The Lily-White Boys (3 page)

The last registered owner was named as Gary White, 24 Trafalgar Street. Not the most salubrious part of town, Penrose reflected. Well, he'd go and look at the van, at least; it was a nice evening for a stroll. But that, for the moment, was as far as he could go. Magistrate or not, it was too soon to go chasing after the owner. He was probably planning to come back for it after work.

‘I'm going to check on an abandoned vehicle,' he told his colleague. And by the time he got back it would be the end of his shift and he could go home.

Monica saw Penrose arrive from her bedroom window as she was dressing for the dinner-party. He circled the van a couple of times, tapping the tyres, checking the numberplates and examining the bodywork. He also peered through the dirty rear window, and studied the rack on the roof. Then, after making some notes in his pocket-book, he turned and walked back up the hill. At least, she thought, she'd registered a complaint and with luck the van would be gone by the time they returned tonight.

She bent forward, looking critically at her reflection in the glass and hoping the outfit she'd chosen would be suitable. Eloise held different levels of dinner-party, ranging from family (plus George) to what Monica dubbed the Pulling-Out-All-Stops occasions. These were usually designed to impress either customers or suppliers of Justin's wine business, or fellow members of the Arts Appreciation Society which she and the Marlows supported so ardently.

And the trouble was, Monica thought, giving her hair a final pat, one was never advised in advance what type of company to expect. She'd tried asking, but as Eloise was deliberately vague, she no longer bothered. In any event, the food was always excellent; even for the smaller occasions a firm of caterers was employed, who took over the kitchen for the evening and left everything spotlessly tidy afterwards.

Picking up her handbag, Monica went downstairs to collect her mother.

‘You're not going out
again,
George?' Ethel Latimer looked peevishly up at her son as he bent to kiss her cheek.

‘Mother dear, I've not been out for weeks!'

‘Just all day and every day,' she said with a sniff.

‘Well, of course I go to work, but I spend the evenings with you. And Betsy will be here to keep you company.' Long-suffering Betsy, who had become almost one of the family.

‘Betsy doesn't read to me like you do.'

‘But she plays cards and does the crossword, doesn't she? Anyway, Tuesday's your favourite television evening.'

‘I suppose you're going to see that woman,' Ethel said, unmollified.

George held on to his patience. ‘If you mean Monica, yes, she'll be there.'

‘I know you're both waiting for me to die, so you can marry. I'm surprised you haven't put something in my tea before this.'

‘Mother, please don't be ridiculous. Nobody wants you to die. Now, have a pleasant evening. I'll look in to say good night when I get back.'

And before she could make any more complaints, he walked quickly from the room. Was he a good son, he wondered, to consider her as much as he did, or simply a weak-willed fool for allowing her to ruin his life? He was forty-eight, damn it, surely he was entitled to some life of his own? But he'd promised Father to take care of her – he couldn't just abandon her.

In the early days, any girl he'd been fond enough of to bring home had wilted under his mother's relentless disapproval and disappeared from the scene. Once, when he'd dared to become engaged, she had had a heart attack. Even now, he wondered how she'd engineered it. Still, it had the desired effect and the engagement was called off.

After that, George admitted defeat and buried himself in his work, rising steadily through the bank to a position of considerable authority. In his work environment at least he was highly thought of, his decisions respected and his opinions sought. It was a Jekyll and Hyde existence, but his career afforded some compensation for what his personal life lacked, and the years had passed reasonably contentedly. Then, four years ago, he'd met Monica.

How did the old song go?
But it's when he thinks he's past love, Oh it's then he meets his last love, And he loves her as he's never loved before.
Well, that was how it had been – still was. And Monica, unlike her young predecessors, was not in the least intimidated by his mother. Though unfailingly polite, she played the old lady at her own game, and he discerned in his mother a grudging though well-disguised respect.

At the time they met, Mrs Latimer had been going through one of her actual rather than imagined bouts of ill health, and the doctor was doubtful of her chances of recovery. It had not seemed unreasonable to ask Monica to postpone their wedding plans, which would be sure to upset the old lady.

But with what George couldn't help regarding as typical perversity, Ethel Latimer made a complete recovery and resumed her tyrannical control over her son's home life.

Monica had been incredibly understanding. ‘We're not teenagers, George,' she'd said. ‘We've waited this long, a year or two more won't make any difference.' But the ‘year or two' showed signs of stretching indefinitely. When Humphrey Tovey had died, George wondered briefly if the two old ladies might be company for each other, thus freeing their offspring to marry. But that hope was stillborn when they took an instant and mutual dislike to each other. Understandably, perhaps, since Maude Tovey, though not many years younger, was still an attractive and fashionable woman with a wide circle of friends. Ethel seemed decades older, with her inward-looking, sour view of life.

So he and Monica continued their long-drawn-out engagement, managing discreet weekends away now and then and generally seeing as much of each other as their busy lives allowed. Occasionally, and to his shame, George found himself resenting her patience, suspecting it meant she was not as anxious as he to marry. If that were so, he thought he understood why: he had suspected almost from the time he met her that Monica was in love with her brother-in-law.

What he was not sure of was whether she recognized the fact.

There were ten at the dinner-party. Harry and Claudia Marlow were there, George, of course, and both the Teal boys, together with Jeremy's live-in girlfriend. Monica was not impressed by the latter, whom she'd met before. A tall, willowy blonde, she had a permanently bored expression which marred her lovely face, and was given to draping herself against the furniture to display her admittedly perfect figure. Her name was Primrose, which Monica conceded was no fault of her own.

Come to that, Monica wished she could be fonder of her nephews. Outwardly they were a credit to their parents – tall, good-looking, well-groomed and with perfect manners; the sort of young men, in fact, who postured self-consciously in sportswear advertisements, accompanied by appropriately dressed females and golden retrievers. But behind their ready smiles and smooth faces, she had no idea what they were thinking. Even more uncomfortably, she didn't quite trust them.

Summoned, perhaps, by her musings, Theo came over and took the seat next to hers. ‘A very elegant dress, Aunt, if I may say so. From the Spring Collections?'

She looked at him sharply but his face, as always, was bland. ‘Just a little thing I ran up.'

He laughed. ‘I must say it's gratifying to have such glamorous relations. Mother looks a picture, doesn't she?'

Monica acknowledged that she did. Her sister not only possessed the family dress sense in full measure, she had the knack of investing any garment she wore with her own stamp, just as her large, horn-rimmed spectacles had over the years become a personal fashion accessory. Taller and fairer than Monica, she wore her silver-blonde hair in a sleek, chin-length bob which perfectly complimented her oval face and round grey eyes. Tonight the green chiffon dress she wore, swathed over narrow hips, needed only the simplest gold chain by way of adornment.

Yes, they were a good-looking family, Monica thought complacently. It was no wonder Justin preferred to entertain customers at home. Yet, even with the backing of her catering team, there were times when Eloise was not prepared to play hostess. Monica tried not to doubt the veracity of the migraines which frequently laid her low when less interesting guests were due. On such occasions Justin had no course but to resort to restaurants, and not infrequently invited herself to be his hostess. Her fluency in French and Italian, painstakingly perfected to ease her way at the Collections, was a particular asset with his continental suppliers.

Monica watched her sister chatting animatedly with Harry Marlow. She really didn't see why she should feel embarrassed when they were together, since obviously neither they nor their spouses did. Their former engagement was, after all, ancient history, and both marriages seemed happy enough.

Deliberately combating that embarrassment, Monica studied Harry as he stood with his head bent attentively to her sister. Unlike Justin, whose hair was now steel grey, and George, with his rapidly fading thatch, Harry's was still dark, and if his jawline had thickened over the years, it served only to give him a more authoritative air. All in all, the years had been kind to him and he was still a very attractive man. Small wonder that Eloise, who thrived on masculine attention, liked to keep him around her.

Dinner was announced, and served as always by one of the trio of caterers. Two young men and a girl, they worked democratically, taking it in turns to cook, wash up and wait at table. This evening it was the darker man, immaculate in white dinner jacket. Monica noted drily that Primrose's eyes fluttered towards him more than once.

Justin, on her right at the head of the table, claimed her attention. ‘How was Court this afternoon?' He was a fellow magistrate and occasionally they sat on the same bench.

‘Pretty run-of-the-mill. At least we're spared football hooligans, now the season's over.' She smiled. ‘Actually, being a JP does have its advantages. I unashamedly pulled strings this evening in an attempt to get an old van removed from our doorway.'

Justin paused, his fork half way to his mouth. ‘Really? Who does it belong to?'

‘I wish I knew. It broke down in the middle of the night and no one's collected it yet. I'm hoping Sergeant Penrose will do the necessary.'

‘Perhaps it was deliberately dumped,' George suggested.

‘I don't think so. I heard it arrive, coughing and spluttering. The driver tried several times to restart it.'

‘Well, if it was only last night, you haven't given him long to get organized.'

‘True. I probably wouldn't have made such a fuss if it hadn't been so unsightly.'

Jeremy, on her left, turned towards her. ‘What is it you've been making a fuss about,
ma tante?

‘A dirty van outside our house.'

Her mother took up the story. ‘Yes, it's perfectly disgraceful. I don't know what our neighbours must think. Monica heard it arrive during the night – she was afraid it might have wakened me, but these new sleeping pills proved their worth, I'm glad to say.'

Theo, on his grandmother's far side, leaned round her. ‘A dirty van sullying North Park Drive? The very idea! Have it towed away at once!'

‘I'm trying to,' Monica said evenly, regretting by now that she had broached the subject.

‘Hasn't it got a name on the side?' George again.

‘Obviously not, or I'd have contacted whoever's responsible. It's simply a dirty green van with some kind of rack on the roof.'

There was a moment of complete silence, which for some reason made her uncomfortable. Perhaps it was her tone of voice which had surprised them. She said with a forced laugh, ‘I know this is a fascinating topic of conversation, but can we move on to something else?'

There was a brief, uncertain pause. Then Claudia said valiantly, ‘I hope you're all coming to the Private View next week?'

‘What is it this time?'

After a shaky start general conversation resumed and Monica felt herself relax. She looked up to find George watching her and, catching her eye, he gave her an encouraging smile. Dear George, she thought, smiling back; he'd forgiven her her snappy rejoinder. She felt a rush of warmth for him, mingled as usual with an indeterminate sense of guilt. Pushing both aside, she directed her attention to her cooling meal.

The van was still there when they arrived home, the light from the street lamp waking no reflections in its grimy surface. Monica dropped her mother at the door and drove round to the mews to garage the car. So much for her attempt at string-pulling, she thought wryly, and with a mental shrug resolved to let the matter take its course.

Later, however, on the point of sleep, the van driver's face came into her mind, white under the street lamp and staring straight up at her. Unaccountably she shivered and, pulling the bedclothes more tightly round her, she turned on her side and determinedly settled to sleep.

Doris Trubshaw stirred, felt the space on the mattress beside her, and heaved herself up on one elbow. Her husband was at the window again, holding the curtain aside and peering into the street below.

‘Come back to bed, love,' she said gently.

‘I thought I heard the van.'

‘Well, they've got their own key.'

‘It wasn't them, anyway. I can't think where they've got to. They've never done this before.'

Her heart contracted at the sight of his drooping shoulders, the sparse hair ruffled from an uneasy sleep. ‘They'll come back when they're good and ready. They can take care of theirselves, them two, don't you fret.'

‘But we're responsible for them in a way.'

‘That we're not!' Her voice had sharpened. ‘They've been up to all sorts of tricks I've not bothered you with, but if one has backfired they've only themselves to blame.'

Sid, on the point of climbing back into bed, stopped and stared at her. ‘What are you on about? What tricks?'