Chapter Twenty-Nine
Lunch with Ronnie Sharp at the Green Man in Grantchester, followed by a stroll along the river in the beautifully mild October weather had made for a very pleasant outing.
Bon-Bon had had a high old time nosing around in the long grass, although he hadn’t been so happy inside the pub when that rude woman had tripped over him, and she hadn’t even apologised. It was as if she’d barely noticed him.
Ronnie was back from Majorca to sort out what he referred to as a few business odds and sods.
He had knocked on Venetia’s door earlier in the week and asked if she was free for a drink that evening.
Later, and leaving Bon-Bon watching The Great British Bake Off, she had taken the stairs up to the top floor and made her way along the carpeted corridor to Ronnie’s apartment, her steps triggering ceiling lights to come on overhead.
It was hard to believe, but this was the very same route she had followed as a child when going to see Edie Buckle in her cosy office-cum-sitting room next door to the sick room.
In those days there hadn’t been a plush royal-blue carpet, just a worn stretch of curling linoleum the colour of vomited pea soup, as all the children had described it.
From what she had seen of Ronnie’s apartment that evening it was very much a bachelor pad and lacked any real heart, or even a sense of home.
There were a few items of statement furniture in the sitting room and some rather unfathomable abstract pictures on the walls which served to add to the sterility and transient feel of the place; it could have been a soulless hotel room.
While Ronnie had poured her a glass of wine, he’d confessed to having employed an interior designer to kit out the apartment when he’d bought it.
‘I was lazy, and just let the woman get on with it while I was in Majorca,’ he’d explained.
As the evening had progressed, she’d felt that he was quite a different Ronnie to the one she’d met the evening of the welcome drinks party when she’d moved in.
It was as if when not in front of a crowd, he didn’t need to live up to the role of Ronnie-the-Rogue which was how he’d come across before.
But in Venetia’s experience everyone played a role depending on the situation, no one was immune from playing up to an audience.
It might have been the excellent quality of the Alberino they were drinking, but by the second glass she had entrusted Ronnie with her secret about Bon-Bon. He’d been tickled pink that she had a stowaway dog in her apartment and had assured her that his lips were sealed.
‘I’m more than happy to keep your secret,’ he’d said with a laugh. ‘Anything to get one over those two bossy women who think they run the show here.’
He’d shared with her that he’d had a personal run-in with the Enforcers last year when he’d let a friend keep a campervan in the parking area by the garage block.
Apparently, even though Ronnie had said it was a temporary arrangement, Joanna and Cheryl had described the vehicle as an eyesore, claiming it made the place look like a cheap campsite.
‘Which naturally,’ Ronnie had told Venetia, ‘made me want to install a wreck of a campervan of my own just to really annoy those stuck-up whinge-bags. And you know what,’ he’d gone on, ‘there’s nothing in those management rules about not being allowed to keep caravans or campervans here. Not a word. Nada!’
The more they’d chatted, the more Venetia had enjoyed Ronnie’s company, but she’d sensed that it wasn’t just business loose ends that he was here to tie up.
She’d been proved right over lunch today when he’d mentioned he had an appointment at Addenbrooke’s Hospital.
She didn’t feel she knew him well enough to ask what it was for, other than to say she hoped it wasn’t anything serious.
He’d avoided answering her by steering the subject onto something else.
Now, back from Grantchester, and after inviting Ronnie in for a cup of coffee, Venetia let them into her apartment.
Setting her tote bag down on the floor in the hall, Bon-Bon hopped out, shook himself from his nose to his tail, then trotted through to the kitchen and his water bowl. They followed behind the little dog.
Taking in his surroundings with an appreciative nod, Ronnie said, ‘Your apartment feels much more of a home than mine.’
‘Thank you, but there’s nothing like a ragtag collection of squashy old cushions and faded rugs to make a place feel lived in. Make yourself comfortable, while I put the kettle on. I apologise for not having one of those fancy coffee machines, the best I can do is a cafetière.’
‘Hey, no standing on ceremony with me,’ he replied, ‘instant will do perfectly.’
‘In that case I shall take you at your word.’
Having ignored her invitation to sit down, Ronnie prowled around the room, then went over to the window to look out at the grounds in the autumn sunshine.
‘You have a better view than I do from my apartment,’ he said when a few moments had passed.
‘I missed the boat when the apartments with the best views came up for sale.’
‘You have a view of the woods though,’ she said, ‘that’s not so bad, and it’s not like you live here permanently.’
He shrugged, then pushed his hands into the pockets of his trousers. ‘True. But life changes.’
‘That sounds rather like you’re considering making changes?’
‘Sometimes,’ he said quietly, almost more to himself than her, ‘change is thrust upon us, whether we want it or not.’
The coffee made, Venetia took the two mugs over to the sofa, pondering on what Ronnie had said, or more accurately the reflective way in which he’d said it. It made her wonder if he was worried about something. His hospital appointment perhaps?
When they were both seated, and feeling that she would like to help if she could, she said, ‘You could tell me to mind my own business, but if there’s anything I—’
‘Whoa!’ he said, holding up a hand to interrupt her. ‘Whenever a woman says that, I know jolly well she has no intention of minding her own business. So go on,’ he added with a chuckle, ‘do your worst.’
Amused at what she’d been accused of and knowing it was true, as it simply wasn’t in her nature to let something go, she said, ‘Do you currently find yourself in a position of having unwanted change thrust upon you?’
‘I might do,’ he said evasively, levelling his gaze with hers over the rim of his coffee mug.
‘Change is fine when we’re in control of it,’ she said. ‘When we’re not, that’s a different matter.’
‘That’s very true,’ he agreed, ‘especially when life doesn’t play fair.’
‘Now that sounds like a man who has something very specific on his mind.’
‘Ah, perceptive as well as beautiful.’
Recognising a classic conversational swerve, she tutted and wagged a finger at him. ‘You can stop that silly nonsense right now. I’ve been around the block far too often to be fooled by any flimflam flattery.’
He smiled. ‘But you are a very attractive woman.’
‘I’m also an old woman and you are certainly old enough to know better than to try your tricks on me.’
‘But you can’t blame a chap for chancing it when he’s trying to wriggle out of being cross-examined.’
‘There now,’ she said, ‘finally some honesty from you.’
‘Coffee was what you invited me in for, you didn’t say anything about gouging great chunks out of my self-esteem.’
‘Nothing but a friendly nibble or two to keep you on your toes,’ she said lightly, ‘nothing untoward.’
‘But you won’t stop until you have it all out of me, will you?’
‘I’ll stop if you want me to.’
He sighed. ‘Clever. Now if I don’t confess to you, it’ll look like I’m trying to hide something.’
‘We all hide something.’
‘You’re a regular Miss Marple, aren’t you?’ he said good-humouredly. ‘You won’t be satisfied until you’ve winkled every detail out of me.’
She smiled. ‘A gross exaggeration. I just feel you’re worried about something and a problem shared is—’
‘A problem halved. Yeah, yeah, I know how all the clichés go. If you really want to know, I have problems coming out of my ears.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ she said.
‘Not as sorry as I am. You see, and this must go no further, but for a while now my hotel has been losing money like water running through a sieve and I’ve only recently discovered the reason for that; my business partner and so-called financial expert has been siphoning money off to clear his gambling debts.
He’d done a bang-up job of covering his tracks, and now he’s vanished into thin air.
I blame myself; I shouldn’t have trusted him to the extent that I did.
Then to top it all,’ Ronnie continued, putting his coffee mug down on the table in front of them, ‘the quack I saw in Palma last week reckons the cancer I was treated for some years ago might have resurfaced.’ He puffed out his cheeks and sank back into the cushions of the sofa, as though the confession had exhausted him.
‘Putting the hotel to one side,’ Venetia said, ‘your priority must be your health. Presumably your appointment at Addenbrooke’s is to see a specialist, an oncologist, when is the appointment?’
‘The day after tomorrow.’
‘I’d be happy to accompany you. Or I could drop you off at the door if you’d prefer and then return when you’re finished.’
His expression, which until then had been one of stoic resilience, softened. ‘That’s kind of you, but there’s really no need.’
‘Good,’ she said, brooking no argument. ‘That’s settled then, I’ll take you. As for your financial difficulties, have you involved the police? After all, it is fraud what your business partner has been up to.’
He rubbed a hand over his face. ‘I haven’t gone to the police yet; I don’t want any bad publicity for the hotel. Not when things are so precarious.’
‘Who’s taking care of the hotel while you’re here?’ Venetia asked.
‘The manager.’
‘Can you trust that person?’
‘Trust,’ he repeated with a roll of his eyes, ‘is a luxury I can no longer rely on.’
‘Do you have a plan?’
‘Hah!’ He exploded with a raucous laugh which had the effect of making Bon-Bon raise his head where he’d been curled up in his basket throughout the conversation. ‘You’re one tenacious lady, aren’t you?’
‘You should see me when I’m out of first gear,’ Venetia said with a smile.
‘I look forward to it,’ he said, matching her smile with one of his, ‘but in answer to your question, the only plan I have is to pay off those who are owed money, sell the hotel while making a loss, then slink away with my pride and reputation shot to pieces.’
‘Slinking away be dammned!’ Venetia snapped. ‘You’ve done nothing wrong, so let’s not have any cloying self-pity.’
‘Not even a little?’ he said.
‘Absolutely not.’
‘I had a feeling you might say that.’