Murder My Neighbour (19 page)

His assistant played devil's advocate. ‘It's a prestigious site. Why not? We've taken on larger projects before: buying a big house in poor condition, knocking it down and putting up a block of flats instead. That's what's needed around here: more housing stock. Miss Quicke had an instinct for it.'

‘I realize,' said Stewart, ‘that since Miss Quicke died we haven't gone down that road, but there is no reason why we shouldn't. Besides which, if we don't step in now, someone else will. An unscrupulous developer could put up a couple of tower blocks which would overlook all the houses and gardens around here and destroy your privacy.'

Ellie said, ‘They'd never get permission, not in this area.'

‘Want to bet?' Stewart was grim. ‘We've all seen blocks of flats go up on tiny plots of land around here. This one is going to attract some serious money.'

Ellie struck out for sanity. ‘Our core business is in buying, converting and maintaining properties to rent out. I know my aunt did occasionally buy a house in order to develop the site, but I'm not sure it's in our best interests to do so in a recession. I'd like to keep this item on the table to be looked at again later. Coffee anyone?'

Coffee was provided. Chat ensued. Everyone left, except Stewart.

Stewart was like a Rottweiler once he'd got his teeth into something, and Ellie knew he was not going to let this one go easily.

‘Stewart, I have my own reasons for being interested in the Pryce house, but I definitely don't want to buy it. It's a monstrosity and ought to be shrunk to a miniature and kept in a glass bowl. Converting it into flats would be hideously expensive, and clients who might want to live in a Disney fantasy are few and far between . . . which means we'd be lumbered with a huge outlay and unable to clear our costs. And no; I do not want to develop the site myself – not in a recession. Too dicey.'

As he opened his mouth to object she added, ‘I can quite understand that Hoopers would be delighted to move such an important property in this area, but to the best of my knowledge they have no right to offer it. You told me yourself that Mrs Pryce withdrew the house from the market, and now I can tell you something that you didn't know; the lady has gone missing. That's the real reason why I've been sniffing around the place.'

Stewart leaned back in his chair. ‘Now how did you find that out, Ellie? And what else do you know that I don't?'

‘I don't
know
, but I do suspect that something bad has happened to her. I have no proof, if that's what you mean, and I'm not entirely sure that I've got the right end of the stick, although I rather think I have. I'm going to set the police on to it, so we'll know soon enough.'

She saw Stewart out and went to her office to ring the police.

‘May I speak to DC Milburn, please? Mrs Quicke calling.'

Muffled voices, a hand over the receiver? Ellie was put on hold. Now what?

Finally, someone deigned to return to her. ‘DC Milburn is tied up on a case right now and will be for some time. If you have a complaint, perhaps you'd like to put it in writing.'

Complaint? Ellie looked at the receiver and heard the line buzz. She'd been cut off, without even so much as a suggestion that she should speak to someone else.

Something had gone wrong with her plans. Yesterday DC Milburn had been eager to follow up the leads which Ellie had given her, but now she wasn't even available to speak to Mrs Quicke. Hm. Did one detect the fine hand of Ears? Had he learned that the DC wanted to follow up Ellie's suggestions and pulled rank to stop her doing so?

That was, of course, implying that Ears disliked Ellie so much that he was prepared to sidetrack any investigation that she might instigate. A nasty thought, and one which Ellie knew she ought to throw out of her mind without delay.

Unfortunately, she thought it might be all too true.

Which meant . . . which meant that Ellie was going to have to become more involved in finding Mrs Pryce than she had hoped to be. After all, it would only take a few minutes with a screwdriver to check out her suspicions. She regarded her plump wrists with dissatisfaction. She wasn't good at opening the lids on jars and usually handed them over to Thomas to deal with. She suspected that getting screws out of wood might be rather too much for her.

What about Thomas? She went down the corridor to his study, only to be met by him coming out. ‘Sorry, sorry. Got to rush.' A quick hug and a kiss. ‘I've just had an idea, got to check it out. Be back before lunch, with luck.'

Another kiss on the tip of her nose, and off he flew. Thomas was trying not to be stressed half out of his mind, but she realized that he couldn't help worrying about his future. Perhaps, thought Ellie with a smile, Thomas wasn't trusting in God to sort out his problems as much as he ought to?

Now, if she were going out for lunch, she must make sure that either Mia or Pat would be around to keep an eye on Rose. Mia had gone out, not saying where or for how long.

Right. Well, Pat would usually agree to stay on for a while if Ellie made it worth her while. And yes, today she would do so with pleasure. Rose was up, dressed and pottering around in the kitchen, almost like old times. Good.

So who did she know who had strong wrists and a screwdriver? Hm. Oh well, if all else failed, and it meant she'd have to eat humble pie . . . Well, why not? One more phone call, and then it would be time to decide what to wear for her lunch date with Mr Hooper, a lunch date which might turn out to be very interesting indeed.

Ellie didn't ‘do' business clothes. She'd decided long ago that she was no great shakes as a business woman, but since she'd inherited money and couldn't deal with it herself, she'd find people she could trust to do whatever business people did with legal this and financial that. Her function was to give praise for work well done, and to trust her instincts. Rather like Mrs Pryce, in fact. Except that in the latter's case, she might have been a little too trusting.

Ellie put on one of Thomas's favourite dresses, a pretty blue and white floaty affair with a frill around a low neckline. She popped on a pair of dark blue sandals to match and eventually managed to find her lipstick; pale pink, nothing too strong. She brushed her silvery curls out till they shone.

There. She was the very picture of a sweet little housewife, wasn't she? Er, no. Perhaps too much cleavage for that. She grinned, remembering that Thomas called it her ‘flirtatious frock'. Which reminded her to send up an arrow prayer.
Please, Lord. Look after Thomas?

She remembered, too, that little Frank would probably be around most of the weekend. What were they going to do with him this time? Perhaps Thomas might have an idea – if he could disentangle himself from this nasty little problem with the bishop.

Evan Hooper – tall, beaky, and wearing an expensive mohair and silk mixture suit – called at the house to collect Ellie, driving a Lexus. She knew it was a Lexus because he told her so as soon as she got into the car. ‘The very latest, of course. I change my car every year, don't you?'

‘I'm afraid I never learned to drive.'

He relaxed into a Great White Shark smile. Stewart had been spot on about this man. Did Mr Hooper think he was dealing with an unworldly little old lady, whom it would be easy to bully? Mm. Well, she didn't mind him thinking that. She had a question or two which might be easier for him to answer if he were not on his guard.

He'd chosen to take her to the Golf Club, whose restaurant was only sparsely occupied. Ellie had eaten there in the past. She remembered that the menu then had been old-fashioned and the food rather filling for one who had to watch her weight. It hadn't changed, but the wine list was definitely more extensive – and expensive – than it had been in the past.

Mr Hooper was the sort of host who liked his guests to eat what he recommended, and to drink glass to glass with him. He swept the menu away, told the waiter he'd have his usual, and informed Ellie that she'd like the steak and kidney pudding, with a starter of prawn cocktail.

Ellie said, ‘Actually, I'd prefer a salad and no starter. And I don't usually drink at lunchtime.'

‘Nonsense, nonsense. My treat. Waiter, two prawn cocktails, with some of the Riesling I had the other day. With the steak and kidney puddings, we'll have a bottle of claret; you know the one I like.'

Ellie wondered if Mr Hooper planned to get her drunk and incapable of making suitable decisions. She asked the waiter to bring her some iced water and took only a sip of the wine Mr Hooper pressed upon her.

‘Your husband is not a member here?'

The idea of Thomas playing golf made her smile. Mind you, he ought to take more exercise than he did. ‘No, I'm afraid he—'

‘Well, we'll soon put that right. What do you do to fill your time? It must hang heavy on your hands nowadays, with indoor staff to look after you.'

Ellie thought of her busy life and was amused. ‘Well, not really, because—'

‘You play bridge, of course?'

Ellie opened her eyes wide. ‘No, I'm afraid I—'

‘Never mind. There's a beginner's class, I believe. Must keep the old brain ticking over as you get into the sere and yellow. Drink up, there's plenty more where that came from.'

Ellie was annoyed. He looked much older than her – probably well into his seventies – and she was pleased to note there were threads of red in his cheeks. Did he drink too much? Probably. She remembered he'd screwed up his eyes when offered the menu, and she thought she'd spotted the bulge of a glasses case in the top pocket of his jacket. Ah-ha. Was he short-sighted but too vain to bring out his specs in front of her? She smiled to herself and tried to stop him topping up her glass.

‘Come on,' he said, ‘we have to drink to our special relationship. Cheers!'

She let him touch her glass with his and took a small sip of wine. It was too dry for her taste, but she told herself she was no connoisseur. ‘What relationship is that, Mr Hooper?'

‘Call me Evan.' He laid one large hand over hers and patted it. The back of his hand was dotted with liver spots. ‘My dear Ellie; surely it's no secret?'

She removed her hand, letting the waiter take away her half-eaten starter. ‘You have the advantage of me, I'm afraid.'

He was annoyed with her. He opened his mouth to issue a rebuke, remembered he needed her cooperation – or whatever it was he might be after – and treated her to a blinding Shark smile. Very good false teeth. Or, more likely, implants.

‘Do I need to spell it out?' He'd gone all roguish. ‘It can hardly be kept a secret much longer, can it?'

Diana! thought Ellie. To Mr Hooper, she said, ‘Perhaps you'll let me in on this secret of yours then?'

His smile faded. ‘I believe your daughter . . . ?' He waggled his eyebrows.

‘Yes?' said Ellie, with a bland smile.

The waiter laid a huge plateful of steak and kidney pudding in front of her, with a side dish of new potatoes, carrots and broccoli. All swimming in butter. It looked delicious.

The wine waiter brought up a bottle of red wine, opened it, and poured a little out for Mr Hooper to taste. He did so, nodded, took a swig. Looked pleased with himself. Indicated that the waiter should give some to Ellie, and should fill up his own glass, too.

‘Surely,' said Mr Hooper, ‘your daughter has let you into our little secret?' Perhaps the wine was going to his head, if not to Ellie's?

‘Ah,' said Ellie, putting carrots and broccoli on her plate. ‘She did say something about business looking up. You are buying her out, is that it?'

‘No, of course not.' Shocked. ‘I'm not in the business of rescuing lame ducks.'

He took another swig of his wine, ladled potatoes on to his plate. Clicked his fingers for the waiter. ‘Mustard.'

‘My poor daughter.' Ellie shook her head, enjoying the rare treat of a steak and kidney pudding done exactly as she liked it. ‘Does she know you think of her as a lame duck?'

‘No, of course not. Has she really not discussed this with you, Ellie?'

‘Discussed what?'

His fingers went white, clenched round the stem of his wine glass. ‘Your putting some money into her . . . into our combined agency.'

So that was it? A straightforward demand for money. Oh well. What else had she expected? She allowed her brow to crease. ‘But I thought – forgive me – she indicated that you and she were on excellent terms.'

‘So we are.' He refilled his glass. Ellie hadn't touched hers. ‘But that's a different matter. I don't mix business and pleasure.'

So now Ellie knew where she was. ‘Let me get this clear. You plan to use my daughter for sex—'

‘Hush! For heaven's sake! I'm a happily married man.'

‘Who likes a bit on the side? You are not proposing to set up house with her and little Frank, then?'

‘Certainly not!'

So Diana had lied about that. ‘Well, you're both well over twenty-one and – may I have some of that delicious mustard, please? It's so long since I tasted such a good pudding – and though I can't say I approve, the law says that whatever consenting adults do in private is no business of mine. Or have I got my metaphors mixed?'

‘My dear Ellie, you are missing the point.'

‘Enlighten me. You say you're not in the business of rescuing lame ducks, but that you've come to an agreement with Diana – sex aside – to take over her agency. Now you are saying that this is contingent upon my investing in it? Dear me. I think you may have been misinformed; I don't have money to spare for rescuing lame ducks either.'