CHAPTER 23
‘Who the hell has parked on your verge! Oh my God, you must be furious! They’re practically in your kitchen!
’ Sue breezed through the front door in well-cut jeans and a crisp white shirt, with a Liberty silk scarf tied loosely around her neck, clutching a large bunch of blowsy pale peach peonies that she dumped on the kitchen table.
‘Sue!’ Pat leapt out of her chair. ‘I was supposed to pick you up!’ She glanced over at the round brass wall clock above the kitchen sink.
‘I took the earlier train. It’s a nice day, no point in hanging around, and there were taxis at the station.
’ Sue kissed her on one cheek and then the other.
‘Terrifying taxi ride. The driver kept looking at me in the mirror while he moaned about his life and didn’t appear to concentrate on the road at all.
’ She ruffled her blonde hair and looked over to the doorway to the sitting room, where Sofia had wandered in with wet hair, barefoot, wearing Pat’s old pale pink terry dressing gown and blowing on the large mug of tea she held cupped in both hands in front of her.
‘Sofia, very nice to see you, it’s been a while. ’
‘Hello, Sue, I’m the driver who’s parked in the kitchen!’ replied Sofia. ‘I can’t believe you didn’t say anything, Mum. I’ll move it if you want.’
‘Don’t be crazy,’ said Sue, going to give her a hug. ‘You can’t do anything wrong in her eyes. She’d let you reverse into the sitting room if she thought it would make you happy!’
Sofia returned Sue’s hug. ‘Lovely to see you after so long.’
‘It seemed an opportunity too good to miss,’ smiled Sue.
‘You’re down here for the weekend, the sun is out, and it’s so easy to get on a train.
Now,’ she picked up her flowers off the table, ‘where shall I put these hand-picked cottage-garden peonies that I bought at vast expense this morning in Islington and were probably from your next-door’s garden anyway?
Talk about coals to Newcastle. Do you have a vase?
’ She began foraging along Pat’s dusty shelves, rootling among bowls and pots that had not been moved in years.
‘Christ!’ she coughed. ‘This place needs a bit of a sort-out. When was the last time you threw anything away? I mean, that orange Le Creuset can go for a start.’ She nodded over at the fridge.
‘It’s practically a museum piece. Are you a hoarder now, Pat? ’
‘We both know I have very little emotional attachment to possessions and my levels of anxiety are hardly abated at all by holding on to trinkets and biscuit tins. Anyway, that orange Le Creuset is Prichard’s favourite; he uses it to make his boeuf bourguignon.’
‘Does he now?’ said Sue, lifting the hefty lid. ‘Well, he needs to give it a damn good clean.’
‘I shall let him know.’
It took Sue less than five minutes to notice the murder board above the kitchen table, and it wasn’t long before the three of them were sitting down working their way through all the possibilities.
Sue obviously knew all about Derek and his devious ways, although there was still no update from the bank as to how the money had managed to go missing without anyone knowing who had taken it.
‘They’re worse than useless,’ she complained.
‘We’ve been on to them on a daily basis, and still the fraud department haven’t managed to come up with any explanation other than that it’s gone to Guernsey.
And it’s that much harder because, you know, Henry’s dead and the accounts are in his name.
It’s madness really. They used a shell company to move the funds through that and then on to the Channel Islands. ’
‘So it’s complex and sophisticated?’ asked Sofia.
‘It appears that way.’
‘Is Derek clever enough to pull that off on his own? He doesn’t sound like the sort.’
‘But it’s not Dorna Braddon, is it?’ said Pat. ‘She’s got a thirty-seven-million-pound deal going through, so she won’t need another one hundred and twenty thousand, and anyway, as I said, she wasn’t here the night of the murder.’
‘Unless she’s short of actual cash,’ said Sue.
‘You’d be amazed how people who present as wealthy can have so little money in the bank.
It’s all in assets. I see it all the time, especially when I’m doing divorce cases that require full financial disclosure, when I have to find out exactly how much money has been loaned to people or given away.
People so often live hugely beyond their means.
The most surprising people have savings, and the even more surprising have not.
’ She sighed deeply. ‘I’m not sure if our murderer is even on the board.
Why is next-door’s Fi up there? Has she been having her parties again? ’
‘Derek is staying there,’ said Pat.
‘Well, there’s a turn-up,’ replied Sue.
‘He’s been kicked out of Henry’s place. I suppose it’s only natural that he’s found some other place to lay his hat.’
‘Ah, he’s prolific.’
After Sofia had got dressed in a red pinafore and white shirt with puffed sleeves and her pale pink cashmere wrap, they decided to walk to the pub for lunch.
They set out along the lane and over the cattle grid.
At the layby, Pat stopped. She wanted to make sure that the tosser had moved on permanently, but suddenly out of the corner of her eye she spotted a Mars bar wrapper around the back of the bin.
‘You’re not still picking rubbish up, are you, Mum?
’ asked Sofia. ‘I remember once when I was a child and we were walking along the street, I threw my juice box into a garden that was full of litter already and you made me knock on the door and ask if I could get it back. The woman who answered the door thought I was completely mad. It was traumatising.’
‘Well,’ shrugged Pat as she dropped the wrapper in the bin, ‘you never did it again, did you?’
‘I never dared.’
They carried on along the lane, past the church and down the hill towards the green. As they walked towards the village hall, Pat suddenly wondered if it might be open.
‘Do either of you want to come and look at the results of the painting competition?’
‘I don’t mind if I do,’ declared Sue. ‘Do we have skin in the game?’
‘We most certainly do.’
‘In which case …’
The door to the village hall was unlocked.
Pat entered, followed by Sue and Sofia. The place was eerily quiet, and felt oddly cold after the warm sunshine outside.
The art club easels were stacked up at the back of the hall and the beanbags were still out from Sunday school earlier that morning.
There was a whiteboard on wheels shoved up against the wall, with a question written on it in red pen: What’s the best news you’ve ever heard?
‘I see they’re still spreading the word of the Lord,’ nodded Sue. ‘This place looks like it’s well used,’ she added, glancing around.
They’d hung the art club canvases all down one wall of the hall. Pat could see Prichard’s immediately, with its tiny, delicate strokes and fine lines. It appeared to have a blue rosette stuck on one corner.
‘Looks like Prichard’s come second,’ she said, sounding both delighted and amused. ‘The honourable member came to judge them yesterday. Second place! I can’t believe he didn’t call me to gloat.’
‘I have to say I don’t think much of first, if we’re being frank,’ said Sue. ‘It’s a bit grey and phallic for my liking.’
‘That’s Dorna Braddon’s masterpiece,’ said Pat, walking over to stand next to her.
‘Well, she certainly knows how to make an impression, doesn’t she? She moves in, concretes over the Downs and wins the art club painting competition. It’s one way to make friends and influence people.’
‘I have to say, I quite like this one – the colours and the flowers and the wisteria. It’s very pretty. I wouldn’t mind that on my wall,’ said Sofia.
‘That’s Margot’s,’ said Pat.
‘Well, it’s very decorative. Which one is yours, Mum?’
‘Good question,’ replied Pat as she looked around the hall. ‘It doesn’t appear to be here.’ She started to count the paintings, ticking them off on her fingers as she worked out who each belonged to. ‘Mine’s the only one not here.’
‘Is this it?’ asked Sue, pushing the whiteboard out of the way. ‘I’d recognise that rebellious belligerence anywhere.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Pat smiled.
‘While everyone else has painted a nice pretty picture, you’ve done the parking lot.’ Sue laughed. ‘No wonder they’ve hidden it in the corner!’
‘Don’t be so rude,’ replied Pat. ‘I painted what I saw, that’s all – wheelie bins, cars. If you don’t take note of what’s right under your nose, you’re inviting trouble.’
‘I see your painting didn’t make the team photo either,’ said Sofia, standing at the entrance to the hall.
‘What?’ said Pat, walking towards her daughter. ‘I was holding it up with the rest of them.’
‘Not here you weren’t,’ Sofia replied.
‘I was!’
‘You weren’t!’
Pat and Sofia stood side by side and stared at the framed photograph of Westlinke Art Club.
There was Prichard and Jacqui, Margot and the colonel and Dorna Braddon, the nearly naked Fiona and the rest all standing together, holding up their paintings for the village to see and appreciate.
They were all there except Pat’s. Her piece of art had clearly been Photoshopped out and in its place was the repeat pattern of her checked shirt.
‘Most bizarre,’ she whispered under her breath. ‘I was definitely holding it.’ She pointed. ‘Right there.’
‘And now you’re not,’ replied Sofia.
‘I’m really sorry,’ said Pat. ‘Do you two mind going to the pub and getting a table? I’ve just got to make a quick phone call.’
As Sue and Sofia walked slowly off across the grass towards the Green Lion, Pat sat down on the steps in front of the village hall.
She felt a little strange. What hit her was how invisible you became after a certain age, with people looking right through you.
Having her painting rubbed out made her feel a bit like she herself had been rubbed out. She got out her phone.