Shifting Sands (18 page)

A moment's pause, then an incredulous ‘Honestly?'

‘Honestly. Where are you?'

‘Just finishing breakfast.'

‘Shall I come straight up to the flat, so we can go through it?'

‘Absolutely. I'll be waiting with bated breath.'

The train journey seemed slower than usual, and Jonathan couldn't settle to his paper. How much would be revealed, and would it point to who might have wanted to kill Elise? He should shortly know.

Steve had his laptop ready and coffee on the stove, and as soon as they were seated side by side he inserted the memory stick into the USB port. Immediately, they were presented with a selection of folders to open, folders entitled Woodcot, Foxfield and Beechford – which they'd never heard of, but which was presumably the third Mandelyns resort – another under the name of Selby & Braddock Inc. (‘The manufacturers?' Steve hazarded), and the names of several newspapers, including, they noted wryly,
UK Today
.

‘Write-ups of the deaths, no doubt,' Jonathan said. ‘She must have photocopied those separately. So – where do we start?'

‘How about Foxfield? That's where Elise was based, and where that actress went.'

They clicked on the appropriate folder and were given the option of a number of files, one of which was labelled Maria Lang. They read it in silence. It gave the actress's real name, her address and date of birth, the dates on which she'd visited Mandelyns, a note of her allergies and preferences, and the treatments she had received, followed by an assessment of the results. Ms Lang had run the gamut, her last treatment,
Mandelyna
, having been given in June. At the foot of the card, a manuscript entry had been added without comment:
Date of death: 5th July 2010
.

They sat back and looked at each other.

‘Close,' Steve commented. ‘Let's see what the papers had to say.'

There were obituaries from all the nationals. Most contented themselves with reporting that she had died ‘suddenly' or ‘unexpectedly', but a couple of later ones suggested a viral infection.

‘Which it might well have been,' Jonathan said. ‘Or not, as the case might be.'

‘You do realize we've no option but to pass this on to the police?' Steve said. ‘It could be crucial evidence in a murder enquiry.'

Jonathan stared at him disbelievingly. ‘You're not saying that after all this—?'

‘No, mate, I'm not saying we don't look into it ourselves. First, we'll download it to our own computer, then send the drive to Manchester like honest citizens.
Anonymous
honest citizens. And, having performed our civic duty, we'll be free to do our own thing.'

Jonathan nodded. ‘You're right, of course. OK, well let's see what else we've got.'

A separate file listed all the clients who'd received
Mandelyna
from its inception that spring, over sixty in all, and, as Elise had told them, another four names were followed by a date of death. Three were women prominent in their fields – a public-school headmistress, a judge, a member of parliament – which, of course, was why their deaths had been widely reported and first come to Elise's notice. But her suspicions had led her to burrow further, and she'd come across a fourth – a Mrs Emily Broadbent.

Jonathan stared at the name for a full minute, trying to link two widely differing associations. Then he said in a strangled voice, ‘My God!'

Steve turned to him, frowning. ‘What is it? You look as if you've seen a ghost.'

‘The name of one, anyway. I
knew
her, Steve – Emily Broadbent. Not well, but my sister did. She always called her Aunt Em.'

Angus poured wine into Sophie's glass and his own, then sat down at the table. ‘Have you heard how Imogen is?' he asked, taking the plate his wife passed him.

‘Not since the funeral. Why?'

‘Just that it was such a traumatic time for her – all the upset of her aunt's death, and then, on top of it, Daisy bunking off school and having to be sent back kicking and screaming, metaphorically at least. It was a lot to cope with.'

Sophie said lightly, ‘Imo always has to have a crisis in her life.'

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Not a very sympathetic remark, darling.'

‘Well, she does rather thrive on them – as long as there's someone's hand to hold, usually mine.'

‘All the same, it might be a kindness to give her a ring.'

Sophie helped herself to vegetables. ‘We'll be seeing her on Thursday, don't forget.'

Angus frowned. ‘Will . . .? Oh, of course! Roger's birthday do.'

‘So you can set your mind at rest then, can't you? Frankly, I'm more concerned at the moment with what I'm going to do with Tamsin and her friend during half-term next week. I really can't afford to take time off, with the countdown to Christmas starting.'

‘You can work from home, can't you? You say ninety per cent of your time is spent dealing with emails, and as long as someone's in the house—'

‘Yes, but what I
can't
do is be at their beck and call to drive them around. They'll just have to amuse themselves.'

‘How long will they be here?'

‘Friday evening till a week on Sunday.'

‘There'll be something suitable at the cinemas – there always is, at half-term. And they're old enough to go to matinees by themselves, aren't they, at thirteen?'

‘Provided it really
is
suitable. It's hard to judge girls' ages these days, and the cinemas don't check as thoroughly as they should.'

‘They'll probably be happy enough up in her room, watching DVDs or playing on the computer.'

‘But they ought to be outside, especially if the weather's good.'

Angus lapsed into silence. All his suggestions having been met with objections, it seemed wiser not to offer more.

On Wednesday morning, Lewis phoned.

‘Just a thought,' he said, ‘but I have to be in your neck of the woods tomorrow, and I wondered if, since we won't be meeting at the weekend, I might perhaps call on you after my meeting?'

A dozen thoughts collided in Anna's head: would the neighbours see him? What would they think? Was he – a lurch of the stomach – expecting to spend the night? But almost immediately she rebelled. Was she going to spend the rest of her life afraid of twitching curtains?

‘That would be lovely, Lewis,' she said. There was a slight pause, and she added diffidently, ‘Will you be able to . . .?'

‘Stay the night?' he finished, a smile in his voice. ‘If I'm invited!'

‘Then I'm inviting you. What time will you arrive?'

‘About six thirty? If it would be easier, we could go out to eat?'

‘I wouldn't hear of it. You've not sampled my cooking yet!'

‘A treat in store!'

A thought struck her. ‘Do you know where I live?'

‘Of course I do. I ascertained that before leaving South Africa!'

She laughed. ‘See you tomorrow, then.'

‘You don't really like it, do you?'

‘Of course I do.' Even to his own ears, Roger's voice lacked conviction.

‘Are you sure? It looked so nice in the shop, I thought—'

‘Really, it's a lovely sweater, it's just . . .'

‘What?'

‘Not a colour I usually wear,' he said lamely.
And it's a polo neck, whereas I prefer V
. ‘Anyway, it's no big deal; I can take it back, can't I, swap it for another, like you did that handbag last Christmas?'

‘I so wanted it to be perfect,' Imogen said shakily.

Roger's patience snapped. ‘All right, forget it. It's lovely – the right size, a nice weight, everything, and to prove it, I'll wear it tonight. OK? Now, I really have to go.' And, picking up his briefcase, he thankfully left the house.

Imogen burst into tears.

Her day went from bad to worse. The butcher had forgotten to order the gammon she'd requested, her cleaner rang to say she had toothache and wouldn't be in today, and the lemon mousse hadn't set. By seven o'clock, when the guests were due to arrive, her nerves were in shreds.

Roger had returned from work and set about putting out the drinks. He was wearing the new sweater, and she had to admit it didn't suit him. The high neck looked as though it were choking him, and the taupe that she'd thought so smart in the shop drained the colour from his face. Oh,
God
! She wished she could just go to bed and pull the duvet over her head.

Jonathan looked about him, wondering how he could introduce the subject of Emily Broadbent and Mandelyns without putting a damper on the evening. Better not approach Imogen directly; she looked a little fraught, and Roger, his other option, was busy seeing to the drinks. For lack of alternatives, he moved over to his sister.

‘Is Imogen over her aunt's death, do you think?' he asked in a low voice.

‘For heaven's sake, what is this?' Sophie exclaimed. ‘First Angus, now you! She's coping, as we all have to in such circumstances.'

Jonathan stared at her in surprise. ‘Actually, it's her aunt I wanted to ask about. Did you ever hear the cause of death?'

Sophie, slightly mollified, frowned. ‘Why do you want to know?'

‘It's just that I heard it came out of the blue. Soon after her birthday, wasn't it?'

‘That's right. Imo said she was looking better than she had for years. Uncle Ted had treated her to a weekend at Mandelyns as an early birthday present, and they joked it had made her look ten years younger.'

Bingo! ‘Did she have some special treatment, then?'

‘God, Jonathan, I don't know the details. I should think we'd all look ten years younger after a weekend of pampering.'

Before he could repeat his question as to the cause of death, Roger's brother came to join them, and the opportunity was lost. Could he, dare he, approach the husband? Jonathan wondered. Sophie would have the address. Still, he couldn't pursue it now. Shelving the problem for the moment, he joined in the general conversation.

They were twelve in all – herself and Roger, Sophie and Angus, Jonathan and Vicky, Roger's brother Douglas, his wife Sarah, and two sets of neighbours. So far, things weren't going too badly. The meal was a buffet, spread out on the dining room table, and to Imogen's relief it looked suitably tempting. The replacement ham, parboiled then baked with honey, was an acceptable substitute for the gammon, the chicken kebabs were proving popular, and she'd been complimented on the imaginative salads.

The mousse, having stubbornly remained runny, had spent the last hour in the freezer. Imogen could only hope the emergency treatment had worked. She took a quick sip of wine, opened the freezer door, and lifted it out. Exactly what happened next, she could never remember. One moment the glass bowl, sending shocks of cold to her fingers, was firmly in her grasp. The next, it had slipped free and smashed to the ground, splashing yellow mousse over her dress, the units, and a large portion of the floor.

For several seconds she stood immobile, staring at the wreckage. Then she bent and distractedly started picking out the larger shards of glass before, abandoning the task, she burst into tears for the second time that day.

Head in hands, she didn't see Angus come into the kitchen, and the first indication of his presence was his quick exclamation of concern.

‘Oh, Imogen, no!'

She heard him lay down the plates he'd brought in and, avoiding the mess on the floor, move round the kitchen towards her.

‘Look, don't worry, honestly. Is there another pudding?'

Incapable of speech, Imogen continued to sob.

To his relief, Angus saw a Pavlova, crisp and perfect, on the counter, though admittedly they'd be hard pressed to get twelve servings from it. Alongside it, though, was a bowl of fruit, presumably not intended for this evening.

‘We can take the fruit through as well, and there's cheese already on the table. With the Pavlova, that'll be fine, honestly. I'll clear this up. Please don't cry; it's not the end of the world.'

She felt his hand on her arm and blindly, unthinkingly, turned towards him, burying her face in his chest. Tentatively, his arms came up to hold her.

‘It's been such a horrible day!' she sobbed. ‘Roger hates the sweater I bought him, and there wasn't any gammon, and the mousse—' But thoughts of the mousse brought on another torrent of tears, and she shuddered to a halt.

‘We all have days like that,' Angus said soothingly. ‘It's just bad luck today happened to be one of them. But the food's marvellous, Imo, really. Everyone's enjoying it, and they've eaten so much, they won't even miss the mousse!'

Dear, kind Angus! Roger would have blamed her for breaking the bowl.

He handed her a handkerchief, and she dabbed at her face, looking up at him with swimming eyes. Moved by her misery, he bent to kiss her forehead, but in the same moment she raised her head, and his mouth landed clumsily on hers. As though released by a spring, her arms flew round his neck, and before either of them fully realized what was happening, they were engaged in a full-blown kiss.

The door swished open, and a voice said, ‘Is there anything—?'

Sophie's voice.

They broke apart, turning startled faces towards her. Across the room, the three of them stared at each other. Then Sophie turned on her heel and went out again.

‘Oh God!' Imogen whispered. ‘Go after her, Angus! Don't let her think . . .'