Staging Death (11 page)

‘Lord’s? Is that anything to do with the Lord’s Taverners? One of his favourite charities, Vena,’ Allyn explained.

I nodded with as much interest as if I hadn’t known for ever the extent of his charitable work. What I didn’t know was that I was about to become one of his projects myself.

It seemed he and Ted, his head of security,
were so worried about my Ka’s visibility they’d decided I had to have a different car. So Toby and Allyn – or more probably the put-upon Miss Fairford – had worked out how much I had so far spent on their behalf.

It was eye-watering. No wonder I was living on plastic.

‘But you don’t need to pay me until the job’s complete,’ I protested. That was when I always unfurled every last receipt and hit the calculator. My smile might have been confident, but underneath my stomach was churning. Did this mean I was being paid off, that someone else was being brought in to finish the rest of the house?

‘You think we haven’t heard of the credit crunch, darling?’ Allyn asked. ‘Everyone wants cash up front these days. So here’s what we owe you so far.’ She passed me an envelope, which I tucked discreetly into my bag. ‘And we’d like it if you invoiced us every week or so. You don’t have to subsidise our extravagances. No, no arguments. Coffee? Or herbal tea? I always prefer mint tea at this time of night.’

At last it was time for me to go. We’d had such a pleasant evening, I felt able to put into operation my plan to get to know Allyn better, perhaps becoming friends with her. So I began, ‘You’ve got a wonderful tennis court. If ever you fancy a game, I’d—’

She went white. Literally.

What on earth had I done wrong? To create a diversion so that she could compose herself, I dropped my car keys and started scrabbling for them. I managed to tip my bag over too. In the midst of all the frantic business, the moment passed, and they accompanied me to the Ka in apparent harmony.

‘So now you’ll be able to get an anonymous set of wheels,’ Toby declared, patting the Ka on its roof.

‘But it might not accept presents like this one did on Monday. Flowers on the driving seat,’ I explained, still garrulous after my gaffe.

‘After all Ted said you left it unlocked?’ Toby asked angrily. ‘For goodness’ sake, Vee!’

‘I’m sure I’d locked it. It seems Christopher Wild must have even more talents than we knew about. I told you we all found ways to earn our crusts while we were resting.’

So why was it that the more positive I sounded, the more I felt decidedly less convinced?

My courtesy phone calls to the Turovskys were not returned. Not one of them. I couldn’t believe it. I even checked with their hotel reception staff, who assured me that they had passed on my messages. All of them. But they didn’t even contact me to say their interest had waned. Had they found somewhere else? A quick call to Heather, my contact at Greg’s main rival agency, revealed nothing: she couldn’t place anyone like them. Dare I risk phoning other agencies with less friendly staff? On the whole, I thought not. But I did try the hotel one more time, only to learn that they’d checked out.

I felt not just disappointed, but let down.

However, at least I had the pleasure of choosing a car. Ted had recommended I get a model so popular as to be almost invisible – a Fiesta or something similar. My local Ford garage
had a special offer on. I could get a good deal on a second-hand silver Fiesta, and do even better if I paid cash. I didn’t have any cash, of course, not until Toby’s cheque cleared. But for once Greg consented to make me an advance on the bonuses I’d earned. Pride told me that I should treat it as a loan.

But common sense soon prevailed.

At least Greg spoke no more about letting me go, and phoned on Friday to ask if I could do a Saturday viewing of Oxfield Place. Did I dare ask what had happened to the person who usually accompanied punters going direct to the other offices? Did I really want to know? I reflected on the dentition of gift horses and agreed immediately.

‘And the viewers are?’

‘A couple of Londoners. Mr and Mrs Cope. I’m just putting all their details on file now. They’re sold and are in rental at the moment – only a month’s notice, though.’

‘They sound bona fide?’ I asked more in hope than expectation of a genuine answer.

‘Absolutely. No funny accents, I promise. I’ve got their solicitor’s details – everything even your heart could desire. Tell you what, Vee – pick up the keys for Langley Park, too. Just in case. You never know in this business.’

I had to agree. You never did know.

The rain was pouring down on Saturday afternoon, so my new-old Fiesta had a regular baptism. Of course, it had been waxed during the garage valeting process, so the windscreen smeared horribly. Neither was a good omen, I thought. And ten to one the Copes would have been put off by the weather and wouldn’t turn up.

Certainly they were late for their Oxfield Place viewing. On Ted’s orders I had parked out of visitors’ sight lines under the trees, hoping that my car would be anonymous; certainly the number plates, at right angles to anyone arriving, would be practically invisible unless they made a real effort to get a look at them. Ted would have been proud of me. I switched on Radio Three. Often I’d tune to the afternoon play on Radio Four, but today it starred an old rival of mine, and I couldn’t bear to think of her having sat recording it in a nice warm studio while I was stuck out here, waiting to go into a cold, damp house – if I was lucky enough to have the viewers turn up, of course. And she’d be guaranteed her fee even if no one switched on.

No, I couldn’t stand what Radio Three was offering – Rachmaninov’s rather blowsy second symphony – and twiddled till I found Classic FM. I’d better make that one of my presets. There. But blow me if they weren’t playing the same symphony.

I’d heard nothing from Allyn, and after her reaction to the suggestion that she might enjoy a game of tennis thought it better not to contact her. Not that we’d have been playing tennis in this, of course, but we might have done something girly. Shopping – no, our budgets would have been too different. A day at a spa? Not unless she paid for me, which certainly wasn’t an option. I had some pride, after all. So I sat in gloom, listening to the rain drip onto my shiny new silver roof, and expecting nothing from the afternoon.

But I was about to get something. A car was approaching. It seemed Mr and Mrs Cope drove a smaller vehicle than their budget for a new house implied – a modest Mazda 6. OK, not modest at all by my standards, but compared with the Turovskys’ and the others’ cars, it was almost a Mini.

He was about fifty, his incipient beer gut controlled for the time being by – I guessed – sessions in the gym, or even the boxing ring. His grey hair was fashionably cropped. She was young enough to be his daughter, but sported a trio of rings on her left hand – engagement, eternity and wedding. Her outfit, from the leather blouson jacket via the ballet pumps to the monster bag (I didn’t recognise the make), appeared to have been sprayed with sequins.

I greeted them warmly. In return I got cool
nods – clearly they saw me as someone on whom their umbrellas could safely and unapologetically drip.

As always in such situations, I was almost painfully polite. Sometimes this teetered over the edge into obsequiousness; at other times I reminded myself of my younger self in the headmaster’s study. Now I behaved as if I was at a Palace tea party – not as a guest, I have to admit, but as the hostess.

Since this house was unfurnished, I didn’t make too much fuss when they gave cursory glances at what I was showing and then drifted along at different paces, rather like two kids dragged to a National Trust property and refusing to stick with the rather tedious guide. So I didn’t give the full and enthusiastic spiel I’d given the – apparently – friendly Russians. Clearly exploring the garden was not a possibility, so I simply led them to the window with the best vantage point. Unfortunately the rain leaking from a broken gutter meandered down the leaded lights in dismal trickles, showing just how urgent some basic maintenance was. He noticed; she had lost interest and drifted goodness knew where.

She was waiting for us in the hallway. As we joined her, Mr Cope produced a rather battered set of particulars for Langley Park.

‘Your boss said you’d show us this if we had time.’

‘It would be a pleasure,’ I declared truthfully. ‘The easiest way is back to the A road, and then first left past the pub. Then just follow your nose until you come to the church, and turn left, signposted Stratford. Langley Park is on your right, about a mile out of the village. I’ll just lock up here and meet you there, shall I? Do you have the particulars of all our period properties in the area? No? Let me offer you these, then. If there’s anything else you’d like to see I can always phone from Langley Park.’ No one could say I hadn’t tried to occupy them even if I hadn’t offered to lead the way.

It is probably obvious by now that of all the properties on Greg’s books, Langley Park was one of my favourites. So I set off happily, using my usual rat run. As I expected I got there before them, and tucked the Fiesta well out of sight.

I stood on the front step and welcomed them in, again with a warm smile. They blinked, his pebble-grey eyes in particular chillingly reminding me of something more in place in a reptile house. She just looked blank.

I wanted to shake them. Who could not respond to the gracious and timeless elegance of the place? The Copes, it seemed. As before they consented to what rapidly became a perfunctory conducted tour; as before, when I thought I had an audience of two, I suddenly discovered one
of them missing – him, this time. But perhaps he’d just nipped out to his car. When Mrs Cope and I returned to the hall, he was standing there with the brochure for dear old Knottsall Lodge in his hands. Since I’d handed it to him earlier, presumably I’d meant to engage his interest, but I was nonetheless surprised to the point of being disconcerted when he waved it in front of me and said, ‘How soon can you show us round?’

‘I’ll get someone to meet us there with the key if you want to see it this afternoon. I must say, however, that since the gardens are so attractive, you won’t see it at its best in this weather. Tomorrow afternoon, perhaps?’

He made a curious sideways rocking movement of his head, and raised an eyebrow. ‘Pick up the key and see us there at – say – seven?’

Seven on a Saturday? If I could have believed for one instant that a sale would result, I wouldn’t have objected. I didn’t say anything, but inwardly I seethed.

‘Excuse me,’ I said, stepping outside and reaching for my phone. Greg could do this one himself.

Even he seemed a little taken aback. ‘Sounds as if we’ve got a right one, here. Doesn’t he realise that people have lives? Ask if he’ll meet you there at five, Vee, there’s a good girl. That’ll give you time to pick up the keys from here and
return them by six, so I can lock up.’

I passed on the message to Mr Cope, who blinked slowly, never dropping his eyes from mine, however. ‘I said seven.’

‘I’m afraid that there are no representatives available at that time.’

He considered. ‘Very well. Five-thirty.’

‘I need to go back to pick up the key. Shall I give you directions?’ Surely he’d have Sat Nav anyway. ‘I’ll meet you there.’

‘Why not just get in that bloody car of yours and lead the way?’ he asked.

She appeared at his shoulder, still silent but now subtly menacing.

‘I don’t have the key, Mr Cope. If you want to fight the traffic all the way into Stratford on a Saturday afternoon and then battle your way out again,’ I said, going on to the offensive, ‘then of course you can follow me. If we get separated, I’ll wait for you at the office, shall I?’

She whispered something.

‘Very well. Five-thirty, then,’ he said. ‘At Knottsall Lodge.’

Claire was busy dealing with clients when I arrived. I’d rarely seen so many people rifling through the display racks.

‘Any chance you could help out, Vena?’ she asked, in a sort of sideways mutter.

‘Not a prayer. If I’m late at Knottsall Lodge Mr Cope’ll kill me,’ I responded. ‘Claire, do me a huge favour and call me in half an hour, will you?’

She shrugged, looking expressively around her.

‘Please. If I don’t answer, send in the cavalry. Please,’ I begged.

At least I was back at Knottsall Lodge before the Copes, and had been able to unlock the front door and deal with the burglar alarm before they arrived. Unfortunately my phone chose to ring the moment the Mazda nosed on to the gravel. A quick glance told me it wasn’t Claire. I redirected calls hurriedly. Mr Cope was the sort of man to believe he had the right to all my attention, whether or not he had paid me for it.

‘As you can see,’ I began, closing the door and switching on the lights, which did precious little to alleviate the gloom, ‘this is a family house, still lived in. So I must ask you both to stay with me – it’s a foible of the owner,’ I added hurriedly.

Mr Cope said nothing. His blank-faced stare told me that he would do exactly as he liked.

More, a marginal lift of his eyebrow told me that if he wanted, he could have me killed.

He might even do it himself.

He might do either, and no one would ever know.

Stage fright was nothing to this. Had I not had years of practice breathing unobtrusively through my mouth I might have vomited there and then. Or worse.

‘We’ll start with the leads,’ he announced. ‘And before you ask, my wife doesn’t do heights.’

Nonetheless, she accompanied us up the stairs.

They both watched me deal with the bolt on the trapdoor. I waved him ahead. ‘I don’t do heights either,’ I lied.

‘I need you to point out the landmarks,’ he said. In this weather he’d have been hard put to see the end of the drive. ‘What is it they say in the play? Lead on, Macduff?’

Should I tell him he was misquoting, as most people did? On the whole, I rather thought not. And even outside the theatre I didn’t like quoting the Scottish Play.

His wife was not inspecting the graffiti when we came down. She was nowhere to be seen. Surreptitiously I switched on my phone. If I got the chance, I’d call Greg and beg him to come out.

Perhaps I’d manage it. Mr Cope was showing signs of wanting to explore on his own. But each time he strayed, he summoned me to explain something. We both knew his questions were entirely specious.

At last, like a cat feeling suddenly benevolent – or bored – he decided to spare me. He called his wife. They were leaving. But not completely, as I found when I’d locked up the house and made my way to the Fiesta. They had parked just round the corner on the road. So they had time to clock the model, the number, and the way I was going. Only then did the Mazda slide away. And only then did Claire get round to calling me.

‘So much for the anonymous new car,’ I told Meredith Thrale over a straight whisky. At least my teeth had stopped chattering. Thank goodness the publican knew about English spring evenings and had lit a roaring fire.

‘Take it back. Tell them you don’t like it.’

‘I don’t think you can do that. Not when you’ve paid cash,’ I added.

‘Cash?’ Clearly the concept was foreign to him.

‘An advance on a bonus. Not enough to pay off my credit cards, of course.’

He shook his head. ‘Why not stick to the company car?’

‘I told you,’ I said with exasperation, ‘I wanted to go around incognito, which isn’t exactly possible when your vehicle is that colour pink. Come on, you remember. I’ve been tailed by someone. I wanted a nice anonymous car. One
that could get nicely lost in a crowded car park or on a busy road.’

‘I suppose you could borrow my wheels,’ he said. ‘And I could use yours.’

I swallowed. His wheels? Oh, no. But I couldn’t say that aloud.

‘That’s terribly sweet of you, Merry. It really is. But what if they thought you were me and attacked you? Or what,’ I added with a giggle as if I didn’t really believe those threats against Toby, ‘if you used it as a getaway car after you’d killed Toby?’

‘Haven’t got much time to do it now, as it happens. I’ve decided to rent a flat nearer Bristol. More convenient for when filming starts,’ he said, with a cocky little smirk that made me long to pour his beer over his head. How dare he break the unwritten rule that one should not be triumphalist in front of a still-unemployed fellow actor.

‘Of course. So does that mean Toby’s off the hook?’ I pursued. I so wanted to believe his threats were no more than actorly hot air.

‘Neither forgotten nor forgiven,’ he said.