A Dish Served Cold

by Diney Costeloe

  “No,” replied Roger. “I want to see Crozier.”

  “Or Sergeant Grant,” put in Karen. “Is he here?” She smiled at Butler. “We do want to see someone we already know.”

  “I think he may be in,” said Butler, grudgingly. He picked up a telephone and within five minutes Sergeant Grant appeared.

  “Mr Smith, Miss Smith,” he said. “How can I help you?”

  Before Roger could answer, Karen treated him to a beaming smile. “Thank you so much for seeing us,” she said. “We’d like to talk to you about my stepmother, Pam. And we’ve brought the things you wanted with us.”

  If DS Grant was surprised he didn’t show it but said, “Well, if you’d like to come this way,” and led them into the interview room where Roger had been questioned before.

  They all sat down and Grant said, “Now then, what can I do for you?”

  Karen took charge. “I understand you are looking for my stepmother, Pam,” she began and when Grant nodded she went on, “well, I saw her yesterday, in Oxford Street, in London.”

  “I see,” Grant said. “And did you speak to her?”

  “Yes, I did,” Karen said, “but she pretended not to know me. Only I know it was her, sergeant.”

  “You could have been mistaken,” suggested Grant.

  “No, I couldn’t,” Karen asserted. “I’ve lived with her for nearly nineteen years. I know my stepmother when I see her. She was coming out of Grosvenor’s, the boutique you know?”

  Grant didn’t, but he nodded anyway and she went on. “She was coming out of Grosvenor’s, and she must have bought something there…she was carrying one of their bags. Anyway, I called out ‘Pam!’ in a loud voice and she stopped and looked over her shoulder. So I said her name again and she looked at me. I know she recognised me, I could see she did, but then she started to move away. I caught her arm and said, ‘Pam, it’s me. Don’t pretend you don’t know me,’ and she said, ‘But I don’t know you. Let go of my arm.’ Then she pulled away and stepped into the road and hailed a taxi.”

  “This woman said that she didn’t know you,” said Grant. “What makes you so certain that she did?”

  “I know Pam when I see her,” Karen said firmly. “And I could see she’d recognised me. She’d done something to her hair, it was a bit different, but I know it was her.”

  “What did you do when she got into the taxi?” Grant asked.

  “Nothing at first,” Karen said. “I was so gob-smacked to see her, you know? just stood there, but then some American creep spoke to me, tried to pick me up, so I went into Selfridges and had a coffee while I thought what to do.”

  “This American, did he see you talking to the woman?” asked Grant. He was deeply sceptical about this whole story.

  Karen looked surprised. “Well, yes, that’s why he spoke to me. He said something like, ‘she doesn’t want to know you, but I’d like to’.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I walked away. I went into Selfridges, had a coffee and then, well, I came home to tell Dad.”

  “I see,” Grant said, “Well, I think it would be best if you make an official statement and then we can follow it up.”

  Karen nodded. “OK,” she said cheerfully, adding as if it were an afterthought, “We’ve brought the bank statements for her joint account with Dad, and a mirror and a comb. I think you wanted them for DNA or something. She put the polythene bag she’d been holding onto the table and looked across at her father who was still clutching a cardboard folder in his hands.

  “Dad’s got the statements,” she said, “but of course they won’t show you if she bought anything yesterday on her card or with a cheque. You’ll have to go to the bank for that, but Dad won’t mind that, will you, Dad?”

  Roger had not spoken since they had come into the room but now he placed the folder on the table and said stiffly, “Of course not. And I’ve got the latest mobile phone bill here, I can’t find the others. I probably binned them if they were addressed to Pam.”

  “But the statements?”

  Roger’s jaw tightened, “They were addressed to both of us,” he said.

  He still wasn’t totally convinced about this trip to the police station. He had only allowed himself to be persuaded to come because he did not want the police to be seen coming to the shop again. He hadn’t seen Gord or Charleigh for some time, but the frightener was all too recent. He had already decided not to take anything else they brought to him. It was getting too heavy. He didn’t really think that the police would believe that Karen had met Pam in Oxford Street, but maybe, just maybe, her plan with the card would work. He would never have allowed her to set out on with such a hare-brained scheme if she’d told him in advance, but as it was, he supposed, it might just work.

  Grant looked at the mirror and the combs in their bags and said, “Thank you, sir, I’ll give you a receipt for these items. And now, Miss Smith, it you’d like to make your statement formally and sign it, I’ll see Inspector Crozier sees it as soon as he comes in tomorrow.”

  “And will you follow it up?” asked Karen eagerly. “Will you check with Grosvenor’s?”

  “I’m certain enquiries will be made,” Grant assured her. “Now if you’d like to go with WPC Hart and make your statement…?”

  Karen went with the WPC whom Grant had summoned, leaving her father with the sergeant who showed him out, saying, “Thank you for your co-operation, Mr Smith.”

  When Crozier came in the next morning he was greeted by an excited DS Grant, who related the Smith’s visit to the station the day before.

  “And did you believe her story?” Crozier asked when he heard it all.

  Grant shrugged. “I’m not sure, sir. It had the ring of truth about it, and she’s very keen that we check it out.”

  “Have you made any further enquiries?” asked Crozier.

  “No, sir not yet.”

  “Well, get on to the Met and get them to check with this shop, Grosvenor’s. See if their records show Pam Smith used her card there, and if not if they remember serving anyone who looked like Pam Smith. She could have paid cash. Have we got a photograph of her by the way?”

  Grant shook his head. “No, I’ll ask Roger Smith for one.”

  “Yes, do that,” Crozier said. “And send someone round to the bank straight away.”

  It was four evenings later that Crozier and Grant went round to Cardiff Road again, and when Roger Smith opened the door they asked for his daughter.

  “Why do you want Karen?” Roger asked. “Have you news of my wife?”

  “Perhaps we might come in, sir,” Crozier suggested. “Easier than talking on the front doorstep.” He cast his eyes expressively at the twitching curtains in Margaret Hillier’s front window.

  “Nosy cow!” muttered Roger, standing aside to let them in. Once again he led them into the cold, disused sitting room. The grey lace cobwebs still hung from the ceiling, and the dust still coated the furniture.

  “Is your daughter at home?” Crozier asked again.

  “She doesn’t live here,” Roger said. “She’s got her own place.”

  “I see, perhaps you’d be kind enough to give us her address.”

  “She’s coming here this evening,” Roger said. “She should be here in the next half hour. What’s all this about? Did you find Pam?”

  Crozier looked at his watch. “I think we’ll wait for Miss Smith if you don’t mind, sir.”

  “And if I do mind?” Roger demanded belligerently.

  “We will wait in the car, if that suits you better,” Crozier said equably. “I imagine she won’t be long.” He got to his feet, but Roger waved him back to his seat. He thought of Margaret Hillier watching gleefully from her front room and seeing two men waiting in a car outside his house. Margaret Hillier…. and who else?

  He said gruffly, “No need, we’ll wait in here for her. I’ll just give her a buzz on her mobile.”

  Crozier and Grant waited while he left the room and made the ca
ll from the telephone in the hall.

  “She’s on her way,” he told them and sat down by the window. An uneasy silence fell and, in the ten minutes before they heard Karen’s key in the front door, Roger had all too much time to wonder why the police had come, and why they were determined to wait for Karen before telling him if they’d found Pam.

  Karen came into the house and, dropping her tote bag in the hall, walked into the sitting room.

  “Did you find her?” she asked without preamble. “Did you find my stepmother?”

  “Not yet,” Crozier replied. “We are here on another matter.” He paused giving time for Roger’s blood to run cold at the thought that they were here about his business with Gord and Charleigh and then added, “though the two matters are connected. Sergeant?”

  Grant stood up and said, “Karen Smith, I am arresting you for fraud, for obtaining goods by deception and for making a false instrument….” He went on to caution her, but neither Karen nor Roger was listening. The colour drained from Karen’s face as she stared at him in stupefaction, while Roger exploded, “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I must ask you to accompany us to the police station to answer some questions,” Crozier said to Karen, completely ignoring Roger’s outburst. “Sergeant Grant will lead the way. You may come as well, sir, if you wish,” he added turning to Roger, “but perhaps you’d like to ring your solicitor if you have one, and ask him to meet us there. If not we can ask the duty solicitor to come in. It’s up to you.”

  Chapter 20

  The day Arabella claimed her lottery win was the most exciting in her life. As soon as she had received her passport, the first she had ever owned, and her driving licence in her new name at Sylvia’s address, she had made her claim by phone. Once National Lottery had made all the necessary security checks, she was invited to go to her nearest regional centre to collect her cheque.

  “What do I need to bring with me,” she asked when they rang back to arrange a date.

  “Two forms of picture ID, you know like passport and driving licence, and you winning ticket, of course.” There was a smile in the man’s voice as if he were enjoying her delight at winning.

  “Now, you will remember I really don’t want any publicity of any sort,” Arabella reminded him. “I just want to collect my cheque and go.”

  “I’m sure you have considered that it is a great deal of money,” the man said. “I know we asked you before, but are you quite sure you don’t want any financial advice. It’s quite free, you know. You don’t want that much just sitting in your bank account, do you?”

  She had finally agreed, urged on by Sylvia to take advantage of the offer, but she wanted to have the money in her hand first.

  Arabella and Sylvia had arrived together at the centre and were welcomed by the manager who introduced himself as David Hall. He was a spruce little man with wiry, iron-grey hair and a big smile. He gripped her hand tightly as they shook hands and said, “This is an exciting day for you, Ms Agnew. Do come this way.”

  He led them through into what he called the winners’ lounge. Here Arabella had her photograph taken.

  “Just for security purposes you know,” David Hall assured her. “We photograph all our major winners. Routine. It’s just to avoid any problems in the future.”

  He checked Arabella’s passport and driving licence, then he took the ticket to a machine in the corner of the room and ran it through, just as Emma Wilson had done in Neighbourhood News all those weeks ago.

  Arabella and Sylvia waited the few seconds that this took, but to Arabella it seemed an eternity before he returned to her beaming, his hand outstretched.

  “Congratulations, Ms Agnew. Your ticket is indeed the winner that we thought it was, you are richer by eight million, one thousand, one hundred and forty five pounds.”

  Although she had known this for some time, having it confirmed to her like this made her feel weak at the knees. Sylvia gave a shriek and flung her arms round her.

  “Arab,” she cried, “It’s really true. You’ve won! You’ve really won!” And the two of them hugged each other, laughing and crying at the same time.

  Behind them came the sound of a popping cork and they turned to find David Hall pouring champagne into glasses at a little side table. His delighted beam matched their own as he handed them each a glass of champagne.

  “Here’s to your future,” he said raising a glass of his own. “I have you cheque here, may it bring every happiness to yourself and those whom you love.”

  They drank his toast and then the moment had come. He handed Arabella a cheque made out in her new name, the name that Roger Smith had never heard and never would hear, Arabella Agnew. Arabella looked at it, reading the words printed on the ‘pay’ line, and the amount in figures, and knew that from this moment forward her life would never be the same again.

  I’m free, she thought exultantly. My life is my own from now on, and no one is going to tell me what to do ever again.

  She sank down onto a sofa, feeling light-headed, as if she had drunk the whole bottle of bubbles by herself. She was still clutching the cheque and her champagne glass which tilted at an alarming angle. Sylvia rescued it setting it safely on a table before looking down over Arabella’s shoulder to read the amount on the cheque.

  “Well done, Arab,” she murmured. “It was well worth the wait.” And they hugged each other again.

  David Hall, watching them, asked, “Would you like us to take some photographs?”

  “I said no publicity,” Arabella said sharply.

  “I know. That’s no problem from our point of view. I just thought you might like some for yourself as a reminder of the day. Perhaps you and your friend together. Don’t worry,” he went on seeing she was tempted, “no one else will see them.”

  Arabella allowed herself to be convinced and posed for several pictures, both by herself holding the cheque and with Sylvia, each of them wreathed in smiles.

  Her interview with the two financial advisors and a legal advisor was interesting. David Hall had pointed out that if she simply paid the money into a bank account, despite supposed confidentiality, the word could soon get round that she must have had a lottery win. That was a possibility she hadn’t considered and it worried her a little, but her most looming fear was that if someone else took charge of her amazing windfall it might vanish as the money from her mother’s house had vanished when she had relinquished its charge to Roger.

  Without mentioning Roger, she explained why she was so reluctant to allow anyone else to have control of her money, but repeated assurances of their professional status finally convinced her that she would be better off with their help than trying to do things on her own. She retained £100,000 for her immediate use, and agreed that the rest should be invested in the short term, while she decided what she wanted to do with it long term.

  “But I want to be able to get at it if I need it,” she stipulated. “I don’t want it all tied up so that I can’t get money as and when I like. I want you to write that down…now.”

  They did as she asked and said they would put together an investment portfolio that would guarantee her a handsome income whilst still allowing her capital to grow. They would be in touch. She gave her address as St Jude’s Cottage.

  Arabella didn’t stay with Sylvia for long after that, though St Judes was still technically her address. She was concerned that the journalist from the Chronicle might still be sniffing around. She had paid back Sylvia all the money she owed her, and she was still immeasurably grateful to her for providing a port in a storm, but she wanted to begin her new life somewhere else, to make her own decisions and choose her own direction. She decided to go back to London and stay at the Sylvester Hotel while she looked a flat to buy.

  “I want to have a good look round before I buy anything,” she told Sylvia on their last night together at the cottage. “ I want to look at different areas in London before I decide. Will you come up to see me and help me look
?”

  As soon as she had booked into the Sylvester, Arabella had phoned the escort agency that Sylvia used, and booked André for an evening out. An entirely new world had opened up to her that night she had spent with him, and though she was nervous about arranging a night out with him on her own, she was determined that she was going to learn her way about London and she thought he was the one to teach her.

  She was right. With André to escort her out on the town, she took on London night life. As she had no knowledge of where to go, she left the choices to André, and he had taken her to night clubs, theatres and restaurants, before returning with her to the Sylvester where he continued her sex education between the silk sheets of the king-sized bed. Since Arabella realised what she had been missing all the years she had spent being pawed by Roger, since she had discovered the infinite number of exquisite sensations which André could produce in her starved body, she was almost insatiable, craving for more. The desert of her previous experience flowered extravagantly under his expert hand as she absorbed all he could teach.

  André, recognising he was on to a good thing, was more than willing to share his sexual expertise to extend hers. In one unguarded moment, Arabella had almost let slip her lottery win; not in so many words, but André was no fool. It was after a delightful evening spent in the suite, she had murmured languorously , “I’m going to do this for the rest of my life. I’ve so much to catch up on!”

  André had kissed her lightly and said, “You are my star pupil.”

  Arabella looked at him sharply. “I hope I’m your only pupil,” she said.

  André gave a rueful smile. “Come on Arab, you know what I do for a living. I can’t afford to turn down other assignments.”

  “Assignments? Is that how you think of me?”

  André heard the anger in her voice and said soothingly, “Of course not Arab, not you. You’re different….” his usual line when fielding this sort of question from clients….“but I have to be realistic, I can’t give you an exclusive on the money I earn from the agency.”

  “Well I’ll pay you more than the agency fee…then I can keep you to myself.”