The Traitor's Girl, page 3
The kitchenette held a fridge and a gas range, a sink and a scarred wooden bench.
Brylee showed her where everything was, including meals in the fridge, all packaged and labelled ready for reheating. ‘Right,’ she added. ‘If you have everything you need, I must be going or I’ll be late for my next job.’
Leaving Annabel alone with the journalist. ‘And you’re sure this Simon fellow can be trusted?’
Brylee shrugged. ‘Carrie trusts him. She never talks to reporters but she said she knew he’d do the right thing by her. Funny thing to say, really. It’s not as if she’s ever cared about negative publicity before.’
When Annabel followed Brylee back to the kitchen, she saw that Simon had stayed there to clean up and incidentally helped himself to an icepack from the deep freeze. She had a glimpse of a well-defined torso before he hurriedly pulled down his white t-shirt and dropped the icepack into the sink.
‘The goose pecked you, too,’ said Annabel sympathetically, as Brylee waved a cheery goodbye and took off.
‘Oh, it’s no problem. Really.’ He smiled but he moved gingerly, she noticed. It must hurt a man’s pride to be beaten up by poultry.
Simon had cleaned off his jacket and draped it over one of the kitchen chairs. He must be black and blue under the white t-shirt, she thought, reminded of her own aches and pains, scraped knees and hands, and bruises where the goose had pecked her.
However, if he didn’t want sympathy, that was fine with her.
‘What about you?’ he said. ‘No lasting injuries?’
‘Mostly my pride. I can’t imagine what my grandmother thinks she’s doing, keeping an attack goose around.’
‘They’re excellent watchdogs,’ said Simon. ‘It’s a pity they need to be shut up at night. If you’re staying here on your own you might be glad of the goose.’
Annabel frowned. Now that he’d raised the issue of security, she realised she might well be nervous staying in this house alone, particularly when the jetlag was not likely to let her sleep too soundly. ‘Well, I wasn’t worried before but now I am!’
‘Sorry.’ He held his hands up, palms out. ‘I’m sure you’ll be fine.’
Suddenly, she didn’t want this Simon Colepeper to go just yet. ‘Do you know where my grandmother’s studio is? I’d like to see it.’
‘Sure,’ said Simon. He put his jacket back on and grabbed a large bunch of keys that hung from a hook by the kitchen door. ‘I don’t think she’d mind if I showed you.’
‘You seem to have the run of the place,’ said Annabel as he led her to the back of the house.
‘Yes, I stay here quite often,’ said Simon. ‘Originally I was going to write a feature article about Carrie as an artist, but then I began digging deeper and the feature expanded to a full-blown biography. In fact, I have more than enough material for two books. She’s an amazing woman. I’ve come to know her fairly well.’
Unreasonable to feel a stab of jealousy that this man knew her own grandmother better than she did.
They took a narrow path past an overgrown meadow until they came to a squared-off U-shaped group of buildings. ‘This part used to be the stables,’ said Simon, indicating the closest arm of the U, ‘but Carrie had it all knocked through. Put those massive windows in the roof to let in the light.’
They walked around to the entrance, which gave on to a gravelled courtyard embraced on three sides by the studio, the garage and the old coach house. Simon was sorting through the set of keys but stopped short when he saw the great sliding door to the studio was already open.
Simon strode forward, disappearing inside. ‘Oh, Christ!’
Annabel followed with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She gasped when she saw the interior of the studio.
The place was a shambles. Easels knocked over, paint tubes crushed underfoot and oozing colour, blank canvases scattered over the floor. Bold, colourful paintings had been ripped from their frames and slashed, lying tattered and torn amid shards of glass.
A hatstand leaned into the corner, knocked askew, shedding aprons and overalls and hats of wide-brimmed straw. By the window, an old French dresser stood bare, its drawers emptied and flung about. Amid broken shards of blue and white ceramic, there were candlesticks, pottery urns, platters and brightly coloured scarves and throws – all of which Annabel assumed were the props that Carrie used for her paintings.
Simon’s face was white, his lips set in a grim line.
‘Who would do this?’ whispered Annabel. ‘How could they?’
Worse than the damage were the echoes of violence all around them. Her poor grandmother. Annabel gasped. ‘Do you think they’ve done something to Carrie? Do you think she was here when it happened?’
Simon’s dark gaze scanned the studio. ‘No. I don’t think so. This looks like straight vandalism to me. I mean, why would they do anything to Carrie? They probably got in last night while she was away.’
He examined the large padlock on the sliding door without touching it. ‘They’ve smashed this with something heavy.’
‘We can’t be sure they didn’t hurt my grandmother, though,’ said Annabel. ‘What if she surprised them? What if . . .’ Carrie’s words on the phone came back to her. She thought she was in danger, she’d said. Did Simon know about that? Is that what had made the blood drain from his face when he saw the carnage in the studio?
‘I’m not sure of a lot of things,’ he said curtly, taking out his mobile phone. ‘But I’m hoping the fact her car isn’t here is a good sign. Come on. Don’t touch anything. We should call the police.’
Annabel shivered and followed him out, the soles of her shoes crunching on broken glass.
The police, as it turned out, was a diffident young man called Police Constable Gareth Lee from the nearby village of Trilby-on-Tow.
When the constable had finished looking around the studio, Annabel said to him, ‘Look, I know I might be barking up the wrong tree entirely, but I’m really worried about my grandmother.’ She told him about her long-distance conversation with Carrie. ‘Do you think there might be some connection between her vanishing and this break-in? I mean, she was all ready for me to arrive and then suddenly ups sticks and leaves with no word to anyone. And somewhere in there, these thugs come and trash her studio.’
PC Lee frowned, taking notes. ‘There might well be a simple explanation. We’ll do what we can to find the vandals. We’ll need an inventory of her paintings to make sure nothing has been stolen. As for Miss Banks . . . Let’s give it another couple of days before we send out a search party, all right?’
Annabel refused to be fobbed off. ‘I just wonder if the vandalism and her disappearance are related, that’s all. Look, I’d really appreciate it if you could make some inquiries about her. She’s an old lady . . .’
‘We are talking about Caroline Banks,’ said PC Lee with a small smile. ‘She’s no dotty old darling, you know.’
‘Yes, but what if she was hit on the head or something and became confused?’ said Annabel. ‘What if . . .’ She didn’t want to voice her worst fear. She licked her lips. ‘Carrie didn’t tell anyone where she was going. She —’
‘I’ll look into it,’ said PC Lee in a soothing tone, ‘but as I said,I think you’ll find there’s a simple explanation. We have her registration and we’ll put an alert out for her car. A forensics man will be here in the next day or so to dust for fingerprints. Let me know if Miss Banks comes back under her own steam, all right?’
Annabel took his card and hoped very much that he was smarter than he looked. Maybe he didn’t want to worry her but he seemed maddeningly complacent. Suddenly she was glad Simon Colepeper was there. He might be a journalist but he had an air of competency about him that Constable Gareth Lee distinctly lacked.
As she and Simon walked back to the house, Annabel shivered. ‘Maybe I ought to get a room at the pub in the village. Not that keen on staying in this house alone tonight if Carrie doesn’t come back.’
‘I’ll stay with you,’ said Simon.
‘Oh, God, no!’ said Annabel. When he laughed, she added, ‘I mean, please don’t think I was fishing for an offer, because that is not at all what I meant.’
Simon grinned. ‘I know you weren’t. But really, I’d be happy to. In fact, ordinarily I do stay here when I come down from London but I suppose Carrie wanted to have you all to herself this time.’
A lump formed in Annabel’s throat. She’d come all this way with the happy expectation of getting to know her sole surviving relative, with the hope of finding somewhere she belonged. Only to come up against a missing grandmother and a horrible crime.
‘Come on.’ Simon jerked his head towards the house. ‘Why don’t we get your things and drive into the village? We’ll have a bite to eat and see what we can find out about where Carrie might have gone. If you decide you can stomach having me as a housemate, I’ll pick up my gear from the pub and come back here with you. If not, you can either stay at the pub yourself or return here alone. How does that sound?’
Annabel parked at the top end of the high street near the church whose spire she’d glimpsed earlier from Beechwood Hall. She got out of the car and stepped onto the narrow pavement, noticing the chill in the air after the car’s comparative warmth.
Now this was the sort of weather for plum pudding. What a shame she’d have to leave before Christmas Day. Annabel dug her hands in her pockets to keep them warm and glanced about her.
The village of Trilby-on-Tow might have been a film set for an Agatha Christie mystery if not for the modern cars and tour buses manoeuvring up and down its central thoroughfare, tyres shushing on the slick asphalt.
The rain that had threatened all morning hadn’t eventuated but a stinging wind blew her hair across her mouth, making it stick to her scarlet lipstick. She reached into the pocket of her coat for a hair tie. Finding none, she made do with yanking the scarf from her throat to secure it.
She scanned the scenery, appreciating the typical Englishness of it all. The shops that flanked the high street were built from a golden stone that looked rough and frangible, like the inside of a Violet Crumble bar. Even the inhabitants dressed in the slightly shabby, countrified manner that might have belonged to the 1950s rather than four decades on.
All very sinister, she thought. Beneath such picturesque charm was sure to be a microcosm of all the evils in the world.
A group of teenage boys pushed out of the corner shop, shuffling along in high-top sneakers and baggy jeans that dipped below the waistbands of their underwear. Their swaggering sloppiness shattered the strange sense of fictional déjà vu. Above their heads, Annabel saw the sign she’d been looking for.
She made her way towards the Red Lion, where Simon had said he’d meet her. Glancing at her watch, she saw it was only two o’clock. So much had happened since her arrival at Beechwood Hall that she’d thought it must be later. She opened the heavy door to the pub and went in.
The door swung closed behind her with an asthmatic wheeze. Annabel hesitated, surveying the territory. The man behind the bar was straight out of central casting, burly and slope-shouldered with a balding head that had several strands of ginger hair combed carefully across its freckled crown. The words ‘Irascible Publican’ might have been printed on his forehead, just as the name ‘Ye Olde English Pubbe’ might have taken the place of the red lion rampant on the wooden sign that hung outside.
Annabel’s spectator pumps clomped on the slate floor as she approached the bar. She supposed she ought to order something, but daunted by the publican’s unwelcoming glare, she veered off to one of the empty booths to wait for Simon.
She’d decided on the way to the village that she would ask Simon Colepeper to stay with her at the Hall. She wanted to be at her grandmother’s house in case Carrie came back, but she didn’t mind admitting she’d be up all night, starting at every sound, if she had to stay there alone. After what she’d seen in the studio, she didn’t think anyone would blame her for being skittish.
Besides, she wasn’t exactly flush with cash and who knew how long she’d have to stay at the pub before one of two things happened. Either Carrie would return or Annabel would have to give up waiting and go back to Australia. The latter prospect was almost unthinkable.
Simon came in then, and the way his face lit up when he saw her irrationally made Annabel feel a lot better. At least she wasn’t quite alone in her concerns. Simon was taking Carrie’s disappearance seriously, too.
He slid onto the banquette opposite her, took a Spirax notebook from his pocket and leafed through it. ‘Here’s someone who might know where Carrie is. A friend of hers called Mrs Lambie. One of those all-around good souls. Lives in the village, sits on the parish council and all that. She might be worth a try. And then there’s another friend. Well, more of a former colleague, I suppose you’d say. Eve Digby. She lives in Bath, not sure where, but perhaps Mrs Lambie can help us with that.’
They tracked down Carrie’s friend in the church hall. The space was typical of its kind, large and echoing, with a stage at one end. At the other, towers of stacked chairs sat beneath a display of children’s artwork, a cork noticeboard and wooden plaques lettered in gold. Placed randomly around the floor were several plastic buckets, as if some children’s game had been in progress but abruptly abandoned.
In the middle of the vast space between the stage and the chairs, two tables were set up. One table had chairs around it; the other groaned with china plates of cakes and scones, shortbread and ribbon sandwiches, cut crystal dishes of jam and clotted cream.
A handful of people milled about, filling their plates before taking their places for what looked to be some sort of meeting. All heads turned when Simon and Annabel appeared in the doorway.
A stifled exclamation and the clatter of china cup on saucer brought Annabel’s attention to the lady who had been dispensing tea from a catering urn.
Annabel smiled at her. ‘So sorry to barge in! We’ll come back later.’
‘No, no, not at all. Come in.’ Appearing slightly bewildered, the lady took off her apron and came out from behind the urn. ‘We are just about to have our council meeting. All visitors welcome.’ Her reaction and the stares Annabel was getting from the rest of the gathering told her that all might be welcome but none who were not obliged to do so ever came.
Conversation paused, sandwiches and tea cups hovered in mid-air. Annabel’s heels tapped embarrassingly loudly and long over the wide expanse of floorboards as she made her way across the hall to join them. Simon followed, noiseless as a panther.
‘I’m so sorry to interrupt,’ said Annabel. ‘I’m looking for Mrs Lambie and I was told I’d find her here.’
‘That’s me, dear,’ said the lady who had just greeted her. She looked to be in her seventies, probably a contemporary of Carrie’s. Her hand was over her heart as if she’d had a shock. ‘Oh, but you look so much like her,’ she murmured. ‘It was quite a surprise.’
Warmth spread in Annabel’s chest and she couldn’t bite back her smile at the resemblance Mrs Lambie had noticed. ‘Well, then you probably know that I’m Annabel and this is a . . . er, friend, Simon Colepeper. Might I speak with you, Mrs Lambie?’ She glanced around. ‘Perhaps we should come back later? You look like you’re busy.’
‘Yes, yes, of course. We are about to start the meeting, but please stay. Why don’t you have a nice cup of tea and a bite to eat while you wait?’
Mrs Lambie was exactly the kind of sweet lady Annabel had dreamed her own grandmother might be. Curbing her impatience, Annabel accepted tea and cake gratefully while Simon excused himself to make a call outside.
There was nothing to do but wait. The assembled group was a motley assortment: a middle-aged couple who turned out to be the vicar and his wife, a young woman Annabel took to be their daughter, who wore a Fair Isle vest and tweeds. There was Rowan Sutcliffe, with his bobbing Adam’s apple and a brutal short back and sides that made his ears seem to stick out even further than they actually did.
And then there was Vi, the bored sophisticate from the grand estate. Annabel gathered she was representing the squire of the county at this meeting, just as so many of her forebears must have done. What was a cosmopolitan young woman like Vi doing here in the Cotswolds?
Vi’s swift assessment of Annabel was written on her face, stating plainly that Annabel’s look was cheap and weird as opposed to quirky with a dash of vintage chic.
Why do rich people always have such shiny hair? thought Annabel resentfully. She wished she looked as effortlessly expensive in well-cut neutrals as this auburn-haired beauty did.
With the efficient and brisk Jenny of the Fair Isle vest at the helm, parish business was ticked off, item by item, the meandering digressions by older members of the committee tactfully but firmly cut short.
Curious glances kept darting Annabel’s way. She sipped her tea, surreptitiously wiping the lipstick stain from the gilt edge of her cup with her thumb.
‘Now, the most important item is where we hold this year’s Christmas party,’ said Jenny. ‘Renovations begin on the hall at the end of the week.’
‘I’ve begged and wheedled and flat-out threatened Pa but it’s no use,’ said Vi, crossing one elegantly booted leg over the other. ‘He won’t budge. He’s so wrapped up in his property schemes he can’t think of anything else.’
‘Do I hear my name being taken in vain?’ A tall, middle-aged gentleman in a suit and tie strolled into the hall. His fair hair was brushed back from a high forehead and his gaze, cool beneath hooded lids, snagged for an instant on Annabel before sweeping the rest of the company.
‘Hello, Pa,’ drawled Vi. ‘What sort of time do you call this?’
Unmoved by her flippancy, he said, ‘Do forgive me, everyone.I had a meeting with my sales agent that ran on too long.’ He took the vacant seat, smoothly unbuttoning his suit coat as he did so.
