No Escape (21 page)

Shipley was surprised. ‘What did he want?’

‘He said he was in the area and wanted to know how the Bolsovers are doing.’ DC King was aware that despite the team’s present involvement in a new drugs case, Shipley’s
dissatisfaction with the murder case still lingered. ‘Seemed concerned about how the kids are coping.’

‘Did he?’

King heard the dryness, and a frown puckered her pretty forehead. ‘I know you still think there’s something off about him and Allbeury, but you surely don’t actually suspect
them?’

‘Of murder?’ Shipley shook her head. ‘After all, we’ve got our killer.’

‘Seriously,’ the DC persevered. ‘I mean, if you’ve got some reason—’

‘I haven’t,’ Shipley said swiftly.

King knew when a subject was closed. ‘Nice lunch?’

‘Not really.’

King gave up and went back to work, and Shipley headed back to her desk. Lunch with her sister had been a pain, since all Laura had wanted to do was talk about the new house she and Gary were
buying, and how much the kids loved it, and how terrific a husband Gary was, and how much Shipley was missing out on.

‘Honestly, Helen, you’ve no idea,’ she’d said, not for the first time.

‘I know,’ Shipley had said, and tried to focus on her spaghetti.

‘I mean, all this is okay,’ Laura had said, her tone implying that all
this
was some sort of aberration, ‘but if you don’t start thinking about the really
important side of life soon—’

‘It’ll be too late,’ Shipley had finished for her.

‘Exactly,’ Laura had said.

Shipley wondered what Laura might think if she’d seen Lynne Bolsover’s body on the allotment, the hideous state of it, the ghastly incongruity of decomposition still dressed in a
Next jumper and jeans. Definitely not Laura’s version of the ‘important’ side of life, but pretty bloody consequential to Lynne’s family.

And to her.

No stone unturned
, they used to say, yet one bloodstained rock and rag unearthed by Kylie Bolsover –
child’s play
– and the law said whoopee and rolled over onto
its proverbial back.

No, of course she didn’t suspect Novak of murdering Lynne Bolsover. Nor Allbeury. At least, she didn’t
think
so. But whether or not the odd couple had anything whatsoever to
do with the killing, Shipley still felt there was a disturbing, ambulance-chasing quality about Allbeury’s self-confessed private work.

Unpaid
work, she reminded herself yet again. Which made it either more laudable or weirder, depending on how jaded one’s outlook. And Lord knew hers was pretty bloody jaded.

Novak phoning her meant nothing.

Except it was a well-documented fact that some killers felt compelled to stay as close as possible to the investigation into their crimes.

Overreacting, Shipley
.

She looked at the message King had left, picked up the phone and dialled the number for Novak Investigations.

Novak wasn’t there, just his wife, who knew nothing about any specific reasons for his getting in touch.

‘Would you like me to ask Mike to call you again?’ Clare Novak asked.

‘If he wants to,’ Shipley said. ‘Though I’ve no news for him, other than what I’m sure he already knows.’

‘That John Bolsover’s been charged,’ Clare said.

‘That’s it,’ Shipley said. ‘And the family are coping as well as they can.’

And went back to work.

‘I’ve said I’m sorry,’ Christopher told Lizzie in the kitchen at Holland Park on Sunday afternoon while she strained freshly made chicken stock and
tried not to let her irritation get the better of her. ‘You’re usually so relaxed about dinners I thought you wouldn’t mind – and you’d already said I could ask
him—’

‘I expected more than forty-eight hours’ notice.’

‘I know, and I apologize. Again.’

‘I don’t like being away from the children at weekends.’

Christopher’s jaw tensed and his eyes narrowed, but then he shook his head very slightly, and took a breath. ‘What can I do to help?’

‘Nothing,’ Lizzie said, still shortly. ‘Except phone Gilly and apologize.’

‘I thought you already had.’

‘I think it might be nice coming from you,’ she said.

‘Since it’s all my fault.’

‘Quite,’ Lizzie said.

She’d been more than irritated for much of the day, mostly because on Friday – less than twelve hours after broaching the topic with her – Christopher had issued their dinner
invitation to Robin Allbeury, and the solicitor had happened to mention that his weekend plans had gone awry, and Christopher had
assumed
that Lizzie wouldn’t object, and had said he
should come to them on Sunday evening. Dinner on Sunday meant shopping on Saturday, and Lizzie had been hoping to get back to some writing that weekend, and Gilly had been going to have Sunday off,
and
Sophie had started a cold, and Lizzie hated being separated from any of the children when they weren’t well. So all in all, she’d been going to tell Christopher to postpone,
but then he’d explained to her how remarkably generous Allbeury had been with his time.

‘And rather than charging us at his normal rate – almost double David’s – he’s going to bill us at the usual rate, which is
bloody
good of the man.’
Christopher had paused. ‘Which was why I thought, when he told me about his cancelled weekend . . .’

‘All right, Christopher,’ Lizzie had given in.

‘Are you quite sure?’

‘Yes, of course.’

He’d been very grateful, brought her roses from Moyses Stevens, sent a bouquet to Gilly for messing her about, had even sent a little bouquet of miniature pink roses to Sophie because of
her cold. Lizzie hated the fact that those gestures no longer worked on her, but still, she supposed Gilly and their daughter would both be happy, and she had to think of HANDS, and it would have
been churlish to make him cancel.

Though their dining room in Marlow was more splendid, Lizzie liked this more intimate room, all pale cream and green, set off tonight by the tall lilies she’d bought that
morning in Holland Park Avenue. At the house, any gathering of less than six had to be brought to the big oak table in the kitchen, but here, even with just two guests, there was no sense of being
dwarfed.

The suggestion to invite Susan had been Christopher’s, one that Lizzie had gladly agreed to, provided the solicitor was not led to believe there was any matchmaking attached, and indeed,
sitting drinking her crayfish
bisque
and observing Robin Allbeury as he listened to Susan (more loquacious than usual due to the huge gin and tonic Christopher had poured her before dinner
and the very good Montrachet they were all drinking now) talking about her last disastrous romance, Lizzie had to agree that he did seem every bit as delightful as Christopher had described –
though charm, which Allbeury had in abundance, was a commodity she’d learned to distrust over the years.

‘I should never have agreed to go out with him,’ Susan ended her tale.

‘He doesn’t sound like your usual good taste,’ Lizzie agreed.

‘He sounds like a prize pillock,’ Robin Allbeury said, and grinned. ‘If you don’t mind my saying so.’

‘I don’t mind a bit,’ Susan said. ‘It’s exactly right.’

‘Poor you,’ Christopher said.

‘I don’t know,’ Susan said. ‘A ghastly evening like that makes you incredibly grateful to get home.’

‘Like escaping in an interval of a Wagner opera,’ Allbeury said.

‘God, yes,’ Lizzie agreed fervently.

‘You always say you don’t mind Wagner,’ Christopher said.

‘I lie out of kindness,’ Lizzie said.

‘You’re fond of Wagner, are you, Christopher?’ Allbeury asked.

‘Extremely,’ Christopher replied. ‘And Richard Strauss.’

Lizzie threw him a very swift, very cold glance, then smiled at Allbeury. ‘We went to see
Ariadne auf Naxos
a few weeks ago. My birthday present to Christopher.’

‘Gruesome,’ Allbeury said.

Memories of the night that had followed the opera flashed through Lizzie’s mind.

‘Indeed,’ she said.

‘That soup was unbelievable, Lizzie,’ Susan said.

‘This is my “homage to Escoffier” night,’ Lizzie told her. ‘I’m glad you liked it, though I’m not sure he’d have approved. I based it on his
bisque de crevettes
, but I made ordinary chicken stock instead of a real
fonds blanch
.’

‘Why did you do that?’ Robin Allbeury asked severely.

‘Because it was easier,’ Lizzie said.

‘Shameful,’ he said, then grinned again. ‘Bet I liked your soup more than I’d have liked Escoffier’s.’

‘Actually,’ Susan said, ‘he was all for people adapting his recipes.’

‘I’m very impressed,’ Christopher said, ‘that anyone other than an obsessive cook should have the slightest idea what Escoffier was all for.’

‘Do you enjoy cooking, Susan?’ Allbeury asked.

‘Not really,’ Susan said. ‘But Lizzie’s books have turned me on to cookery reading. I lie in bed late at night and salivate.’

‘Sounds interesting,’ Christopher said.

‘Time to clear the soup plates,’ Lizzie said, and stood up.

The phone rang while she was in the kitchen, Gilly reporting – because of their agreement about passing on important information regarding the children, no matter what
Lizzie or Christopher were in the midst of – that Edward now had Sophie’s cold, and that both were running temperatures.

‘How high?’ Lizzie asked, ready to shed her apron and run.

‘Thirty-eight point four,’ Gilly said. ‘Nothing to get upset about.’ She paused, knowing Lizzie well. ‘Definitely nothing to make you drop everything and come
roaring out of town for, either.’

‘Can I speak to them?’

‘Both sleeping,’ Gilly said. ‘Slight headaches and scratchy throats, but no sickness,
no
stiff necks and no rashes. Just feverish colds.’

‘And Jack’s all right?’ Always the question that shot right to the front of her mind, occasionally, she realized, at the expense of the other two.

‘So far, so good,’ Gilly said. ‘But I’ll keep checking on him too, even if it does annoy him.’

‘Bless you, Gilly,’ Lizzie told her.

She told Christopher, asked him for his opinion, felt she had to agree with him that kicking out their guests because of a pair of colds would be a massive overreaction, and prepared to serve
filet de boeuf Saint-Germain.

The atmosphere was strained after that. Lizzie felt it, knew it was her fault, but could not seem to lift herself sufficiently to overcome it. The food, at least, was, she had to admit, very
good, and she noticed real pleasure in Allbeury’s dark eyes as he ate, but still her mind kept returning to the children, and, pointlessly now, to the fact that if it weren’t for
Christopher, she would have been with them now.

Allbeury’s eyes, in fact, and the rest of the man, too, were the only aspects of the evening after Gilly’s call that really made any impact on Lizzie. Christopher had said how
generous he’d been to HANDS, but he had not mentioned how attractive the solicitor was, or how warm and interested those melted-chocolate eyes.

In me
, Lizzie thought, unexpectedly, and grew a little warmer.

It was true, though, she realized. Easy-going and attentive to everyone, Allbeury seemed, she thought, just a little gentler with her, as if he knew that her heart was no longer in the evening,
but took not the least offence.

‘It’s been wonderful,’ he said, later, at the front door, having insisted on driving the by-now decidedly tipsy Susan home. ‘What a very lucky man you are,
Christopher.’

‘I know,’ Christopher said, and put his left arm around Lizzie, who found it a considerable effort not to pull away, and who thought – though it might have been her imagination
– that Robin Allbeury had noticed her discomfort.

Nothing much, she decided, escaped that man’s notice.

‘Did you and Lizzie know each other pre-Vicuna?’ Allbeury asked Susan as he drove his Jaguar XK8 towards Battersea Bridge. ‘Only you seem more friends than
colleagues.’

‘If I had to choose,’ Susan answered warmly, ‘I’d say our friendship’s been one of the very nicest things to happen to me in publishing.’

‘She does seem lovely,’ he said.

‘Oh, she is,’ Susan confirmed.

‘The call about the children clearly upset her.’

‘It would. Lizzie’s not one to overreact, but she can’t help worrying – about them all, obviously, but mostly about Jack catching bugs.’

‘Why Jack in particular?’ Allbeury asked.

Since Jack’s DMD was no secret, Susan saw no reason not to tell him about it, and after that it seemed only natural to talk about the run of far more minor bad luck – comparatively
– that the Wades had run into lately: first with Edward’s nasty accident and the abandonment of the
Lizzie Piper Roadshow
, and then, more recently, Lizzie’s illness.

‘Though Christopher dropped everything to look after her at home, so I suppose you’d have to class that as quite good luck,’ Susan added.

‘What was wrong?’ Allbeury asked.

‘I’m not sure,’ Susan said. ‘She was really vague about it.’

Allbeury felt his curiosity unaccountably piqued.

‘Probably just a touch of flu,’ he encouraged.

‘Actually I think it was a bit more than that. Gilly let slip one day when I called that she was in the Beauchamp, but when I phoned they said she wasn’t there.’

‘Odd,’ Allbeury said, lightly.

‘Oh, dear.’ Susan felt suddenly embarrassed. ‘I’m not sure she’d want me to have told you that.’
Bloody booze.
‘Not that I’ve really told
you anything.’

‘Nothing at all,’ Allbeury said, and smiled at her.

On Monday morning, a little later than usual, Tony was just finishing his morning fry-up when the phone rang.

‘I’ll get it,’ Joanne said from the sink.

‘If it’s Eddie Black, I’m here,’ Tony said. ‘Anyone else, I’ve gone.’

Joanne dried her hands and picked up the phone from the wall near the oven. ‘Hello?’

From above, in Irina’s room, Tony heard a series of small thuds.