3
As Lyssa began to eat her evening meal, at her own home in High Wycombe Elizabeth Grainger was standing on the patio overlooking her small but well-maintained garden.
The view was spectacular, as her house was situated high in the valley, but she hardly noticed it nowadays.
Instead, she had her mobile phone clamped firmly to her ear, awaiting the call she’d just punched in to be answered, and was restlessly tapping her foot on the paving stones.
In the garden’s dwarf silver birch tree, a chaffinch was trilling heartily, and bees droned lazily around a colourful flower border.
No gardener herself, Elizabeth nevertheless paid someone to keep the plot immaculate, for beauty in design and form were, and always had been, her passion.
And since her detached home was also where she had her office, from which she ran her interior design business, everything about her residence had to be a showcase for potential clients.
Anything less than an immaculate garden wouldn’t cut the mustard.
She’d been in business for nearly fifteen years, now. A husband (or two) had come and gone in that time, but her love for colour, form, fabric and harmony in her surroundings had remained. And now, if things went well, she was anticipating being able to finally take her career up a notch or two.
Designing for wealthy friends and relying on their word of mouth for commissions from strangers was all very well, but if she wanted to make a real name for herself and be rated among the likes of Kelly Hoppen, Nina Campbell and Nicky Haslam, then she needed to up her game.
Born to relatively wealthy parents, she’d always been well heeled and used to ease and a certain amount of privilege, but she’d also been fiercely ambitious and competitive.
It wasn’t enough for her to live life in the slow and comfortable lane, when what she really wanted to do was soar.
And it had become apparent to her over the years that if she was to make it to the big leagues, she needed serious money behind her.
Which was why she was intent on grabbing the opportunity to make the most of what had just landed in her lap. For once, her late and infamous relative was going to come up trumps – if she, Elizabeth, could just wangle it.
But she knew she didn’t have much time.
In her ear, the ringing tone changed to that of a human voice, and one she knew very well. And after the usual, amorous greeting and whispered sweet nothings, she steered the conversation on to more practical ground.
‘So, about my little scheme. Is everything in place? Did you manage to find someone?’
‘Yes, it couldn’t have worked out better for you, as a matter of fact,’ the man on the other end of the line said, and Elizabeth listened in growing gratification as he explained what he meant by that. When he was finished, she nodded to herself, a small smile playing over her lips.
‘You’re right – that was a stroke of luck, and I’ll get in touch with him right away. Let’s hope it’s a good omen. Now that I’ve got the ball rolling, I want to make sure that I know just where it is that it rolls.’
‘You think she’ll take the commission, then?’
‘Oh yes, I think so,’ Elizabeth said, casually crossing to a lounger and sitting down on the edge of it. ‘She won’t be able to resist. The research bait that I gave her will hook her all right.’
‘If you say so, sweetheart. But I think you’re putting a lot of faith in what can only be, at best, a long shot.’
Elizabeth sighed. ‘Have a little optimism, darling. I did my homework, and Lyssa Moore is one of the best biographers around. She’s an Oxford graduate, don’t forget, so she’s clever, and rooting about in the past and finding out about people and their lives is what makes her tick.
She’ll come through for me, I can just feel it. ’
There was a brief silence on the other end of the line, and then a soft sigh. ‘Well, let’s just hope she isn’t too clever, shall we?’
Elizabeth blinked for a moment, not following his meaning, then, when she did, gave a brief shrug.
‘Don’t worry about that. I’ll make it part of the contract that she keeps me updated on her progress every other day, and if it looks as if she might cause trouble, I’ll head her off and keep her on track. ’
‘If you say so,’ the voice said doubtfully in her ear. ‘At least I’ve paved the way for you with my contact, so you can get on to the man right away. He’ll be able to help with anything like that, and he’s expecting your call.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll do that right now, tonight,’ Elizabeth promised. ‘I’m not about to forget what’s at stake, believe me.’
‘Oh, I do! Well, good luck, sweetheart.’
‘Thanks,’ Elizabeth said, blowing ‘kiss, kiss’ noises down the phone before hanging up. She sat for a moment, frowning out over her lovely garden, but not really seeing it, as her mind whirled.
A long shot? Yes, she supposed commissioning the book was that. But after meeting her at the Ivy, she was confident that if anyone could find the proof she needed, it was Lyssa Moore.
She only hoped it was just there to be found.
The next day, Lyssa woke to the sound of rain pattering on the windows and thunder rumbling ominously somewhere in the distance. The hot weather of the past few days had broken – as it was wont to do in England – with a summer thunderstorm.
She rose, showered and dressed in thin white cotton trousers and a cool silk blouse the colour of moss.
She put her long black hair up in the usual high ponytail and poured herself a cup of coffee.
Outside, lightning flashed, and she moved to the French windows to look out over the river.
The trees were swaying in the wind, and the river, sky and cityscape looked uniformly grey with only a few people scurrying about under umbrellas.
But she knew the cloudburst would soon pass, and then the city’s inhabitants and visitors would quickly come out again to go about their business.
She walked to her workstation and, setting her coffee to one side, quickly logged on.
There was another email from Elizabeth, which she opened and read quickly.
The contract would be winging its way to her within the next few days, and she wanted to know how Lyssa would like her fees paid: bank transfer, old-fashioned cheque or even cash.
(The last option came complete with a smiley face.)
‘Wow, that’s quick work,’ Lyssa muttered.
The email went on to say how much she was looking forward to their collaboration, and how she couldn’t wait to see her outlines for the book.
‘No pressure, then,’ she murmured to herself again, and shot off a quick reply. And with such a pushy client to keep happy, she decided she’d better get on with it and began to make a ‘to do’ list on a fresh notepad.
The first and most obvious task was to try and find anyone from back then who was still alive and willing to be interviewed for the book.
Or, more likely, the direct relatives of those concerned.
The trouble was, given the bad luck that had dogged the band members, she wasn’t sure how any of them would feel happy about contributing to a biography that was bound to rake up so many bad memories.
Another priority was to find out who had taken the film footage of Monty’s last party and see if it could possibly still be in existence.
The first part of that shouldn’t be too hard.
The newspapers at the time would have published the film-maker’s name in their interview with him, and if their back issues hadn’t yet been digitised (which most had) she could always slog her way through some microfiches!
Resolutely, she set to work.
It was her rumbling tummy that eventually succeeded in breaking through her concentration, making her look up from her computer screen and check the clock.
It was nearly one thirty, and seeing as she’d forgotten about breakfast, she was now in need of sustenance.
On the plus side, her search engines and the various databases available to the public nowadays hadn’t let her down, and at least she had a list of potential sources for the book.
Which reminded her, she was going to have to come up with a working title for it.
Thinking up book titles was her least favourite thing, since she found it almost impossible to reduce seventy thousand words or more to a single concept.
Besides which, she knew from experience that any title she came up with would inevitably be changed either by the client themselves or the publisher.
Which was why she wouldn’t spend much time on it. Nevertheless, she needed a working title beyond merely ‘the book’, and so she was pleased, when popping two slices of bread into the toaster, when her subconscious came up trumps by sending the Troggs song ‘Wild Thing’ hurtling into her mind.
‘Perfect,’ she said out loud, snapping her fingers. ‘Right. Wild Thing it is.’
She cast a quick look over her notes so far. On it was a depressingly small list of names (as most of Monty’s contemporaries had already made the obituaries) but it was a start.
So far, she had managed to track down and find contact details for Emily Bannister, the youngest sister of Glen, who must now be in her seventies.
From her research, she knew that Monty had been putting up Glen’s parents, as well as Emily, for the duration of the weekend when she’d held her fatal birthday party.
Although Glen’s sister would only have been ten or eleven years old at the time, and had probably been put to bed long before the partygoer had discovered Monty’s body floating in the pond, Lyssa still harboured hopes that she would be able to provide her with some much-needed, first-hand experiences of those days.