A Dish Served Cold

by Diney Costeloe

  “No.”

  “Then it’s a good thing I warned you. It’s my guess that for some reason you don’t want to set their minds at rest.” André looked at her speculatively. “If I’m right, then it’s a good thing to know that you must be careful. Right?”

  Arabella still said nothing, staring past André, her mind racing as she tried to think what to do. If she said she would go to the police, then André’s information would be useless. She could tell him she was going and then she’d find some way of getting shot of him completely. She was about to say, “Well, I’d better get in touch with them, then,” when André, seeming to have read her mind said, “Of course either way, I might feel myself duty bound to go to them myself, just to let them know you are safe, and I’ve no doubt they’ll want your new name and address to check that it really is you.”

  “I had no idea that the police were looking for me,” Arabella said, trying not to let the panic she felt sound in her voice. “I’ll go and see them tomorrow.”

  “Good idea,” drawled André. “I’ll come too…hold your hand, you know? That’ll let your husband off the hook.”

  “Roger?” Arabella said involuntarily.

  “Yes, Roger. You are still married to him aren’t you?”

  “What on earth has he got to do with this? demanded Arabella, at a loss now.

  “He’s been arrested, you know.”

  “Arrested!” echoed Arabella in further surprise “What on earth for? How do you know all this?”

  André reached into his pocket and produced another newspaper cutting. He passed it across the counter for Arabella to read, saying as he did so, “I’m sure the press would be interested to hear that you’re safe and sound, as well. Perhaps I should let them know.” His eyes held hers for moment before he added, “Unless of course your disappearance and change of name have something to do with your lottery win.” He raised an enquiring eyebrow. “I imagine your husband would be quite anxious to claim his share. You are still married to him, aren’t you?” he asked again and when she didn’t reply he went on, “Yes, I thought so. Could be awkward in a divorce settlement, all that money.”

  Arabella studied the cutting, from the Daily Telegraph dated two days earlier. The headline was ‘Missing Housewife’ and her own face looked back at her from a rather poor photograph.

  “Not a clear picture,” remarked André, watching her, “but recognisable, don’t you think?”

  They must have found this picture in my desk, Arabella thought as she looked at it.

  Under the headline and the picture was a small piece about her disappearance.

  Pamela Smith has not been seen since she left her home on the night of 16th April and the police have grave concern for her safety. Her husband, Roger, is helping the police with their enquiries into another matter but he has no idea where his wife has disappeared to. His daughter, Karen, said today, “We haven’t seen Pam since she drove off in my dad’s car several weeks ago.”

  “‘Helping with police with their enquiries’,” quoted André. “Sounds as if they think he’s bumped you off!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Arabella snapped. “It says he helping them with another matter.”

  “Well, they are clearly worried about you. Someone must have reported you missing. Does Roger know you’ve come into money, or his daughter, this Karen?”

  Arabella shrugged, “I don’t know.”

  “Come on Arab, I think you do. Why else would you have done a runner?”

  “If you really want to know, I’d had enough of Roger,” replied Arabella sharply. “It was an abusive marriage and I decided to get out. OK?”

  “OK,” agreed André, “but in that case you certainly don’t want him to get his hands on your money.”

  “Or anybody else!” Arabella fixed André with a steely glare.

  “Oh come on Arab, I don’t want your money,” André grinned at her disarmingly, “I just want to help you enjoy it. Let’s face it there is plenty of it to enjoy, isn’t there?”

  His lazy smile did little to hide the avarice lurking in his eyes. She had thought to break off the relationship in her own good time, but now he knew all about her, the situation was acute.

  I can still sort something out, I’m sure. Arabella was thinking rapidly as she appeared to study the newspaper clipping. In the meantime I’m going to have to play along with this creep until I find some way of dealing with him.

  She shrugged and gave him a rueful smile. “Well,” she said, “I suppose you’re right there. I have no intention of Roger or that little cow Karen, ever finding out I’ve got this money, let alone getting their sticky hands on it.”

  “As Roger might in a divorce settlement,” put in André, helpfully.

  “Exactly, as Roger might in a divorce settlement. So, when I found I’d won, I disappeared…and I intend to stay disappeared.” Arabella finished her wine in one gulp, and looked defiantly across at André.

  “Good for you,” André applauded. “The problem is, someone else might recognise you,” he went on thoughtfully, topping up her glass again. “You must have friends who would know you at once if they bumped into you somewhere.”

  “Not many, and anyway it’s extremely unlikely I’d meet them by chance,” began Arabella, and then stopped. After all, she had met Karen quite by chance that morning in Oxford Street.

  “I think you should leave the country for a while,” suggested André. “Why don’t we take a trip abroad somewhere. An extended holiday. Go to the States or Australia. I’ve always wanted to go there. We could stay away for several months and by the time we got back, well, everyone would have forgotten about you.”

  “I suppose we could,” Arabella said thoughtfully. “It would be nice travel for a bit, but,” she added frostily, “after what you’ve done I can’t trust you, can I?”

  “Look,” André said soothingly, “I’m sorry I went through your desk, OK? I know I shouldn’t have, but you were so mysterious, I was intrigued. You’re a fascinating woman, Arab, and I wanted to know more about you.”

  Just lay it on with a trowel,” remarked Arabella with asperity.

  André gave her a sheepish grin. “Look, Arabella, when I first met you, you were just another client, OK? Another job for the evening, but as I got to know you I realised that I wanted you to be something else, I wanted our relationship to continue. Not just the sex, but the whole friendship bit. I really enjoyed our week in Paris and I thought you did too, but then, when we got back, you seemed to be pushing me away. I was hurt. I didn’t know what I’d done to upset you, so I wanted to find out more. I admit I went through your desk one night when you were asleep, but I never meant you any harm.” André was turning up the volume on his charm, sincerity ringing in every word, his dark eyes glowing. “I’ve come to love you, Arab, and if you want to escape once and for all from this Roger bloke, then that’s what you’ll do and I’ll help you.”

  Arabella gave a snort of laughter, “If you think I’m going to believe that you want your head examined.”

  “I couldn’t believe it myself at first,” began André, but Arabella cut across him.

  “If you love someone, you don’t poke through their things when they’re asleep. You don’t threaten them with what you’ve discovered about them, you don’t blackmail them.” She stressed the word blackmail, challenging him.

  “You do if you’re afraid of losing them,” he said simply.

  “Well, I don’t believe you and I don’t trust you,” Arabella declared. “Not after this. You spied on me and then threatened me with what you’d found. Hardly a sound basis for any sort of relationship, is it?” Careful, she told herself. Don’t overdo it. You’ve got to appear to have been brought round.

  André, unsurprised at her anger, gave one of his Gallic shrugs and slipping back into his French persona, said, “So, chérie, what do we do?”

  Arabella considered in silence for a long moment as the glimmerings of a plan slid into her mind, a
plan that needed her to buy some time.

  “Well,” she said at last, “I think you’re right. I do need to get away for a while till I’m forgotten.” She eyed him coldly. “But if we’re going to travel together we’re going to have to start from scratch. Clean slate. No more spying. And definitely no strings.”

  “Clean slate. No more spying,” repeated André obediently, “and no strings.”

  Arabella appeared to accept this with a nod. “All right,” she said. “Let’s do it. Where shall we go?”

  They had spent another half hour finishing the wine and discussing possibilities, then Arabella said, “Well, that’s it for tonight. I’m exhausted, so I’m going to chuck you out.”

  With her promise that they would meet up again tomorrow to finalise plans, André made no more than a token effort to stay and disappeared into the night. As she closed the door behind him Arabella almost collapsed against it with relief.

  Christ! she thought, how am I going to get out of this one?

  She passed a sleepless night, her brain churning with ideas and possibilities, each to be discarded and reconsidered, as her mind continued to revolve in endless circles.

  There was no way she was breaking free of Roger only to be trapped by André. That was the first thing and that was a definite. She didn’t trust him as far as she could throw him, but she didn’t think he would actually go to the police with her identity. Not yet. That might jeopardise his chance of getting his hands on her money. So, she had bought herself a little time, but how much? She had no illusions about him and felt certain that if he suspected her of double dealing, he would turn her in out of spite; cut his losses and go to Roger….or the press. Yes, it’d be the press…he’d get no money out of Roger.

  No, she decided, she needed to keep him happy for a while until she had found a way round this problem. Let him think they were going travelling round the world together. That way he would be as keen to keep her identity safe as she was. He wouldn’t want to share the money with Roger, either.

  There were, however, other people to worry about. Who else might have seen the programme who could recognise her in her new persona? Sylvia was the only person who had known her well as both Pam and Arabella, and she had nothing to fear from her. Except for the momentary meeting with Karen in Oxford Street, she’d had no contact with anyone from her previous life since she’d driven away in Roger’s car. Surely no one she’d met since she had become Arabella would recognise her as the Pam Smith of the picture; but suppose they did? Suppose someone at the Sylvester saw it? Or the man from the lottery? Would they connect her with the missing woman? Surely not! Pamela Smith was a common enough name. None of them knew her well enough to make the connection between Pamela Smith housewife from Bristol and Arabella Agnew sophisticated single lady living in Chelsea. André had recognised her of course, but probably only because he’d already discovered what her name had been before and so he’d looked twice at the picture.

  Why are the police looking for me anyway? she wondered. Roger’s hardly likely to have posted me as missing, unless he reported that I stole his car, and that was ages ago. If they were looking for me for that they’d have made the appeal sooner. Perhaps there hasn’t been a programme sooner. Surely they don’t bother with minor things like car theft on Crimewatch, do they? And what did André say about amnesia? Do they think I’m wandering about somewhere, not knowing who I am? They can’t really be wondering if Roger has murdered me, can they?

  Had André told her everything? Arabella wished she’d seen the programme herself, so that she knew just exactly what had been said.

  I-player! Of course she could watch the programme again on I-player. She went over to her computer and called up the BBC website. When she’d watched the programme, Arabella felt a little less worried. The picture they showed on the screen was not a good one, and certainly not an up-to-date one. Yes, André had recognised her, but he’d already known about her change of identity from his raid on her desk. He knew that in another life she’d been Pamela Smith, so he could see that the picture they were showing on Crimewatch was indeed the Pamela Smith aka Arabella Agnew, that he now knew so well.

  But who could have reported me missing? she wondered. The only other people she could think of were Marilyn, or possibly that nosy Hillier woman from next door.

  It must be Marilyn, she thought. Margaret Hillier wouldn’t bother.

  She considered phoning Marilyn and telling her that she was quite safe, but thought better of it. She was sorry if Marilyn was worried about her, though she actually considered it unlikely, but Arabella was not going to take the risk.

  André was right, she did need to get away; but not just from Roger. She had decided to disappear, and disappear she would.

  When had André actually rifled the desk? she wondered now. How had he been certain that she wouldn’t wake and catch him at it? He had taken quite a risk…or had he? She thought back to the last evening they’d spent together in the flat, the night they had played the bubbles game. She remembered very little about that evening except that the beginning of it at least had been very pleasurable. She remembered that she’d had a dreadful head the next morning but, with the evidence that between them they had consumed two bottles of champagne sitting on the bedside table, she had not been particularly surprised, and when she had commented on the amount they had drunk, André had laughed and said, “The bubbles game requires champagne, my darling, and the more bubbles there are the longer it lasts! I seem to remember you enjoyed yourself. A slight headache is a small price to pay, don’t you think?”

  Arabella had laughed too, agreed, and given little further thought to the matter. Until now, that was. Now the whole evening’s entertainment took on a more sinister air.

  Could he have drugged me or did he simply get me so drunk that I passed out? Arabella wondered. Whichever it was, he had plenty of time to take my keys and go through my desk.

  She thought ruefully of her comment to Sylvia that no man should ever have a hold over her again. “Well,” she announced to the empty flat, “you’ve had your day André, and you’ve reminded me that I should never, ever, trust a man again.”

  As the grey fingers of dawn lightened her bedroom, Arabella gave up on further sleep. The idea that had slipped into her mind the evening before began to crystallise into a definite plan and, after her sleepless night, she decided it was the best that she could come up with. To make it work, however, would need careful planning and even more careful timing. Pulling on her wrap she padded through to the kitchen and made herself a cup of coffee and then sat down with pen and paper to map out her moves.

  She thought of André going through her private papers and rage shafted through her again. How dare he! And now he thinks I’m going to forgive and forget and swan off round the world with him? He’s got another think coming. Surely he can’t really believe that? But he’s avaricious, her mind told her. Play on that.

  She turned to the list she had made. The first things to deal with were her papers. She went into the living room and opened her desk. With great care she went through everything in it, checking every document to see if anything was missing. As far as she could tell everything was there, he didn’t seem to have removed anything, but now he had copies of all her private papers and Arabella cursed herself for leaving them there.

  “Bloody André,” she exploded. “Oh, Sylvia, how right you were. I shouldn’t have trusted him.” Leaving only her passport in her desk, she bundled the papers together and put them into a large envelope. From now on she would keep her personal documents in a safety deposit box in the bank. She would take them today.

  What else must she do? Arabella consulted her list again. Business letters next, including one to her financial advisors, telling them that she would be travelling for some time and would need access to cash whilst she was away. She sat down at the computer and began to type.

  Those done, Arabella, not wanting to be interrupted, switched her mobile off and
went on-line, spending an hour checking out various flights from Heathrow Airport. She and André had considered several places they’d like to go the previous evening and she wanted some idea of flight times before she made a definite suggestion. Printing out what she had discovered, Arabella logged off again and tucked the print-out into her bag. She had all the information she needed, now all she had to do was to put her plan into operation.

  Arabella wondered where André was. She knew he didn’t trust her and she’d half expected him to turn up on her doorstep this morning. She decided to check. She dialled his mobile.

  “I’ve been trying to ring you,” André said crossly. “Your phone went to voicemail.”

  “I switched it off,” Arabella told him in exasperation. “I was researching places on the Internet. You told me to look up some information, and that’s what I’ve been doing. I didn’t want to be disturbed.”

  “Well? What did come up with?”

  “What about Cape Town for starters?” suggested Arabella. “I’ve always wanted to go there, see Table Mountain, go to the Kruger National Park.”

  “Sounds fantastic,” André was suddenly enthusiastic. “We can go on a safari.”

  “Yes, that’s what I thought,” Arabella made herself sound excited. “So I’ve been checking out flights,” she went on. “There’s no trouble about tickets as we’re going first class.”

  “That’s great,” André said, a note of satisfaction in his voice. “Can’t wait!”

  Arabella realised that there were traffic sounds in the background.

  “It’s very noisy, wherever you are,” she said casually. “ I can hardly hear you. Where are you?”