To Catch a Creeper (27 page)

‘Canter?’

‘Close.’

‘Closer?’

‘No, not closer. Cancer.’

‘Who’s got cancer?’

‘Tic-Tac,’ I hiss. ‘Hold on.’ I quickly pick him up and shut him in the kitchen before racing back to the phone. ‘That’s why you’re ringing, right? Test results are back?’

‘No. That’s not why I’m ringing.’ She sounds irritated. ‘I’m ringing you in your capacity as a Neighbourhood Watch member. Look, I’m really not certain if it’s important enough to call the police about…but, you see, I found something. In my upstairs bedroom. The burglar might have dropped it. I can’t think where else it could have come from. Anyway you seem to know how the police work and everything. I wanted to ask your opinion…if you think it’s worth taking it along to them. Or if I pass it to you, maybe you could pass it on to them on my behalf. I’m up to my eyes at the moment.’

‘Oh…’ I hesitate. ‘I’m not sure. I don’t really think it’s my place. What is it?’

‘A clasp of some sort. A gold clasp. From a shoe or a handbag or hairpiece or something.’

‘A shoe?’ My brain begins to gather pace.

‘Or a handbag or hairpiece or something.’

‘Where are you? Maybe I’d better take a look.’

‘I can’t today. I’ve a surgery full of patients, but I’m at Holmes Place gym tomorrow. I can meet you there, if you’re free.’

‘Well I’m not free, but I’m relatively cheap,’ I half joke. ‘Let me give you my mobile number.’

***

The door creaks as I open it.

Three pairs of eyes lift their heads from their desks. One eager, the others halfasleep.

‘Can we help you?’ Eager Eyes says.

‘I’ve come about a house.’

‘Which house would that be?’

Oh. ‘Er…’ I quickly scan the flyers displayed in the window, which isn’t much use as they’re all facing roadside. ‘That one.’ I press the back of it with my finger.

‘Hold on a sec.’ He pulls himself up from his desk and heads my way. Late twenties. Crisp white shirt, shoestring tie, black trousers, nice friendly clean-shaven face, dark hair in a quiff style, reminiscent of Presley’s early days.

He pops it out of its holder and turns it around. ‘Two point five million. You’re interested in this?’ His eyes almost spring from his head as he no doubt quickly calculates the commission.

I think about bluffing it, but then I look down at the scuffed Shoe Express shoes adorning my feet, last season’s Next jacket clad on my back with poppers hanging loose that I keep meaning to sew up, my scruffiest faded grey jeans. ‘No, not that one. Maybe it was the one below.’

He flicks another flyer from its holder and hands it to me.

Four bed mid-terraced Victorian. £770,000.

‘Property’s sure gone up round here!’ I whistle. ‘It hasn’t even got an en-suite.’

‘Do you mind if we take some details from you?’ White Shirt asks.

‘Not at all.’

He beckons me over to a seat.

‘And your name is?’

‘Cathy O’Farrell.’ I try twinkling my eyes but they go sort of twitchy instead.

‘Address?’

‘Thirteen Oakleigh Close.’

I like these questions, nice and easy.

***

Twenty minutes later.

‘Let’s try this again. So you want to sell your house, and yet you don’t want to place it on the market?’

‘Umm…yes. It’s kind of awkward.’

‘In what way?’ Eager Eyes’ eyes aren’t so eager now. His sleeves are rolled up, his tie loosened and his quiff has collapsed inwards from running his hands through it so many times.

‘In that…my husband…is…is in a delicate frame of mind.’

‘I see,’ he says slowly. ‘So that’s why you won’t give us your home or work phone numbers?’

‘Yes. But it’s OK, because I don’t need to worry about selling, because I know someone who’s keen to buy my house.’

‘Who?’

‘I can’t say, but she’s
really really
keen on my house.’

‘Does she have an address?’ He grabs his pen.

‘Yes but it’s confidential. Look,’ now he’s got me rubbing my fingers through my hair, ‘I just wanted to be added to your mailing list, that’s all. I promise I’ll let you know when I exchange.’

‘Nothing you want to actually go and see then?’

‘Not at this precise moment.’ I gaze around the room at the other two salesmen. Did they look dodgy? Did they have shifty eyes? I’m meant to be reporting back. I poise my pen over the form and lower my head to surreptitiously give them a quick once-over as I tick boxes of things I would like in my perfect dream home, but one has his face hidden
by his PC and the other’s turned away. Neither of them are making hushed phone calls that I could eavesdrop on.

I hand the form back.

‘So you’re after a farm, outbuildings, land and indoor and outdoor swimming pools?’

‘Only if they’re going,’ I say, weakly. ‘I wouldn’t insist or anything.’

‘Just that you don’t get many of those in Crouch End. I presume it is Crouch End you’re looking at?’

‘Oh yes. Definitely.’

‘Good.’ He passes me a card. ‘Right well, if anything comes up, you can call me on these numbers. And check out our website. Gives you an idea of prices.’

‘You have a website?’

‘Darling,’ he says in a patronising voice, ‘we have more than a website. We have state of the art video tours, so if your “buyer”,’ he says it in a way that implies I don’t have one, blinking cheek, ‘lets you down, then you can always sell your property through us. We do a select viewing scheme as well that most of our clients opt for. It means you won’t be bothered with time wasters.’

‘Hey, backtrack a little. This video thing. What exactly does it do?’

‘It’s a way of showing off your property to anyone via the internet. We’re up to date on all the latest technology here,’ he adds proudly.

‘I don’t doubt it a second,’ I shake his outstretched hand. ‘Well thanks and if you’re not in, shall I?’ I nod my head meaningfully at his two sleepy-looking colleagues. ‘Their names are?’

‘Anybody in the office can help.’

How can I put this without arousing suspicion? Oh, incidentally, I hear at least eight of the properties on your books were burgled. Do you think those two dorks might have soaped a key, done it themselves or blabbed to their equally dorky friends the times when your clients were out?

I can’t. Simple as that. So instead I say in an overloud voice. ‘You know my next door neighbour is going to respite care tomorrow afternoon for about two weeks. Fifteen Oakleigh Close.’

It was Norman’s suggestion to follow through with Rosa’s ‘flush ’em out’ idea (not forgetting the Filipino midwife’s input) and he agreed that I, as Mrs Baker’s Nominated Neighbour would be a more than suitable candidate to do the flushing, especially as she was going away and had given me the keys to her house.

Robert and Trevor were concerned about the legalities of it all and said if we weren’t careful we could find ourselves accused of breaking and entering and even perhaps of putting a vulnerable pensioner’s valuables at risk. But I assured them I was quite happy to sit around her house all day (I had to confess about my job status to the original Neighbourhood Watch as all the WOWs obviously knew) as long as I had a good library book and other members to call on a rota basis to help me if anything started happening. If it took ‘flushing out’ to save Henrietta’s marriage and stop her becoming a crackhead, then flushing out we would do.

‘Oh.’ Eager Eyes is staring at me, eyebrows raised. ‘And?’

‘Just…well… Nice to go to respite care, eh? Social Services might be panned at times, but in general they do a marvellous job. See ya.’

Chapter 26

‘The Creeper’s not coming to our house, is he?’ Josh asks as I hurry him and Sophie out the school gates.

‘Of course not, darling.’ Next door with a bit of luck. Hopefully after the weekend.

Three-forty p.m. same afternoon and the reason I’m hurrying so much is that Josh keeps introducing me to all the other children. ‘This is my mum. This is my mum.’ As if I’ve been away at sea for years. It’s a little sad, a lot embarrassing and makes me feel as guilty as hell.

The whole coming back to the playground seems odd anyway after so many months of work. All those hours I used to spend picking up, dropping off, being forced to make conversations with people I didn’t want to make conversations with. Then, on the plus side, seeing people I did want to talk to and finding out all the local gossip. Who’d been bonking who. Whose marriage had collapsed under the weight of sleepless nights, lack of sex and sympathetic secretaries/receptionists/au-pairs. Whose children got top marks at history, geography, whatever, and who needed special help. It all seemed so important back then. But now…

‘Cathy? Is that you?’

Of all people to run into. Sheryl Hitmore, mother of Josh’s best friend, or Scary Sheryl as Henrietta calls her. She’s always immaculately dressed, always on the ball with everything to do with the school curriculum. Her only son, William, is super-intelligent but a bit freaky with it. He plays violin, enters chess competitions and is polite to adults, I mean, come on. He’s six.

‘Hi, Sheryl. Long time no see.’

‘Isn’t it?’ She air kisses above both my cheeks. ‘So how’s working life?’

‘Not bad, you know…work, work, work.’

‘Too good for us now, are we?’ She laughs and sweeps her long dark hair off her high forehead with her crimson talons. ‘Tell me, how did Josh get on in the last test?’

‘Um…’ What test?

‘You
did know
they had a test last week?’ I detect a triumphant glint in her eye.

‘Yes, of course. It was…’

‘Maths, an inter-school maths challenge.’ Sophie steps in. I could kiss her. She is such a bright and intuitive daughter. A real credit to me. And she doesn’t like Sheryl either. Good taste.

‘Quite correct, darling. The maths challenge. And, yes, Sheryl, he did just fine.’ I watch as he jumps from a low wall right into a puddle then comes sloshing back to us. ‘It was a challenge but he rose to it, oh yes. By gum.’

Actually he probably didn’t, maths not being his strongest subject as opposed to William who loves it so much, he apparently goes to sleep with fraction workbooks under his pillow. Sheryl’s obviously determined to let me know what fantastic results he’s achieved while I’m equally determined not to ask.

‘William thought it might be hard but he was pleasantly–’

‘So where is wee William?’ I burst in. ‘Not hiding in your coat or anything?’ I add a light laugh so she knows I’m being light-hearted.

‘At his after-school Spanish class. I just dropped him off a small snack.’

The entire family eat so healthily it makes me sick to my junk-food filled stomach. William’s lunch box is all sesame seeds, nuts, tofu, alfalfa sprouts… And he likes them.

‘Mum, can we get a doughnut on the way back?’ Josh pipes up. Timing impeccable as always.

‘No way, darling.’ I glare at him. ‘They’re not very good for you, are they?’

‘But we always used to when you took us home,’ he whines. ‘In the old days.’

‘Well not anymore. Must go, Sheryl, paperwork to catch up on. Reports to read through.’

***

‘So what are you having?’ I eye all the delicious delightful pastries on display. Meringues, macaroons, flapjacks, gingerbread men, well man, as there’s only one of them left, date and walnut slices, lemon drizzle muffins which makes me dribble with longing, caramel shortbread, coconut cookies, gâteaux galore. And then just as I’m ordering a huge chunk of chocolate and orange sponge, I spot a woman, or rather girl sitting at a table right near the toilets. She’s familiar, there’s something… My brain does a quick mental rummage round my memory bank – teacher? Governor?Fellow mother?Shop assistant? Where do I know her from? Ping – it comes to me.

Oh my God, it’s Honour’s Degree Honour without make-up and with messy loose hair. I hastily turn my back to her but Josh and Sophie have taken it on themselves to both start squabbling over the last gingerbread man and it’s obvious that she’s spotted me. For a start, she’s just stood up and is making her way over in a determined fashion. I stare attentively at the cakes and even point at a particularly attractive Cherry Bakewell tart with an enquiring look on my face, pretending I’m unaware she’s there on the off-chance she’s merely heading out the door, but too late… There’s a tap on my shoulder.

‘Hello, Cathy.’

‘Honour? My word. What are you doing here?’ I sound like a bad actress on a low-budget soap. My voice is stilted and wooden and judging from the mirror opposite, my facial expression’s completely off beam. Rosa was wrong – we’d
never
have made the West End.

‘Visiting my boyfriend. He works in Crouch End. Just by the Clock Tower.’

‘Small world. Hey, Sophie, why don’t you find your brother and yourself a seat?’ I point to a small corner table. ‘I’ll bring your cakes over.’

While the kids rush off, Honour and I survey each other up and down. She’s got on casual clothes too, grey denim jeans like I’m wearing and a not dissimilar to mine blue striped sweatshirt. Close your eyes, knock off a few years (me) and add couple of grease stains (her), you might think you were seeing double.

We’re both silent while we’re doing this, then both start talking at once.

‘How’s work?’ I’m saying.

‘How’s things going?’ she’s saying.

‘I was suspended.’ Surprisingly enough that’s her saying it.

‘No that was me,’ I set her right.

‘No, I was too. And I swear, Cathy, I didn’t know anything about you going until after you’d gone.’

‘But you must have wondered why I was clearing my desk?’

‘Not really.’ She gives a tight laugh.

‘I guess you never saw anyone messing my computer up either, the one that held my presentation?’

‘Was it messed up then? I did hear some rumour afterwards. I went out of the office if you remember – fetching the coffees.’

‘But when you returned was anyone there?Like Vivien?’

‘Not Vivien. Although…’ She hesitates.

‘Although what?’

‘Although, it was quite strange because there was somebody hanging around your desk when I came back in.’

‘Who?’

‘Alice.’