Olivia’s Luck (2000) (59 page)

“When?” demanded Molly.

“Oh, come on, Moll, ages ago, at that backstage party at the Abbey, for starters. And then when I saw her the other day, cosily ensconced at his house…”

They debated on, but suddenly I wasn’t listening. Suddenly I felt like Flora: I wanted to be sick all over someone’s shoulder. Cosily ensconced. Really? For how long? How long had it been going on? I wanted to ask.

“Liwy?” Molly was watching me anxiously. I forced a bright smile.

“Bye then. Wish me luck in the cells.” I made towards my car, which Molly had driven back last night when I’d been in Hugh’s.

“Good luck!” they chorused. “As if you’re going to need it,” added Molly scornfully.

In the event, they were right, I didn’t. Down at the city police station Baldy was conspicuous by his absence, and since I’d clocked him as being the more dynamic of the duo, I relaxed when I discovered that Shiny Suit was going to interview me alone. As I followed her into a little grey room, sat down and regurgitated all I knew, I could tell by her demeanour that although she was affecting high dudgeon, she was actually only going through the motions to scare me.

“So why on earth didn’t you come straight in and report to us the moment you knew she was dead!” Her eyebrows shot into her overtreated fringe.

“I was scared,” I admitted, with more than an element of truth. “I knew I should have done, but I’d never been involved in anything like this before. What Mac and Alf told me terrified me. I shot off to London like a bat out of hell, telling myself it was only what I’d normally do on a child-free day.”

“And what did you do in London?”

“Oh, just some shopping, went to a concert, that sort of thing.”

The eyebrows shot up some more. “Very relaxed.”

“Yes but while I was there I realised I’d done completely the wrong thing,” I added quickly. “And – and I decided I’d come in and see you the very next day. I really meant to.”

“Did you indeed?” she snorted doubtfully. “Yes, well, I could mutter on a bit about the road to hell being paved with good intentions and all that,” she shuffled her papers sniffily. Glanced up. “You know, of course, that I could throw the book at you for sheltering known criminals and withholding crucial evidence?”

I nodded dumbly.

“Staying silent is as much of a crime as actually aiding and abetting. It’s calculated corroboration.”

I nodded again. “Yes, I – I can see that now.”

She sighed wearily. Closed her file. “But under the circumstances,” she said, pushing it to one side, “I think it’s fair to say you’ve probably been through the mill enough. It’s not every day you find a corpse under your cooker.”

I gulped. Too true. I glanced up and met her eye. “Thank you,” I whispered gratefully.

“We will, of course, get them, though,” she added, fixing me beadily. “Your chums, Mac and Alf. There’s no question of that.”

“Of course,” I agreed quickly, wishing she hadn’t called them “my chums.”

“Gone are the days of the Spanish being wet about extradition. We’ll put a rocket up their backsides and they’ll deliver them tout suite. This isn’t the Ronnie Biggs era, you know, this isn’t the slap-happy, swinging sixties where anything goes on the Costa Brava.”

“Oh no, I know,” I agreed fervently. “And quite right too,” I added toadishly. Just let me go, please let me go.

“So.” She folded her arms and flashed me a thin, professional smile. “I imagine you’re free to go.”

I sprang to my feet. “Thank you!”

“Provided,” she warned, “that you don’t wander too far afield. We will need you later on to give evidence and I don’t want to find you’ve skipped the country or anything dramatic,” She got up and opened the door for me, propping it open so I had to go under her arm. “Your house has been put back pretty much in apple-pie order, you’ll be pleased to hear. Our boys worked fast last night and Forensics have been in and out already. You’re not even cordoned off, either, because the press don’t know and we didn’t want to draw too much attention to the place, so you don’t have to wait, you can move straight back in.” She frowned. “I’m not sure the cooker is fully operational, though. Some people are apparently coming in next week to fix that, but other than that,” she flashed me another, wintry smile, “you wouldn’t even know we’d been there!”

I managed a tremulous smile in return and even muttered a thank you before scurrying away. Wouldn’t even know they’d been there? I thought, bug-eyed with horror as I sped down that corridor in the direction of the free world. Excuse me, but I think I would. Oh, I’d know all right. I’d know every time I lifted the hob to put the kettle on, every time I bent down to take the roast chicken out of the oven. Know? Bloody hell – I’d
heavel
Christ, I wouldn’t stay in that house now if you
paid
me, I thought, barging angrily through some swing doors, and she was right, I
had
suffered enough. So much so that I was having to – Well, I was having to sell up! I stopped still for a moment, shocked by that thought, blinking in horror, and conveniently forgetting, of course, that I’d actually been planning to sell up anyway. Yes, that’s right, I thought, slowly walking on, outraged, I was the victim here. I should be offered compensation! God, I could sell my story to the tabloids, spill the beans for millions! I must talk to Hugh about it. He’d enjoy that.

Once in the car park, though, all thoughts of anything other than the fact that I was a free woman paled into insignificance as I threw myself with relief into my familiar old, boiling-hot sauna of a car. Free, I thought, resting my head back gratefully and shutting my eyes. Thank God. I gave myself a little shake and started the engine, then realised, with a start, that I didn’t know where the hell I was going. I turned it off again. Frowned. Right. So, Liwy. Here you are on your own again. I bit my lip. And what now? Where to? Long term I had absolutely no idea, but more immediately…I narrowed my eyes, frowned into the middle distance, then started the engine again. Yes, yes, I
did
know, actually. Knew exactly where I was going. Before I could change my mind I reversed at speed – slowing dramatically when I remembered I was still in a police station – then once out of sight, roared off. The house. It had to be Orchard House. Let’s face it, at some point I had to go back because Claudia and I had no clothes at all at Molly’s – as it was I was wearing a skirt of Molly’s to avoid climbing into the disastrous Donna Karan number – so I may as well go and get it over with. I was due to pick Claudes up from Lucy’s this afternoon and if the poor child had neither a father, nor a home to come back to now, she should at least have a clean pair of knickers.

With a gathering sense of dread I drove slowly down the familiar roads, turning down into George Street, bumping over the cobbles, past the little antique shops, then left into the arched, Abbey gates with the Abbey tower looming over my shoulder. As I turned left into The Crescent I couldn’t help driving very, very slowly and peering up at Sebastian’s house. His car wasn’t outside so I knew he wasn’t in, and for some reason, all the shutters were closed. It looked strangely – well, shut up, as if he’d gone away for some length of time, too. Was he in London? I wondered. Living at Imogen’s, maybe? I gritted my teeth and swung into my drive.

I sat for a moment, drumming my fingers on the wheel, steeling myself, and not relishing this little visit one iota. Finally, telling myself not to be stupid – it wasn’t as if she was
there
any more, was it? – I got out and marched up to the front door. I propped it open with a plant pot – didn’t want it slamming behind me or anything gross – then, studiously avoiding the kitchen from which I reasoned I needed precisely nothing, I nipped upstairs, humming maniacally to calm my nerves. Once there, I dragged a large suitcase out from under a bed and, working quickly, emptied all of Claudia’s drawers into it, not forgetting a few books, her jewellery case, her schoolwork, and a much-loved blue rabbit. Then I ran across the landing into my own room, did exactly the same, lugged the almost exploding suitcase heavily back downstairs, dragged it across the gravel, and heaved it up into the boot of the car. I slammed it shut. There. I brushed off my hands and stared back at the house. Now. Anything else? Surely I’d got the bare essentials? And surely I could just get some professionals in to clear the rest? Store the furniture somewhere perhaps? Yes, exactly, except – hang on, the photos in the sitting room; I’d like them with me. Taking another deep breath, I dashed back inside, gathered up all the silver frames full of photos of Claudia, took the albums from the bottom drawer of the chest, and was just about to skedaddle again, when stupidly, I glanced out of the French windows. I paused. And as I did, a lump came to my throat. My garden. My precious, beloved, glorious garden. I could quite happily leave the house, but the garden – oh, that was a huge wrench. I simply had to say goodbye.

I dropped the photos on the sofa and, almost as a reflex action, my hand reached up and shot the bolt across at the top of the French windows. Flinging them wide I wandered sadly outside. Around the terrace, stone urns tumbled with white pelargoniums, hostas, and variegated ivy, and in the surrounding beds, day lilies and michaelmas daisies jostled for position while lamb’s tongues crawled towards my feet over the mellow York stones. The lavender path ahead was humming with bees and above it, arches of heavy, tumbling climbers – Albertine, Madame Alfred Carriere and my lovely, lusty Rambling Rector – nodded invitingly to me in the breeze. Dredging up a great sigh from the soles of my feet, I ducked under it for the last time, reaching up to touch a blossom, which, being so overblown, fell to pieces in my hand. Scattering the petals regretfully on the parched grass I went on, on to take a last look at my herbaceous border, stunning now with its great clumps of delphinium, larkspurs and poppies, all finally out together and looking pleased as punch to be so thoroughly synchronised. It brought a lump to my throat to think there’d be no one out here with the hose at seven o’clock as usual tonight, seeing them through this dry spell, giving them just a few more days of precious growth.

Down the yellowing lawn I wandered, my skirt brushing the fragrant brooms and hebes, shading my eyes to the river, to the glorious cedar tree, spreading its branches to give a cool blanket of shade beneath. I gazed across the river to the caravan. Still there, of course, I thought wryly, obscuring the view of the cherry tree as usual, except that – blimey – hang on, no – it was off! The bloody thing was moving! Well, of course it was, because – 1 squinted hard into the sun’s dazzling rays – there was a car attached to it. A car, attached and pulling. I ran down towards the water’s edge to watch, but just then the car stopped. Somebody got out, slammed the door, and walked round to peer down at the caravan’s wheels, checking to see if they were stuck. I stopped. Lance.

“Lance!” My hand shot up in delight. He turned, shaded his eyes, then waved.

“Liwy!”

I grinned and ran, picking my way across the rickety bridge, brushing against bull rushes, and then along the bank on the other side. By the time I got there, Lance, bare to the waist, bronzed and bleached blond as ever, was busy digging a stone out of the way of one of the caravan’s wheels. He straightened up with a smile.

“Well, I didn’t expect to see you back here after last night!” His blue eyes found mine, gently. “Are you all right? I tried to ring you at Molly’s but she said you’d gone.”

I nodded. “I’m fine now, absolutely fine, it was just – well, it was just such a shock, Lance. I don’t usually pass out like that, like some nineteenth-century drip having the vapours, but a large gin and tonic on top of a very gippy tummy, plus – ” I rolled my eyes – “well, plus everything else…”

“Well, quite. It’s not every day you discover a dead body lurking in your kitchen. I tell you, Liwy, I quite felt like passing out myself.” He regarded me earnestly with clear blue eyes. “And I really didn’t know anything about it, Liv, you must believe that. I would never have sanctioned it, however desperate they were.”

I nodded. “I do know that, of course I do.”

“And I can understand how – well, how you must hate them,” he said with difficulty. “For what they did.”

“Well, as you said,” I said carefully, “they were desperate. Desperate men.”

He nodded. Glanced down. Scuffed his toe miserably in the dirt.

I sighed. “Look – don’t feel you have to take responsibility, Lance. It’s not your fault. I just wish – well, I just wish they’d driven back via the Thames and gone for the more conventional East End burial ground, that’s all.”

He smiled ruefully. “They shouldn’t have done that either; should have gone straight to the police, right from the start.”

“Bit late now,” I said grimly.

Lance scratched his head. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you, but you know, perversely, apparently not. Who knows whether to believe them or not, but the police say there’s a good chance they’ll get off with manslaughter if they return to face the music. Apart from anything else their story is perfectly true, and since literally everybody will back them up – oh, and apparently there’s some marvellous left-wing brief who’s prepared to take Alf’s case on, and all on legal aid too – he stands a really good chance of getting off. I just have to persuade them to come back, that’s all, and that might be tricky.” He grinned. “Spiro reckons the ouzo will agree with Dad and I can just see Alf – ”

“Ouzo?” I interrupted.

“Oh,” he flushed suddenly. “Oh, no, nothing.” He bent down quickly, attending to the wheel.

Ouzo, I thought, astonished, and Spiro knew about it, so – so not Spain at all. Greece, or to be more precise, I thought rapidly, a little island off the tip of Greece, a Greek-speaking community in the Balkans, a disputed territory just off Albania. Yes, a place where you could disappear, literally for ever, without a hope of anyone finding you. Particularly on a close-knit little island where everyone closed ranks. A little island called Mexatonia. An island, where a certain Gullopidus family pretty much ruled the roost, ran the show, owned the boats, the goats, the bars, and where a couple of Englishmen – friends of Mr Gullopidus’s son, don’t you know, friends of young Spiro, who’d been looked after so magnificently during his stay in England – could quite easily be found shelter, houses, jobs. God, I could just see Alf, mending boats on the beach, patching up the fishing nets, whistling away, quiet, contented, happy in his work, and Mac – yes, Mac behind the bar in town, measuring out the Metaxa, turning his quick mind to the lingo – unlike Alf, who’d barely mastered English and certainly wouldn’t be mastering Greek – ingratiating himself into local life, becoming part of the community. Yes, Mac, a colourful figure, bringing out his wife, Karen, the grown-up kids coming out for holidays, and running the place; drinking long into the night with all the old men, playing backgammon in the village square, chewing the cud with Spiro and Atalanta up the road…I smiled. Well actually, in spite of myself, I grinned, really quite widely. My God, what a life! They’d never come back. And, of course, Mac had very cleverly told me Spain, had let that slip quite deliberately to put me off the scent, and perhaps even hoped I’d tell the police. Which come to think of it…I frowned. Had I? Well, I certainly hadn’t disagreed when Shiny Suit had mentioned the Costa Brava as the spot she’d be dragging them back from. Well good, I thought suddenly. I probably shouldn’t think that, but I did. Good.