A Few Little Lies

by Sue Welfare

  ‘Hello, Jon? Is that you?’

  ‘Dora?’

  She was relieved and pleased to hear a genuine note of pleasure in his voice.

  ‘I’m really glad you rang. I’ve been trying to ring you. Did you get my message?’ he continued.

  ‘No.’ Dora had left the answering machine on in case Lillian might take it upon herself to answer the phone.

  ‘Oh, I rang you about an hour ago.’

  Dora sighed. ‘I haven’t been home yet. I’m in town.’

  ‘Is everything all right? You sound tense.’

  She could hear the concern in his voice and was touched. Instinctively, she glanced over her shoulder again.

  ‘I’m fine – I think. It feels as if someone has hijacked my life at the moment. No, not someone: everyone.’ She paused. ‘I don’t want to go home right now and I don’t want to be out, but don’t mind me, I’m just rambling. What was it you wanted to talk about?’

  Jon coughed. ‘Lillian Bliss. Sorry.’

  Dora groaned. ‘Did you have to say that? You might have had the decency to lie.’

  Jon laughed. ‘I did say I was sorry. Whereabouts are you now?’

  ‘Hiding out in Fairbeach bus station. I’m seriously considering running away. Want to try talking me out of it?’

  She could hear Jon smiling when he replied. ‘I could be with you in about twenty minutes, maybe half an hour if you can hang on that long. Why don’t you find the nearest coffee shop and wait for me? Maybe we could run away together?’

  A queue, forming for the bus that had just pulled up near the phone box, caught Dora’s eye.

  ‘No need. There’s a bus leaving for Keelside any minute now. If you meet me at the bus station your end I’ll buy you a doughnut.’

  Jon laughed. ‘Right. Okay, I’ll be there. See you soon.’

  Dora grinned and hung up. It had been years since she’d taken a bus ride anywhere.

  In his cool, tidy kitchen, Lawrence Rawlings glared at his daughter, Sarah, across the scrub-top table.

  ‘We’re fresh out of backsides to lick and babies to kiss,’ he snapped, as Sarah slipped the cakes she had bought from the bring and buy sale into the freezer. ‘I can’t believe you invited Guy Phelps and his family for lunch.’ Sarah’s high heels tapped anxiously across the flagstone floor.

  Through the open back door, Lawrence could hear his granddaughters playing in the garden. Calvin had dropped them off on the way back to his office. Sarah said Calvin had to nip in to check the answer machine and the fax. Lawrence had already prepared himself to drive Sarah and the girls home – no doubt something important would come up that would detain Calvin for the rest of the day. Lawrence could feel a phone call from his son-in-law coming on, which did nothing to improve his mood.

  Across the kitchen, Sarah glanced up at him. Her eyes were bright. She bit her lips and looked away. Lawrence knew he had upset her and was cross with himself for being unnecessarily sharp.

  ‘You should have told me that you didn’t like him. Daddy. I wouldn’t have invited them if I’d known. Would you like me to ring up and suggest Calvin and I take them out for lunch instead?’

  Lawrence shook his head. ‘A little too late now, isn’t it? Besides, we’d have had to have him to lunch sooner or later, I suppose.’

  He glanced at his housekeeper, who had already begun preparations for the following day’s lunch. A trussed sumo-sized cockerel was crouched in a roasting dish on the marble slab next to the stove. Its gaping sage-and-onion-stuffed backside wore an expression that he knew was much like his own – sulky and hard done by. He certainly wasn’t going to be deprived of his daughter’s company for the sake of a moron like Guy Phelps.

  ‘When you said you’d invited a few friends I thought you meant that nice girl from Ludworth and her husband, charming man, GP, wasn’t he? Or the Bibbys from Parson’s Drove – they are wonderfully good company.’

  Lawrence’s Sunday lunches were an institution. Every week, Calvin, Sarah and the girls arrived in time for church and stayed to eat, though Calvin had been absent several times just recently, blaming pressure of work.

  Old family friends had a standing invitation, ringing only to tell Lawrence if they weren’t coming. There was Vic Hill, the mayor. Bob Preston, former mayor and ex-chairman of the Chamber of Trade, who had come almost every Sunday since he’d been widowed, Joan Peters, the Plowrights, Harry Morton and his wife. Norma – usually around a dozen sat down to lunch plus the children.

  They were all members of a self-selected inner circle, all from good families, all friends who had grown up together in Fairbeach. Bob Preston had played as a fullback in the Fairbeach Rugby Club when Lawrence had played at flyhalf and been captain. Vic Hill had been a terrific spin bowler, Lawrence a fine batsman. Harry Morton and Lawrence still played the occasional round of golf. Old friends. Good friends.

  Jack Rees had been a regular visitor for years when Sarah was small, and Lawrence’s wife was still alive. Later, when he could find the time and was able to disentangle himself from the bitch he was married to, Jack would gatecrash, grinning, shamefaced at hot having rung first, clutching a bottle of something very good and very, very drinkable.

  Lawrence sniffed and stared at the pale, pimpled pink corpse in the roasting tin. He would really miss Jack Rees.

  Sarah was very quiet, tidying away the carrier bags, tucking them, neatly folded, into the drawer of the Welsh dresser.

  Lawrence forced a smile. ‘Don’t look so glum, darling. It’ll be fine, take no notice of me. You know what a grumpy old devil I can be. Here.’ He slipped his arm around her waist and kissed her forehead, then held her at arm’s length and with all the comic, pompous, overworked indignation he could muster added, ‘Just make sure you don’t ever invite the conniving little bastard again.’

  Sarah laughed.

  It was worth it to make her happy, even if it did spoil one of his precious Sundays.

  ‘Why don’t we have a pot of tea, Daddy, and a slice of this sponge?’

  ‘Wonderful.’ Lawrence adjusted his cuffs, glancing surreptitiously at his watch. He thought Calvin would have rung by now to make some excuse why he couldn’t pick up Sarah and the girls. Sarah plugged in the kettle.

  This Sunday would be doubly unpleasant; Calvin Roberts would undoubtedly be there. Lawrence much preferred it when his son-in-law didn’t turn up, however lame the excuse. He hated sharing his daughter with that greasy little social climber, though he understood Calvin’s absences upset Sarah. It meant Lawrence was constantly torn between being pleased for himself and annoyed for her. But this Sunday would be different, nothing short of an earthquake would keep Calvin Roberts away. He certainly wouldn’t want to miss the chance to suck up to Guy Phelps. They would make a good pair.

  Lawrence smiled, accepted the slice of cake his daughter offered him and settled himself in a Windsor chair beside the Aga. In the distance the phone began to ring. His housekeeper dried her hands on her apron as she strode purposefully across the kitchen towards the hall. Lawrence noticed that his daughter avoided meeting his eyes as she made the tea, while her hands betrayed the slightest tremor.

  ‘That was Mr Roberts,’ the housekeeper said, as she came back in. ‘He says something has come up and he won’t be back until later this evening. He wanted to know if it would be possible for you to run Miss Sarah home?’

  Lawrence lifted an eyebrow. ‘Is Mr Roberts still on the line?’ he asked slowly.

  His housekeeper shook her head. ‘No, he said he was very sorry but he had to dash.’

  Lawrence sniffed. Hardly any point Calvin framing his request as a question, he thought. He smiled up at Sarah, whose concentration appeared to be centred on stirring the tea leaves.

  ‘Why don’t you and the girls stay to supper?’ he suggested brightly. ‘I’m sure we can whip up something, and then I’ll run you home later. No reason why you should be in that great big house all on your own waiting for …’ He hesitated, his mind caref
ully stepping over the words he used to describe Calvin Roberts in his private thoughts. ‘… Calvin,’ he concluded.

  Sarah’s face brightened. ‘That would be lovely. I’ll go and tell the girls.’

  8

  Dora was shaken awake and for a few seconds had absolutely no idea where she was. She blinked, fishing around for the thoughts that would give her the answer. The bus from Fairbeach lumbered down another gear and juddered over a second sleeping policeman before creeping across the tarmac into a parking bay. The diesel engine shuddered to a halt. Dora, staring out of the mud-streaked windows, realised the bus was in Keelside station and for some reason she was on it, and had been asleep.

  The inside of her mouth felt like an old sock. She licked her lips and sucked experimentally at her tongue. Her neck ached and one arm had gone to sleep where she had been leaning against the window. It was not exactly the arrival Dora would have planned. She knew instinctively, even without a mirror, that her hair had scrunched up on one side into a guinea-pig quiff. Worse still, Jon Melrose was standing just outside the window peering in at her with a great big grin on his face. He looked gorgeous and immaculate.

  She sniffed and rootled in her handbag, trying to track down a mint and her composure. From the corner of her eye she could see Jon climbing aboard the bus.

  ‘Hello, madam. Before you say anything, I should warn you I’m an off-duty police officer – are you the woman who’s planning to run away?’

  Dora looked up. ‘That’s me.’

  She wasn’t sure what to do. Did they shake hands, kiss? He solved the problem for her by leaning forward and kissing her on the lips, very softly.

  ‘Hello,’ he murmured. ‘Nice to see you,’ and kissed her again.

  She grinned, Jon reddened slightly. ‘Do you mind?’ he asked.

  Dora shook her head. ‘Not at all. I owe you a doughnut.’

  He took her hand, and Dora was suddenly very glad she had telephoned him.

  ‘I wondered, as you’re on the run, whether you might like to come back to my place? We can pick up doughnuts or maybe a take-away on the way there,’ said Jon casually, as they walked hand-in-hand towards the shopping precinct that adjoined the bus station.

  Dora lifted an eyebrow. ‘Are you propositioning me?’

  Jon grinned. ‘Could be. I’d be a liar if I said the thought hadn’t crossed my mind. Want to tell me why you want to run away?’

  ‘Not another confessional? Are you sure you want to hear?’

  Jon nodded.

  ‘Well, Lillian Bliss is still in residence in my flat. I’ve just been to a bring and buy with my sister – which reminds me, I’ve got some fudge and Turkish delight here, somewhere – going anywhere with Sheila is always an experience, and to top it all I was accosted by a reporter from the Fairbeach Gazette looking for Catiana Moran. She wanted to know about Lillian Bliss. Just as I was about to sidestep the question, Calvin Roberts turned up. You get the picture? I’d understand if you didn’t, it looks pretty murky from this side.’ She paused. ‘It’s been an odd sort of day, really. Do you think I might be overreacting?’

  They were sauntering through the shopping arcade. The day was slowing down. Crowds had broken up into couples and families meandering along in the spring sunshine, window shopping.

  Jon was still holding her hand. ‘So you thought you’d ring me?’

  Dora nodded. ‘I was brought up to believe if you’ve got a problem, ask a policeman. Or was it if you wanted to know the time, ask a policeman?’ She grinned up at him. ‘I wanted to talk to you. I needed to say something sensible to someone sane.’

  Jon didn’t seem to have noticed that she looked like a sleepy guinea pig. Instead he turned and smiled at her.

  ‘I’m glad you called, whatever the reason,’ he said, with a pleasantly intense look in his eyes. His fingers tightened a fraction and Dora had a peculiar sense of being part of something complete. His hand in hers felt so wonderful that it made her heart go tight and bubbly, and she knew she ought to shut up, because this much euphoria would probably make her say something incredibly stupid. She knew a sure-fire cure for all this romanticism.

  ‘But you rang me up to talk about Lillian Bliss?’ she asked.

  Jon groaned theatrically. ‘Are you sure you need anything else to think about? We can talk about it another time, if you like. After you hear this you might consider running a bit further.’

  Dora shrugged. ‘I’m from the generation that thinks it’s better to get the bad things over first. So, tell me, what did you ring about?’

  Jon lifted his shoulders, as if offering her an apology before he said anything. ‘On a hunch I ran Lillian’s details and the fingerprints we picked up from her flat through our computer.’ He paused, and then hurried on as if he was concerned his courage might evaporate. ‘She’s got a record for soliciting that goes back to before she left school. She was in care from the time she was a little kid, comes from near Norwich, and has been working fairly recently. She does the odd modelling and promotion jobs as well but …’ His voice faded.

  Dora turned and stared at him, letting go of his hand, mouth open. ‘“Working”? That delicate little euphemism for being on the game? Are you telling me Lillian Bliss is …’ She couldn’t bring herself to find the word.

  Jon supplied it. ‘Lillian Bliss is a known prostitute. She’s done a little bit of club work here and there, hostessing –’ He stopped again. ‘Last time she was busted was last summer in Yarmouth during a Wildfowlers convention.’

  Dora couldn’t quite find any words or thoughts that fitted. She stared at him. ‘Are you telling me that Calvin hired a hooker to promote my books?’

  Jon nodded.

  ‘And that at this moment she is staying in my flat?’

  Jon nodded again.

  Dora opened her handbag and started to trawl through the contents.

  Jon stared at her. ‘What on earth are you doing?’

  Dora snorted. ‘Looking for that fudge. I’m trying to give up smoking. In moments of dire emergency I take to comfort foods and need a lot of understanding.’

  Jon pulled a cigarette packet out of his jacket pocket. ‘Want one?’

  Dora stared at his open hand and then sighed. ‘Okay, why not.’

  They found a café behind the church and Jon ordered two coffees, while Dora stared thoughtfully at the fancy continental half-mast nets in the window.

  ‘I’ve got to convince Calvin that he has to get rid of her,’ Dora said, drawing a line across the froth on the top of her cup with a spoon. ‘I’ve got no idea what sort of contract he’s got her on.’

  Jon nodded. ‘I think it’s a good idea – and really, the sooner the better.’ He stopped. ‘I also think it may explain why you, Calvin and then Lillian were burgled.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  Jon shrugged. ‘We have got no way of knowing who Lillian has links with, who she’s slept with, what she’s done. She goes on TV and someone recognises her. And let’s face it, she isn’t exactly tight-lipped.’ He stopped again. ‘That’s my policeman’s instinct, but there are other possibilities.’

  Dora stared at him. ‘Such as?’

  ‘Think about the letters you got. Feminists, Evangelists, perverts? Could be any one of them, someone who is interested in what Catiana Moran is up to, never mind what Lillian’s done in real life.’

  Dora could feel her colour draining. ‘And there was me thinking I was just paranoid. Would you mind if I had another one of those cigarettes?’ she said in a small voice.

  Jon shook one out of the packet and handed her the lighter. Dora took a deep pull on the cigarette.

  ‘This afternoon, when I was leaving the flat, I’m certain someone was watching me.’

  Jon nodded without comment.

  Dora rolled the ash off the end of the cigarette. ‘I want my life back, Jon.’

  ‘It might be a good idea, once Lillian has left, to take a holiday. Have a few days away.’

  Dora grin
ned. ‘Is that an invitation?’

  Jon stirred his coffee. ‘I’m serious. People like that reporter from the Gazette might lose interest if there’s no-one around to answer her questions. She’ll get bored.’

  Dora looked at him sceptically. ‘I don’t think so. Josephine Hammond’s got her sights set on something better than the Fairbeach Gazette. She smells a big story, and I think she’ll hang on until she gets what she wants.’

  Outside the light was beginning to fade. Jon drained his coffee cup. ‘Would you like to come back and eat?’

  Dora smiled. ‘You cook?’

  ‘After a fashion.’ He ran a fìnger across the back of her hand. ‘I’m afraid my place isn’t very spectacular.’

  ‘You’ve seen my flat.’

  Jon pulled a face. ‘That is true. You’ll feel right at home.’ He waved the waitress over to settle the bill. ‘It isn’t far. We can walk from here.’

  Dora stubbed out her cigarette. A little flutter of panic glowed low down in her stomach. It was mixed with a flickering sense of desire. She wasn’t sure which would win and realised that she didn’t much care.

  Jon indicated the door. ‘Would you mind if we just nipped to Sainsbury’s? I need to get a French stick and some salad.’

  Dora stood to one side and waved him through. ‘I’m very impressed. After you. Far be it from me to stand between a man and his shopping.’

  Jon’s house was tucked away in a little back street, ten minutes’ walk from the town centre, and from the outside looked old, dusty and not particularly inviting. Dora had bought wine; Jon, bread, cheese and grapes and the makings of a decent salad. Dora realised as Jon fumbled with the lock that getting wine implied drinking, which meant that Jon wouldn’t be able to drive her home, which could mean anything.

  She shuffled nervously from foot to foot, glancing up and down the street.

  ‘Come on in,’ said Jon, hanging his jacket over the newel post at the bottom of the stairs just inside the door. Beside the staircase, the hall stretched back into shadow. He held out his hand to take her jacket.

  The hall was decorated in sage green wallpaper with tiny cream flowers. Dora assumed it had been there when Jon moved in. The floors were stripped varnished boards, with a cluster of dust bunnies nestling up against the skirting. The house smelt of men.