Almost a Crime (17 page)

‘This Friday? That’s great. And Melanie’s not worried

about the connection?’

‘No.’

‘Good. Because it will help us a lot, your liaising with

him. A lot. As of course you realise. You’re such a star.

What would I do without you?’

‘I have no idea. Look, I have to go now. I’ll see you

tomorrow. Hope the speech goes well.’

‘So do I,’ said Tom. ‘Thanks, darling. Lots of love. And I

meant it. I really couldn’t manage without you.’

‘And just possibly, I couldn’t manage without you,’ she

said, smiling into the phone.

‘Of course you could.’

Those words came back to her in a piece of hideous and

total recall next morning when she discovered that Tom

was having an affair.

Zoe Muirhead was standing on the rush-hour Tube trying

very hard not to scream out loud. This was it: the day when

it was going to become extremely apparent that she had

done no work, or hardly any work. Why had she been so

stupid? Why hadn’t she spent all those evenings studying

instead of reading magazines and watching TV in her room?

Because studying was miserable and boring. She might, just

might, pass English, get a D or even a C; but French and

history, no way. She had never even finished reading two

of the French literature texts. So she’d fail her A-levels, and

have to do retakes at a crammer and miss her year out in

Australia.

Zoe sighed, and to distract herself from her misery began

reading a magazine over the shoulder of the girl standing

next to her. An ordinary, lucky girl, Zoe thought, with

nothing more to worry about than what to spend her next

pay-packet on, and obviously (from the way she was

reading an article on the subject so intently) whether or not

to have her hair cut very short. And then she saw something

that was rather more interesting — the announcement of a

model competition. Zoe thought she would make a rather

good model: other people had told her so, she was tall and

quite thin, and she did look pretty good in photographs.

She wondered if she might go in for it. Now that really

would solve all her problems: it wouldn’t matter in the least

if she failed all her exams if she got some modelling contract

for thousands of megabucks. It would show her parents she

had some thoughts about her own life, apart from theirs;

and they’d have to get off her back anyway, because she’d

be independent. It was worth a try, anyway.

The girl got off the Tube at the same place, stuffed the

magazine into a rubbish bin outside. Zoe pulled it out again

to study later in the unimaginably far off moment when the

exam was over. If it seemed even half worth doing, she’d

send off the form that very day …

Octavia was sitting on the bed, reading a quote of hers in

the Express about how brilliantly she managed her marriage,

when she noticed the handkerchief. It didn’t mean very

much straight away. Well, it didn’t mean anything at all, but

she did notice it, sitting right on the top of the pile of

ironing just brought in by Mrs Donaldson, because it didn’t

belong there. It wasn’t hers, she never used handkerchiefs,

and it obviously wasn’t Tom’s and it wasn’t Poppy’s. And it

didn’t look like the sort of handkerchief that Caroline

would have. It was a very pretty, lacy, embroidered thing — Caroline always had rather plain hemmed, boarding-school-type handkerchiefs. But maybe this was the exception.

She could ask her. Anyway, she should get on, not sit

here wasting time thinking about handkerchiefs — she had

to go to the office before she went to Ascot.

She ran downstairs to the kitchen. Caroline was just

clearing up the twins’ breakfast things. ‘Caroline, is this by any chance your handkerchief? It’s got caught up in the family washing, and it’s much too pretty to lose.’

Caroline looked at the handkerchief briefly, and said no

it certainly wasn’t hers.

Octavia turned to her daughter. ‘Poppy, you didn’t bring

this hanky home from somewhere by mistake, did you?’

‘Never seen it before. Maybe it’s Gideon’s.’

‘Don’t be silly, Poppy. Off you go, darling. I won’t see

you till tomorrow, I’m afraid.’

“Bye, Mum.’

Octavia went back upstairs, switched on her hairstyler,

and then looked at the handkerchief again. Why was it bothering her so much? Why? It was only a handkerchief.

But — well, handkerchiefs didn’t get into the house by

magic. Someone brought them.

There was a knock at the bedroom door. Mrs Donaldson

looked in. ‘All right if I do the beds tomorrow, Mrs

Fleming?’

‘Yes, of course. Mrs Donaldson, this hanky, I just

wondered — it’s not yours, is it? You didn’t leave it with the

rest of our stuff?’

‘I should be so lucky,’ said Mrs Donaldson, ‘to have a

lovely thing like that. No, I did notice it in the linen basket

and thought it was rather nice. I didn’t put it in with the

whites,’ she added slightly defensively.

‘It was in the basket, was it?’ said Octavia. What was she

doing? Why, why did she care so much about it?

‘Yes. On Monday morning, caught up with all the rest of

yours and Mr Fleming’s stuff. He’d obviously just emptied

his bag into it the way he always does when he’s been away.

I found a biro and a fifty-pence piece as well, lucky they

didn’t go into the machine!’

‘Yes,’ said Octavia, ‘yes, that was very lucky.’

She suddenly felt slightly sick.

It was ridiculous, of course. Absolutely ridiculous. To be

so upset. But the handkerchief had been in Tom’s bag.

From Friday night, when he had been away. With a client

and then at a sales conference. Working. As always.

Even so. It was strange. Intriguing. Maybe it had

belonged to one of the reps at the sales conference. Tom

could easily have picked it up and brought it home by

mistake. Well, fairly easily.

Maybe it was his secretary’s. She couldn’t quite imagine

the rather terrifyingly tough Barbara Dawson using antique

lace handkerchiefs, but you couldn’t assume anything. You shouldn’t assume anything.

She started longing her hair, trying to ignore the

persistent stirrings of panic. In between staring at the handkerchief and her own face and obediently neatened hair in the mirror, she also kept looking at the article in the Express, and her comments on her own marriage. They suddenly seemed rather smug.

‘It’s a bit of a tightrope, a working marriage … don’t

look down, and everything will be all right …”

And while you weren’t looking down, what might be

going on? Down there, just under your nose?

Oh, this was ridiculous. There was such an easy way to

settle it. Ask Tom. Just casually. Lightly. As if it was a sort of

joke.

‘And just whose handkerchief was that in your bag, Mr

Fleming?’

That sort of thing. Only she wasn’t very good at asking

questions like that, lightly and casually. It would come out

sounding neurotic and probing. Another manifestation of

her jealousy. It would probably lead to a row.

Like the near-one they’d had over Lauren Bartlett. After

the party and the dancing.

She put on the red silk dress and jacket she’d bought for

Ascot. It had been a mistake. She’d bought it in too much

of a hurry, and it didn’t suit her. The jacket made her look

short rather than small. Damn. And the hat didn’t help, it

was too big. Too big for the shape of the suit. Well, there

was nothing she could do about it now. Tom had said he

liked it. And he never lied to her. Never.

She had to pass the handkerchief to get her shoes; she had

managed not to look at it for a bit. It looked more

innocuous now. She’d just been over-reacting. As usual.

She took the suit and hat off again, put the suit back on its

hanger under a nylon cover, the hat into its hat box, carried them downstairs with her shoes and bag to take to the office, still feeling oddly wretched. Maybe she should ring

Tom. But he wasn’t there. He’d been away last night.

Again.

Twice in a week.

Bath last night. Leamington Spa on Friday. Friday when

he’d picked up the handkerchief. Where had he stayed?

Oh, yes, the Regency. He had stayed there before, said it was awfully good. She’d phoned him there, so he’d

definitely been there. No, he hadn’t. She’d phoned him on

his mobile. Of course. Maybe …

Octavia, this is dreadful. Go to the office, get some work

done.

She put the Express into her briefcase to show Melanie,

and then on an impulse, she picked up the handkerchief

stuffed it into her underwear drawer. When she found out

who it belonged to, she’d give it back.

The traffic was bad, going down to the Old Brompton

Road. She switched on the radio; she felt jittery, strung up.

Well, anyone would, going to Ascot, looking terrible.

The radio offered her nothing to calm her nerves, so she

switched it off again. She phoned Sarah Jane, said she was

on her way in. And then heard herself asking Directory

Enquiries for the number of the Regency Hotel, in

Leamington Spa.

Obviously she wouldn’t ring it. Wouldn’t check up on

Tom. Obviously. That would be an awful thing to do.

Awful. She just wanted the number, in case. She hadn’t got

it and it was a nice hotel. She had a huge bank of hotel

numbers, but not that one.

When the girl gave it to her, she scribbled it down on the

back of her A to Z. She could transfer it to her Psion when

she got to the office.

She definitely wouldn’t ring it. It would be a terrible

thing to do.

‘Oh, good morning. This is Mrs Fleming. Mrs Tom

Fleming. Yes. My husband stayed there the other night,

Friday. Yes. Yes, definitely. Well, anyway, he thinks he

might have left a book behind. What? Yes, this Friday just

gone. The thirteenth.’

Friday the thirteenth: how hideously, horribly significant

She hadn’t even registered it till now.

‘I’m sorry? Are you quite sure? Yes. Oh, I see.’

Octavia put the phone down.

She felt quite different now: driven by a white-hot need

to know. Clear headed, almost excited. She asked Sarah

Jane for some coffee, told her not to put any calls through

for half an hour. The sales conference had definitely been in

Leamington Spa. She’d seen the folder he’d brought back.

She phoned the Regency again. She was so sorry, she’d

made a stupid mistake, could they give her the name of any

other comparable hotels in the area? Yes. Yes, that would

be very kind. She wrote them down. Six.

She dialled Directory Enquiries, got the numbers.

And started. She said she was Tom Fleming’s secretary.

Not his wife. It was easier that way. If she got to the second

question. So far she hadn’t.

With each one, each time she was told no, Mr Fleming

hadn’t been there, she felt more ashamed of herself,

somehow dirty. Like some seedy private detective. It was

awful of her, a dreadful obscene demonstration of her

jealousy. But she had to know. She had to.

She looked at her watch. God, nearly ten thirty. The car

would be here in less than an hour, and she had things to do

first. Just one more. The others would have to wait.

‘Good morning. Carlton Hotel, Leamington Spa.’

‘Good morning. This is Tom Fleming’s secretary. From

Fleming Cotterill Public Affairs. Mr Fleming has asked me

to ring you. I believe he and Mrs Fleming stayed there last

Friday. Friday the thirteenth.’

‘Yes?’ The voice was politely bland.

‘Anyway, I’m trying to track down a book Mrs Fleming

thinks she might have left there. On antiques.’ How was

she doing this, how was she managing to sound so calm, so

efficient?

‘Just let me have a look …” The inevitable endless

computer clicking. ‘Hallo? Yes, that’s right. Last Friday. Mr

and Mrs Tom Fleming. Just the one night. But I don’t think

we have any books—’

‘Thank you,’ said Octavia automatically. ‘That’s perfectly

all right, don’t worry.’

She felt hot. Very hot. And was finding it terribly difficult to breathe.

She put the phone down carefully and sat looking at it

for a moment. And then she had to rush to the lavatory

where she was violently sick.

‘You all right, Octavia?’ Sarah Jane looked up at her as she

walked past her, smiling carefully, back into her office.

‘Yes, I’m fine. Why shouldn’t I be?’

‘Oh, you look a bit pale. That’s all. Hair looks nice.’

‘Thank you. Yes. Jonathan fitted me in at seven last

night.’

She had thought it so important at the time, had been so

relieved. Relieved: about her hair. How extraordinary.

Sarah Jane’s phone rang. ‘Hallo. Octavia Fleming’s— Oh, hallo, Barbara. Yes, she’s here, I’ll ask her. Octavia, can you possibly get there for eleven forty-five, instead of

twelve?’

‘No,’ said Octavia, suddenly brisk. ‘I can’t possibly.’ It

was a revenge of sorts on that dreadful day: small, but

important.

Barbara Dawson, thought Octavia: did she know about