A Few Little Lies

by Sue Welfare

  ‘No,’ Dora said quickly, taking a deep breath. ‘But don’t worry, I’ve arranged for them all to be delivered to the new flat.’ She didn’t add that they were coming via the police, and for some reason, she didn’t want to tell Lillian. Not yet, not tonight, when Lillian was so obviously happy and excited. And besides, another darker thought bubbled up in Dora’s mind, if Lillian knew that someone was still interested in her possessions, still interested in this mysterious something that she had, it would be far more difficult to persuade her to go back to the flat at Anchor Quay.

  Across the street, tucked away out of the street light’s eye, two men sat side by side in the front seats of the car parked near the boarded-up chemist’s shop. The atmosphere was not quite friendly, but it had got past the stage where the driver, now in the passenger seat, had seen his whole life flash before him.

  His uninvited guest was dressed in black leather and had an air of subdued menace. He said his code name was Milo, which the passenger thought was daft, but didn’t feel it was appropriate to say so.

  He had responded with what he hoped was a macho grunt of approval and said he had a code name too, of course. Glancing round to try and come up with something quick, no creative thoughts presented themselves, though he did have a series of very vivid regrets and flashbacks. As his mind filled up with things he really wished he’d done, and things he should have done more of, and would now do, if he ever got the chance – he spotted the corner shop.

  ‘Spar,’ he managed to stutter. ‘My code name is Spar.’

  Milo lit a cigarette. ‘Nice name.’

  They had sat there for hours now, Spar with the earpiece still wedged firmly in his ear, Milo whittling matches into smaller and smaller pieces with a fucking great commando knife, until all that was left was a pile of very sharp splinters. They had watched the lights go on in the flat above the shop, watched the taxi arrive to bring the blonde bit home.

  Spar sighed. The man, Milo, had said he wanted to talk, but so far he had said precious little. When the lights in the flat above the shoe shop finally went out, Milo turned to him.

  ‘So, who are you working for, matey?’

  Spar coughed. ‘Professional confidence. I don’t have to tell you that, do I?’

  Milo shrugged. ‘Seems to me, chummy, there are too many of us sniffing round on this penny-ante little job.’

  Spar swallowed hard, the street light glinted malevolently on the blade of Milo’s commando knife. ‘Really?’ he said, trying to keep the falsetto of fear out of his tone.

  His companion nodded. ‘Too many men and resources on the ground to cover what is, after all, a very small job.’ He nodded towards Spar’s tape recorder. ‘Wiretap’s a nice move, though. Wish I’d thought of that. Getting a lot through, are you?’

  Spar pulled a face that he hoped would convey something and nothing.

  Milo leant back, running his thumb speculatively along the blade of his knife.

  ‘Using the same motor all the time wasn’t so smart, though. I picked you up straight away.’ He paused, leaning a little closer to Spar. ‘I’d like to make a suggestion.’

  Spar nodded. He would have agreed to almost anything.

  Milo continued. ‘Why don’t we pool what we know? It would cut down the hours we are out and about if we shared what we know, it makes sense. Still pick up our fee, but for half the hours put in, whadd’ya reckon?’

  Spar stared at him. ‘Share the job?’ he said incredulously. Relief did not half way describe what he was feeling.

  Milo lifted his hands. ‘If you don’t want to –’ he began.

  Spar shook his head quickly. ‘No, no, it sounds like a great idea to me.’

  Milo grinned and slipped the knife back into his shoulder holster. ‘Yeah, it is, isn’t it. Fancy a beer?’

  Spar was about to mention it was a long walk to the pub when Milo hoisted a backpack onto his lap. ‘Here,’ he said, pulling an icy-cold can out from under one of the flaps. ‘Got a cool bag in there, nothing worse than warm beer, is there?’

  Spar thought about the sensation of the icy-cold blade of the commando knife snuggled up against his jugular.

  ‘No,’ he agreed quickly. ‘Nothing worse than warm beer.’

  Milo took a great swig from his can and then wiped the froth off his top lip with the back of a meaty fist. ‘Why don’t we go down to the café at the bus station and have a cup of tea and a decent fry-up? We could have a nice long chat, you and me. I don’t reckon a lot is going to happen here tonight.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘My oppo is going to relieve me in about half an hour. What time does your shift finish?’

  Spar blew out his lips thoughtfully. ‘About the same time,’ he lied.

  ‘Great,’ said Milo, and eased himself into a more comfortable position in the driver’s seat. ‘Have I ever told you about when I was in the Falklands?’

  Spar stared across at him, not wanting to point out that they had only just met.

  ‘No, no, you haven’t,’ he said quickly.

  Milo closed his eyes. ‘We were yomping out across towards Goose Green, the bloody weather was really closing in on us …’

  Spar pulled the earpiece from his ear and let out a long silent sigh of relief. Above them, the flat was in darkness, and over the rooftops the moon cracked through the clouds in a Cheshire Cat grin.

  12

  Dora was woken the following morning by the sound of the phone ringing. She stretched. The machine would get it, and sure enough, a few seconds later the ringing stopped, only to begin again almost immediately. She rolled over and peered at the clock. Eight fifteen, Monday morning and she was being attacked by a telephonic sadist. She groaned and pulled on her dressing gown. The ringing stopped for an instant then began again, just before the machine had a chance to cut in – pure torture.

  ‘All right. All right,’ she snuffled miserably.

  Outside the bedroom door, Gibson and Oscar noisily suggested that breakfast was in order and wound themselves around her legs, trying very hard to plait her into submission.

  Shooing them away, Dora picked up the phone on the fourth round of ringing.

  ‘Yes?’ she hissed.

  ‘Dora, hello. Lovely morning, lovely morning.’ Calvin’s cheerful tone hit her like cold water.

  ‘What do you mean, “Lovely morning”?’ she snorted furiously. ‘I’m certain if you check our contract, half way down page two, it says no phone calls before ten, and if it doesn’t, it bloody well ought to. What do you want?’

  Calvin coughed. ‘Mornings aren’t your best time, are they, Dora? Actually it wasn’t you I wanted to speak to. Is Lillian about?’

  Dora let out a short shriek of indignation. ‘You’ve got a bloody nerve. She isn’t up yet. What time are you coming round to move her out?’

  ‘It’s all in hand, all in hand. I just wanted to tell her that she made a cracking impression in Peterborough yesterday. My answering machine is chock-a-block with messages.’

  Dora poured herself into the armchair. ‘And you got me out of bed to tell me this?’

  ‘Not exactly, a chap from the Fenland Post and Echo was there. They want her to promote their latest bingo game. Sun, sex, and sand for second-time-around lovers. It’s a syndicated holiday game thing. Anyway, they’re really pushed for time and want to know if Lillian can go to lunch today, to talk it over. So, I’ll be round to pick her up at around half past ten.’

  Dora licked her lips, tracing the boundaries of a sleepy mouth. ‘She is supposed to be moving out today.’

  ‘And she will, she will. Can I have a word with her now?’

  Dora snorted. ‘You seriously think she might be up? She arrived home last night dressed up like a bondage version of Cinderella.’ Dora felt spiteful. ‘And you realise when she’s not cutting ribbons and signing books, she’s off turning tricks.’

  There was a short but impressive silence at the far end of the line.

  ‘Sorry?’ Calvin said after a few seconds. />
  Dora sighed, immediately regretting that the words were already uncorked and spilt. She shouldn’t talk to people in the mornings, but could hardly backtrack now.

  ‘You heard me, Calvin. Lillian is sleeping with anyone who offers her dinner and a winning smile. Some chap told her he was a reporter. I always thought they swore a journalistic oath to make their excuses and leave when it came to the crunch? Anyway, please let me say this again, and I mean it with no malice whatsoever, Calvin, however much it sounds that way. Lillian really has got to go. You have got to fire her. This was a bad idea – how much notice do you have to give her?’

  Calvin coughed and ignored her question. ‘You really are a perfect cow in the mornings. You must have misunderstood. She’s a lovely girl.’

  ‘You’re right, lovely, vulnerable, likeable, and bloody dangerous. She has to go, Calvin, how many times have I got to say this to you? Surely I have got to have the casting vote in this. Trust me, I have a real nose for trouble, it’s probably genetic.’ Dora struggled to hold back the sarcasm.

  Calvin made a thick snuffling sound. ‘She was only supposed to open the shop, sign a few books. Smile a bit.’

  ‘I’m sure she did all that as well. The trouble is she is capable of independent thought. She’s like a landslide gathering momentum. Why don’t you stop it before it goes any further? I’m surprised you’ve let her go to these dos on her own. Why didn’t you go with her?’

  ‘I had to attend a very important Sunday lunch.’ Calvin sounded defensive.

  Dora sighed. ‘Father-in-law’s again?’

  Calvin coughed uncomfortably.

  Dora pressed on. ‘Whipping the prodigal back into the fold, are they? I’m surprised they dare let you out of their sight.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Calvin protested. ‘In fact, I was invited to meet Guy Phelps, the new Conservative candidate, and his family. He needs to make connections with the right sort of people to help with his campaign. Very nice chap, charming wife.’

  Dora burst out laughing. ‘Oh, Calvin, you two-faced creep. You were really rude about him when I met you for lunch, said he was a complete arsehole. Now here you are sucking up – what did he promise you?’

  Calvin sniffed. ‘We’re all entitled to change our minds. He’s very credible, good man, good man.’

  Dora shook her head. ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ She could almost see him throwing out his chest, bristling at her accusation. ‘Look, I’ll give Lillian your message. What time are you coming to collect her things to take round to the flat?’

  Back on safe ground, Calvin quickly regained his composure. ‘After we’ve done the Post and Echo lunch, and I’ll have a quiet word with her about her – her – behaviour.’

  Dora smiled. ‘Right, but I shouldn’t hold my breath waiting for the results. I suggested last night that I’d write her a potted Catiana Moran autobiography in case anyone else decides to try and chase up her past history before you give her the push.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Calvin. ‘See you later.’

  Alicia Markham, dressed in her favourite cream silk peignoir, leant across the breakfast table and poured herself a tumbler of freshly squeezed orange juice. Glass in hand, she indicated the chair opposite to her private investigator, lately Spar, who was standing, unshaven and hollow-eyed, in the doorway.

  ‘Can I assume, from the fact that you’re here at this time of the morning, that you have something important for me?’

  Spar puffed out his cheeks. ‘Yes and no,’ he said, eyeing the contents of the table covetously.

  Alicia sighed. ‘It’s far too early in the morning for conundrums and riddles, and stop ogling my croissants.’ She picked up a little bell beside her coffee cup and rang for the Filipino house boy. When he came in she barely looked up. ‘Would you please bring another cup?’ she said, in a crisp voice, before dismissing the boy with a regal wave of her hand.

  She turned her attention back to Spar. ‘Now, tell me, what have you discovered?’

  ‘Lawrence Rawlings.’

  Alicia smiled without humour. ‘Really? Have you never noticed him before?’

  Spar looked heavenwards, apparently composing his thoughts.

  Alicia’s expression hardened. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, out with it, man, I haven’t got the time or the patience to tease this out of you word by word.’

  ‘Someone else is watching Catiana Moran, the Lillian Bliss girl. His name’s Milo and he’s working for Lawrence Rawlings.’

  Alicia sniffed. The house boy arrived with the extra cup and saucer and made much of pouring coffee for her spy. When he was gone, Alicia leant forward. She had suspected Lawrence was up to something, inviting Guy Phelps to lunch.

  ‘And?’

  Spar smiled. ‘I’m still working on it, but don’t worry, I’ve got my sources.’ He tapped the side of his nose with his finger.

  Alicia sighed; hiring this buffoon was almost as bad as expecting that the stupid political agent, Colin Scarisbrooke, might be able to break into Lillian Bliss’ flat with a modicum of success. She narrowed her eyes.

  ‘Have you or have you not found anything I can use to help Guy Phelps?’ she hissed.

  Spar looked surprised. ‘What?’

  ‘You are supposed to be helping locate and collect certain items that will assist Guy Phelps’ campaign.’ She peered at him for a split second, then leant forward again and cracked him sharply on the forehead with her grapefruit spoon. ‘Is there anybody in there?’

  Spar jumped, winced and then rubbed his head.

  ‘That really hurt,’ he whined miserably.

  ‘Yes, but did it do any good? What is it that Lawrence Rawlings is looking for?’

  Still rubbing his head. Spar said, ‘Seems to me his bloke is getting divorce stuff. You know, who slept with who, where and when, and here’s the photo to prove it.’ He paused and screwed up his face. ‘Mind you. There might be something more to it than that. He wanted to know – I mean – my source seemed very keen to know, if I’d turned up any certificates or any documents, anything legal –’

  Alicia let the ideas form and reform in her mind. Lawrence Rawlings had to be gathering evidence against his son-in-law, that was the only divorce he would be interested in. Lawrence wanted to prove that Calvin Roberts had, or was, sleeping with Lillian Bliss. Alicia couldn’t say that she blamed him, she certainly wouldn’t want a daughter of hers married to a man like Roberts. Alicia stirred her coffee. Unfortunately, photos of Calvin Roberts with his cavalry twills round his ankles really wouldn’t help her at all – but what if Lawrence’s man inadvertently turned up something that she could use?

  She smiled at Spar, who eyed her with some trepidation, as if she might lean forward and hit him again. Picking up a linen napkin, she pressed it to her lips.

  ‘Well done,’ she said softly. ‘Now hurry along, dear, drink your coffee and get back to work.’

  After the man had left, Alicia went into her sitting room and picked up the phone. It was answered after the second ring.

  ‘Good morning, Lawrence,’ Alicia said, in her most neutral tone. ‘I wonder whether it would be possible for us to have lunch together some time very soon? There are things I think we need to discuss before we get the by-election campaign underway.’

  She noted the few seconds’ pause at the far end of the line and smiled triumphantly.

  ‘Of course,’ said Lawrence Rawlings. ‘Why don’t we get together at the end of the week. Friday be convenient?’

  Alicia grimaced. She had hoped it might be sooner, but then again, better Friday than not at all.

  ‘Fine,’ she agreed briskly. ‘Why don’t I pick you up in my car, say twelve thirty? We can go to the Lodge out at Helm St Andrew, they do a marvellous entrée there. I’ll book a table for one o’clock.’

  She heard Lawrence smiling as he spoke again. ‘Thank you, Alicia, but I think I’d prefer to meet you there,’ he said softly, and hung up.

  Back at Gunners Terrace, Dora made tea fo
r Lillian and woke her up with the news that she had two hours to get ready. At the sound of her name, Lillian sat bolt upright. Dora groaned. The strawberry blonde nymphet looked just as stunning without make-up when she woke up as when she was done up like a Hollywood starlet ready to go out.

  ‘Calvin is coming to collect you for some sort of lunch. Then when you get back, he’s going to help you move back into your flat.’

  Lillian smiled her reply, giggled and then burrowed back under the bedclothes. Dora, feeling unpleasantly frail, sighed and went off to get dressed.

  Let Lillian sort it out herself. Dora needed to go shopping for her dinner with Jon, romantic dinners for two didn’t just make themselves, and Jon hadn’t rung to say he wouldn’t be coming – although perhaps she ought to check the machine to make sure. Maybe she ought to be grateful to Calvin for dragging her out of bed so early. Maybe.

  She pulled on a sweater and leggings and stared at her reflection. She would look better by lunch time. Outside the bedroom door she heard Lillian moving about and then the cats renewing their discontent at having been overlooked re: breakfast. Apparently Lillian’s love for things feline didn’t extend to tricks with can openers.

  Or, Dora thought, a few minutes later, screwing up her nose as she went into the kitchen, anything to do with the cat litter tray.

  She tidied away the remains of Lillian’s supper, washed up, hoping that all the activity might kick-start her circulatory system. When the cats were fed and the kitchen looked tidy, she pulled on her coat.

  She heard Lillian lock the bathroom door and smiled. A few more hours and she would be blissfully alone, well on the way to salvaging her nice quiet life from the skip Calvin and Lillian had cheerfully dumped it in.

  ‘I’m going out,’ Dora called through the closed door over the sound of the shower. ‘I probably won’t be back by the time you leave so just pull the door to, downstairs.’

  From the bathroom came a burst of ‘Unchained Melody’ sung high and sharp by way of a reply.

  Outside, Dora climbed into her battered car and drove into town. She felt remarkably cheerful, considering, and managed to sustain the feeling all the way round the supermarket.