Murder in House (5 page)

Thomas stroked his beard, stone-faced. ‘It's your house.'

‘No, it's ours. I know it sounds hard-hearted, but I really don't want her moving in here. I think, if you agree, that I should get the locks changed.'

He went to poke and prod at the heavy bolts on the front door. ‘Suppose we put the bolts across? Hm, they haven't been used for decades. Suppose I get the oil can out before I start work, eh? It might take a couple of days to get a locksmith round.'

‘Bless you, yes.'

‘Cheer up. It may never happen.'

Well, he wasn't as well acquainted with what Diana could do as Ellie was. Diana had tried to move in on her before, at the old house. Ellie tried to smile, to pretend that she believed him. Not a good effort.

Thomas wiggled the bolts but neither would move. ‘My tool kit's in the cupboard in the downstairs cloakroom, isn't it? You'll have to come and go via the kitchen if I can get the bolts across, so remember to take the back door key with you if you go out.'

A hug and a kiss, and he went for the oil can while she made for the telephone in her own study.

First, she must ring Stewart. Stewart had been a highly satisfactory manager of properties to let for Miss Quicke, and Ellie had reappointed him in that job after her death. The offices for the Trust itself, and for the property management company run by Stewart, were located in a big house not far away. In addition to his other duties, Stewart was overseeing the restoration of Ellie's fire-damaged house in his usual careful way. He would hate to be hustled into doing a quick fix-it, especially if it would be to Diana's advantage . . . because Stewart was Diana's ex-husband and the father of little Frank. He was now happily remarried and had sired another couple of children since the divorce but still, there was need for tact.

Did Ellie feel like being tactful today? No, not really. But needs must. The weekly meeting to discuss her properties wasn't due for a couple of days, but this couldn't wait. She decided it would be best to tell Stewart everything, and leave it to him to work out what to do. She got him on his mobile and explained what was happening. He let silence grow and then sighed. ‘Yes, I understand. Don't you worry about it. I'll drop round there this morning, see what still needs to be done and get back to you.'

Greatly relieved, she tried the next on her list. Yes, the locksmith could fit her in on the morrow. She conveyed this information to Thomas who, mission accomplished re the front door bolts, was just disappearing into the morning room. He waved his hand, his mind already on his work. Thomas would sometimes emerge for a coffee and a biscuit at eleven, but might work through till lunch. If he had no meetings planned, he'd probably take himself off for a stiff walk round the block, make himself a sandwich for lunch or some home-made soup – he loved Rose's leek and potato soup, but was quite happy to make it for himself – and then work through till supper-time.

Ellie looked at her calendar. She had no business meetings fixed for that day, but had promised to call in on Felicity, Roy's wife, with a recipe that Rose had given her some time ago and, of course, to play with their delightful baby, who was soon to be christened at their old church. How time flew! And maybe she could find out if Roy had had any involvement with the new block of flats on the North Circular at the same time? She rather hoped not but, knowing Roy . . . she sighed and shook her head.

So now to Ursula's little problem. Ellie found a plastic envelope in her desk and put the ring into it, so it wouldn't get lost. She consulted the phone book, and rang the only Collins in Park Gardens. She spoke to a male voice, enquired if she were speaking to one Daniel Collins and, on receiving an affirmative, asked if she might call as she had something for him from Ursula. Daniel sounded uncertain but agreed, so Ellie decided to go there straight away.

The Collins family lived in a red-brick Edwardian terraced house, three storeys high, semi-detached but spacious. Tiled pathway, paved-over front garden with planters spilling over with ivies and polyanthus plants. So far so good, but there was a suggestion that the paintwork might need attention soon. A couple of tiles were missing from the path. A suspicion of seediness?

The door was opened by a dark-haired young man who looked as if he might work out. Standard broad-shouldered, nice-looking young college student, late teens or early twenties. An air of anxiety?

‘Ellie Quicke. I rang earlier. Are you Daniel?'

‘Who is it?' A husky woman's voice from the depths of the house.

‘It's all right, Mum. Someone for me.'

‘Oh?' The voice was coming nearer.

Daniel opened a door off the hall and ushered Ellie inside before the woman could reach them.

They were in what had once, perhaps, been a rather grand sitting room complete with ceiling rose, cornices and picture rails. It was now a student bedsitter with a divan bed doubling as a couch in one corner, bamboo blinds at the big bay window, stripped pine floor, and lots of shelving which looked none too secure.

Sports equipment spilled out of a huge Edwardian wardrobe with four doors on it; a dressing-room in itself. A folding chair sat before an improvised desk, on which were piles of papers and books around a laptop. There were two armchairs, mismatched but comfortable, and a small telly on the mantelpiece of a blocked-up fireplace. Travel posters on the walls.

Holiday snaps of the girl Ursula had been Blu-tacked on to the wall behind the desk, together with some group photos: young people with their arms round one another in the garden of a pub, sitting on a beach in the sun, dressed up for a wedding. In two of these the girls were wearing evening dress, the men good casual wear. Bottles on the table, paper hats on their heads. A Christmas celebration?

Ellie seated herself, unasked.

The boy fidgeted, finally subsided into the other big chair but didn't relax. His hands were big, clean. He rolled his shoulders, trying to ease tension. ‘I don't know you, do I? How did Ursula come to . . .?' He rubbed the back of his neck. Quality clothes. Short-sleeved blue and white checked sports shirt, pullover, grey trousers and shoes. A good haircut, traditional not trendy. ‘Traditional but not trendy' probably summed him up. Not a great brain but a nice lad, sports enthusiast. PE teacher?

‘I've been trying to contact Ursula for days. Her mother says her mobile's out of action. She gave you a message for me?'

Ellie had meant to tell him exactly what had happened but now, confronted by his uneasiness, she found herself probing for information.

‘Ursula spoke of a broken engagement. With you?'

His eyelids contracted. A good-looking lad, perhaps not all that imaginative. He made an inarticulate sound, which might have been agreement.

‘Long-standing?' Ellie made her voice soft.

He nodded once, violently. ‘We've,' he coughed, cleared his throat. ‘We were at school together. Always knew. It didn't matter that we were at different universities. I'm doing my teacher training here in London. It made no difference. She's home most weekends. I just don't . . .' His voice died away. He got up and went to look at the photos on the wall. For reassurance? ‘I can't believe it.'

He'd not asked her why Ursula had broken off the engagement, which meant that he knew. ‘Tell me about it.' Again, her softest voice.

This time it didn't work. He took a deep breath, focused on Ellie. ‘What did she say? When did you see her?'

‘Yesterday. She had lunch with me and my husband.'

‘You said she gave you something for me? A letter?'

‘A ring.' Ellie fished it out and tried to hand it to him. He stared at it as if it would bite him. She got up and put it on his desk, still in its plastic envelope.

He hit the wall with his fist. Once, twice. Ellie remembered that kings used to kill a messenger who brought bad news. But no, he was a well-brought-up lad and wasn't going to take out his anger on her. He swept papers and books off his desk, wrenched photos from the wall. Tore them across. Once, twice. And again. Threw the pieces in the air.

He picked up the ring and looked at it, made as if to throw it across the room, but instead held it out to Ellie with a hand that shook. ‘Give it back to her. I don't want it.' His breathing was erratic. Was he going to cry?

Ellie tried to damp down the emotional tension. ‘If she broke it off, then it's yours to keep.'

Silence. He shook his head. Went on shaking it. ‘She shouldn't have taken it that way. I told her. We all told her.'

‘Did she break it off because of the murder?'

‘What?' He considered the word ‘murder' and didn't like it. His chin went up and he made an effort to control himself. ‘There was no murder.' His body language spoke of agitation, even of distress, giving the lie to what he'd said. His fists swung backwards and forwards. He looked like a bull about to charge. ‘I've got to get out of here. I need . . . I can't . . .' He picked up a jacket from a chair and crashed open the door, taking one step into the hall before stopping short. He said, ‘Not now, Mum. I'm going out!'

He hurtled down the hall, leaving Ellie holding the ring. The front door slammed so hard it made her wince.

A woman appeared in the doorway, looking after him. ‘What's got into him?' A woman in her fifties, perhaps? Pink velveteen jogging suit and white trainers, dyed ginger hair, a bright lipstick. She spotted Ellie. ‘Who are you?'

Ellie opened her mouth to introduce herself, but the woman stopped her. ‘Don't tell me. I've seen you before somewhere. Ah. Got it. Golf Club.'

Ellie didn't belong to the Golf Club any more. ‘Ellie Quicke. I'm afraid—'

‘I met you at some “do” at the Golf Club when my husband was still around. You do good works, I believe. One of our unsung heroines. You came to see Daniel? I'm afraid he's rather moody at the moment.' She gestured to the back of the hall. ‘I'm having a cuppa. Want one?'

‘Well, I . . . all right. Yes. Thanks.' Ellie followed Mrs Collins down the hall and into a sunroom which had been tacked on to the back of the house. Here there were the same signs of a decline in fortunes; the extension had been well planned and built, but the cushions on the bamboo three piece suite were showing wear and tear. A pine table was covered with the impedimenta of life: newspapers, magazines, a small telly, a basket of washing ready to be ironed. Beside it, an ironing board, up and ready for use. A plastic-coated airer was draped with more newly-washed winter wear, mostly men's. A rubber plant showed more dead leaves than live ones, but the telly was tuned to a perky cartoon and everything smelled clean. An open door led on to a galley-style kitchen, into which the woman disappeared.

‘Forgive the mess. I more or less live in this room. Take a seat, if you can find one. Move the newspapers if they're in the way. Instant do you? Milk and sugar?'

‘Lovely. Thanks.'

From above came the thump, thump, thump, of a stereo playing music with too much bass. Someone else in the house?

Two large mugs of instant coffee appeared and the woman seated herself, hands on knees and knees well apart, four square. Determined. ‘So, what did you want with my son, and why did he take off like a bat out of hell, eh?'

‘I met a girl called Ursula yesterday. She spoke of a disappearance, and a broken engagement.' No need to mention the word ‘murder' as yet.

‘Ursula,' said Mrs Collins, bright eyes fixed on Ellie, ‘is Daniel's fiancée. They're getting married as soon as they're both through university.'

Ellie placed Ursula's ring on the table. ‘She asked me to give this back to him.'

Mrs Collins said, ‘What . . .?' without sound. She sat still, eyes and mouth open for what seemed a long time to Ellie. In shock.

At last Mrs Collins took a deep breath, blinked. ‘He might have told me. I did wonder if everything was all right between them over the holidays but . . . excuse me.' She took her mug off into the kitchen.

Ellie heard the glug and chink of a bottle. A top-up of brandy? Mrs Collins didn't offer any to Ellie but returned, heavily sighing, gulping down the coffee-plus.

Ellie tried to put her at ease. ‘It's always difficult, youngsters tying themselves up before they're twenty.'

‘I told him, wait a while. Lots of good fish. But he wouldn't listen; no, not he! Though I must say I couldn't have wished for a better in many ways. He's known her since secondary school. No money in that family, but that's not everything, as I should know if anyone should. She kept him out of the silly scrapes his crowd were always getting into. I always knew who'd wear the trousers.'

Ellie was diffident. ‘Does that matter, really?'

‘No, I suppose not.' She drank deep of her coffee and whatever. ‘I suppose I ought to be thankful it's lasted this long. Her having the brains and him being brawn, if you see what I mean, though it's not a bad recipe for living if they're both OK about it. And you're right, it doesn't matter which of them handles the money, does it? So long as they're both happy about the spending of it. Meaning no disrespect, for he's as good a boy as you could find in this day and age.'

Ellie nodded encouragement.

‘I wonder why she's broken it off now, though sooner now than later, I suppose. Give him a chance to look around, find someone more . . . less . . .'

‘Find a dumb blonde?'

Ellie thought she'd probably gone too far but Mrs Collins laughed, if a shade ruefully. ‘Call me Gloria. Aerobics teacher, till the hip went. Husband's scarpered, money's short, I take in students to make ends meet and thankful that I've got a big enough house to do it, right?'