Olivia’s Luck (2000) (50 page)

I swirled the ice in my glass. “Well spotted,” I said levelly. “I’d noticed that too. But I had no idea,” I went on brightly, “that you and Molly disliked him so much, Hugh.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” he said lightly, “nothing so strong as dislike. No, no, we just thought he treated you like dog poo, that’s all. And I’m not just talking about the last six months, either.”

“Ah, I see. So, therefore you thought I was pathetic, cringing and downtrodden?”

“You can only be downtrodden, Liv, if someone bigger is doing the treading, but I’ll say no more, because I’ve learnt from past experience that it’s a mistake. Only the other day a mate of mine, Tom, confided to me that he’d left his wife and I yelled, “Terrific! I always thought Geraldine was a dog, and you wouldn’t
believe
the number of times I’ve had to wrestle her hand out of the front of my trousers!” Well, bugger me if two weeks later I’m not sitting next to ‘the dog’ at a dinner party, and Tom’s shooting me homicidal looks over the salmon mousse. I think Johnny’s a wonderful, caring human being, Liwy, and I love him to bits. Now, moving smartly on, the
other
reason I came, aside from not meddling in your domestic setup and
aside
from escaping Millicent, was to give you these.” He lifted his bottom off the sofa, reached into his jeans pocket and flicked some pieces of paper at me.

“What are they?”

“Tickets for Sebastian’s concert tomorrow night. He very kindly sent them, together with some flowers – which was totally uncalled for – as a thank you for supper the other week.” He sighed, wistfully. “Believe it or not we were actually thinking of going. Moll’s got terrible cabin fever – you know, four-walls-and-a-baby-not-to-mention-sodding-Henry – and she thought she could easily feed during the performance and meanwhile we could greedily observe other life forms, be reminded that there
is
a world out there.” He sighed. “But now that HMS
Splendid
’s arrived our plans lie in tatters. We shall no doubt be sitting down to supper and sampling some of her famous desiccated lamb’s heart stew instead.” He shuddered. “She brings the bits of sheep with her, you know. They’re the oldest ewes in Wales. I’m sure she sits on the hillside watching them, waiting for them to die – which they gladly do under her gaze – before smuggling them home and hanging them for six months prior to foisting them on to us.”

I smiled, but I wasn’t really listening to his habitual patter, I was gazing at the tickets, turning them over in my hand. “But – how very kind of him,” I said slowly, as it also occurred to me that – God, he hadn’t sent
me
one, had he?

“Wasn’t it?” Hugh agreed. “I popped in to thank him just now, actually, en route here. Didn’t stay, though. He was having a bit of a pre-concert drinks do with the musical elite, and they all looked a bit scary and sophisticated to me.”

“Oh yes,” I sat up eagerly, “I saw Imo’s car. She and Hugo are over there, did you see them?”

“I saw Imogen,” he said carefully.

“I wonder if she’ll pop over later,” I mused, gazing somewhat wistfully in that direction.

“I doubt it somehow,” he said quietly.

I glanced back. “Why?”

“Oh – just that it looked like it was going to go on a bit,” he said quickly. “You know.”

“Oh, right.” I felt a brief pang of jealousy. A roaring preconcert drinks party, eh, and if I’d played my cards right I could have been there too. Christ, been there – I might even have been the hostess. I chewed my lip ruefully for a moment, then smiled.

“God, I’m
so
pleased about Imo, though, aren’t you, Hugh? She’s absolutely ecstatic about this guy. Honestly, you should hear her eulogising about him. Molly said she left a message on the answer machine the other day saying she was absolutely besotted, and that’s so unlike her, isn’t it? She’s keeping a hell of a low profile, though,” I said, frowning. “She popped in briefly when Johnny came back, but I was just thinking, I haven’t really had a proper evening or lunch with her since that terrible concert in the Abbey. Does Moll see much of her?”

Hugh took a deep breath. “Um, Liwy, look. I wasn’t going to tell you this, but I think there’s something you should – Shit!”

We both jumped and I spilt my drink as a tremendous banging came at the front door.

“Bloody hell!” I squeaked, jumping up. “I do have a bell!”

The banging came again, only more of a hammering now. Hugh and I gazed at each other, stunned.

“God, who the hell would do that?” whispered Hugh, getting up and moving behind the sofa.

I went to answer it. “Well, I don’t know, but I’m bloody well going to – ” I stopped. Swung round. My hand flew to my mouth. “Trinidad and Tobago!” I breathed.

“Oh, good point,” he muttered with relief. “For an awful moment I thought it might be Millicent.”

“Quick, in here!” I grabbed his arm and pulled him through into the study, which looked out on to the front drive. We scuttled to the window together and peered out round the red velvet curtain. A small, bald-headed man in a beige, belted raincoat was standing on the step, beside a middle-aged, peroxide-blonde woman in a well-worn, shiny C & A suit.

“Oh. How very disappointing,” observed Hugh flatly. “They look like insurance salesmen. Either that or Jehovah’s Witnesses.”

“Well, thank goodness for that,” I said with relief, going to answer the door. “They certainly don’t look like knuckle breakers, anyway.”

I opened it.

“Mithith McFarllen?” the man enquired softly. He had a lisp.

“Yes?”

“I believe a gentleman named Mithter Alfred Turner ith currently in your employ. May we thpeak with him, pleathe?”

My heart skipped. God, yes, of course, far more sinister. The quietly spoken gunman and his female accomplice, his moll, his
femme fatale
, brought along for cover. Nothing brutal and thuggish, mind, just a single bullet to the head, while the girl wiped the revolver clean with a white silk handkerchief.

“Oh! Well, yes I – ”

“Police,” the moll informed me helpfully, flicking out her ID card.

“Oh!” I gasped with relief. “Good, heavens, I thought you were – ”

“Yes?”

“No, no, nothing. Um, yes, well do come in. In fact – no, no, don’t come in, there’s no point. We’ll go round the back. They’re down in a caravan, you see, in the garden. Such fun, you’ll see!” I breezed nervously. I stepped outside and began to lead the way, when abruptly I stopped. “Oh – except I have to tell you, I have a feeling Alf won’t be there.”

“Really? Why so?” asked Raincoat.

“Well, because they always go to the pub at about this time,” I glanced at my watch. “Yes, they’ll be having a pint.”

“Ah.” He gave a thin smile. “Well, shall we go and thee, anyway, Mrs McFarllen? Jutht in case? Shall we go and find out?” he gestured with his arm that I should lead on again.

“Oh, yes, OK.” God, he was a bit creepy, wasn’t he? A bit – you know – unnecessary? “Um, coming, Hugh?” I glanced back over my shoulder.

But Hugh was recovering from shock and cowering in the porch, desperately trying to light a cigarette with an empty lighter. “No, no,” he muttered faintly, “don’t worry about me. I’ll be off now. Might even go to the pub myself, have a large Scotch. Toodle-oo, my love, and thanks for the drink.”

“Love to Molly,” I called as he shuffled off down the drive.

Gosh, the police, I thought, my head spinning as I led them away down the garden. Now, that was an interesting development. Hadn’t Mac said that gambling debts weren’t enforceable by law? But then, perhaps they were here to protect Alf? Yes, that must be it, I decided. They’d probably heard that some unsavoury characters were after him and were here to warn him, offer him some protection, perhaps. Well, thank goodness for that. I wasn’t unhappy about a bit of police presence if there were going to be some undesirables knocking about. I banged on the caravan door.

“Mac! Alf!”

Spiro answered. “Yes, Meesis McFarllen?” with studied politeness.

“Oh, Spiro, are the others in?”

“No, Meesis McFarllen, they have gone out. They have gone to the public house.”

It was quite obvious Spiro had been well briefed. He was talking in an even more unnatural and stilted manner than usual, as if he’d rehearsed, and was now regurgitating the words.

“Do you happen to know which public houthe?” whispered the man in the raincoat.

Spiro smiled ruefully. “I am so very sorry. I am so very afraid that I do not know wheech public house.”

God, he sounded brain dead. Raincoat turned to me. “What’s the nearest local then, Mrs McFarllen, the Fighting Cocks?” He paused. “Mrs McFarllen?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Just behind Raincoat, I’d suddenly caught sight of Mac, hiding in the rhododendron bushes. I’d also spotted Lance, tucked away behind him. Lance put a finger to his lips. I turned wide eyes on Raincoat. “What…did you say?”

“I thaid, is the Fighting Cocks the nearest?”

“Yes, yes, that’s it.”

“But they go on a creep, I theenk,” added Spiro, imaginatively. “They go creepy crawly.”

The policeman stared.

“A pub crawl, he means,” I put in quickly.

“Ah.” Raincoat nodded, then squinted at Spiro as if he’d never seen anything quite like him before. He pursed his lips. “Well, how very inconvenient, but I don’t believe I shall trouble to ‘creep’ around the local hostelries after them. Would you thimply inform Mr Turner that I would like a word with him on a matter of great importance, and will be returning forthwith, in other words, tomorrow morning, Mrs McFarllen?”

“Of course!”

“And meanwhile, thank you for your time.” He inclined his head slightly, then with a sharp “Come!” to his accomplice, they turned to go.

Spiro and I watched as they made their way up the garden, not quite goose-stepping but almost, up the lavender walk, and under the rose arbour. My eyes darted briefly to the rhododendron bushes, but then suddenly, on an impulse, I ran after them.

“Um, excuse me,” I called, “can I just ask,” I said, breathlessly, catching them up, “since this is my home, and Alf Turner is staying on my premises – can I just ask what this is all about?”

He turned. “Yeth of course. It’s about his wife.”

“Whose wife – Alf’s?”

“Yeth. She appears to be missing.”

“Missing! Oh, oh no, now you see I can help you with that, officer,” I said eagerly. “If you mean Vi, she’s gone to Spain!”

He gazed witheringly at me. “No, Mrs McFarllen, she hasn’t gone to Spain. For one thing she has never in her life possessed a pathport and she certainly hasn’t forged one and sneaked her way out of the country. She’s missing, believe me. In fact we’re very much afraid she may be dead.”

I stared. “Dead!” My hand shot to my mouth. “Oh!” I gasped.

“Exactly. Oh,” he repeated quietly. His pale grey eyes bored deep into mine. “Bear that in mind, Mrs McFarllen, when you answer any more of my questions, hmm?”

And with that he turned and left.

“D
ead!” I stared after his retreating back. Spiro came up behind me.

“Spiro, she’s dead!” I gasped.

“Who dead?”

“Vi, Alf’s wife!”

He gazed at me, open-mouthed. Slowly it dawned. “Oh! Oh no, so poor Alf. He be so sad, Meesis McFarllen! He have his heart broken in a million tiny pieces, he – ”

Mac and Lance materialised from the bushes and came over the bridge, just as Spiro was filling up and reaching for his hat. Mac jerked his head. “Vamoose, Spiro.”

“
Ti?
”

“You heard, Zorba, beat it,” he snarled. “Go find a kebab house to loiter in and bring us back a donna while yer at it. Go on, get out of here.”

Spiro’s eyes widened. “Ah yes, yes.” He looked suddenly nervous. “Good idea, I go for donna.” He backed away.

“Excellent. Now.” Mac’s steely-blue eyes met mine. “We need to talk.”

“We certainly do,” I muttered.

“Over here.”

He led the way back across the bridge, pausing only at the caravan to reach in and grab a six-pack from inside the door. Then the three of us, under his guidance, moved further along the river and sat down on the grassy bank. Lance was silent.

“She’s dead, Mac,” I breathed, staring into the water.

“I know.”

“Does Alf know?”

He turned his head, looked at me for a long moment.

“He killed her?” I gasped.

“Didn’t think it would take you long. But he didn’t kill her, as in murder her, right? It was an accident.”

“Jesus!” I got to my feet, knocking his Pils over. “He killed her, Alf killed his wife –
Jesus
!”

“Sit down,” hissed Mac, reaching up and taking my arm roughly, dragging me down. “An’ keep yer voice down!”

I glanced around. There was no one about, but I appeared to be trembling. I sat down again.

“Now listen,” he breathed hoarsely in my ear. “It was an accident, right? A terrible, tragic accident, like a kiddie drowning in a pond while his mum’s not watchin’, or like knockin’ an old lady down ‘cos you didn’t see her suddenly step off the kerb, and that’s not murder, is it? That’s manslaughter, innit? See the difference? He’s not a bad man, our Alf, orright?” His blue eyes bored into mine.

I gulped and inched back slightly on the grass. “All – all right.” I nodded. “What happened?” I whispered.

Mac took a slug of beer, narrowed his eyes across the river.

“That weekend, a while back, when we went home, and Lance stayed here, remember? Real scorcher?”

I thought back desperately. My mind whirled for a moment, then memories of Malcolm standing me up and Lance sitting me down and me slapping the Ambre Solaire all over him in the garden and Claudia going missing jostled for position so – yes, that weekend, it must have been…“Yes, yes, I remember,” I muttered.

“Well, previous to that, she’d bin ringin’, right?”

“Who had?”

“Vi, on his mobile, ringing and ringing, all week, and always givin’ him earache – remember that? ‘Member how his phone never stopped goin’? An’ we all kept groanin’ and sayin’, ‘Bloody hell, it’s bleedin’ Vi again,’ an’ laughing about it – yeah?”

“Oh yes, yes, I do remember.”

“Well, what it was, right, what she was on about, was some kitchen cupboard she wanted puttin’ up. On an’ on she went, an’ she wouldn’t let it go. Right bleedin’ nag, she was, always giving it verbal, but old Alf, he don’t mind, see, he never minded, ‘cos he loved her, right, and he was used to it, wasn’t he? So anyway, he went home that Friday night and said – yeah yeah, orright luv, stop givin’ me grief, I’ll do it, orright? I’ll put it up.