A Few Little Lies

by Sue Welfare

  Her house boy came into the dining room carrying a cordless phone on a tray.

  ‘Mr Phelps for you, Mrs Markham.’

  ‘Guy, where on earth are you?’ she snapped, as she snatched up the phone. ‘I did say eleven. People will start arriving soon. You should really be here to receive them.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Alicia. I’ve been busy working all morning, time just got away from me. Colin and I have been going through some ideas he has for putting a bit of snap into the campaign. Something that will show the electorate exactly the sort of chap I am.’

  Alicia sniffed. ‘What’s this, more caring, peering, kissing and hugging? Or has Mr Scarisbrooke come up with something else?’

  Guy sighed. ‘No, no, it really is the most wonderful idea. We’ve already arranged for the press and TV to come along and cover it. We’re just out looking for some homeless people.’

  Alicia stared down at the phone in disbelief. ‘What?’ she snapped.

  ‘Or if not, some unmarried mothers. Look, I’ve got to dash. Colin has just managed to corner a tramp. I’ll see you in a little while.’

  Alicia looked at the beautifully arranged table. Her guests were due to start arriving at twelve. How dare Guy be late? She took a deep breath. Perhaps she was just being oversensitive; after all, these were exciting times for him. She could talk to him when everyone had left. And perhaps she’d have a word or two with Mr Scarisbrooke as well and make it perfectly clear that it was she who had ensured Guy was selected as the Fairbeach’s Conservative candidate. Guy owed his loyalty to her, not Scarisbrooke and his pop psychology. She smiled and laid the phone down on the sideboard. Guy was like an ancient knight who owed his allegiance to her – his queen.

  She waved towards one of the waitresses hired to serve lunch.

  ‘Go and fetch me a sherry, will you?’

  The girl peered at her. ‘What? One of them ones off the tray in the hall?’

  Alicia nodded, and the girl scurried away. The agency who sent the waitresses hadn’t taken a blind bit of notice of her request for someone more presentable. This creature’s accent was so thick you could wedge doors open with it. Perhaps she ought to impose a rule of silence.

  Alicia retired to her office to wait for Guy and her guests. When her sherry had been delivered she meandered through her diary. Her lunch appointment with Lawrence Rawlings was pencilled in for Friday, tomorrow. She considered ringing him and inviting him along today. There was more than enough room at the table for another place. They could all talk together after lunch, perhaps organise a mutually beneficial plan of campaign. The thought took a single breath and then died.

  Lawrence Rawlings wasn’t a man to put his cards on the table, nor would she respect him as much if he ever did. Besides which, she doubted that Lawrence would actively help her get Guy elected. He’d understood perfectly well why she had wanted him selected in the first place.

  There was a discreet tap at her office door. One of the waitresses dithered in the doorway.

  ‘Mrs Markham, your guests from London have just arrived.’

  Alicia downed her sherry in a single gulp. Damn Guy for being so late and for the London mob for being so early. She took a quick glance in the mirror to check she looked presentable and then fixed on a welcoming smile.

  Just as she glided into the drawing room, preparing herself for the round of shaking hands and making sociable noises, her house boy hurried in. He jabbered something incomprehensible.

  ‘It’s all right, I’m coming now,’ Alicia said. ‘I know the guests are here, just take their coats, show them into the drawing room and give everyone a sherry.’

  He scurried through the words again. This time she was able to pick out Guy Phelps’ name from the tangle.

  ‘He’s finally here, is he? Well, that’s good, get him into the hall to welcome everybody.’

  ‘No,’ stammered the boy. ‘There’s a bus outside. Mr Phelps has brought a bus.’

  Alicia fixed him with an ice-cool stare. ‘No, he has not,’ she said calmly, carefully enunciating every word. ‘You are mistaken.’

  From outside she heard the sound of voices and followed the boy along the corridor. Mr Phelps had brought a bus. Alicia stared at the mêlée in the hall. A stream of dirty, ragged men and women were pushing their way in through Alicia’s front door. Amongst them, a befuddled group of Conservative party workers in suits and neat little dresses were blinking and circling, as if they had woken up inside a bad dream.

  Waitresses began to hand out glasses of sherry. Alicia struggled to close her open mouth.

  Just inside the double doors, which opened onto the drive, was a TV camera crew. As she crossed the room, heading towards the door, there was a lightning strike of flash bulbs, presumably from photographers who had been carried inside on the first wave. Josephine Hammond from the Gazette called Alicia’s name.

  Alicia ignored her. She could see Guy Phelps climbing the steps, Colin Scarisbrooke at his elbow. Guy grinned and lifted a hand in salute.

  ‘Alicia, hello! I told you we wouldn’t be very long, didn’t I? We had a real stroke of luck down at the Seaman’s Mission on the quay. Filled the bus up in one fell swoop. Good, eh?’ He gave her the thumbs-up and then lifted his hands to encompass the room. The TV camera panned round to catch him in its Cyclops stare and he began to speak.

  ‘When we in the Conservative party say family matters we really mean family matters. And by family we mean everybody. Every member of our society. Rich or poor, black or white. Here, in Fairbeach, we are all one big family. Every …’

  Alicia took a hasty step back from a man who smelt of rotten fish and sat down heavily on the bottom stair. Across the room she could hear the drone of Guy Phelps in full flood. Through the window she could see the first cars from the local Fairbeach Conservative Association arriving.

  Colin Scarisbrooke shouldered his way between the people until he was beside her. He was carrying two sherries and a shoe box. She stared up at him in total disbelief as he handed her a glass and then dropped the box into her lap.

  ‘There we are, Alicia,’ he said cheerfully. ‘A little present.’

  ‘You complete and utter bastard,’ she hissed, glancing down at the box. ‘What’s this?’

  Colin shrugged. ‘It’s a media rout, my dear Alicia, they love it. I had them camped out, waiting for us at the end of your drive.’ He leant a little closer, wearing a nasty self-satisfied smile and tapped the lid of the shoe box. ‘And those are the things I got from Lillian Bliss’s flat. Don’t ask me to do your dirty work from now on, Alicia. Breaking and entering really isn’t my style.’

  Alicia downed her sherry in a single mouthful.

  When her doorbell rang at just after two o’clock, Dora wasn’t all together surprised. Before he’d left, Jon had said he would finish his shift at lunch time. She hurried into the office and pressed the call button.

  Before she could speak Lillian’s voice whispered up through the speaker. ‘Hiya, it’s me.’

  Dora snorted – at least it wasn’t Sheila. Unfolded on her desk was the latest edition of the Fairbeach Gazette. It would appear that Dora had made it as a media personality even when trying very hard not to. She monopolised the entire front page and a decent part of page two: the main headline read, ‘Local woman in police stakeout fiasco’ – in which Josephine had skilfully managed to avoid giving away Dora’s address, and under that was the story of Dora, this time as an ‘unnamed woman’, who had run into daring daylight catnappers. On page two was a picture of her looking extremely surprised, standing beside Tom Fielding, clutching a handful of cheese straws.

  On the letters page was a flurry of comments about Catiana Moran taking up residence in Fairbeach: for, against, and one suggesting that she might present a fire hazard to other residents should the fire services ever be called to Anchor Quay. The letter, written by a former Second World War fighter pilot, was an account of having nearly been killed as a result of sharing a hotel with Diana
Dors. Dora felt morally obligated to read on. According to the correspondent the firemen had spent so long ogling Miss Dors in her night attire they had quite forgotten about everyone else, and had to be reminded, by the correspondent, their first duty was to fight fire and save lives.

  Dora grinned. Much more of this and Josephine Hammond might just as well move in and save on shoe leather and petrol money.

  ‘Can I come up?’ said Lillian, over the speaker.

  Dora had completely forgotten about her. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Lillian giggled. ‘I’ve just brought you something.’

  Oscar, disturbed by the bell, arched his back and gave a fretful meow. He hoped it wasn’t Gibson coming back for a visit.

  Dora pressed the entry button. ‘I’m working so I’m afraid you can’t stop long,’ she lied.

  ‘This’ll only take two ticks,’ said Lillian.

  Dora heard the door open downstairs and went to let her in. Lillian was wearing a tiny red dress, a black leather bomber jacket, black tights and spike-heel boots. Dora groaned.

  ‘Are you going somewhere?’ she asked, stepping to one side.

  Lillian shook her head. ‘No, I’m just slobbing about today, but I’ve had to come out because the men from the council turned up to do something with rats.’

  Dora glanced at the open newspaper which she could just see through the office door and fought to suppress a giggle. Perhaps Lillian ought to write to the Gazette about it.

  Lillian opened her handbag and pulled out a long pink envelope. ‘So I’ve been up to town and had some dinner and had a look in the shops. It was lovely, the man in the café asked for my autograph and was really nice. Here, these are for you,’ she said, with a warm smile. ‘A little thank-you present.’

  Dora started to protest, but Lillian pressed on, ‘It’s all right, I didn’t have to pay for them, they’re complimentary, but it’s the thought that counts, isn’t it?’

  Dora opened the envelope. Inside were two tickets for the Fairbeach College of Further Education’s annual Spring Ball.

  Dora stared at her. ‘Tickets for the ball?’

  Lillian nodded. ‘I thought you’d like them, and I want you to come and see me get my award. I mean, if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be getting one, would I?’ She paused and reddened slightly. ‘It ought to be you getting it really. Calvin told me that you wanted me to go after this month. I don’t understand. I mean, it’s been good, hasn’t it? I’ve had a lovely time, what with going to the shops and signing autographs and things. I thought me and you were getting on really well.’

  Dora stared at the beautiful blonde and felt dreadful. If only Lillian could have learnt to keep her mouth shut, if only she wasn’t a convicted prostitute, if only she didn’t have something that somebody else wanted. If only … Dora coughed, fighting the temptation to justify herself out loud. She suspected Lillian wouldn’t be able to understand.

  ‘It’s nothing personal,’ she said quickly and scanned round her kitchen for a source of inspiration. Pinned up on her notice board was a letter from the Inland Revenue.

  ‘It’s a tax thing,’ she lied and then hurried on. ‘Would you like a cup of tea while you’re here?’

  Lillian pouted. ‘I hate the bloody tax man, I don’t open his letters any more.’ She stopped. ‘I don’t want to stop you getting on if you’re busy.’

  Dora, feeling cruel and guilty, shook her head. ‘No, you’re fine. Really.’

  Lillian shimmied out of her little leather bomber jacket.

  ‘All right then. I’d love one. Have you seen the Gazette today?’

  Dora was about to say yes, but Lillian was ahead of her. ‘I didn’t know there was so much crime about. Awful about that woman being mugged outside my place, wasn’t it? I asked the people down in the gym if they knew who it was, but no-one was saying anything. She must be ever so upset. Fancy trying to steal a cat. There’s a woman downstairs with two lovely Siameses. I reckon it must have been her.’

  Dora was caught with her mouth open, and then realised with a start that Lillian didn’t know the victim of the mugging was her. Somehow, in amongst Lillian’s revelations, she and Josephine hadn’t got around to mentioning it. Dora turned away and filled the kettle. It was probably better if Lillian didn’t know.

  ‘And that thing about Diana Dors. She was a film star, wasn’t she?’ Lillian continued. ‘You know, I’d never thought about being a fire risk like that. It makes you think, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It certainly does,’ said Dora, tucking the tickets to the Spring Ball up behind the bills on the kitchen shelf.

  17

  While Lillian had been out exploring Fairbeach, drinking tea with Dora Hall, and trying to remember the name of a film she had once seen Diana Dors in, Milo and Spar, a.k.a. the rat men, conducted a fingertip search of her flat down at Anchor Quay.

  Milo, kneeling beside a wall unit, closed a drawer and opened the one above. Spar was extremely impressed by his new partner’s speed and style. They’d already done the bedroom and the bathroom. Milo moved amongst Lillian’s possessions with such grace and lightness of touch that no-one would ever guess they had been there. Grudgingly, Spar had to admit it was far better than his own Blitzkrieg approach.

  Milo’s fingers worked across piles of paper and old receipts like a concert pianist. Another up-front burglary was out of the question after the events in Gunners Terrace the night before. It was a sure bet, if the Plod were staking out Dora Hall’s flat, they most certainly had a pair of eyes firmly fixed on Lillian’s place.

  Milo sat back on his heels, rubbing gloved hands over his muscular thighs. From the shelf above him, the cat watched events with a belligerent frown. Lillian Bliss might not know who Milo and Spar were, but the cat certainly did.

  They’d borrowed a van from a friend of Milo’s, been down the hire shop and picked up two pairs of disposable hooded overalls, a shiny new industrial hoover that looked like a spaceship, and two paper face masks. Voilà – rat catchers.

  Milo had flashed Lillian his sports club membership card, spun her a yarn about the hoover spraying assorted toxic fumes to lay waste the fictitious rats, and she’d cleared off without a peep. She’d just got her coat and left, with explicit instructions not to come back for at least four hours. Sweet as a nut.

  ‘How much longer have we got?’ said Milo.

  Spar looked at his watch. ‘Ages yet. Why?’

  Milo nodded towards the coffee table. ‘Make a space, will you, I want to take some shots of the stuff I’ve found.’

  ‘Anything dodgy there that Mrs Markham might want?’

  Milo shook his head and shuffled through the snaps he’d taken out of one of the drawers.

  ‘Nah, these are just pictures from when Lillian was a kid. My governor is really keen to get his hands on any old photos I find.’

  Spar pushed a pile of magazines to one side. ‘Wouldn’t it be simpler just to nick them?’

  ‘The idea is that no-one knows we’ve been here, nicking them would rather give the game away, don’t you think? Besides, my client expects copies.’

  Spar grinned. Milo was a real fount of useful information. ‘So what else have you got?’

  Milo’s face folded miserably along well-worn lines.

  ‘Bugger all, really, just the photos, no legal stuff, no papers, no letters.’ He looked up and chewed his lip. ‘Maybe there’s a safe in here somewhere. Tell you what, find something and tap around the walls. Gently though, matey, too much tapping and someone’s bound to start complaining. Look behind pictures. If there is a safe it’ll be somewhere easy to get to but well hidden.’

  Spar picked up a discarded high-heeled sandal.

  ‘We could try the fridge,’ he suggested helpfully. ‘I always keep my dodgy stuff in a bit of clingfilm in with the tomatoes.’

  Milo stared at him. ‘We’re talking about birth certificates, stocks and bonds, maybe deeds of sale, receipts, letters, and your dodgy photos –
not half an ounce of Moroccan black.’

  Spar was hurt. ‘Worth a try though?’

  Milo sighed. ‘All right, go through the freezer as well while you’re at it. Look for any boxes that have been opened and resealed. Mind you, if we do that, we’re assuming that she wants to keep stuff hidden instead of just safe.’

  Spar stood cradling the sandal.

  ‘Don’t just stand there, get tapping,’ snapped Milo.

  Spar tapped in three-four time, tapped in Samba and Rumba, tapped out all his favourite country and western tunes, tapped every wall, every floor – nothing.

  The fridge was full of fruit, toffee yoghurts and bars of chocolate, though there was a suspicious number of whipped cream aerosols stacked in the door. The freezer was empty except for half a dozen tubs of Haagen-Dazs ice cream and a packet of frozen peas.

  Milo’s search didn’t seem to have been any more successful. He stood up and stretched.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, linking his fingers and turning them back so that the joints made a disturbing popping sound.

  Spar threw the shoe back onto the carpet alongside its partner. ‘Where do you think the stuff is, then?’

  Milo let out a long exasperated sigh. ‘If I knew that we wouldn’t be doing a fingertip search of this place, would we, matey? Got another bug on you? We’ll stick one in the phone while we’re here, maybe we’ll find out that way.’ As he spoke, he crossed the room and picked up the phone. Spar hurried across to intercept him; after all, there was already a bug in there, it just didn’t work.

  ‘Here, let me,’ Spar offered quickly, ‘you’ve already done a helluva lot of work today.’

  He wrenched the phone out of Milo’s fingers and whipped a Phillips screwdriver out of his top pocket. ‘Won’t take me a tick.’

  He crouched down and unscrewed the back. The original bug appeared to have melted and glued itself across the wires. Just as he was about to pick it off, the phone rang. He nearly dropped it and then instinctively picked up the receiver.