by Sue Welfare
Thoughtfully she turned the filofax over in her fingers, and then looked back at Calvin’s handwritten list of Catiana Moran’s schedule. Wherever had the man gone to school? Calvin Roberts’ writing was barely legible. The diaries from the flat in Gunners Terrace weren’t much better, although the author had a far better grasp of syntax.
On the TV screen the camera pulled into a tight close-up of Tom Fielding and Guy Phelps, head to head, slogging it out. Whatever the pollsters might say later, Tom Fielding was Guy’s main rival. Alicia leant forward and rewound the tape. As the figures – rendered ridiculous, moving backwards at speed – slowed again, Alicia, with one eye on Lillian’s old address on the contract, picked up her mobile phone and tapped in the home number of Guy’s political agent, Colin Scarisbrooke. She hadn’t forgiven him for humiliating her on the way to the bring and buy. Let the little gingery weasel earn his crust.
‘You really do have to go back to your flat,’ said Dora, handing Lillian another mug of coffee. It was seven thirty the next morning and Dora had woken Lillian in time to get her car to Peterborough. Sunday sunshine was oozing between the putty smears on Dora’s new kitchen window.
The strawberry blonde wrinkled her nose and ran her tongue around her teeth. ‘I’m not usually up this early. I do like it here, though. It’s homely. I thought when I came here with Calvin that it was little, but it’s ever so cosy really, isn’t it?’
Dora looked heavenwards.
Lillian stirred another sugar into her coffee. ‘And Gibson would –’ Her beautifully manicured fingers flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, no.’
‘What is it?’
Lillian got to her feet. ‘Gibson. I said I would go and pick him up.’
‘I’m not with you,’ said Dora. She’d lost the plot somewhere.
‘Gibson, my cat. I said I’d go and get him today.’
Dora decided to say nothing; none of the questions she had asked so far had made things any clearer. Lillian appeared to be struggling her way around a complicated series of thoughts. Her face contorted for a few seconds more, and then she said, ‘I really need to go back to the flat and get the rest of my things.’
Dora shook her head firmly. ‘No need, Lillian. You’re moving out of here tomorrow, remember. You won’t need any more things.’
Lillian giggled. ‘No, no, you’re not following me, are you? The stuff from my old flat in Keelside. Gibson is still there. I asked Carol, the girl downstairs, to keep an eye on him and feed him and that, until I got the new flat decorated.’
Dora nodded. ‘And?’
‘I said I’d go over and get him, and pick up all me gear this weekend. The landlord gave me until the end of this week. I was going to get a taxi or ask Calvin to do it.’
Lillian looked at Oscar, who was doing Charles Atlas impressions on the windowsill in the sunlight.
‘Thing is, if you’ve got a pet you’re never really on your own, are you? A proper pet I mean, not like a goldfish or a hamster or anything. That’s why I got Gibson in the first place. I wouldn’t mind being in my flat with the cat around for company.’
Dora smiled, wheels grinding. ‘You’ve got to go to Peterborough today, haven’t you? I’ll tell you what, why don’t you tell me where you used to live. I could go and fetch your things and your cat?’
Lillian nodded, but Dora sensed that there was no real comprehension, so she carried on, ‘And then tomorrow we could take Gibson and all your things to the new flat. Down at Anchor Quay. There’s loads of room for him there. I’m sure he’d really love it – all that space.’
Lillian looked sceptical, but at least this time she hadn’t turned Dora down flat.
Finally, Lillian smiled and leaned forward. ‘I’ll write it down for you. I live in Belleview Terrace.’ She drew a swirl through a spill of coffee with one of her fingernails. ‘How well do you know Keelside? Have you got a bit of paper? I’ll draw you a map if you like.’
Later that morning, Lawrence Rawlings sat in his office, examining the photographs on his desk. He arranged them sequentially, creating a story board, then looked up at the man he had hired.
‘I’m not sure that this is enough but it’s a credible start.’
Milo grinned. ‘Matter of time now. We’ve got Mr Roberts arriving at Gunners Terrace, we’ve got her letting him in. We’ve got them together. Trust me, it doesn’t take a lot to make shit stick. Depends on what you’d got in mind.’
Lawrence could already smell lunch cooking downstairs. He glanced at his watch. What he had in mind was a bargaining chip that would give him control over Calvin Roberts, but he would have preferred more than just these few grainy photographs. After all, Lillian was Calvin’s client. It would be so easy for his son-in-law, with his slick sugary tongue, to explain it all away.
Lawrence sniffed. And at the same time he had to be extremely careful his plan didn’t backfire. He nodded to the heavily set private investigator. ‘Keep on it and make sure you keep in touch.’
Milo turned as if to leave and then swung back. ‘One more thing, gov. I think you ought to know. You know I said I thought I wasn’t the only one watching Gunners Terrace for a bit of hanky panky?’
Lawrence sucked his teeth. ‘I remember. Spit it out.’
The man slid another handful of prints out of his jacket pocket and arranged them on the desk. He leant over and pointed to the first picture.
‘See here? This car and that bloke. Either him or that car have been in Gunners Terrace every time either me or my mate’s been there. And here, I think that’s got to be a camera he’s holding.’
Lawrence peered at the grainy enlargements. ‘Which proves what, exactly?’
The man pulled a face. ‘Maybe something, maybe nothing. I just think it’s bloody odd, that’s all I’m saying.’
Lawrence stared at the story board of photographs. Who else might be interested in Calvin and Lillian – and more to the point, why? He needed to find out who the other watcher was. And he had to be so very careful; it wouldn’t do for Sarah and the girls to find out what he was doing. They had to be protected.
He glanced at the photographs again. Catiana Moran, alias Lillian Bliss, was really quite exquisite, beautiful, tempting … he stared at her face. He could see why Calvin was attracted to her, but at the same time was furious that he was.
Lawrence pointed to the photo of the man in the car.
‘See if you can find out who he is.’
10
By the time Dora could see the silos of Keelside sugar-beet factory glinting in the distance, her stomach was twisted up into a tight little plait. Keelside clung to the shoreline on the western rim of the Wash, fifteen miles from Fairbeach, along the dual carriageway from hell. The road’s long slow curves encouraged boy-racers to execute dramatic feats of brinkmanship that made Dora flinch.
Besides the pleasures of being cut up or coming head to head with a series of latter-day charioteers, tractors meandered around blind bends at walking pace. It was a lovely sunny Sunday morning and to add extra seasoning to the mix there were roadworks On the stretch between Manley All Saints and Tydd-Hall and the bypass was the only route to the coast.
Dora gritted her teeth and repeated her reasons for coming.
‘I’ll pick up Lillian’s cat,’ she murmured, glancing at Lillian’s cryptic map on the passenger seat. ‘Collect Lillian’s things and then Lillian will move out.’ It didn’t sound any more convincing for being said aloud.
She dropped the car down a gear and pulled into the right lane for exiting the roundabout. Three huge roundabouts cut Keelside off from all but the most determined. There was meant to be a flyover but it had died somewhere between conception and construction, leaving weary travellers with an unnerving selection of slip roads.
Dora eased forward on amber and waited for someone to pip her for being tardy. To remedy the lack of flyover someone had bought a job lot of traffic lights. They had been installed at the first roundabout and then cheerfully peppered the road
every fifty yards after that, right the way through Keelside.
Dora pulled away on green, was pipped for having the audacity to be in the correct lane, and for the next mile and a half stopped, hopped, mirrored and signalled her ancient Fiat into the town centre.
Despite Lillian’s directions and the map, Dora wasn’t sure where Belleview Terrace was. She had to ask directions twice before she was certain where she was headed. Finally, with a picture of her destination in her head, she drew away into the traffic and doubled back through the old docks. She watched the town centre shops and prim town apartments give way to street after street of tidy town houses and tight-lipped terraces. Out, under the remains of the town’s ancient wall, down past the tattooist and the sex shop, shuttered with heavy-duty grilles even in the day time, Dora followed the scenic route out to West Keelside along another stretch of bleak dual carriageway. Belleview Terrace was squeezed out onto the wild colonial edge of town, and had been pointedly overlooked by first-time buyers.
Dora bumped up onto a wide weedy verge and pulled the car to a halt. The little row of terraced houses had been named by someone with a very dark sense of humour. The austere red-brick frontage stared out over corrugated iron and chain-link fencing that backed a new warehouse complex. It certainly couldn’t ever have had anything approaching a Belleview, even in the days when the gas works stood on the site.
Rusting chain link bowed here and there, curling back in places into convenient boy-sized openings. Festooned with faded wind-borne offerings wound into the little crusty diamonds, it looked like a wailing wall, hung with supplications to the gods of bubble wrap and fast food. Sun-bleached weeds clustered in the gutters. Elderly cars huddled along the pavement.
Dora sniffed and pulled up her collar, conscious of Sheila’s disapproving voice in her head.
Lillian’s flat was midway along the terrace just past a skip half full of household rubbish. Dora stepped up into the tiny bald front garden and peered at the two names in a card holder, one above the other, with bells beneath.
‘L. Bliss, Flat A, C. Hayes, Flat B,’ she murmured. This had to be the place.
Before Dora had a chance to decide exactly what she was going to do, the front door swung open. A tiny, bleached-blonde girl barely out of her teens, dressed in a huge sweater and tight leggings, glanced up at Dora with anxious dark-rimmed eyes. From behind her came a barrage of rock music. The girl peered up and down the street and then wrapped her arms across her chest.
‘I’ve already got him in his box,’ she said, her voice trembling slightly. ‘I do love him, but I just can’t keep him. I’ve tried ringing her again at the number she gave me, but there still isn’t anyone there.’
Dora frowned slightly. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘Cats Protection League? I rang up yesterday to have you come and collect Gibson. The cat?’
Dora shook her head. ‘I think you must have made a mistake. My name is Dora Hall, I’ve come to collect Lillian’s things and pick up the cat as well.’
The girl bit her lip. ‘You’re not from the papers, are you?’ she said, eyeing Dora suspiciously. ‘I wondered how long it would be before you lot turned up here to get all the gossip. I saw her on the telly, you know. Lillian loves that cat but I really can’t keep him. I said I’d just have him until this weekend.’
Confused, Dora nodded. ‘No, I’m a friend of Lillian’s, she’s staying with me for a day or two. She asked me to come over and collect her things. She said you’d have a key for her flat.’
The blonde girl stepped back inside the gloomy hallway. There was no let-up in the music.
‘All right, you’d better come in then,’ she said.
The hallway was tiny, barely more than a couple of yards square. Just inside the door, the stairs rose steeply up towards another glass-panelled door. Tucked tight against the banister was a partition wall that cut the house in two. Standing on a table against the partition was a wicker cat basket. Inside, a beautiful grey-and-white cat circled miserably, pushing his face against the mesh. Instinctively, Dora stopped to stroke his nose through the bars.
‘Is this Lillian’s cat?’
The girl nodded. ‘Yeah, she calls him Gibson, after Mel Gibson. Do you like cats?’
‘I’ve got one of my own,’ Dora told her.
The girl chewed her lip. ‘I don’t want him to go, but I don’t want to keep him. I’m out a lot, it doesn’t seem fair on him really.’
Inside the basket, the cat purred and rubbed his face against Dora’s fingers.
‘He seems to like you.’ The girl looked up at Dora. ‘I don’t suppose you’d keep him, would you? Keep him instead of letting Lillian have him back? She loves him but she’s never about to look after him. If it weren’t for me I think he’d have starved by now.’
Dora paused, looking into the cat’s storm-grey eyes as Gibson renewed his chorus of approval.
The girl was already by the door to her flat. ‘You can go straight up. The door’s open, your mate’s already up there.’
Dora stared at her. Perhaps she’d misheard.
‘My mate?’ she repeated.
The girl nodded. ‘Yeah, he must have got here about half an hour ago. He said someone sent him over to collect her furniture. Something to do with her new flat. Mind you, he didn’t seem to know anything about her cat.’
Dora stared up at the door to Lillian’s flat, as the girl continued. ‘You’ll let me know when you’re done, won’t you?’
Dora turned round and slowly climbed the stairs. Maybe it was Calvin, but something told her it wasn’t. And if it wasn’t Calvin, it was probably whoever had broken into her flat, and Calvin’s office, and Lillian’s apartment.
Dora wasn’t certain why she was going up or what she thought she was going to achieve when she got there. Twelve steep steps, covered by a threadbare runner – she climbed them with great deliberation to the accompaniment of a thumping disco beat. The door at the top of the stairs was unlocked.
Dora pushed it open very, very slowly, revealing a giant pale pink teddy-bear, sitting on a stool in the hall. The music from the stairwell seemed to ooze up around her and push its way into the flat.
The door opposite was ajar. Dora could easily see inside. Standing with his back to her was a short stocky man in a pull-on woollen hat, heavy dark jacket, and leather gloves. Dora absorbed the details almost as if she was watching him on a film.
What could have taken no more than a few seconds seemed to go on and on, each detail blindingly sharp in Dora’s mind. The man was sorting through the contents of a cardboard box on a table. As Dora stepped into the room, he swung round, eyes alight with a mixture of fear and complete surprise. He jumped and then swallowed hard.
‘Can I help you?’ said Dora, in her most controlled, even voice.
The man’s eyes widened, his colour drained, and before Dora could frame the next thought, he was charging towards her, clutching a bundle of papers under one arm. She fought the impulse to step aside, out of his way, and leapt forward to try to stop him, but too late. With an unpleasant grunt he swung round sharply and gave her a hefty push.
Dora staggered backwards and fell heavily over the arm of a chair. She had no chance to regain her balance and rolled over, cracking her head on a side table. Outside, the landing door slammed shut.
‘Bastard,’ Dora hissed as she struggled to get back to her feet. Her head hurt. She rubbed it vigorously, trying to ignore the star-studded spinning walls. ‘Bastard, bastard, bastard.’
Unsteadily, she headed out onto the little landing and jerked at the door handle. The door was locked. She slammed her fists against the frame.
‘Let me out!’ she shouted furiously. ‘Let me out! Can you hear me?’
A second or two later, there were footsteps on the stairs and the door swung open. Lillian’s neighbour stared at her.
‘Is there something the matter?’
Dora nodded. ‘Would you get on the phone and call the police? I think the m
an who was here just now was a burglar.’
The girl’s jaw dropped. ‘He told me he knew Lillian. I …’
Dora pushed past her, taking the stairs two at a time. Outside, Belleview Terrace was empty. Whoever he was, he’d already gone.
The girl, still standing outside Lillian’s door, stared down at Dora.
‘We haven’t got a phone,’ she said. ‘But there’s one down the bottom of the road. Would you like a cup of tea?’
Dora nodded. ‘I’m going to call the police first.’
She asked for Jon Melrose by name.
‘I’m afraid he’s not here at the moment, madam. Would you care to leave a message?’
Dora sighed. ‘No, but I would like to report a burglary, I think I may have just disturbed the man who was breaking in.’ Dora wrinkled up her nose and looked at her reflection in a little mirror that had been wedged above the phone. What was she saying? She had disturbed the burglar, there was no thought about it. She leant closer to the mirror to see if there were any bruises or bumps that showed.
The man at the far end of the phone line coughed.
‘I see, madam. Now, let me get some of this information down. You are?’
Dora gave him her details and said she would wait for the police car to arrive. After hanging up, she tapped in Jon’s home number and felt disproportionately cheated when she got his answering machine.
By the time Dora had walked back to the flat, she had started to shake. The tiny blonde girl was waiting for her on the doorstep.
‘You will still take the cat with you, won’t you?’ she asked, guiding Dora into the hall. At least the rock music had stopped.
Dora nodded, taking a deep breath to calm herself, then picked up the cat basket and followed the girl.
The tiny ground-floor flat was cramped, over-populated with ill-matched furniture. Some must have come with the flat and other pieces had been added by its diminutive occupant.
A huge chintz armchair struck an uneasy alliance with a bright blue PVC settee. The wood-chip walls were hung with photos and cheap prints. There were bright cushions strewn over every chair. Dora concentrated hard on the decor, trying to still the unsteady beat of her heart.