A Few Little Lies

by Sue Welfare

  Dora shook her head. ‘No, please don’t. I did try to ring you, but you’d already gone out. And I think Colin Scarisbrooke is the burglar. He works for Guy Phelps.’

  ‘I need to find a phone –’

  Dora caught hold of his arm. ‘No, Jon, please. I want Tom Fielding to have his photos back without any fuss. Nobody else involved, not the police, not the press, no-one. When it’s over I’ll find a way to let Guy Phelps know what I’ve done.’

  Jon shook his head. ‘So what do you want me to do?’

  Dora grinned sheepishly. ‘I don’t suppose you’d consider coming with me to the clock tower at midnight, would you? In an unofficial capacity?’

  Jon snorted and then thought better of it and put his arms round her. ‘You are totally and utterly crazy.’ He kissed her. ‘I’ll come and keep an eye on you, but next time, God forbid, that you get your hands on a bunch of incriminating photos, try telling me first.’ He paused and looked down at her. ‘I’m serious, Dora, I want to live a whole life with you, not just the edited highlights, pushed to the outside edge by your little lies – all of it, no omissions, no exclusions.’ He paused. ‘Do you understand?’

  Dora nodded and then kissed him back. ‘Yes, it’s just that I’m not used to having someone around to lean on,’ she said softly. ‘Now do you want to eat or dance? Do you dance?’

  Jon shrugged. ‘I can do that thing where you stand close and shuffle round very slowly.’

  Dora grinned. ‘I know that one, too.’

  Jon caught hold of her arm. ‘Be careful. All joking aside, you’re playing a dangerous game.’

  Dora nodded. ‘I know.’

  20

  While they waited near the clock tower, Milo told Spar some very unpleasant stories about things he’d seen when he’d been in the infantry. Spar shuffled down inside his coat, wriggling so that it covered his ears, trying hard to get as much of his body covered up as he could. He was nervous about being alone with Milo in the dark and even more so about what might happen when Dora Hall and Tom Fielding finally arrived. There was frost in the air and as he breathed, a plume of water vapour curled out in front of him like dragon’s breath. Below them, the bass notes of the music from the Spring Ball filtered through the darkness like a heartbeat.

  They’d found a good spot to hide though, tucked away behind a portakabin, where no-one could see them, but they could see the clock tower quite clearly.

  Milo was drawing another gory story to its conclusion. ‘So then, Charlie says to the MO, can you bring me leg back in a carrier bag as a souvenir? Something to put on the mantelpiece to show the kids.’ Milo took a long drag of his cigarette and laughed dryly. ‘What a sod, eh? Good bloke, Charlie, I miss him. Mind you, he’ll never play in goal again.’

  Spar nodded distractedly. ‘How much longer have we got to wait?’

  Milo slid his sleeve up and looked at his watch.

  ‘Few more minutes. You’ll know when it’s time because they stick the outside lights on, so the drunken bastards can find their way back to their cars.’

  ‘And what do we do when Mrs Hall and Tom Fielding show up?’

  It was something that Spar, until now, had been too nervous to contemplate. Milo laughed again. Spar really didn’t like the slightly hysterical edge to his tone.

  ‘What d’you think? We’ve got the element of surprise, cover of darkness – classic army ambush. God, this takes me back. Those two won’t want a lot of trouble. If we’re really lucky, she’ll get here before him, in which case it’ll be a doddle. If not, I’ll grab the woman, you take Tom Fielding. Bish-bash-bosh. Thirty seconds, just like that. She’ll be scared shitless, I reckon. She’ll hand the photos over, don’t worry – and there we are, mission accomplished. Just look like you mean business.’

  Spar pulled a face. He wasn’t convinced he wanted to look as if he meant business. Dora Hall was not much over five foot, it hardly seemed fair that Milo had chosen the easier option. ‘What if Fielding fights back?’ he asked apprehensively.

  Milo grinned and flexed his shoulders. His teeth glinted like fangs in the firelight. ‘Whack him one. Not too hard though – if in doubt, go for the family jewels.’

  Spar, trying to suppress the big knot that was forming in his throat, looked down at the hall. He could hear the strains of the ‘Last Waltz’. Now seemed a good moment to broach the subject that had been flitting in and out of his mind for several days.

  ‘Milo, I don’t reckon I’m really cut out to be a private eye,’ he said. ‘I can’t do with all this. I’ve been thinking about fish. I was looking in Exchange and Mart. There’s this bloke does a starter pack for koi carp farming. Two hundred quid a throw. He reckons you can make a lot of money if you can get the right stock. I’ve got that shed out the back of my place. And my girlfriend …’

  Milo waved him into silence. ‘You don’t have to explain it to me, matey. If surveillance isn’t in your blood you’re better off getting out of it. Snipers are born, not made.’ He dropped to one knee, and in the light from the fire took up a shooting position.

  Spar was about to agree and then realised that in Milo’s imaginary sights, a hunched figure was making his way up the rise towards the clock tower.

  ‘Tom Fielding?’ Spar whispered, his guts quietly turning to magma.

  Milo nodded. ‘That’s our man.’ He pulled back on the imaginary trigger and imitated the report of a rifle. ‘Looks like Mr Fielding is very keen to get his hands on Mrs Hall’s photo album.’

  Spar glanced around nervously, his gaze settling on the old tin can they had used as a makeshift brazier.

  ‘Do you think we ought to put the fire out?’

  Milo shook his head. ‘It’ll be all right. Just keep your voice down and keep out of sight.’

  Across the car park. Spar could see two other figures heading their way. Their approach was much more determined but they stayed in the shadows. They didn’t want to be seen. Spar screwed up his eyes, struggling to pick out their faces, and then realised it had to be Lawrence Rawlings and Alicia Markham. All they needed now was Dora Hall and they’d have a full house. He crouched a little lower. Where was she?

  Tom Fielding climbed with a certain determination in his gait. Hands in his pockets, his head was bowed against the biting night wind. Spar had no doubt from the way he moved that Tom Fielding could handle himself in a fight if it came to it. He would have given his soul to have been anywhere else but crouched in the darkness beside Milo.

  Tom Fielding was getting closer. Spar tried hard to remember to breathe. Finally, he could see Dora Hall walking briskly across the tarmac. From the way she moved he could tell she was cold too, cold and nervous. She ought to have brought a coat, he thought. She must be freezing.

  While he had been watching Dora, Alicia and Lawrence had vanished into the shadows. Spar thought Dora Hall was brave to come at all, let alone by herself. He knew he wouldn’t do it. His pulse quickening, he crept closer to Milo, who was hunkered down behind an unfinished brick wall, and waited.

  Dora’s apprehension was growing more unmanageable as she got further away from the safety of the main college buildings. What had been no more than a nervous flutter all evening was rapidly spinning itself into a dark glistening thread that tightened like a garrotte around her stomach. She glanced back towards the bright lights of the hall. It would be all right, said a voice in her head, the calm reasonable voice she used for trips to the dentist. Nothing would happen, she would be fine. Just fine. It didn’t sound very convincing.

  Litter cartwheeled by on the wind and made her jump, stifling the reassuring voice and opening the floodgates to a great heaving mass of doubts; what the hell did she think she was doing? Jon was right, she had been a complete idiot to agree to Tom Fielding’s midnight rendezvous.

  Dora looked up at the clock tower, looming ominously against the night sky. An abstract image of someone breaking into her flat scurried through her mind, followed by the faces of the men who had tried to steal
the cat basket at Anchor Quay. What was to say they weren’t already waiting for her in the shadows? What if they had been working for Tom Fielding after all? Anything was possible.

  The calming voice was quieter now, reduced to an almost incomprehensible mumble. She took another breath, trying to throttle the life out of the fearful whine that had taken its place, the whine that was loudly encouraging her to turn and run – a few more minutes and it would all be over, whimpered the calm voice, just a few more minutes. She peered into the gloom, picking her way across the uneven concrete. One step at a time, and then another, and another, closer to the tower; it would soon all be over.

  Seeing in the dark had never been Dora’s strong suit and the added anxiety that she might trip helped to wind the tension tighter still. By the time she stepped into the puddle of dark at the base of the clock tower, all her senses were strung as taut as piano wire. Every molecule felt as if it was desperately straining to pick up something, some clue, some hint from the darkness. She glanced left and right, feeling horribly alone, wondering where Jon was. He’d told her he would ride shotgun, but she wished she’d asked him to stay a bit closer.

  The icy wind tugged and pulled unnoticed at her evening dress. Fear had banished the biting cold to the distant edge of her consciousness. What if Jon wasn’t there after all? She struggled to stamp out the thought before the implications caught hold, and focused all her attention on the shadows around the base of the tower.

  In his hiding place by the portakabin. Spar felt dizzy. He could almost hear the adrenalin pumping through his veins. He was crouched like a runner on the starting blocks, swallowing down the bitter taste that flooded his mouth – a few seconds, just another few seconds, and it would all be over. His body seemed to have forgotten how to combine breathing and thinking. His palms were wet, his eyes were fixed on the darkness.

  ‘Get ready, get ready – not long now,’ Milo murmured, as Tom Fielding finally settled himself beside the clock tower. ‘He’s all alone.’

  ‘And I think it would be a good idea if we kept it that way,’ whispered an unfamiliar voice behind them.

  Spar started so violently that both feet left the ground. The pent-up breath burst out of his chest as if he had sprung a leak. He swung round, feeling his guts do an unpleasant double somersault, and knew for certain that he was in the wrong job. He looked up straight into a torch beam and flinched. He hated violence, especially the real sort where you were likely to get hurt. He glanced round, expecting to see Milo explode like a madman out of the shadows and wondered if he would have the courage to follow him. For an instant Spar had an unnerving flashback of the commando knife and prayed that Milo had left it safe at home.

  To his complete amazement, Milo took one look at the light, whimpered, and fell onto his hands and knees.

  Spar looked heavenwards, offered an earnest word of thanks and then snapped, ‘Who the hell are you?’ After all, someone had to say something manly.

  ‘Chief Inspector Jon Melrose, Keelside CID. Now, if you gentlemen would like to stay calm, I think we can ensure that this goes off smoothly. What do you say to that?’

  Spar put his hands up and clambered to his feet. He didn’t like to contemplate what sort of sentence he might have got for helping to do over a police officer. ‘We’re not doing anything,’ he protested weakly.

  Their captor waved them closer to the portakabin.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Let’s make sure that’s how it stays. Just keep out of sight.’

  Milo got up clumsily, clinging to the bag of photos like a security blanket. Jon Melrose switched off his torch, and Spar, sweating with relief, began to tremble.

  ‘Tom?’ Dora whispered into the darkness. ‘Are you there?’

  The words echoed around the skeletal framework of scaffolding, making the hairs on the back of her neck prickle.

  Ahead of her, a torch flickered into life.

  ‘Dora Hall, I presume?’ said Tom Fielding in a low even voice. ‘Is that you?’

  Dora hurried towards the cone of light, aware only of desperately wanting to be somewhere else and the thump-thump-thump of a nervous pulse in her ears.

  ‘Have you got the photos?’

  She could barely see Tom’s face, just the monochrome of his Burberry mac picked out in the torch light. Dora nodded, then realised he might not be able to see her face.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, struggling to keep the tremor out of her voice. Just as she moved towards him she was surprised, and then relieved, to see a figure step out of the shadows to her left.

  The relief was instantly snatched away when a woman’s voice said crisply: ‘In that case, Mrs Hall, I think you had better give them to me. Now.’

  Dora froze, while Tom Fielding instinctively turned towards the sound, catching Alicia Markham’s distinctive features in the torch beam.

  Dora gasped and hissed Alicia’s name. Beside her, also caught in the spotlight’s glare, was Lawrence Rawlings. He winced, lifting his arms to cover his face. Alicia stared down the light towards Dora and held out her hand.

  ‘Give me the photos.’

  Dora struggled with a growing sense of astonishment. Of all the people she had expected to see under the clock tower, Alicia Markham and Lawrence Rawlings had not been amongst them. ‘I haven’t got them with me,’ she said as evenly as she could.

  Alicia stepped closer. ‘Please don’t lie to me. We know you have them, we had your phone tapped. I’d like you to hand them over or I shall be forced to take them.’

  ‘No, Alicia,’ said Lawrence firmly. ‘I’ve already said no strong-arm tactics.’

  Alicia snorted. ‘Don’t be so silly.’ She looked out beyond the light as if trying to find something in the darkness. From the portakabin came a mumbled, muffled, scuffling sound.

  ‘Get over here, you two, and get these photos,’ Alicia barked. ‘What the hell am I paying you for?’

  ‘It’s all right, Dora,’ Jon Melrose called, from somewhere close by. ‘I’ve got her little helpers here with me. Give the photographs to Tom and let’s get out of here.’

  Hearing Jon speak finally toppled Dora’s carefully balanced self control. The tight bubble of fear that had been rising in her chest exploded like a mortar shell. She took a great gulp of air and, forgetting everything else, totally consumed by a volatile mix of terror and relief, ran blindly towards the comforting sound of his voice. She stumbled forwards, disoriented in the darkness and the flickering torch light. It was pure animal instinct, so strong and overwhelming that she was running before she had time to form the thought.

  Alicia Markham and Lawrence Rawlings hurried after her, followed by a bemused Tom Fielding. As they rounded the corner near the portakabin, the overhead lights came on outside the main hall and, like a river flowing, lights snapped on all over the campus.

  One moment Dora was in darkness; the next instant, the area behind the portakabin was flooded with light. As her eyes adjusted to the glare, she saw Jon standing over Alicia’s henchmen, and instinctively took a step back – they really had been waiting for her in the dark. She stared at the two men, feeling her fear flutter back to life, and sucked in another breath.

  ‘You sent them up here to ambush me,’ she whispered, swinging round to face Alicia and Lawrence. ‘They were waiting for me, weren’t they? Who the hell do you think you are, Bonnie and Clyde?’

  Alicia Markham’s face contorted with fury. ‘Oh, God give me strength. This is a complete and utter farce,’ she hissed at Milo and Spar. ‘Don’t you two have guns or something? Make her give me the bloody photos.’ She lunged forwards, made a grab at Spar and slapped him hard, then turned back to Dora, one fist still clenched around his collar. ‘Give me those photos. I’ve paid for them. By rights they’re mine.’ She extended her free hand. ‘I already know what they are, delightful Technicolor snaps of our friend Mr Fielding here. Guy’s already told me about them.’

  Given the circumstances, Dora thought Tom Fielding looked remarkably relaxed
. He fixed Alicia with a humourless smile.

  ‘He has, has he? I hope you don’t live to regret going so far out on a limb for that bastard Phelps, Alicia. You know he was there at Ben Frierman’s party, don’t you? Did he tell you he likes to watch? That’s how he knew about the photos in the first place. That’s how your Mr Phelps gets his jollies. He sat in on the performance. Or maybe he forgot to mention that?’

  Alicia, although visibly shaken, stood her ground. ‘I really don’t care,’ she snapped, glaring at Dora. ‘I want those pictures. I’ve paid through the nose for them and I intend to have them.’

  Dora didn’t move.

  It was too much for Alicia; roaring with frustration, she turned her attention back to Spar and shook him furiously. ‘You and your bloody little bag of happy family snaps. Why couldn’t you have done what I asked you? It was so damned simple.’

  Spar whimpered and covered his head with his hands. His tormentor threw him to the ground, then hunched her shoulders and squared up to Dora.

  ‘I’ll ask you nicely, just once more. Give me the pictures, I want them now. Do you understand?’ Each syllable was enunciated with icy clarity between gritted teeth.

  Dora took a step back. Fairbeach’s normally restrained first lady was white with rage, her fists clenched, her jaw set. For a moment Dora was convinced that Alicia was going to punch her.

  Before either woman could move, Tom Fielding stepped between them. ‘Calm down, Alicia, it’s all over,’ he said firmly, and then glanced at Dora. ‘Have you really got the photos?’

  Dora nodded and reluctantly slipped off her jacket, pulling the envelope of prints out of the torn sleeve lining.

  Tom took them from her. ‘I wondered where these had got to. I was so drunk that night – ridiculous at my age. I was flattered, I suppose. When they didn’t surface I almost thought I’d got away with it. I’d got no idea that they would cause you all such trouble. Or me, come to that.’ He smiled grimly at Alicia, who was still spoiling for a fight. ‘But we all have to pay for our mistakes.’