A Few Little Lies

by Sue Welfare

  Dora took a deep breath. ‘Again?’ she said with a wry smile. ‘This is becoming a habit.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘I don’t understand what’s going on. I put it down to shock but,’ he grinned, ‘I’ve been going crazy trying to find a way to talk to you.’

  Dora sat down on the sofa. ‘How long have you got?’

  Jon glanced at his watch. ‘Fifteen minutes, so give it your best shot.’

  ‘Okay. The thing is, when I write there are never any surprises. There’s nothing unexpected, because it’s me who’s doing the expecting. I sometimes feel as if my only real life is through the looking glass of the computer screen.’ She paused. ‘I keep forgetting that real is out here.’ She could hear Jon breathing but didn’t look at him.

  ‘So what is it you weren’t expecting?’ he asked, in a low even voice.

  Dora sighed. ‘It’s so hard to put into words that really mean what I want to say. At the moment, it feels as if my life is slipping through my fingers. Real life has come charging up behind me while I wasn’t looking. The sense of having any control over what happens to me has gone. Lillian, the breakins, yesterday with those men.’ She stopped and took a deep breath. ‘And then there’s you. I just didn’t think I could care so much about someone so soon.’ She paused. ‘Or that I could be jealous.’

  She heard Jon make a small noise of surprise. ‘Jealous of what?’

  ‘This sounds so stupid, I’m not sure I can even bring myself to say it.’

  She heard Jon smile as he spoke. ‘Try me. You’ve got thirteen minutes left.’

  ‘Someone saw you in Salisbury’s with your wife.’

  Jon hissed, and then said quietly, ‘And they told you about it? Don’t tell me, let me guess. It had to be Sheila.’

  ‘Pathetic, isn’t it? I tried ringing you at the station, and the officer on the desk said you’d gone round to your wife’s place.’ She reddened, it all sounded even more ridiculous when she said it out loud. ‘I’ve been here for twenty-four hours letting my imagination run riot. I should have let you in last night.’ She paused and turned towards Jon – he was watching her. The look in his eyes made something inside her ache.

  ‘Please tell me something true, Jon Melrose,’ she whispered, close to tears. ‘Tell me something to stop me drowning in all the lies my imagination keeps inventing.’

  Jon crept across the rug towards her.

  ‘All right, Nita is pregnant and she told me in Sainsbury’s. It was a complete surprise.’ He stopped and she heard the pain in his voice as he continued. ‘She and Sam are over the moon. She’d already told me they were getting married in May when I was at the hospital. I was completely gutted. It isn’t that I want her back, or anything remotely like that. It’s just an ending. I don’t know, I’m not really jealous, I’m just – just something else that hurts a lot.’

  Dora felt the tension shiver out of her body like a heavy coat falling away.

  Then Nita invited me round to see Joe. It felt really odd, seeing them all tucked up together. Joe is so excited about having a new brother or sister. He talked about it all the time I was there with Nita dotting round making me tea. And I’m not part of their lives any more. I’m pushed right out onto the edge. Don’t misunderstand me, I don’t want that again, but some part of me still loves all the things we used to have between us. And now there’s nothing there for me any more.’ He sighed. ‘When I left, I felt the same way as I did when my dad died. There was this cold sad lump in my chest.’ He stopped, eyes bright with emotion. ‘And that’s it, all of it.’

  Dora reached out and stroked a curl of hair back off his face. ‘I’m really so sorry I didn’t let you up last night. I could have saved us both a lot of misery.’

  He caught hold of her hand and pressed it to his lips. The depth of the comfort she felt, and returned, made her shiver. She felt the tension draining away, earthed out by a single touch.

  Jon sighed. ‘It feels good to be here with you.’

  Dora curled up against his broad chest. ‘How much longer have we got before you’ve got to get back?’

  ‘Eleven minutes.’

  Dora grinned up at him. ‘A girl can do an awful lot in eleven minutes,’ she said softly, and pulled him closer.

  16

  Meanwhile, in a darkened room above one of the shops that lined the far side of the Western Ouse, overlooking Lillian Bliss’s apartment, Milo adjusted the focus of his camera lens and pressed the shutter release. The motor drive whirred. Milo grinned.

  ‘Here we go again. I wonder what this boy eats for breakfast. Remind me to ask him.’

  Spar’s mind was on other things. He’d gone to retrieve the tape from the car in Gunners Terrace. He was just fishing the thing out of the machine when all hell had broken loose. There had been flashing blue lights, sirens, coppers everywhere. He had felt a sinking terror that hadn’t really dissipated even when he realised they weren’t coming after him. Hunkered down in the passenger seat, his guts had turned to liquid.

  Now, safely back with Milo, he’d already listened to the tape twice but still couldn’t concentrate on picking out the words from the crackle of background noise. He pulled the earpiece out and stretched.

  ‘Fancy a cup of Bovril?’ he asked, taking a flask out of his sports bag.

  Milo snorted. The motor drive whirred again.

  ‘Not for me at the moment, matey. Our Mr Roberts is now in the final furlong, sweating hard and heading for the finish line.’

  ‘Not our Mr Roberts, your Mr Roberts,’ Spar huffed miserably. ‘S’pose you’ll jack it in now you’ve got what you want.’

  Milo turned towards him in the gloom. ‘I told you, I’ve still got to try and find some documents Rawlings wants. Don’t sound so miserable, matey. The game’s not over yet.’

  Spar crouched down on a packing case. ‘I’m still no nearer finding the photos my governor wants.’ He sighed. ‘She hit me, you know – with a spoon.’

  Milo stared at him. ‘Really? I wouldn’t stand for that. No, I wouldn’t. Anyway, don’t dwell on that now. What did you get off them tapes? Anything interesting?’

  Spar sniffed. ‘Can’t make it out, the static’s too bad.’

  Milo, stiff from sitting hunched by the window, uncurled slowly.

  ‘Here, you come and have a butcher’s at this pair. I’ll have a listen if you like.’ He took the earpiece from Spar.

  Spar pointed the long telescopic lens at the window opposite and stared down the view finder. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust. When they did, he could see Calvin Roberts sitting on the side of a king-sized bed, pulling on his shreddies. Behind him, Lillian Bliss was curled up amongst a tumble of sheets, one breast peeping provocatively, like a plump puppy, over the creamy-white duvet.

  Spar sighed – lucky bastard, at least Roberts was getting his oats. Spar’s girlfriend, while not objecting to surveillance and private investigating in principle, was getting a bit miffed at staying home nights, and had asked him twice now whether he was seeing anyone else on the sly.

  Through the lens Spar watched Calvin Roberts lean across the bed and nuzzle Lillian affectionately. He turned away in frustration.

  ‘Shit,’ said Milo, breaking Spar’s train of thought.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Dora Hall and that ginger bitch Hammond from the Gazette. They’re in cahoots. Some how they managed to work the Christmas party connection,’ he said flatly. ‘And by the sound of it they’ve been sharing what they know with the Lib Dem guy.’

  Spar stared at him. ‘Bloody wars. What are we going to do?’

  Milo shrugged. ‘Tell our clients and then move faster. We need to find Miss Lillian’s little box of tricks, wherever she’s got it stashed.’

  He leant over and snatched the camera out of Spar’s fingers.

  ‘Oy,’ protested Spar. ‘Watch it, what d’you think you’re doing?’

  Milo pressed the rewind button on the camera. ‘I’m going to get these pict
ures developed and then first thing tomorrow morning I’m off to see Mr Lawrence Rawlings.’

  ‘What about me and Mrs Markham?’ Spar whined.

  Milo flipped the back of the camera open and dropped the rewound spool of film into the palm of his hand. ‘I’ll do you both a set of prints if you like.’

  ‘That isn’t what I mean and you know it,’ snapped Spar. ‘What am I going to tell Mrs Markham?’

  Milo was pulling on his jacket, hastily stuffing things into his bag. ‘Is she paying you by the day?’

  ‘Yes …’ Spar began.

  ‘Well then, in that case tell her anything you like, but for God’s sake, don’t tell her the truth. The women on the tape still don’t know exactly what we’re looking for, they obviously haven’t found anything themselves, and until they do, we’ve got the edge. We need to get into that flat.’ He pointed towards Anchor Quay. ‘And go over it with a fine tooth comb.’

  ‘Hang on,’ protested Spar, struggling to his feet. ‘Don’t leave me here on me own.’

  Dora woke just before four thirty. This time there were no dark thoughts driving sleep away, only Jon Melrose. As she turned over, he snuggled closer, wrapping his arm around her.

  ‘I didn’t have you down as the jealous type,’ he murmured sleepily, against her neck. She felt the insistent press of his body against hers and smiled.

  ‘Me neither, until now.’ She turned over again and wriggled across the bed so they were lying belly to belly.

  ‘How long have we got?’ he whispered.

  She peered over his shoulder at the glowing numbers on the alarm clock. ‘About three hours.’

  Jon kissed her neck, lifting a hand to stroke her breast. ‘Care to show me again what a girl can do with eleven minutes?’

  Dora giggled. ‘If you really insist.’

  At just after ten that morning, Lawrence Rawlings took the brown envelope from Milo and turned it over thoughtfully in his fingers. He was relieved to see the man had had the sense to seal it.

  ‘Finally got what you want, then,’ said Milo, with a sly grin.

  Lawrence sighed – if only that were true.

  ‘What about the negatives?’

  The private investigator aped offence. ‘Please, Mr Rawlings, what do you think I am? They’re all in there, if you’d like to count them up. I’ve put the whole reel in, duff shots, negatives, the whole shooting match. I’m not into funny business. Couple more days and I hope to have my hands on copies of the other items you mentioned.’ As he spoke he pocketed the cheque Lawrence had written him.

  Lawrence continued to stare at the brown envelope.

  ‘Right.’ Lawrence looked up. ‘Just one more thing, I would like to make this perfectly clear. No strong-arm tactics. If I’d wanted bully boys I would have hired someone else.’ He unfolded the Fairbeach Gazette and set it down next to the envelope. There was a report on the front page. ‘Local woman mugged in daring daylight attack outside Anchor Quay apartments.’

  He glanced at Milo. ‘The description the woman gave the police makes interesting reading. I hope this has nothing to do with you?’

  Milo’s expression contorted into a mask of blamelessness, but Lawrence was not convinced. He waved the man away.

  ‘I’ll be in touch,’ promised Milo.

  Lawrence nodded, and when Milo had closed the door behind him, he sat down at his desk to contemplate the sealed envelope. It was strange, the very things he wanted gave him no comfort whatsoever. There was a knock at the door. Hastily, Lawrence slid the envelope into a drawer and called his housekeeper in.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, Mr Rawlings. Mr Preston is here to see you. Shall I show him up?’

  It would be a relief to speak to a friend. ‘Yes, please, and would you bring us some coffee as well?’

  The woman nodded and left.

  Seconds later. Bob Preston pushed the door open.

  ‘Morning, Lawrence. How’s it going? I had to go and see the bank manager this morning, so I thought I’d pop by on my way back. Not disturbing you, am I?’

  Lawrence shook his head. ‘Not at all, come in and sit down.’

  Bob Preston, a former Fairbeach mayor, was a bluff jovial man with few pretensions. Their friendship had already spanned more than half a century. Lawrence waved him towards one of the armchairs that flanked the hearth.

  ‘It’s good to see you. You’ll stay for coffee, won’t you? And what about lunch on Sunday? Shall I book you a seat at your usual table?’

  Bob grinned. ‘That arsehole Phelps isn’t likely to be here again, is he?’

  Lawrence grimaced. ‘No, thank God. Mind you, the by-election campaign starts the week after next. If you feel you’re missing him, don’t fret, his face will be pasted all over every billboard and lamp post from here to Keelside.’

  Bob Preston groaned. ‘What a wonderful thought. Actually I wanted to talk to you about something else. I’ve got something here for you to take a look at –’ Bob slid his hand into his jacket. ‘I picked these up this morning.’

  Lawrence stepped towards him and then froze, as Bob pulled out a folder of photographs from an inside pocket.

  ‘Thought you might like to take a look at these.’

  Lawrence struggled to regain his composure, glancing back towards his desk. The coincidence was almost more than he could bear.

  ‘What are they?’ he muttered uneasily.

  ‘Here, take a look for yourself.’

  Lawrence accepted the first print without really focusing. His mind was on the grainy photos of Calvin and Lillian.

  ‘Well, what do you think?’ said Bob, grinning joyfully. ‘My new home. My old place isn’t the same since the wife died, you must know what it’s like. My boys are more or less running the business single-handed anyway. And the old arthritis is playing me up these days. All this damp fen air finally getting to me.’

  Lawrence struggled to absorb the images.

  This isn’t in England, is it?’ he said, staring at a candyfloss-pink villa all set around with palms and exotic creepers. In front of it, glittering behind an ornate wrought-iron screen, was a swimming pool.

  Bob handed him another picture, this time an interior shot taken from the room overlooking the pool. The room was painted cream and had red-tiled floors. French windows opened onto the patio and pool beyond, sunlight still glistening on the water.

  Lawrence stared up at Bob. ‘Not Spain?’ he gasped incredulously.

  ‘Tenerife. I’ve just bought that villa out there, signed the papers this morning. I’m going to retire to the sun, Lawrence. Nothing to keep me in Fairbeach now. The kids are all grown up, and besides, they won’t say no to a free holiday in the sun once or twice a year. Probably see more of them out there than I do here.’ He grinned. ‘You can fly out yourself for a bit of mid-winter sun, if you fancy the idea. We can paint the town red, like we did in the good old days.’

  Lawrence sat down heavily, dumbly accepting more photos as they were passed to him.

  ‘You haven’t mentioned this before,’ he said at last, when he was surrounded by a sea of bougainvillaea and cool cream interiors, lovingly captured in photograph after photograph.

  Bob shrugged. ‘I know, but I didn’t really make my mind up until a couple of weeks ago. Jack’s funeral was the last bloody straw. Christ, he was only a couple of years older than me. I looked round all those familiar faces, feeling the cold nipping at my bones and I thought, is this all I’ve got to look forward to? Eh? Watching my friends die? Wearing my best coat to pay my last respects? No.’ He gathered the photos back like a poker hand.

  ‘No, that’s not for me. I’m going to have a few years in the sun, live it up, party till dawn, go out with a bit of a bang.’

  Lawrence was so stunned that he could barely speak. ‘But Tenerife?’ he whispered softly.

  Bob nodded. ‘That’s right. We had a few really good holidays out there when the wife was alive. They know how to give you a good time. Nice weather, good food, what more c
ould you want, eh?’

  Lawrence struggled to follow what his friend was saying. ‘So when are you thinking of going?’ he managed to ask.

  Bob laughed. ‘I’m not thinking about going, Lawrence, I am going. Six more weeks and then I’m off. That’ll just about give me enough time to pack up what I want, give the kids what they’d like out of the house, sell the rest, and stick the house on the market. No, I’ve done my bit for Fairbeach. I’m off.’

  Lawrence stared at him in disbelief. ‘But we’re friends,’ he began, trying hard to reach down inside to find the things he wanted to say.

  Bob nodded. ‘I know we are, Lawrence. Good friends. The best of friends. That’s why I came to tell you about it first.’

  Lawrence had a rush of panic. It felt as if everything he knew, all the things that had been woven seamlessly in and out of his life, were unravelling. He was grateful when his housekeeper knocked on the door and brought in the coffee. It gave him the chance to take a breath.

  On the other side of Fairbeach, Alicia Markham was getting ready to host a lunch for the workers from Central Party Office who were coming down to help during the run-up to the by-election. Local party members would be there as well – everyone all keyed up and all ready for the off. Her dining room was a froth of white linen napkins, floral arrangements and candelabra. It looked luxurious and yet at the same time quite businesslike.

  When the campaign got underway there wouldn’t be the time for such niceties. Guy would be lucky if he managed a ham sandwich between all the appearances and canvassing.

  In the hall, discreetly arranged on a side table, were a fan of campaign leaflets and a single framed poster, fresh and crisp from the printers.

  The photo of Guy Phelps was perfect. He was shown with his wife, what’s-her-name, and their children, under a banner headline that read, ‘Family Matters’. Very catchy. She smiled. Perhaps Colin Scarisbrooke, Guy’s political agent, wasn’t such a moron as he first appeared. The new slogan had been his idea.

  She checked her watch. Guy really ought to have arrived. She had told him eleven, which would have given them ample time to talk alone before the party types got their hands on him. It was already nearly half past. She still hadn’t got the information she needed to make his success a certainty, but she had a strong feeling something was on its way.