No Escape (22 page)

‘Yes.’ Joanne tilted her face, listening too, in case her child was in trouble.

Who is it
? Tony mouthed at her.

‘It could be a bit difficult,’ Joanne said.

Tony heard another thump from above, shrugged, picked up his last bit of bacon and put it in his mouth.

‘Okay,’ Joanne said. ‘Bye.’

She put the phone back on its hook. ‘Was that Irina?’

‘Who else?’ He swallowed the remains of his coffee. ‘Who was that?’

‘Do you want another cup?’ Joanne asked.

‘No.’ Tony looked at her. ‘You all right, Jo?’

She turned back to the sink. ‘Course.’

‘Who was on the phone?’

‘Just this woman I met at the library.’

Library.
Joanne stared into the sink, biting her lip, wishing she hadn’t said that, but it was the first, the
only
, thing that had popped into her mind.

Doesn’t matter
, she told herself.
He never listens anyway.

‘What did she want?’ Tony asked.

‘She wanted to get together this morning, have a coffee.’

‘Why should that be difficult?’

‘Difficult?’ she echoed.

‘You said it might be difficult.’ He sounded quite genial.

Does listen sometimes.

She ran the hot tap, struggled not to sound flustered. ‘I’ve got ironing to do, and shopping.’

Tony stood up, picked up his plate, brought it over and put it into the sink. ‘Might do you good to get out and meet a friend for a change.’ He put out his hand and stroked her hair.
‘You’ve been a bit wound up lately, Jo.’

Blood rushed to her face in a guilty flush.

‘PMS,’ she said.

There was another thump from upstairs.

‘Better see to her,’ Tony said.

Shortly after nine-fifteen, Lizzie was already well on her way to Marlow in the sporty Japanese coupé she enjoyed driving when she wasn’t using the family’s
wheelchair-modified Range Rover, when her mobile rang.

‘It’s Susan. Okay to talk?’

‘Fine,’ Lizzie said. ‘On the road, but hands-free.’

‘Gorgeous dinner,’ Susan said, ‘though I drank much too much. How are the children?’

‘Not too bad, Gilly says.’ Lizzie paused. ‘How was your drive home?’

‘
Very
nice man,’ Susan said. ‘Dishy, too, even if he only had eyes for you.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ Lizzie said.

‘Robin certainly didn’t want to talk about anyone
but
you all the way to Clapham.’ Susan sounded merry enough about it. ‘No need to sound so surprised about
another bloke fancying you.’

‘Robin Allbeury does not fancy me.’ It was starting to rain, and Lizzie switched on her windscreen wipers.

‘You honestly don’t realize how attractive you are, do you?’

‘Get real, Susan.’ Lizzie laughed. ‘This is a miserable Monday morning. I didn’t get enough sleep last night, and I feel about as attractive as a pair of wet
boots.’

‘Join the club,’ Susan said. ‘If you don’t believe me about Robin, just ask your husband.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Just that I’ll bet he noticed.’

‘Rubbish,’ Lizzie said briskly.

‘Nice man, though, you’d have to agree with that,’ Susan said.

‘I suppose he was,’ Lizzie said.

Shipley attended Hendon Magistrates Court to hear John Bolsover being remanded in custody for a second month not because she had to, but because she felt compelled to see him
again.

She wanted to look at the man and
feel
he was guilty.

Which did not happen.

She had also made a point of being there because Mike Novak had made contact again, and she’d agreed to have a drink with him after the hearing.

They found a corner table in The Harp, where the private detective bought her an orange juice and a half of draught for himself. For a matter of about five or so minutes, Shipley relaxed, glad,
like Novak, to be away from the oppressive atmosphere of the court, but then her tensions returned.

‘So what can I do for you, Mr Novak? First time you called, you said you were in my area. Then you were just returning my call back.’

‘Both true.’

‘So where did you
happen
to be going this morning? Sailing on the Welsh Harp?’

Novak said nothing for a moment. ‘I’m just . . .’ He stopped, started again. ‘I feel connected to the case.’ He shrugged. ‘Responsible, in a way.’

‘Because?’

‘Because I failed Lynne Bolsover, I suppose.’

‘Not you, surely?’ Shipley said. ‘If anyone failed her on that score, I’d guess it was Mr Allbeury.’ She paused. ‘Is he as concerned as you?’

‘We haven’t discussed it lately.’

‘Out of mind then,’ Shipley said.

Novak leaned forward, then shook his head and leaned back again.

‘What?’ Shipley asked,

‘Nothing.’

‘You looked angry.’

‘Not angry, Detective Inspector.’ Novak paused. ‘I was going to say that, for a person in your position, you make a lot of assumptions.’

It was Shipley’s turn to shrug. ‘I try not to, on the whole.’

‘You’ve assumed things about Robin Allbeury.’

‘Have I?’

They were silent for a moment or two.

‘You’re not sure it was Bolsover, are you?’ Novak’s eyes were intent.

‘He’s been charged.’

‘Off the record?’

Shipley drained her juice and glanced at her watch. ‘Time I was going.’

‘We know he hit her. You found the weapon.’

‘No secret.’ Shipley stood up. ‘Thanks for the drink, Mr Novak.’

He was staring up at her. ‘But you still really aren’t sure, are you?’

‘Goodbye, Mr Novak.’

Novak thought about Helen Shipley as he joined the traffic at Staples Corner, his old Clio chugging a bit. Allbeury had once offered to buy him a new car, and Novak had been
sorely tempted, but Clare had frowned when she’d heard about the offer, had thought that a step too far in a direction she’d never been keen on.

‘He only suggested it because he wants me to have a reliable car when I’m working for him,’ Novak had told her.

‘Then let him lend you one
when
you’re working for him,’ Clare had said.

‘He’s not interested in owning me,’ Novak had gone on, still defensively.

‘You’re such an idealist,’ his wife had told him.

She was right about that, of course, he reflected now, entering the tunnel. His idealism had been a big problem in the police. It was okay, just about, to be that way when you joined, but after
that you had to drop most of it and join the cynics, or go on floundering about at the bottom. DI Shipley was a case in point. An intelligent, highly motivated, he guessed, woman who had, Novak was
now certain, some strong doubts about John Bolsover’s guilt – of murder, at least – but had no real alternative but to toe the line.

Novak would have been hopeless in the same circumstances. As, he thought – surprisingly for such a sophisticated man in such a cynical profession – Allbeury would be too.

Though like Helen Shipley, he realized, Clare would probably not believe that about Robin. Even now, after asking for the lawyer’s help on the Patstons’ behalf, she still harboured
doubts about him.

Then again, he mused, still crawling along, life was filled with doubts for everyone, wasn’t it?

Most things, most people.

Lizzie was squeezing oranges back in her Marlow kitchen when Allbeury phoned to thank her for the evening.

‘Just one snag,’ he added. ‘Now that I’ve tasted the real thing, I don’t think I’ll ever dare try out my Lizzie Piper recipes.’

His voice, Lizzie decided, was mellow and warm. A good voice. ‘Christopher mentioned you had one of my books,’ she said.

‘I have three.’ Allbeury paused. ‘I look forward to the Roadshow book.’

‘On hold, I’m afraid.’ Lizzie threw orange peel into her rubbish bin.

‘Susan mentioned something about that on the way home.’

‘Did she?’ Lizzie poured juice into a glass jug. ‘I’m glad you enjoyed the evening. I think I was a bit distracted after Gilly rang.’

‘Understandable,’ Allbeury said. ‘How are the young ones today?’

‘Not too bad, thanks.’

‘Happy to have their mum back, I daresay, and who can blame them?’

‘I’m sure they’ll be back on form very soon.’

‘I know you must have your hands full,’ Allbeury said, ‘so I won’t keep you now, but as and when you and Christopher have a free evening, I really would very much like to
return the favour. Or we could do lunch, one Sunday?’

‘Sounds lovely,’ Lizzie said.

The solicitor thanked her again. ‘I really did feel very guilty for keeping you away from your children when they were poorly.’

‘Just colds,’ Lizzie said, quite briskly.

‘But you’d like to have seen that for yourself right away, wouldn’t you?’

‘Yes,’ Lizzie said. ‘I suppose I would.’

She thought, making her way upstairs with the juice and glasses, that Susan might be right about him. He really did seem quite genuinely nice.

Shortly before five o’clock that afternoon, Sandra Finch, starting to become anxious about her daughter, telephoned her son-in-law at his garage to ask if he knew where
Joanne might have got to.

‘Isn’t she home?’ Tony, who’d had heartburn since breakfast, had just decided he’d done enough work for the day, and was in the midst of cleaning himself up for the
pub.

‘No, she isn’t.’ Sandra managed not to add ‘obviously’. ‘It’s just that she brought Irina over to me this morning.’

‘So you’ve had her all day?’ He felt annoyed.

‘Joanne said she’d be back for her at around lunchtime, but I haven’t heard a word from her since, and I’m starting to get quite worried. I’ve tried her mobile, but
it’s turned off.’

‘It’s probably at home – she’s always forgetting it.’ Tony tucked his phone under his chin and rubbed Swarfega into his hands. ‘Why didn’t you tell me
before, Sandra?’

‘I didn’t like to worry you.’

‘I’m not worried.’

‘Do you think your neighbour, Nicki, might know where she is?’

‘The Georgious are in Cyprus.’ Tony went to the sink, turned on the tap. ‘She’s probably out shopping or something. If I were you, I’d be pissed off with her for
leaving Irina with you all day.’

‘I don’t mind that at all,’ Sandra said quickly. ‘I love having her here.’

Tony rinsed off the worst of the grease and squeezed washing up liquid onto his palms. ‘It’s still taking advantage, isn’t it? Of you
and
me, come to that – it was
me who told Jo to go out with her friend in the first place.’

‘What friend?’ Sandra asked.

‘Don’t know.’ Tony’s thoughts turned to his need for a drink. ‘D’you mind keeping Irina for now?’

‘Of course not,’ Sandra said. ‘But can you please remember to phone me as soon as you hear from Joanne?’

‘Yeah, sure,’ Tony said. ‘Though you’ll probably hear first, won’t you.’

‘I hope so,’ Sandra said.

Absorbed as he ought to have been by other matters on a Monday afternoon in Bedford Row, Allbeury had found himself unexpectedly preoccupied for a great deal of the time with
Lizzie Piper and her husband.

He had expected, he reflected now, pouring himself a modest-sized Scotch from a decanter in his comfortable office, to step into an interesting household, an arena rife, perhaps, with a degree
of healthy conflict; with two such high-achievers – one in perhaps the most arrogant profession of all
and
a high-profile philanthropist to boot – it could hardly be
otherwise.

Allbeury had learned over many years to set very little store by outward appearance, knew better than many how bruised, even bloody, decent-seeming marriages sometimes were on the inside, how
tarnished even the most glittering twosomes could become. And from the outset of yesterday evening, for all the welcoming warmth and courtesy of Lizzie’s hospitality and Wade’s
geniality, he’d had a sense of something being very wrong.

Not just the children.

The call from Marlow, he remembered, had come after the first micro-clash. That thing about the opera. No more than an instant or two, but Lizzie, lovely, warm woman that she seemed, had exuded
a real chill in that moment, and his curiosity had been awakened. Then of course she’d heard about the kids’ colds – and he hadn’t known at the time about the son with
muscular dystrophy, poor boy, and that had to be an ever-present source of grief and fear for them all, especially when there were viruses floating around the family.

Poor Lizzie.

But it was the hug at the end of the evening that had really spiked his curiosity and concern – not that he had any business
being
concerned. Christopher had put his arm around
Lizzie, and she had let him, had not pushed him away, had stood there beside him on the doorstep, smiling as he and Susan left.