The Collared Collection (22 page)

They were straying from the purpose of the meeting and it was up to Callie to steer everyone back on track. She adopted her Bossy Boots stance, as known so well to her children. ‘OK, let’s leave the funeral for a minute, shall we? I’m sure it’ll all be alright on the night. What we really need to discuss right now is the future of Montague’s – how we are going to move on, now that Ginny isn’t here to guide us. As you know, I have been bequeathed her shares and I want to know how everyone feels about that. It was one thing tolerating me as the office junior, but now I’m to become a partner. Does anyone have anything to say, or objections to raise on that score?’ She knew she was leaving herself open to attack, but she genuinely wanted everyone’s honest opinion and input.

Elizabeth said, ‘If no one minds, I’ll speak first – just in case I’m unable to stay the course and have to be whisked back to the funny farm.’

With a flourish of her notes, Callie said, ‘Go ahead, Elizabeth, the floor is yours,’

‘Thanks. I have to admit that my initial reaction when Ginny died so suddenly was that the partners should buy Callie out. That was a snap decision, taken before I came to know her better. I have now revised my opinion – Callie is a hard worker and she has become an asset to Montague’s, even given her … shall we say
special circumstances
at the moment. I for one hope she will stay – and be proud to be one of us.’

Well, that was totally unexpected! She was lost for words. All eyes swivelled to Callie and she realised allowing the floor to ingest her body was not a current option. She had to give some sort of response, even if it were only a grunt. ‘Wow, err … thanks for that vote of confidence, Elizabeth …’

Bernard added, ‘I know I’m meant to be leaving, but I really hope you’ll stay, Callie.’

She’d had a niggling thought for a while and jumped in with both feet. ‘Don’t you want to leave Montague’s, Bernard? I thought you were looking forward to joining your daughter …’

He stuttered, ‘Well … I was … indeed, Eloise has offered a package that’s difficult to refuse … it’s just that, oh, I don’t know – I’ve come to realise that Montague’s is where I belong. I’d like to stay, if you’ll have me?’

‘Well, I’m all for that,’ said George, echoed by Simon.

Harry gave the thumbs up sign and Susan punched the air and said, ‘Yes!’ Even Doris and May nodded in agreement, their permed white heads doing overtime. May’s best chandelier earrings glittered and jangled.

Callie suggested quietly, ‘Perhaps you should make a quick phone call, Bernard?’

He dithered, but looked pleased and excused himself.

She suggested, ‘As Bernard isn’t a shareholder, shall we take this opportunity to have a show of hands to indicate those willing to put up with me for the foreseeable future?’ She held her breath, while butterflies danced a jig in her stomach – hoping the others liked her enough to vote her on board. Her fears were unfounded; everyone entitled to a vote raised their hand – Simon waved his around in a circle, the hangover evidently eased by enough aspirins to make him rattle.

‘Looks like I’m here to stay, then,’ she said, unable to stop herself grinning with satisfaction and relief. ‘Thank you all very much. Now, there are a number of other matters we should discuss –’

Ronan butted in. ‘Just one thing, Callie – and I’m sure this is something everyone is wondering – as Bernard is no longer leaving us, do we get our money back from his collection?’

Chapter Thirty-five

With David tagging behind, she did a supermarket shop on the way home; she was planning a romantic dinner for two, with a side dish of blatant schmoozing. The air needed to be cleared, and it was apparent she would have to be the one to do that. Earlier, when she’d rung Alex and Sam, she could sense that they were anxious to stop feeling in the way at Dominic’s and get back to living with their mum as a family, even if psychologists and social workers would condemn the Ashtons as dysfunctional. The boys’ conversation was regularly punctuated with David’s name, and she got the idea they both wanted him to be part of the revamped family unit. Well, they’d get no argument from her, but first, she had broken bridges to mend. They’d been painfully polite to each other, ever since David picked her up from the office – she’d been bursting to tell him about everything discussed during the meeting, but his manner was cool to the point of icy, and not conducive to her prattling on like an excited schoolgirl. Their candlelit dinner was designed to change that.

‘Another glass of wine?’ she called from the kitchen.

‘Shhh! I want to hear this bit – it’s important.’

Uh-huh – she’d just come a poor second to a programme about the run-up to the Grand Prix. Not even the race itself, mind you, but a cobbled-together piece about life in the pits. At that moment, she was an expert on that and didn’t need to watch a TV documentary to pick up any pointers. She sexually assaulted a free-range chicken with stuffing from a packet and slid a slimy paste of crushed garlic, lemon, basil, and olive oil under its skin – a very unpleasant sensation for her; she couldn’t speak for the chicken. Duchesse potatoes had seemed such a good idea earlier, when she was plotting the menu, but her enthusiasm was waning fast – feeling stressed and anxious tends not to be a great asset when one is farting around in a culinary sense.

She slapped a head of broccoli on the chopping board, wondering why she hadn’t settled on chicken and chips, takeaway style. When she wielded one of David’s newly sharpened, mean-looking chopping knives, she managed to cut her finger with it, instead of the veg. Blood – made a lot more fluid by the water she hadn’t bothered to dry from her hands – immediately flowed down her arm and onto the floor. The whole exercise was turning into a farce and sight of the blood prompted unwelcome flashbacks to dead bodies. She had to bite her lip to stop herself grizzling like a miserable child denied sweeties.

In a wobbly voice and expecting to be given short shrift, she called, ‘David, do you have any plasters?’

‘Top right cupboard … why?’

‘Oh nothing, I’ve just nicked my finger – I’ll live.’

He was in there like a shot, grabbing her arm. ‘Cold water!’ He stuck her hand under the running tap, whipped a tea towel from the rail. ‘Does that feel better?’ The small but deep and throbbing cut on her finger was now swathed in half a yard of linen. ‘You’re very pale, come and sit down.’ His face was etched with more concern than the injury merited, she felt; although she was grateful to see that he did genuinely care.

‘No need – it’s only a flesh wound and I’m already behind with dinner.’ He practically frogmarched her out of the kitchen to the sofa, ‘Did you learn your bedside manner from your wife?’

He laughed, ‘Hardly, she’d find it hard to be sympathetic if your leg was hanging off. I think medical students take a complementary course in how to be a hard ass.’

‘I suppose they must learn how to switch off, not become emotionally involved …’

‘Mm … she must have been top of the class in that. Enough of Michelle – how are you feeling? Your colour is slightly better.’

‘Which? The burned skin or the unscathed bits?’ He was looking so deadly serious, she gabbled on, ‘Sorry … I’ll be fine – it was just a stupid accident. You’re missing your programme.’

He reached for the remote to switch off the set. ‘It wasn’t that good anyway – I’d rather talk to you.’

She snuggled into his shoulder and felt once more that was where she belonged.

Mike was expected for lunch on Saturday, which would give her a chance to recycle the romantic candlelit dinner for two that never was – she planned to eke the meat out by adding a few more vegetables and some bacon wrapped around chipolatas – she could never remember what they were called; Piggybacks, or something?

They reluctantly rolled out of bed at a quarter to eleven and he arrived about ten minutes later, in a state of nervous excitement. He didn’t seem to notice they were both still dripping wet from a sexy communal shower.

Before they could even offer him a beer, he said, ‘We had a bit of a breakthrough yesterday evening, with the background search on Giles Symonds.’

Callie was all ears.

‘I tried to get hold of David, but his mobile was off and the house phone was permanently engaged.’

That would be because they’d taken it off the hook, she thought, glowing with memories of their long night of pure, unadulterated lust. She looked expectantly to Mike, while fighting to keep a smug expression in check.

‘Looks like we’ve been barking up the wrong tree …’ he grinned his lovely grin again, ‘as David will tell you, it’s almost impossible to get anything out of Protection, they’re so bloody cloak and dagger, but I was on a course once with someone who works there, and she dropped me a hint (after a bit of persuasion on my part – and just to get rid of me, I think) that we should be concentrating on Dee’s background, not Giles’.’

‘Dee?’ she echoed, suitably flabbergasted. ‘How on earth would Dee be involved with anything iffy?’

Mike shrugged, ‘For now that’s all I can’t tell you, but on Monday we’ll have to start over, making her our prime subject.’

She’d hoped for more, but checked disappointment by telling herself not to be so churlish. There might, at long last, be a wee chink of light at the end of a very long, pitch black tunnel.

David took two cold bottles of Beck’s from the fridge, uncapped them, and handed one to Mike. ‘Good work, mate – is there any department you haven’t managed to infiltrate?’

Mike smiled broadly. ‘Let’s hope we get a better result when we put Dee under the microscope – it’s about time we made some headway and unmasked Balaclava Man, or at least found out what this is all about. This is starting to get embarrassing and we can’t blame it all on budget cuts.’

Too right, she thought. If this were fiction, some clever amateur sleuth would be minutes away from solving the mystery by now. In reality, her life was carelessly being risked by police incompetence, and an attitude so laid-back they were comatose.

It was another hot, sunny day outside, but David didn’t have access to a garden, which she found rather claustrophobic – making do with having the windows open wide didn’t satisfy her, no matter how pleasing the warmth and occasional breeze. Her own private version of going stir crazy, she guessed. Everything that had happened was weighing her down and she was teetering on the edge of feeling deeply depressed, despite her best efforts to remain sane and positive. Logically, now that she and David had made up, she should be feeling more confident about the future – but no, she was itching to get back into some form of structured family life with her boys. That included a house with a garden and the right to feel safe there. She hoped perhaps Mike’s latest information would mean the beginning of the end; she desperately wanted Balaclava Man to be banged up, out of harm’s way, so that she could move on with her life – whatever that meant.

Chapter Thirty-six

She got through very little legal work at the office on Monday, her time almost entirely taken up with adding the finishing touches to Ginny’s funeral arrangements. Doris and May, kept in line and ably assisted by Karen, May’s daughter-in-law, had really come up trumps on the catering side and between them prepared enough delicious buffet food to feed a ravenous regiment – and there wouldn’t be anything so mundane as a curled-up sandwich in sight. As an accomplished culinary klutz, Callie was deeply impressed – and as the icing on the cake (so to speak), Karen insisted she would transport the feast to Susan’s house the following day, which saved her having to worry over the logistics of that side of things.

They’d acquired sufficient alcohol and soft drinks on a sale or return basis to keep a battalion of drunks afloat for several months, courtesy Harry’s uncle, one Seamus O’Connor, who reminded Callie of Peter Ustinov in his latter years. Seamus’ anecdotes weren’t nearly as entertaining, but since he was lending them acres of plates, glasses and cutlery free of charge, he was more than OK in her book. Staying busy was therapeutic – it kept the searing sadness of the occasion firmly hitched to the back of her mind. For the moment, she was absorbed in making this a fitting and memorable send-off for her dearest friend – she’d face up to everything else, including what the future might hold, as and when.

Mr Flanagan Senior seemed to have everything in hand over at his eponymous funeral parlour, where Ginny had taken up residence and was receiving a steady stream of visitors in the Chapel of Rest. Young Herbie had been demoted to gofer once more, poor lad – she wondered idly if Elizabeth had had anything to do with his reversal of fortunes, but doubted she’d have felt well enough to put the boot in, and assumed his dad had simply realised the fruit of his loins was not up to the job, as yet.

A call out of the blue from Sally Stephens interrupted her late-lunch prawn and mayo sandwich and crisps feast – even though she was quite short with her, verging on being downright rude, the PC wouldn’t take the hint and insisted she needed to speak to Callie urgently and confidentially. She slotted her into the deranged but pushy pigeonhole and with very bad grace, agreed to meet up with her at Susan’s later on after work. Sally really was a pest and she couldn’t imagine anything she had to say that would be worth hearing.

At the very last moment, David was unable to get away in time to give them a lift; she assured him she would be perfectly safe with Susan, who looked as though she could handle herself – probably thanks to all those water sports. During the short train ride to Susan’s stop, they struggled to safeguard the dozen bunches of long-stemmed yellow roses bought to decorate her rooms – their fellow commuters in the rush hour crush evidently saw no need to make allowance for the extra space they required, to ensure the blooms didn’t end up as confetti. One old chap was so loudly obnoxious and adept with his pointy elbows, Callie almost hit him over the head with a clutch of thorny stalks – luckily for him, there wasn’t sufficient room for her to manoeuvre her arms high enough to take a swing at him.

She followed Susan out of the station feeling frazzled, hot and sweaty – and in no mood for an encounter with the unlovely Ms Stephens. With any luck, she thought, she’d get lost en route and fail to turn up.