A Few Little Lies

by Sue Welfare

Dora sighed. ‘No, not the policeman, just a friend. I’m going out at seven and I won’t be back until late.’ She sounded far more decisive than she felt. ‘So, thanks for the invitation but I’m already booked solid.’

  She heard Sheila add a little sniff of annoyance as punctuation. Here was Sheila being considerate for a change and Dora wasn’t in the least bit grateful.

  ‘Right,’ Sheila said briskly. ‘Well, in that case I’ll give you a ring tomorrow, then.’

  Dora switched the answering machine on to catch the phone before it had a chance to ring again and headed off to bed. A few hours’ sleep and then she’d try painting on a happy face. Jon’s number was pinned to the board above the phone. She touched it for luck. Maybe she’d ring him before she went out. Maybe.

  Josephine Hammond arrived early, catching Dora half dressed, half awake and still brushing her teeth.

  ‘Are we all ready then?’ she grinned as she jogged up the stairs.

  Dora glared at her. ‘Are you always this cheerful?’

  ‘Almost always. I wondered whether you’d mind taking your car and following me? Only I might have to eat and run.’

  ‘So we won’t be able to talk on the way?’

  Josephine giggled. ‘Have you got a CB?’

  Dora snorted and went off to finish getting ready.

  Half an hour later they were standing inside the elegant Victorian-style conservatory of a large house on the outskirts of Fairbeach. A buffet table ran the length of the room, beyond which double doors led into the main house. The whole of the lower floor seemed to be full of people. The guests were mingling, talking, everyone waiting for a plump man, standing on the patio, to perform the ritual burning of the sacred cow, beefburger and chicken leg.

  Dora took a glass of fruit juice from a tray offered by a small girl all done up in her party clothes, who giggled at her. Dora handed Josephine a glass.

  ‘Why did you invite me?’ Dora asked as she and Josephine eased their way towards a quiet corner. By the time they had left the flat Dora had repeated everything Calvin had told her.

  Josephine wrinkled up her nose. ‘I don’t know. You seemed a bit down in the mouth. I thought you could do with a night out.’ She paused long enough to lean across the untouched buffet table and pop a stuffed egg into her mouth. ‘It isn’t just this Lillian Bliss thing that’s getting you down, is it? Or are you always this bad-tempered?’

  Dora stared at her. ‘I am not bad-tempered.’ She stopped. ‘Maybe I am. Oh, I don’t know. I just can’t think straight at the moment and I didn’t sleep very well last night.’

  Josephine handed her a plate of prawn vol-au-vents. ‘Has to be a man. Only men can do that to you – although gastric flu comes a very close second.’

  Dora stared at her. ‘No-one else is eating yet,’ she hissed in an undertone.

  Josephine glanced over her shoulder. ‘Someone’s got to be the first, besides I missed my lunch. When they’re all eating I’ll be mingling and interviewing. Gary ought to be here by now, clutching his faithful box brownie. I’ll just go and see if he’s arrived yet.’ Cradling a clutch of vol-au-vents, Josephine headed off through the press of people to look for her photographer. Dora watched her go and then scanned back and forth across the faces of the guests. She knew almost everyone in the room in some way or other. There would be no problem striking up a conversation if she felt the need. She turned back towards the table and practised smiling; it felt like a grimace. Maybe Josephine was right, maybe she was just bad-tempered after all.

  Out of the corner of her eye she watched a masculine pair of hands rifling through a basket of cheese straws.

  ‘Aha,’ she said. ‘No eating until they fire the starting pistol.’ Looking up she grinned at a tall, good-looking man caught with a cheese straw half way to his mouth.

  He laughed. ‘I really love these.’

  He looked familiar. Before Dora could flick through the mug shots in her mind, he offered his hand. ‘Tom Fielding.’

  Dora reddened as she shook the hand of Fairbeach’s Liberal Democrat candidate. ‘Mine host?’

  Tom Fielding shook his head. ‘Not exactly, Libby Calley and her husband have organised the party for me. You ought to try these, they’re really delicious.’

  Dora took his word for it, introduced herself, and hooked a cheese straw out of the basket.

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to be over there somewhere, kissing babies and loving old people?’

  Tom snorted. ‘I take it you’re not a committed Liberal Democrat supporter then?’

  Dora bit into the cheese straw – he was right, they were wonderful.

  ‘Actually,’ she said, through a flurry of puff pastry, ‘I’m very even-handed in my political affiliations. I loathe all politicians on principle.’

  He laughed and choked.

  Dora continued. ‘I was invited by Josephine Hammond from the Gazette because she thought I needed a night out, but I’m absolutely certain she’s only here for the food.’

  Tom grinned. ‘More than likely.’

  ‘You know Josephine?’

  He nodded. ‘Is there anyone who doesn’t? She’s famous, or maybe that should be notorious. Talk of the devil –’

  Josephine was shouldering her way towards them with Gary close behind.

  ‘Tom,’ she beamed with genuine warmth and kissed him enthusiastically on both cheeks. ‘I might have known you’d be over here in the wilderness trying to bring the don’t knows, and don’t cares, back into the fold.’ She winked at Dora. ‘Just don’t be taken in by his little-boy-lost look.’ Tom grinned. Josephine beckoned to Gary. ‘I really think we ought to have a photo of this for the album.’

  Dora winced as the flash bulb exploded.

  Josephine Hammond made a great play of producing her notepad.

  Tom Fielding leant casually against the table. ‘So, what would you like me to say, Jo?’

  ‘Something outrageous would be nice. But meanwhile would you mind going over to the barbecue so Gary can get a cheery snap of you with the bride and groom?’

  Dora stared at them. ‘What about me?’

  Tom grinned. ‘Have another cheese straw, I’ll be back.’ He stepped aside to let Josephine go first but she waved him on.

  ‘Just follow the man with the camera, I’ll be there in a second.’

  She smiled slyly at Dora. ‘So, what do you think, then?’

  ‘About what?’

  Josephine sighed. ‘Tom Fielding, for goodness’ sake.’

  Dora stared at her. ‘His political views? His penchant for cheese straws? I’m not with you.’

  Josephine pulled a face. ‘Is he gorgeous or what?’

  ‘Are you serious?’ Dora spluttered. She hastily gazed around to try to spot him. He had emerged onto the patio and was posing beside their hosts. He was good-looking, he was tall, he was easy to talk to. Maybe she had just misplaced the device that worked out who was fanciable and who wasn’t. ‘Are you telling me you fancy Tom Fielding?’

  Josephine laughed. ‘Me and half the other women here. Who wouldn’t? And he’s unattached. Did you see those big brown eyes – pure gastric flu.’

  Dora pushed the rest of the cheese straw into her mouth. ‘He’s a politician.’

  ‘Okay, so nobody’s perfect.’

  Later that evening, Dora drove her car slowly into Gunners Terrace. It had been a good night. So good that she had invited Josephine back for coffee – it would be nice to have a little girl talk. They could swap notes on the effects of men and gastric flu.

  As she turned in at the junction she sensed something wasn’t quite right. Everywhere seemed unnaturally light and busy. She wondered whether there might be a fire. By the corner shop a small group of people had gathered under the street light and were staring in the direction of her flat.

  Easing her car into first gear she crept past them. Glancing towards the shoe shop she felt her stomach contract sharply; there were two police cars, parked nose to nose, outside her street do
or. An officer waved the car on as she stared unblinking at the group of men heading upstairs.

  There was no easy place to park, so she rounded the corner and drew up behind a delivery van. In her rear-view mirror, as she turned the corner, she saw Josephine Hammond screech to a halt alongside the police cars.

  Her hands shook as she locked the car – the burglar had to have come back. He was in her flat. Someone had to have seen him. She took a deep breath, trying to get control of the rogue pulse that throbbed in her ears.

  ‘Everything will be all right now,’ she murmured in an undertone. ‘They’ve got him. They’ve caught him. I’ll know why all this is happening.’

  On the pavement in Gunners Terrace two men stood shoulder to shoulder, looking into the open flat door. One of them was Jon Melrose. As Dora approached, he looked over his shoulder and glanced in her direction. For a second there was no recognition and then she saw the flash in his eyes and he looked again.

  ‘Dora, I’ve been trying to ring you. We’ve had your flat under surveillance since yesterday. Are you all right?’

  Before she had a chance to reply there was a bloody, chilling scream from the flat above.

  Dora felt her colour drain.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ she whispered. Before the cry had finished, Jon and the other man had turned and sped inside, leaving Dora standing alone on the kerbside.

  A police constable stepped towards her, hands spread. ‘Best if you stand back, ma’am.’

  She started to protest, ‘It’s my flat’, but he had already taken her by the arm and was guiding her away, as a scrum of men bundled noisily out from the yawning street door. Through the jostle she could see Josephine Hammond nosing forward.

  Dora froze as she heard a familiar voice shrieking out amongst the mêlée.

  ‘Will you get your hands off me. Do you know who I am? I’ll write to my MP. I’ll …’

  Dora spun round, slipping away from the PC.

  ‘Sheila!’ she yelled. ‘My God!’ and ran back towards the heaving knot of bodies.

  Her sister. Sheila, was red-faced, struggling, sniffing imperiously, while being held firmly round the neck by a burly constable. She did not look amused. Catching sight of Dora, she whipped one arm out from the policeman’s grip and waved it, bawling, ‘Ask her who I am, just ask her. She’ll tell you.’

  At the roadside, another constable had opened the door to one of the squad cars and was waiting for the wailing, struggling Sheila to be bundled inside.

  ‘Wait!’ Dora shouted. ‘Stop! Stop! That’s my sister.’ She tried desperately to press her way between the men.

  A split second later, Jon Melrose appeared behind the scrum and lifted his hands.

  ‘Stop,’ he yelled, in a crisp authoritative voice. The scrum became a tableau. He stepped closer and shook his head. ‘Let her go, please, gentlemen. Unfortunately you appear to have caught the occupant’s sister.’

  The men carefully and slowly disentangled their arms, looking self-conscious and ill at ease. One bent down to rub his shin, whilst a furious Sheila, her blood up, stood in the centre of them, her fists grinding into her hips.

  ‘What the bloody hell is this?’ she snapped at Dora and Jon. ‘Just what do you think you’re up to?’

  Dora moved closer, taking her arm. ‘Come back upstairs. I’ll try and explain,’ she said in a small quiet voice.

  Sheila violently extricated herself from Dora’s gentle touch. ‘I will not. Don’t come near me. What exactly are they doing here?’

  Dora stared Sheila in the eye and in as calm a voice as she could muster said, ‘What is more to the point. Sheila, is what exactly you’re doing here?’

  Sheila reddened. ‘Er, I … I …’ she blustered.

  Dora closed her fingers more tightly around her sister’s elbow. ‘Let’s go upstairs.’

  Around them, the group of police officers were composing themselves, straightening jackets and ties, tidying themselves after their misguided capture.

  Jon caught Dora’s eye. ‘I’ll be up in a minute,’ he said. She nodded.

  Sheila turned at the foot of the stairs, singling out the officer who was rubbing his leg, and stabbed an angry finger in his direction.

  ‘I’ve got your number, mate,’ she growled unpleasantly. ‘You’d just better watch yourself.’ She caught hold of the bottom of her jacket and tugged it straight, adopting an exaggerated air of superiority.

  ‘Fascist,’ she hissed and then bustled up the stairs.

  The flat looked remarkably untouched; only the office showed any real signs of the struggle that must have taken place. Papers and magazines were strewn across the carpet, together with the contents of a large Jiffy bag. Dora squatted down to gather them up and then stopped. They were the page proofs Calvin had brought her to correct when he had first visited with Lillian. Pages and pages of One Hundred and One Hot Nights were spread out over the entire floor. Dora looked over her shoulder at Sheila, whose bluster had rapidly dissipated.

  She stood up slowly. ‘Well,’ Dora said, gathering the sheaf of papers together into some sort of order, ‘is there anything you’d like to tell me?’

  Sheila sucked her teeth, picking uncomfortably at her sleeve, reddening furiously. ‘I was going to ask you the same question.’ She indicated the papers scattered all over the office floor. ‘What is all that?’

  ‘You’ve been snooping through my things,’ said Dora flatly. She could feel a little bright gem of fury sparking in her belly.

  Sheila sniffed again. ‘You haven’t been yourself lately. I wondered if there was anything I could do to help, anything …’

  ‘You thought you’d come over here and snoop around while I was out for the evening?’

  Sheila shifted her weight, twisting her torso, tipping one foot so that it rested on the toes in a poor impersonation of long-gone childhood innocence.

  Dora looked heavenwards. ‘Well?’

  Sheila looked as if she might cry. ‘I’d still got the spare key you gave me when you went on holiday. I thought I’d come in and … and …’ She struggled to find a plausible explanation, when both of them knew there wasn’t one.

  Dora stared at her, waiting for the lie.

  ‘I thought I’d nip round and tidy up for you. A little surprise for when you got back,’ she murmured quickly.

  Dora snorted with exasperation and ran her fingers through her hair. ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a dangerous purr. ‘How could you? We’re not kids any more. Sheila. This is my home. I’m a bloody grown-up, not some twelve-year-old who needs checking up on. We’re not in bunk beds now, you know. You just can’t come round here to read my diary just because the fancy takes you.’ She took a long breath. ‘I really can’t believe you did this –’

  Sheila wriggled uncomfortably under Dora’s unflinching stare.

  ‘Is that stuff yours, I mean, do you write it?’ she said at last.

  Dora sighed. ‘Yes, and so are all the others. I wrote them. And before you get on about how disgusted or shocked you are, don’t bother. I’m not interested. You shouldn’t come snooping if you can’t cope with what you find.’ Her tone was icy.

  Sheila stepped away from her. ‘You’re Catiana Moran, aren’t you?’

  Dora shook her head in disbelief.

  ‘Hello,’ said Josephine Hammond, as she breasted the top of the stairs. She smiled at Dora. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any of those cakes left, have you?’

  Jon Melrose climbed the stairs wearily. It had been a very long day. Above him, he could almost hear the icy silence between Dora and Sheila. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. Dora was waiting for him in the hallway.

  He lifted an eyebrow. ‘How’s your sister?’

  Dora pulled a face. ‘Making tea. I think she’ll survive.’

  On cue. Sheila poked her head around the kitchen door, waving the teapot.

  ‘It’s disgusting,’ she began aggressively. ‘They could’ve done me untold dam
age. What were they thinking about? I’ve just been telling the woman from the Gazette. It’s an outrage.’

  Jon pulled himself up to his full height, suspecting Sheila might be a formidable adversary.

  ‘We were trying to arrest a burglar, ma’am. We had your sister’s flat under surveillance.’ He stopped, his expression cool and professional. He wasn’t going to add that, thanks to Sheila, he probably wouldn’t get the manpower to do it again.

  ‘After tonight’s farce the likelihood of anyone turning up here is pretty remote. The news will spread like wildfire.’

  Sheila huffed. ‘I had no idea.’

  Dora groaned. ‘I think that probably was the plan. Sheila.’ She turned to Jon. ‘Are you watching Lillian’s place too?’

  Jon nodded. ‘Yes, and Calvin Roberts’ office, but let’s stick to calling her Catiana Moran for the time being. The fewer people who know you’re really Catiana the better.’

  In the kitchen doorway. Sheila froze. ‘How many other people know about this? Why didn’t you tell me before?’ A bright flower of indignation blossomed in her eyes. ‘We went to see that woman in Smith’s …’ She stopped again, as if she was having difficulty breathing. ‘So who was she, then?’

  Jon caught Dora’s eyes and lifted his hands in apology.

  ‘Sorry.’

  Dora shook her head. ‘It doesn’t really matter.’ She turned to Sheila. ‘She’s someone who works for me. I’m surprised you didn’t guess about the books before now …’

  Sheila sniffed. ‘I didn’t have a lot of time really. I’d just got myself settled down when his lot burst in.’ She shivered. ‘It gave me a real turn.’

  Dora carefully prised the teapot from Sheila’s fingers. ‘Here, let me make the tea.’

  A squad car, driven by a small blonde WPC, took Sheila home. Josephine Hammond, after getting an eye-witness account from Sheila, tactfully excused herself with a promise to phone later. Jon slumped in a chair in the sitting room. Now everyone had left, the flat was blissfully quiet.

  Jon was stretched in front of the gas fire, legs out, eyes closed. He looked very relaxed. Dora crept in quietly and as she did, he opened one eye.

  ‘I’ve got to go back to the station to write up a report on tonight’s fiasco.’ He stopped and looked up at her. ‘Why wouldn’t you let me in last night? I think we need to talk.’