All Things Undying (23 page)

Paul feigned wide-eyed innocence. ‘
Moi
? Hannah Ives, you have a dirty mind.'

I plucked a wet face cloth off the rim of the sink and tossed it at his head.

After a few more seconds, I said, ‘Olivia claims she makes regular deposits to Lloyds of the charitable contributions they receive, so Alf trusts banks to that extent.' I leaned my head back against the wall and closed my eyes, suddenly feeling very tired. ‘The only reason I can think of for not putting my money into, say, the Navy Federal Credit Union, is if I didn't want anybody, especially the IRS, to know that I had it.'

‘Well, duh.' Paul folded down a corner of a page to mark his place, closed the paperback and dropped it on to the bathmat. ‘There must be a million ways to launder money when you collect donations on the street.'

‘True, but Paul, you didn't see it. To quote Olivia, it was a whacking great wodge of wonga. If Alf spent a century standing on a folding chair in Speakers' Corner at Hyde Park, he couldn't collect that much money. It's ill-gotten gains. I'm sure of it. And so is Olivia. Alf pretends that he's only a fiver away from going on the dole, yet he hasn't given her a raise in over a year. She's really fuming.'

‘Well,' Paul drawled, ‘I could spend the rest of the evening lolling in the tub, discussing Alf and his finances, but if I'm taking you to dinner, I'd better get a move on. What's your pleasure?'

I whipped a towel off the warming rack and handed it to him, watching appreciatively as he stepped out of the tub, tall and trim, water droplets glistening on his slightly graying chest hairs and trickling down his recently acquired tan. ‘I'm thinking we should skip dinner.'

Paul wrapped the towel twice around his waist, tucked it in. He padded over to where I was sitting, took my hand and pulled me to him. ‘How about we just postpone dinner,' he whispered into my hair. ‘We have reservations at Spice Bazaar at eight.'

I wrapped my arms around his waist, hardly noticing as the bathwater soaked through my sleeves. ‘Sounds like a plan,' I mumbled as his lips found mine.

Twenty minutes later, I lolled in his arms, gazing out the window and across the Dart where the last rays of the sun were turning Kingswear into a photo opportunity – if I had a camera handy and even the remotest inclination to get out of bed. ‘Do you think Olivia turned him in?' Paul breathed into my ear.

I rolled over to face my husband. ‘Could be. When I put her on the bus, she was fit to be tied.'

Five minutes later, I would find out how pissed off Olivia Sandman could be.

I had just started dressing when Olivia returned my call.

‘Hannah. Guess you heard.'

‘Someone from Totnes is helping police with their inquiries?'

‘It's Alf. Serves the bastard right.'

I buttoned the last button on my shirt, one-handed, and sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘Did he do it, do you think? Did he run Susan Parker down?'

‘I don't know and I don't care. Hope they lock him up forever.'

‘How did the police get on to him, Olivia?'

‘Somebody might have called Crimestoppers?'

‘Was that somebody, you, Olivia?'

‘Not saying I did, not saying I didn't. But do you remember how I told you Alf pays me a salary? What I shoulda said is I get an allowance. When my mum died, she left a bundle, but it's in trust, like, with my mum's brother, Uncle Alf, as trustee. I get the lot when I'm thirty.'

I had figured that Olivia was about the same age as my daughter, born in the same decade anyway, but I had never asked her. ‘When's the magic birthday, then?'

‘November fifth. It's Guy Fawkes Day. I was planning to splash out on a party for my mates. Had the restaurant laid on and everything. So I go to the bank where they got my trust, and you know what I find out? The money's gone. Most of it, anyway. One hundred pounds and some pence is all that's left. My bleeding uncle spent it, the son of a bitch.' Olivia took a deep, shuddering breath, and I could tell that she was crying.

‘Olivia, that's terrible! You need to see a lawyer. What your uncle did is illegal.'

‘What I need is to knock his bloody block off, and take that bleeding bag of money. Should have done it when I first saw it,' she snuffled. ‘Now the police got it, I s'pose, cos they got the car.'

Paul made a production of checking his watch, tapping the crystal, putting it to his ear to see if it was still running. If I didn't hurry, we were going to be late for our reservation.

But, there was something puzzling me. ‘Olivia, when we looked at your uncle's car the other day, it didn't appear to be damaged.'

‘It wasn't.' She paused, and I could hear her breathing. ‘Not then.'

‘What the hell are you talking about, Olivia?'

‘You think I just go along like a daft dog? When he had my money, I had to dance to his fooking tune. Yes, Uncle Alf, no, Uncle Alf. But that was going to be all over once I got what was mine by rights. So, me and Kayleigh, we drive to Alf's and I'm going to tell him I know what's going on, and where's my money, you bastard. But Alf, he's not home, and I see the Beemer's in the garage.' She paused to take a breath. ‘Not sure I should say anymore.'

Paul was making circular, hurry-up motions with his hand. I countered with my hand up, palm out: hold-your-horses, bucko. ‘So, what happened next, Olivia?'

‘It was Kayleigh's idea.'

‘What was?'

‘She had a screwdriver in her car. She unscrewed the hinges t'one side of the lock, and we got in, easy like. I was gonna get my money, see, but damn that Alf, he had the car locked tight.

‘So I picked up a big stone, and I wrapped it in my cardigan, and I was going to smash one of his fooking windows so I could open up the boot . . .' She started to giggle. ‘Then I had a brilliant idea. I told Kayleigh what I was about and we fell about laughing!'

While Olivia was busily confessing to a B and E, Paul had given up on me. He brushed aside my hair, kissed the nape of my neck and walked over to the window where I could hear him speaking into his cell phone, telling the Spice Bazaar that we'd be a few minutes late.

‘If I busted the windows,' Olivia continued, ‘Alf'd just get them fixed. But what if he got a bit of aggro from the police? So I wound up and gave his left front wing a good whack. Pranged it good, I did. Oooh, it was brilliant! Then Kayleigh and me, we put the garage door back together and scarpered.'

I pressed my hand to my mouth, stifling a laugh. It
was
brilliant. Wicked, completely illegal, of course, but brilliant. ‘And then you called Crimestoppers?' I asked again.

‘It's anonymous, right?'

‘Right.'

‘No way they can find out who called?'

‘None.'

‘Well, OK then.'

‘Olivia, you didn't answer my question.'

I could practically hear her smile coming down the line. ‘What question?'

Paul had started to pace, so I changed course. ‘So what's happening with Alf, do you know?'

‘I guess he's screwed. Alf called me on my mobile and asked me to get the name of a good lawyer.'

‘Do you think he
was
responsible for Susan's hit-and-run, had the car repaired, and then you, well, un-repaired it?'

‘Dunno. But they musta stitched Alf up good and proper. He says he's not coming home for a while, and I should “carry on”.' She snorted. ‘As if. WTL can go fook itself.'

I laughed out loud. ‘I figured you didn't totally buy into Alf's theology.'

‘Too right,' she said. ‘So you know what I did? I got that lawyer's name and number, all right, but Alf? He can whistle for it. I'm hiring the bloke myself. He says he's gonna help me get my mum's money back.'

TWENTY

Robin Rose-Price and Jean Parnell,
The Land We Left Behind
, Orchard Publications, 2005, p.78

E
arly the next morning, in spite of enjoying a full English breakfast at the B&B, I walked up the hill to Alison Hamilton's with the taste of lamb rogan josh making an occasional, but not unwelcome appearance – a hint of ginger, a tinge of red curry – at the base of my tongue.

While Paul and Jon were attending a seminar at BRNC, Alison and I planned a second trip from Three Trees Farm to Coombe Hill carrying a small load of household goods that her father had packed up with the assistance of his right-hand man, Tom Boyd.

A few minutes before ten, I was dropping a detergent tab in the dishwasher, while Alison was scurrying around her kitchen, turning over newspapers, napkins and the previous day's mail searching for her car keys, when the telephone rang. She snagged the receiver with one hand, and said ‘hello' while moving cereal boxes around on the sideboard.

‘Oh, hi, Tom. We're running a little late, but we should be there to pick up the boxes shortly.' Alison paused, and I watched her expression change from mild annoyance to shock. ‘Stolen? You have
got
to be pulling my leg! Dad's car is a wreck!'

I closed the dishwasher door, set the dial to normal wash, and focused my full attention on Alison's end of the conversation.

‘Who would want it, Tom? Who? It looks like the last vehicle standing after a banger race.' She leaned against the countertop, nodding. ‘Yes, yes, I understand, but are you sure he didn't just drive it to town and forget where he parked it?'

Alison pantomimed an exaggerated eye-roll. ‘He could have walked home, couldn't he, or someone could have given him a ride? Everyone knows my father . . . What? Of course you should, right away. And Tom? This time, we're really going to take away his car keys. Right?'

Alison dropped the phone into its cradle, closed her eyes and massaged the bridge of her nose. ‘Did you hear that?'

‘Hard not to.'

‘Tom had to ask me whether to call the police. My God.' She took a deep, calming breath and let it out slowly. ‘Now, where the
hell
are my car keys?'

As my friend continued to rant, I spotted what looked like a Lucite sunflower peeking out from behind the electric kettle. ‘Fob shaped like a sunflower?'

Alison nodded.

I pointed.

Alison scooped up the keys, tugged on the hem of her T-shirt in a let's-get-down-to-business way. ‘I swear, Hannah, the sooner I get that impossible old man into Coombe Hill, the better. When Tom showed up for work this morning,' she elaborated, ‘Dad reported that he'd left the car where he usually does, in the courtyard, but when he came out this morning, the car was gone.'

‘Priuses are popular right now, hard to get.' I'd read something of the sort recently in
The Times
. ‘Maybe they weren't interested in the body, just the parts?'

Alison spread her arms wide. ‘That's me! Body a wreck, but, oooh the parts!'

‘Nut!' A tiny fact stored somewhere in my brain surfaced and began to wave hello. ‘Alison, didn't you tell me that Tom worked part-time in a body shop in Plymouth?'

‘I know where you're going, Hannah, but Tom's worked for my father for more than ten years. There's no way he could have been involved in something like that.'

‘How about Tom's mates?'

‘Possible, I suppose, but not likely.' Alison paced from the Aga to the pantry to the sink and back again, nervously tidying counters that looked perfectly tidy to me. ‘I told Tom to go ahead and report it to the police. Now,
where
did I put my handbag? Other than informing the insurance company, I don't suppose there's much more we can do.'

That tiny thought was now waving and shouting,
you-hoo!

Was Alison's father trying to scam his insurance company? He had been reluctant to file a claim for the damage from the accident, but if the car were reported stolen instead, who would be the wiser?

None of my business, of course.

I returned to an earlier, slightly less thorny topic. ‘Do you have to wait until the completion date to move your dad off the farm?'

‘No, thank goodness. We've had the flat from August first, so as far as I'm concerned, Cathy Yates can move into Three Trees Farm at any time, fancy New York interior designer and all.' She winked. ‘Although that would be illegal, of course.'

By then she had collected her keys, her handbag, and a lightweight jacket, and we were headed for the front door. ‘What's kept him on the farm until now was the cows. How he loves those cows.' She grinned. ‘Feckless is Daddy's little girl, I'm afraid. Did I tell you they were sold to another farmer?' When I nodded, she continued, ‘Well, the transport lorry's coming for them later this morning, so my father's in mourning, everything but the black armband.'

Olivia Sandman, on the other hand, was far from mourning, if I interpreted the punctuation on her text message correctly:

‘Well, that's that,' I commented to Alison after sharing the news. I switched off my iPhone and dropped it back into my bag. ‘I suppose it will be all over the news tonight.'

Alison apparently feels compelled to look at you while talking, which is not particularly compatible with conversation while driving. I lived to see another day, because she pulled into a lay-by on the outskirts of Dittisham before facing me to say, ‘I'm glad they caught the fellow, of course, but there must be more to it than a simple exchange of words on a London street.'