Murder in House (12 page)

‘I have some pictures of her.' From her bag Ellie took photocopies of the torn-up photos. ‘The blonde is Ursula, and the little dark girl is Mia. The handsome lad leering down Mia's shoulder is her stepbrother, Anthony. He seems to be the leader of the group.'

The DI took the photos, looked at them for a couple of seconds and then pushed them back to Ellie. ‘Bring me some new evidence, something to convince me that I should get permission to reopen the cases. Otherwise . . .'

‘May I ring you, if I do come across anything?'

‘Of course.' She stood, waiting for Ellie to go.

Ellie decided she would not apologize for wasting the DI's time. The DI, however, was intent on driving the message home. ‘Forgive me for keeping you waiting so long, but we do have rather a lot of real crime to solve at the moment, and conspiracy theories are ten a penny.' She smiled. Falsely.

‘Oh, yes. Of course.'

‘You being such an expert on what goes on in the community –' buckets of irony – ‘I had hoped you might have been coming in to tell us something about the muggings that are keeping householders indoors at night. Now, there's something I could do with some help on. A real community problem, right up your street.'

Ellie shook her head, trying to remember. There'd been something in the local paper, perhaps? A gang wearing toy masks had been robbing people out late at night, snatching bags, jewellery, mobile phones?

‘Ah well,' the DI said, showing her out. ‘You never know. Have you got your car nearby? It looks as if the weather's turning nasty again.' The DI knew very well that Ellie didn't drive. What's more, Ellie hadn't brought her umbrella with her. If only she'd a mobile phone which she could use to summon help! Well, she hadn't. So she'd better put her head down into the wind and get on with it.

Mumble, mumble
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SEVEN

E
llie's new phone hadn't rung once that morning – but then, she hadn't given anyone this number, had she? If she couldn't ring out, they couldn't get hold of her, either. She wasn't sure if this were a good thing, or not.

Anyway, the rain was holding off so far, and it was lunchtime. She would return home by way of the shops, picking up some of the delicatessen's fresh quiches for herself, Thomas and Rose. Not that Rose was eating much nowadays.

Musing over a display of cold meats, Ellie wondered how Ursula's mother was faring. Not a particularly attractive personality, but there . . . a heavy cold did tend to bring out the worst in one, didn't it? Mrs Belton had had a week in bed, and she hadn't fancied the frozen meals Ursula had left for her. Perhaps Ellie could drop some bits and bobs of dainty, easily-digested food round to Mrs Belton on her way home? Something to tempt the appetite?

Ellie bought more than she'd intended, but consoled herself by saying that whatever Mrs Belton didn't want, Thomas would eat.

Mrs Belton's flat wasn't far out of her way.

Ellie rang the doorbell and waited, checking her watch. Her stomach was rumbling because it was long past her lunch hour. Perhaps Mrs Belton was having an afternoon nap? For which Ellie couldn't blame her. A splendid idea.

Ursula's mother came to the door at last, hugging herself into a large mohair cardigan in a strident shade of salmon pink. Ellie didn't think young Ursula would have approved of it, but it would keep its wearer warm in a flat that was not particularly well heated.

‘It's only me,' said Ellie. ‘I was in the deli and bought far too much, so I wondered if you'd take some of it off my hands.'

‘Come in, quickly, or I'll start sneezing again. It's true, I can't seem to fancy anything much at the moment. Yes, kind of you. Forgive the mess, I was lying down when the doorbell rang. Oh, if you really mean it, this way to the kitchen.'

Ellie followed her hostess, who seemed distracted. ‘Is anything the matter?'

‘No, of course not. Well, yes, but . . . do you fancy a cup of camomile tea? I can't seem to taste anything else at the moment, but . . . is that one of the deli's quiches? They're wonderful, aren't they? Thirty seconds in the microwave, and fit for a king. Forgive me, but I have to listen out for the phone. Ursula promised to ring every day though she couldn't be sure what time she'd be able to make it, and there's this urgent message for her, which means I can't go back to bed until she's rung. It's so inconsiderate of young people nowadays. They think all we have to do is wait on them hand and foot.'

‘No tea, thanks,' said Ellie, handing over the quiche she'd intended for her own lunch. ‘I should have brought you some honey and a lemon. My husband swears by it. Do you have Ursula's timetable?'

‘She usually rings just before supper, but now she's got to use a public phone she might call any time. After she'd gone I did wonder if I shouldn't have given her my own mobile phone, but I need it for work: contacting patients, changing appointments, that sort of thing. Besides, if she was careless enough to drop her phone, she only has herself to blame. They don't think of the worry they cause us, do they?' She popped the quiche into her microwave.

Ellie told herself it wouldn't do her any harm to wait for her own lunch. So Ursula hadn't told her mother how her mobile had got broken? An understandable omission, considering that Mrs Belton was still most unwell. And unsympathetic?

Ellie divided her little packets of food into two, and pushed one half over the table to Mrs Belton. ‘There you are. Keep you going for a bit. I know Ursula stocked you up with frozen food, but little treats help when you're convalescing. You won't try to go back to work this week, will you?'

‘I really must try to get out today. I feel as if I've been indoors for ever. Was that the phone?' It was. Mrs Belton hurried back into the living room as the microwave pinged, announcing that luncheon was served. ‘Hello?' Mrs Belton picked up the phone.

Ellie didn't exactly mean to listen in, but she couldn't help overhearing what was said as she hovered in the doorway.

‘No, Tim. She hasn't rung me yet. Give her a chance. She said she'd ring me every day, and I'm sure she will . . . yes, yes, I'll make sure to tell her . . . yes, I said I'd let you know when she phoned and I will, but . . . I don't see quite what else I can do . . . no, don't ring again this afternoon. I'll ring you when I've heard from her.'

Mrs Belton put the phone down, looking flushed. ‘Young people, nowadays. They seem to think an invitation to a party is more important than work. I don't know, I really don't. Expecting me to take messages for Ursula, expecting her to come running back here when she should be making the most of her opportunities to socialize down in Portsmouth. It's more important than ever that she gets to know some nice young men down there, now that she's broken off her engagement to Dan.'

‘That was one of the crowd? Anthony Prior?'

‘Younger brother, Tim. He's got some stupid nickname, can't remember what. Would you believe, there's some big party this weekend, and they want Ursula to come. Apparently she's caught the eye of some jet-setter or other, who wants to get to know her better. She didn't say anything to me about attracting a wealthy man, but I suppose I really wasn't taking in much of what she did say, I was so poorly.'

‘Your lunch is ready, and I imagine you'll want to have a little rest this afternoon,' said Ellie, trying to make allowances, but finding that she really didn't like the woman much.

‘Stupid boy,' said Mrs Belton, looking at once annoyed and, surprisingly, a lot more capable. Maybe she was over the worst of her flu. ‘You'd think he'd be wanting Ursula to get back with Daniel, instead of pushing her into the arms of a stranger, however much money he has to throw around. Tim even offered to go down to Portsmouth to fetch her back on Saturday, can you believe it?'

Ellie shook her head and said it was a sad day, which she wasn't sure that she really meant, but it seemed to satisfy Mrs Belton.

Once outside she found that the wind hadn't dropped, but that it was too late for her to return home and have lunch before she met Stewart at her old house. Luckily it wasn't far. She wondered if Stewart would know how to use her new phone. Thomas didn't. She supposed that in the end she'd have to go into a specialist shop where she'd be treated with condescension by some young thing hardly out of nappies, and be bombarded with facts that she wouldn't be able to take in. More likely than not they'd call her ‘dearie' or ‘luvvie' and it would drive her insane.

She crossed the road and turned the corner, smiling as her little semi came into view. The outside had been repainted and looked better than ever. Luckily, the fire hadn't touched her next door neighbours' house. Were either of their cars there? Armand would be at work, but Kate was usually at home during the day, looking after the children, but . . . no, neither was there today.

Kate and Ellie had become close friends despite the age difference, and they still had frequent contact since Kate had a formidable financial brain, helped Roy's wife Felicity to keep her affairs in order and was one of the directors of Ellie's Trust.

Ellie surveyed her own house. The front garden had suffered when the firemen had trampled all over it as they extinguished the fire. It needed attention; nothing a bit of tender loving care wouldn't put right. Then Ellie stopped smiling, for there was a ‘To Let' sign nailed to the front wall, put up by the 2Ds Estate Agency. Diana's agency.

Someone tapped on a car horn, and Stewart drew up beside her. He got out, clutching keys and a clipboard. He treated the noticeboard to a long stare, his face wiped clean of expression.

Ellie said, ‘Stewart, you may not be aware of this, but my husband left me half this house outright. The other half is mine for life and only goes to Diana on my death. I had told her I would make it over to her to live in, but I'm not letting her have it to provide her with an income.'

He gave her a look full of unspoken thoughts. He had the unfashionable virtue of loyalty and probably wouldn't speak ill of Diana, even though she'd treated him badly when they were married, during their divorce, and ever since.

It was clear to Ellie that he knew something he wasn't sure he should tell her. Questions buzzed around her head, but it was too cold to stand still outside.

‘Let's go in.' Stewart ushered her into the house; her well-remembered, much-loved house. Her first husband had brought her here soon after they were married, and despite all their ups and downs and his early death, it had been a comfortable home, and a welcoming one.

It was no longer her home.

The downstairs rooms had been emptied of furniture, some of which had been removed to the big house, some sold and some put in a skip. New double-glazed windows kept out the weather, while the ruined carpet had been replaced with laminated wood flooring. The walls were being painted magnolia, because that was the way Miss Quicke had always had her properties painted; a decision Ellie saw no reason to change.

There were painters working upstairs and down, and a workman whistling away as he fitted tiles on the kitchen floor. Stewart took out his clipboard to make notes about the odd things that still needed attention, while Ellie wandered around in a daze. She was surprised to find everything so much smaller than she remembered it; no doubt because she'd been living in a bigger house for months.

Her much-loved conservatory had been stripped of plants and what had once been a terracotta tiled floor had also been given the wooden treatment. Cold and noisy, but all the rage.

Going up the stairs she clung to the banister for a moment or two, remembering how Diana had pushed her down those stairs so many years ago, not meaning to hurt, of course, but still . . . that fall had caused the last of her miscarriages, the one they had hoped that at long last . . . ah well.

The bedrooms and bathroom were almost finished. She looked down on the back garden; that pretty little garden on which she'd lavished so much love over the years. No one had touched it since she'd moved to the big house, and it hurt a little to see it neglected.

Miss Quicke had never taken any interest in the garden at the big house, though Rose had loved to potter about in it. Ellie hadn't wanted to trespass on Rose's territory, but she missed getting her hands dirty, cutting back here, encouraging there, sweeping up leaves, planning a new border. Perhaps Rose would let Ellie work in her garden now that she herself was so frail?

Stewart appeared at her elbow. ‘They've serviced the boiler, checked out the electrics, the gas, put in a water meter, smoke alarms, etcetera. I've put extra men on to finish the redecorating, and barring accidents, we should be able to hand over the keys in a couple of days' time, maybe even tomorrow night.'