why the sound of his voice had left an odd tingling glow in the pit of her stomach and her pulse had shifted up a gear? Glancing into the mirror above the fireplace, humorous grey eyes peered back from behind wire-rimmed glasses. She pulled them off, folded them on the mantel shelf, licked her finger and scrubbed at the spot of magnolia emulsion on the end of her nose – noting ruefully as she did that there was paint all over her hair as well.

  Reflected in the mirror’s dusty eye, the sitting room looked soft and homely. Taking a final swipe at the cat’s hairs on the arms of the sofa, Dora hurried back into the office, letting a finger hover above the entry button. The kitchen –

  Turning quickly, she threw open the door, scrambled lunch-time’s fish and chip wrappers into a ball and slam-dunked them into the bin. It was really too late to do anything about the rest of the room.

  One deep breath, two deep breaths, after all she wasn’t a child. Struggling to regain her composure, she stepped back into the office and pressed the button.

  ‘Come up. It’s open.’

  She heard the street door close and then the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Dora licked her lips, counting the footfalls and for a second all she could think of was how gorgeous Jon Melrose had looked in black.

  4

  Lawrence Rawlings, cradling the remains of a large brandy, settled himself back in an armchair by the fire to watch his fellow guests. The function room at Fairbeach’s Conservative Club was packed. Alicia Markham had buttonholed Edwin Halliday. The look on the cabinet minister’s face was a delight. Lawrence smiled – damned woman, rattling on about the effects of agricultural policy on Fairbeach farmers, while Halliday, the worse for several glasses of wine and a rather good port, was blinking, affecting rapt interest.

  Little brackets of animated conversation had formed around the function room.

  Jack Rees’ memorial supper for the Fairbeach Conservative inner circle had proved surprisingly successful, though Lawrence suspected Alicia had planned it to ensure Edwin Halliday MP felt obligated to stay overnight. Lawrence had seen the look in her eyes – agricultural policy was not the only thing on her mind.

  His concentration moved on. To his surprise Guy Phelps was no more than a yard away, on his blind side, staring at him. Lawrence, a little nonplussed at being trumped at his own game, lifted his glass.

  ‘Went off rather well, wouldn’t you say?’ remarked Guy. ‘Alicia says we have to call a council of war now Jack’s safely buried.’

  Lawrence Rawlings said nothing.

  Guy glanced back into the room. ‘Marvellous to see everyone together like this. I’m sure good old Jack would really have approved.’

  Lawrence snorted and indicated the chair on the other side of the hearth. ‘Take my advice, Guy, save the sentimentality for the hustings. Jack Rees would have stuck his nose round the door, found a damned good excuse why he had to leave early, and then gone off to shag one of the waitresses.’

  Guy coloured slightly.

  Lawrence rolled the dregs of brandy round in his glass. He couldn’t help wondering why Guy wasn’t snuggled up alongside Alicia and Edwin. He wasn’t sure he had the patience for the long trawl through the social niceties to find out. Guy was about to speak when Lawrence got to his feet.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me, my daughter and son-in-law are having a drink downstairs in the club bar. I promised them I’d go down and meet them after the dinner.’

  Guy swallowed down his prepared sentence. ‘You’re leaving, Lawrence?’ he said in astonishment. ‘But, I thought –’

  ‘Not leaving, think of it as a short sabbatical.’
r />   ‘I’ve been thinking –’ Guy began again.

  Lawrence beaded him with ice-blue eyes. ‘I wouldn’t make a habit of it, Guy. Leave it to those of us who have the knack. Alicia, I’m sure, will handle all your serious thinking for you.’ He stood the brandy balloon down on a side table. ‘I’m surprised they haven’t ordered up a circle of simpering acolytes for you yet.’

  Phelps looked uneasy. ‘My wife is over there with Mrs Hewitt and the other ladies. Jack Rees was a loner, I prefer to model myself –’

  Lawrence leant forward and patted Phelps gently on the shoulder.

  ‘Jack Rees was a man in a million, Guy. If he hadn’t been, he’d have been Prime Minister years ago. Take my advice, take all the sycophants and hangers-on Alicia can dig up for you. And make sure they find you a good political agent. Politics is a lonely business, you can do with all the support you can buy. Now, if you’ll excuse me I really have to go downstairs and talk to Sarah and Calvin. Why don’t you have another brandy?’

  Lawrence was pleased to be outside on the landing; the air was cool and surprisingly clear. Our Lady Margaret, rendered in oils by a member of the local art club, stared down at him from the oak-panelled wall. In certain lights she appeared to have very long canine teeth peeking provocatively from under her top lip. Tonight she wore a Mona Lisa smile.

  Lawrence slipped a hand casually into the pocket of his dinner jacket. He had no great desire to see either his daughter, Sarah, or Calvin Roberts, but he had even less inclination to spend any time with Guy Phelps. He walked slowly down the stairs. He had seen the selection lists from party headquarters. There were at least four stronger candidates than Mr Phelps.

  He could still hear Alicia Markham’s insistent voice at the selection meeting. She’d railroaded the rest of the committee.

  ‘What we need is another local man, someone who understands the Fens,’ she’d snapped waspishly as the other names were offered up.