Murder in Mind (8 page)

Ting! An old-fashioned doorbell.

The fug inside assaulted the nostrils. Scented candles and incense.

She lived above the shop but at this time of the morning she was usually downstairs, waiting for non-existent customers. Yes, there she was, sitting behind the counter on a high stool, a silk turban wrapped around fading, hennaed hair. She had draped what looked like an old lace curtain over her black dress, stained with her last meal. Or several recent meals. She'd been drinking something from a mug. Probably not straight coffee, though. Her tipple was gin, and she'd probably put a couple of shots in her morning pick-me-up, though with her diabetes she ought not to touch the stuff. Her eyelids were at half mast.

There was another scent here, apart from the incense. Marijuana?

Just her style.

She blinked. ‘Back again so soon, you silly thing? I should tell the police about you and your mad ideas, shouldn't I? Were you responsible for Abigail's death?'

Temper flared. One punch and she fell off her high stool, catching her foot in her draperies. Crash, bang, wallop. Over she goes. She hit her head on the edge of the counter and went down. Flop. Flip flop. Out for the count. Snoring.

No need to shift her. She was too heavy to move, anyway. There was a quick way to help diabetics shuffle off this mortal coil. Pull up her dress – ugh – nasty sight! She always injected herself in her thigh. Another needle, another pin prick. Easy does it. And . . . leave the needle there. Clasp one podgy hand around it. And let it fall away.

Confused diabetic overdoes it.

Turn the ‘Open' sign on the door to ‘Closed'. Drop the latch on the door.

Perfect.

Exit.

Saturday morning

Ellie stooped to pick up the newspapers which Thomas had strewn about the sitting room. Thomas was a ‘horizontal filer', who covered every surface in his study with papers, claiming to know exactly where everything was. The same applied to the weekend newspapers with their supplements. One went this way, another went that; most of them ended up on the floor.

As she arranged the newspapers in a pile, Ellie came across the print of the clown which Mrs Topping had given her. Should she phone Ms Milburn about it? It was the weekend and surely the girl would be off duty? On the other hand, leaving it till Monday might lay Ellie open to a charge of, well, not caring.

Well, she did care. Of course she did. And the clown was certainly not Diana in disguise.

The clown person might well be some student wanting to break into acting, who'd been hired to appear in costume at the play centre and give out balloons and biscuits . . . which had been supplied by whoever it was who'd employed them.

So, you could argue that Diana might have done it, through someone else.

But no; because as soon as an innocent person realized that his actions had led to the death of a child, he'd surely want to confess.

Or would he? Perhaps he'd prefer to keep mum when he realized he'd been responsible for the death of a child?

Ellie dialled the number Ms Milburn had given her and was told that the person she was calling was on the phone already. Of course. Please leave a message.

‘Please call Mrs Quicke. I have a picture of the clown for you.'

End of.

She looked at the clock. Time was marching on, and the decorator person would be arriving in a minute. Ellie reached for the nearest piece of paper to make notes for her. So many adults. So many children. So many rooms to spare. A shortage of beds. Had Maria said Betsey could let Ellie have a bed or two? Bunk beds, perhaps, for two of the children? Or would the other child then feel jealous and want a bunk bed, too? Or, worse; suppose the twins decided they couldn't sleep in bunk beds? Really, there was no end of things that could go wrong when you invited people to stay.

A ring at the door, and there was a tall thin blonde – bottle blonde but an expensive job – dressed in a trouser suit in an expensive material which looked like leather and might just be that. High heeled boots. Her figure was excellent.

Ellie sighed, knowing she'd never be a size zero again; not that she ever had been, come to think of it.

‘Betsey?'

‘Harmony in the Home.' Ms Betsey was armed with a laptop and a briefcase to show that she meant business. And an inquisitive eye.

Ellie liked her straight away. ‘Coffee to start with?' Where was Rose? Pottering around in the garden, deadheading roses. Best not to disturb her. ‘If you don't mind coming into the kitchen while I make it?'

‘A pleasure.'

Ellie led the way. ‘We have mutual acquaintances, I believe. Maria, of course. And I believe you know Mr Hooper, too?'

‘Indeed. We go back a long way. The Hoopers do seem to have suffered a run of tragedies recently.'

‘My daughter Diana is working for him now,' said Ellie, putting a cafetière, china mugs and the sugar bowl on a tray. ‘I had some contact with him in the past over a property deal and Diana has linked up with him emotionally, if that's the right term.'

‘I had heard, yes.'

Could Betsey be trusted? Ellie rather thought she could. Perhaps it was worth probing further. ‘Milk with it?' She switched the kettle on.

‘Black for me. I like to keep sharp when I'm working.'

Ellie pushed the biscuit tin Betsey's way. Betsey shook her head. She was sizing Ellie up, just as Ellie was doing to her. The kettle boiled. Ellie spooned coffee grounds into the cafetière and poured on the boiling water.

‘Let's take it into the sitting room and make ourselves comfortable. I must admit I'm concerned for Diana. Being a happily married woman myself, I can't help worrying when my daughter is seeing a man who has three marriages to his credit already.'

Betsey sipped her coffee, eyes everywhere. Thoughtful.

‘I even had a visit from the police,' said Ellie, ‘asking if I had any information about the deaths in the Hooper family.'

Betsey seemed uneasy. ‘It's none of my business, but if I were your daughter, I might think it a good idea to cool things with Evan . . .'

‘I wish she would.'

Betsey considered her fingernails, pale polish, professionally done. ‘If she knew some of the background . . .?'

‘Can you bear to tell me?'

Betsey made up her mind to be frank. ‘Mrs Quicke, I've known the family for ever because my mother was at school with the first Mrs Hooper, Monique. The word was that he'd married her to get the business, which was owned by her father. Evan's own family wasn't much to write home about; father had a job at the town hall, mother didn't work. Nerves, apparently.

‘All right, Monique wasn't exactly a pin-up. She wore glasses and her figure wasn't good. She'd never had a boyfriend but worked in the business and expected to take over when her father retired. Then one day she upped and married Evan. My mother said that it would end in tears, and it did. Monique was in her forties when they married. She produced a son, but his birth left her an invalid, and she couldn't have any more children.'

Ellie sympathized. She'd suffered several miscarriages throughout her first marriage, and the only living child had been Diana. She understood the hunger women had to produce children. Poor Monique.

Betsey continued. ‘The boy wasn't up to much. Nerves. Stammer. Dissolved into tears if you so much as looked at him. Sent away to boarding school; not wanted on voyage, if you see what I mean. Neither was Monique after a while.'

‘What happened to her?'

‘Paid off. She was older than Evan and probably thankful to be out of it. She moved away, set up in business for herself and we lost touch.'

‘The boy went with Monique?'

‘No, he stayed with Dad. Evan wouldn't let him go, the only son and heir, that sort of thing. My mother died, I got married and started up my little business. Right out of the blue, Evan rang one day and asked me to quote for redecorating the reception rooms in his house, as he was about to get married again.'

‘The boy . . .?'

‘Not there. I did enquire.' A frown. ‘Something about an accident? I think it was about that time he went to boarding school. Anyway, Evan wanted a clean sweep. Out went everything that Monique had done to the house, furniture, curtains, kitchen, everything. In came Airy Fairy Fern.'

‘His second wife.'

‘I
think
, though I can't be sure, that there was some sort of agreement that Fern would provide him with a son and heir who was up to scratch, because she produced a couple of children as soon as she'd got his ring on her finger. I can tell you she led me quite a dance, changing her mind every five minutes, wanting stripped pine one minute, and all white the next.

‘She was a hippy type, you know. Glastonbury, flowing locks, dancing in the nude. I would be summoned to meet her to talk about wall hangings and walk in on her, naked except for some floating scarves. She had a good figure, I'll grant you, for her age. I don't know what it was about Evan. You'd have thought he'd have gone for a sensible woman in her late twenties for a second wife, but Fern was knocking thirty-five then and she drank! And smoked! She had a good hollow cough even in those days. No, I did not understand Evan then, any more than I do now.'

‘Fern must have had fun redecorating the house.'

‘She went in for rowdy parties, getting drunk and being thrown out of functions, being caught with a toy boy, collecting speeding tickets, crashing her car. Oh yes, she had fun, if you can call it that. But she put on a lot of weight and, what with this and that, began very soon to look older than she really was.'

‘Ah, she lost her looks? Now let me see, she produced two girls in quick succession.'

‘Freya and Fiona. Think “F” for Fern, and “F” for both her daughters. I was called in to redo their rooms at regular intervals as they grew out of bunny rabbits and fairies. I was asked to decorate one of their bedrooms with black walls, if you please. Actually I persuaded the girl to accept slate grey instead, which looked all right. The other always wanted everything pink. I honestly don't know which was worse.'

‘What happened to Fern?'

‘Evan got rid of her. I suppose he woke up one day to the fact that her behaviour wasn't exactly helping his reputation as a good, solid citizen. And there'd been no more pregnancies.'

‘He divorced her?'

‘Uhuh. He bought her the freehold of a shop somewhere in the back streets, set her up as a mystic, all crystals and scented candles, with the lights turned low so that she still looked good. I shouldn't think she's a good insurance risk, what with the smoking and the drinking, and I think she had some other health problem. High blood pressure? Not sure.'

‘So marriage number three. This time to a young girl, a model, who calls herself—'

‘Angelika with a “k”. Much, much younger. She wanted the house redecorated to suit her own taste when she moved in, and who can blame her? She wanted shiny walls and huge mirrors everywhere to reflect her beautiful image, plus the kitchen had to be brought up to date. It cost the earth, as you can imagine. To give her her due, Angelika did ask her stepdaughters to stay on when their mother left, rather than sending them off to boarding school. I don't think she really cares about them, but she does see that they're fed and clothed and have more or less everything they ask for . . . in the way of money, I mean.'

‘So long as she isn't required to stir a finger?'

‘That's it. Angelika has produced yet another girl child. I suppose there was some mistake over the scan. I wouldn't have thought Evan would have bothered to marry her if she hadn't promised him another boy. But who can say? Maybe he really did fall for her beauty.'

‘You've had a good opportunity to observe them in their native habitat, so to speak.'

A shrug. ‘To my mind Angelika is another disaster. Arm candy. Looking for a sugar daddy, so that she could pursue her career in modelling. Total concentration on me, me, me. Lazy. Dirty underwear left around for someone else to pick up. She either ignores her daughter, who isn't exactly a cherub, they say, or shouts at her.'

A hesitation. ‘I don't know that I should repeat this, but on my recent visits – she now wants the dining room redecorated and a wet room put in – anyway, I wondered if she weren't perhaps getting tired of a much older husband and starting to look elsewhere. She always seems to be on her mobile phone when I call, talking lovey-dovey to someone, and I don't think it's her husband.'

‘I almost feel sorry for Evan Hooper.'

Another shrug. ‘A bad picker.'

‘You knew his name has been linked with my daughter's?'

‘He introduced us when we met by chance at the golf club. She was dining with him and I was with a customer. Also, I've heard the gossip.'

‘You think that will end in tears, too?'

A wry face. A searching look at Ellie to see if she really wanted an honest opinion. A shrug. ‘I think she's tough and knows exactly what she's doing. If she's pregnant with a boy . . . Well, the best of luck to her.'

Ellie winced.

Betsey raised her eyebrows. ‘You asked.'

Ellie nodded. Sighed. ‘Yes. Diana is carrying Evan's child; she's had a scan and it's a boy.'

Betsey nodded, but had the good sense not to comment. ‘So, what would you like me to do for you? I gather you've got a load of visitors expected, but don't know how to fit them in. Did Maria tell you that I could rent you whatever extra furniture and furnishings you might require?'

‘Bless you. There's a spare bedroom upstairs which I'm pinning my hopes on, but it's full of junk, and oh . . . I started to make some notes on a spare piece of paper. Now . . . where? Ah, here it is. We'll have a quick tour downstairs first, because I have a problem with the curtains in the dining room. One got torn and needs to be repaired. And yes, I know it won't look as good as new. Also, the room is a trifle gloomy. Perhaps it's time to think of having a new set made?'