Murder in Mind (26 page)

Pat emerged from the corridor, phone in hand. ‘Stewart's out for the day, and the garden designer has arrived at Pryce House. He's not amused at being kept waiting.'

Vera had her jacket on, ready to go. She called up the stairs. ‘Mikey? Where are you? The cab's come to take us back to the flat.'

Angelika was on her own mobile phone, walking backwards and forwards, concentrating. ‘But Terry-my-love—'

Ellie did a double take. Hadn't Angelika been on sweetheart terms with someone called ‘Joey' a little while back?

Freya opened the front door. ‘My cab's here, too. Mrs Quicke, it's tipping it down. Why don't you come in the cab with me? It's not much out of the way to the hospital—'

‘Mikey!' A despairing cry from Vera.

Ellie shed her shoes and started to force her feet into the wellington boots. ‘Anyone else want to borrow some wet-weather gear? Help yourselves. Vera, leave Mikey behind. You'll manage quicker without him. Pack up everything you need for the next few days, and go back for the rest later. Pat!'

Pat wiped the smile off her face. Ellie didn't often use that authoritative tone of voice.

Angelika shut off her phone and wailed, ‘My manager says he's got a big deal on and can't come over here to help me. Whatever am I to do?'

Ellie stamped, to get her foot all the way down into the wellington boot, and reached for her heavy-duty mackintosh. ‘Pat; I don't care where he is or what client Stewart's seeing. Get him on his mobile. Now!'

Midge the cat made his stately way down the stairs and across the hall to the kitchen . . . from which emerged, with a burst of cheerful pop music, Ellie's two cleaners, armed with Hoovers and a box of cleaning materials. They stopped short, round-eyed, when they saw strangers. ‘Is it all right to go ahead as usual, Mrs Quicke?'

‘Definitely. Oh, except don't bother with my bedroom. Vera; off with you.'

Vera disappeared, with one last pleading look up the stairs. Ellie suspected that Mikey was sitting just out of sight, waiting for them all to leave. Wasn't he supposed to be at some computer class or other this week? Well, never mind that now.

The cleaners went slowly, oh so slowly, up the stairs, taking it all in, enchanted to have such an interesting interruption to their usual routine.

Freya said, ‘Shall I tell my cab to wait?'

‘Yes, please do.' Ellie took the phone out of Pat's hand. ‘Stewart? Emergency. Evan Hooper's in hospital with concussion, and his house went up in flames last night. Mrs Hooper is staying with me for the time being. I need someone to collect her from here, take her over to the house, assess the damage, contact the insurance people, arrange to have windows boarded over or whatever . . . and oh, have anything salvageable put into store. I realize you're working out of the office today. Yes, Pat did say. Can you get someone to take over from you?'

‘Ellie, I can't just abandon this job.' Exasperated.

‘Could Nirav do it? Yes, I know he's not really experienced enough to take over from you, but this takes priority.'

‘You're barking mad to get mixed up with that lot; you know that?'

‘You'll do it, then? What a relief. You know Mrs Hooper by sight, don't you? She hasn't many clothes with her. I'll see if I can find her a mac and some boots or something. Oh, and by the way, it would be best if you didn't tell anyone where Mrs Hooper is staying. There's some nutter going around knocking off the Hooper women—'

‘What! Ellie, what on earth—'

‘Oh, and Diana's been up at the hospital all night with Evan and she's sleeping it off in my bed at present. Don't spread that around, either. Understood?'

‘Ellie, you can't mean—!'

Ellie killed the call. Angelika was standing there: fragile, helpless, beautiful – and dressed in the most unsuitable fashion for contending with the elements. Ellie said, ‘Oh, come on, Angelika! Shift your stumps! Take this mackintosh; it'll drown you, but will give you some protection. Then get a notebook and pad or something to write on from my office. What is it now, Pat?'

‘The garden designer is—'

‘I dare say. Now, I'll be back . . . whenever. Hold all calls.' She grinned. ‘I've always wanted to say “hold all calls”. It sounds as if I know what I'm doing.'

Freya was pushing her arms into an old anorak – one of Thomas's by the look of it. At least it had a hood. ‘Shall I take a couple of umbrellas?'

A giant umbrella, red and white striped, walked across the hall towards the front door. It was carried by Mikey, wearing a hooded cape which dragged on the floor behind him. Apparently, Mikey wanted to come, too. Ellie didn't want him, but couldn't think what words to use in order to stop him.

Freya held the front door for the three of them to dash round Diana's car and into the waiting cab.

Once belted up, Ellie fumbled for her mobile phone and didn't find it. Where had she left it? Well, never mind that now. ‘Freya, have you a mobile on you? I'd better ring Rose and tell her to warn the cleaners not to talk about you staying with me.'

Freya handed hers over. ‘You aren't serious, are you? You really think someone's out to get us?'

‘Diana, too. Probably. Any idea who it might be?'

Pryce House. There were several cars tucked under the overgrown hedge at the end of the drive, but not much evidence of men actually at work. There was, however, a super-splashy Range Rover parked before the front door, the sort of car that always looked immaculate because its owner never subjected it to anything but good roads. Ellie seemed to remember that such high status vehicles were called Chelsea tractors because they never left town.

Mikey struggled to unfurl the huge umbrella but had difficulty holding it above them as they left the shelter of the cab and scurried to the front door . . . which was standing ajar, thank goodness.

The garden designer was already in the hall. Handsome if you liked your men a trifle fleshy. Mid forties but trying to look younger, blow-dried hair, perfectly fitted jeans, designer full-length army style coat and stubble. Incredibly clean fingernails.

To Ellie's mind, real gardeners could never quite get their fingernails clean, their pockets sagged from carrying secateurs around in them, and they wore clogs or heavy boots rather than polished dress shoes.

She disliked him on sight, then told herself not to jump to conclusions. Perhaps he'd dressed up to meet a high maintenance client, someone who wore Gucci and Prada. She could see he didn't think much of a middle-aged woman arriving in a mack much too big for her, muddy wellington boots, and with a small boy in tow . . . who had apparently disappeared, leaving the red and white umbrella dripping on the floor.

Mikey did like to explore new places, didn't he? She wondered if he knew that Edgar Pryce had been brought up in this house.

The hall was dark and seemed cavernous on that rain-soaked morning. Ellie shivered. It was a good thing the place was being made over, banishing the memory of those who'd lived and died here . . .

‘Mrs Quicke?' A tone full of doubt.

She nodded, smiled and tried to disentangle herself from her ancient mack.

He held out his hand to her and winced as she took it. ‘I was afraid you'd stood me up, har har!'

Ellie apologized. ‘Sorry. Cold hands. I'm afraid I've kept you waiting. Domestic dramas. I hope there was someone here to let you in?' Stupid, Ellie. Of course there was someone to let him in, or he'd still be sitting in his car outside.

A wave of a hand. ‘Some underling. Acting foreman, rather officious, I thought. Now, shall we go through to the back of the house, so that you can get a better idea of the design I have created for you?'

Even on that wet, grey day, the back garden lifted the spirits. Some of the rambling roses had come adrift from their moorings at the back of the house and hung in loops to the patio below. The surface of the pond was ruffled by wind and pitted with rain drops, and the lawn was a sodden meadow, with spikes of dying weeds poking up through matted grass. The greenhouses looked romantically dilapidated, and ivy had taken hold of the boundary brick walls here and there.

But even in October the roses, which had been the pride and joy of the last owner, were a delight. Great splodgy splashes of pink and white. Showers of red.

Moreover, the fruit trees, which separated the vegetable garden from what had once been a fine lawn, were bending low under the weight of luscious fruit. It made her fingers itch to get out there and bring order into this neglected garden of Eden. Were those really grapes ripening in the far greenhouse? Dilapidated though they were, the greenhouses were still producing fruit.

The designer unfurled a roll of thick paper. ‘I have devised a spectacular garden for you, something to marvel at, something to amuse and intrigue the guests at our hotel.' He shot her a glance full of doubt. ‘I don't know whether you can make any sense of my drawings . . .' His pursed-up mouth indicated that he didn't think she'd know how to read the instructions to turn on a kettle, never mind make sense of anything as complicated and professionally produced as his plans.

Ellie wished she'd taken Thomas's advice literally and dressed in her best bib and tucker, with diamond rings large enough to impress even this nasty little snob.

‘All shades of green,' he fluted. ‘Not the usual box or privet, of course, but a variety of plants from all over the globe. Nothing obvious. Serenity is the keynote. Close-clipped low hedges to enclose, rounded bushes to outline, granite blocks to lead the eye to this obelisk here which, as you can see, is made of spirals of wire, extremely unusual, created by a much sought-after artist of my acquaintance.'

She put her finger on a strange contraption occupying most of the middle ground. ‘What is this?'

‘My Japanese-style pavilion. Cool, coolest, baby. Bamboo, tied in traditional fashion, no nails to be used.'

‘No roof, either?'

A condescending smile. ‘This is a work of art, to be admired and appreciated.'

‘Not for sitting in, then. All this space around it—'

‘Water surrounds us, from the moment of conception. So here we are embraced by an expanse of water which mirrors the changing role of the skies.'

‘Taking up almost half of the garden. Is that right? And stepping stones for people to cross the water. Wouldn't they be a mite tricky for elderly people to negotiate?'

‘Like you, you mean?' Another condescending smile.

‘Or children?'

‘Oh, we won't allow children to play in our very sophisticated garden, will we?'

She thought the design completely out of character. ‘Won't it be very expensive to create such a very large body of water, and how is it to be maintained free of weeds? Will there be fish in it?'

Another condescending smile. He
was
deeply in love with his design, wasn't he? ‘“No pain without gain,” as they say. The plan is to excavate the whole area, line it with concrete, and then build in piles to support the stepping stones. It will cost something to build and to maintain, but it will be the marvel of the neighbourhood, be photographed for every important magazine, perhaps even appear on television. This –' and he beamed with pride – ‘is the future!'

‘The hotel people want to make a point of retaining all the late Victorian features. I had imagined the garden would reflect that.'

‘I suppose you thought we'd keep the roses! Har, har.'

‘Correct,' said Ellie, deciding that this man would get the job over her dead body.

‘My dear Mrs Quicke, what might have been considered suitable in the past . . .' He frowned, tugging at his coat. ‘What the . . .?' His coat was jigging around, developing a life of its own. He looked down, frowned, his mouth mean. ‘Let go of my coat, you . . .!' He lifted his hand to swipe at Mikey, who'd been trying to attract his attention.

‘Don't!' Ellie was too late.

The garden designer caught Mikey around the ear, spinning him sideways. ‘That'll learn you!' Catching the boy up with his free hand, the man drew back his fist to punch him again.

Mikey twisted round and bit the man's wrist.

‘Yow! My wrist! You little horror! You'll pay for that!'

Ellie made a dive for the boy and captured him in her arms. ‘Let go, Mikey!' She pulled the boy away, while his victim danced around, screeching blue murder.

‘What the . . .!' A middle-aged, grey-haired, competent-looking man stood in the doorway. Hard hat. Business suit, not overalls. Grey eyes with crow's feet around them. Eyes that usually smiled, but were hard as they addressed the garden designer. ‘Didn't you get my message, sir? I asked the boy to tell you the lorry carrying the scaffolding had arrived but can't get into the drive with your car in the way.'

‘He
bit
me!'

Mikey clung around Ellie's neck.

‘You hit him,' said Ellie.

‘Is he yours? I'll sue the pants off you! Yow! I'll have to have a tetanus shot!'

‘Don't let me hold you up!'

Snarling, the designer picked up his roll of plans and staggered out. Were those tears in his eyes? Diddums, then.

‘All right, missus?' The newcomer was sizing her up, but apparently liked what he saw. ‘Mrs Quicke, I presume? I've heard a lot about you. I'm the project manager here. Hugh's the name. Glad to meet you. I saw him hit the boy, and I'll say so, if necessary.'

‘Would you put that in writing? Knowing his kind, he'll make as much trouble as he can, and I don't want to give him the job, anyway.'

Hugh grinned. ‘I'll put it in writing the moment I've seen him off the premises. We can't start to put up the scaffolding in this weather, but we'll unload and send the lorry back. They should have been here earlier, but got delayed. This weather . . .'