ILLUMINATION BOOK CHAPTERS (UPDATED LIST OF CHAPTERS HERE).. ROMANTIC COMEDY — QUIRKY ROMP — CO-STARS MOOCHER THE DOG

‘White Lies and Custard Creams’ — Chapter Fifteen

It’s a sleuth’s life for me! Or — maybe not … Or maybe, yes …

So there they were again. This time she looked at the books before she moved them off the chair she intended sitting on. They were about crime, fiction and non-fiction. All about crime.

He looked apprehensive. As well he might.

“Are you going to get the coffee, or shall I?” She was keen. Her caffeine levels were perilously low since the PCs had finished it off — perhaps that was why she was being so slow on the uptake.

“We’ll both get it.”

Oh, dear. He didn’t trust her. She jumped up. “Okay. Suits me.”

So there she was, leaning on the back of his cooker, which was just the right height for leaning on. She couldn’t do it on hers, it always being greasy, but Clive’s was okay in that respect. He fiddled about with cups and saucers and cafetières and scoops and things. Great! Fresh coffee. This was getting better and better.

“Any biscuits?” Well, if you don’t ask, you don’t get. She would be just as gracious if the answer was ‘no’. Yes, she would.

“No,” he said. “You ate them all yesterday.”

Damn.

“Oh, all right,” he relented. “I went out and got some more.” He opened a cupboard and as if by magic, produced a regular feast on a very pretty cake stand thingy, all different sorts of biscuits already laid out and ready to stuff in mouth.

“You knew I was coming?”

“Yes.” He gave her an impatient glare as if to say he wasn’t as thick as she obviously thought he was. It just goes to show: never underestimate your neighbour if at first you think he’s a Git.

“Okay. What do I want to know?” Why should she do all the work if her non-git neighbour wanted to show her he was so clever?

“Let’s sit down first,” he said. “Don’t want to tire you out too much.”

Liz laughed and considered tossing her sun-bleached hair in an appealing and coquettish manner. But it was dark brown and too short to toss.

She couldn’t help thinking that Clive was improving in leaps and bounds. She carried the cake stand thingy for him to make sure it reached the front room safely.

So there they were, sitting prettily in his front room and it occurred to her to wonder how it was that someone as immaculate as Clive with his nets and his kitchen, could, at the same time, be so uncontrolled with his books. Didn’t fit, did it? Perhaps he had a split personality. She regarded him with renewed interest. She also wondered whether she’d been too hasty in deciding not to take up private investigation as a career.

“Julie’s father was a criminal, wasn’t he?” she said. “He did a job of some sort and got away with a lot of money, but in doing so he cut his criminal mates out of the game so they didn’t get any. Or perhaps they went to prison and now they’re out. But he didn’t. Go to prison, that is.”

He looked fascinated. He looked admiring. He handed her the cake stand thingy again and looked vaguely shocked when she declined. How could she be expected to hold forth convincingly whilst also spitting biscuit crumbs? She’d come back to them. “Anyway, Julie’s mother died, or didn’t exist in the first place. Well, she must have, but perhaps she just had the child and made off, not interested in that kind of life. Julie’s father was left holding the baby and couldn’t cope. Babies don’t really fit the criminal life style do they? I suppose they don’t. So he put it, her, up for adoption.” Liz looked at him for confirmation and the same admiration lit his eyes. She swelled up in importance. What a sleuth she was!

Hugh would be sorry he ever let her go. She nearly side-tracked herself at that, as a bottomless black hole opened up in front of her, but doggedly, she got herself back on track.

“Years later, Julie’s father’s criminal mates track the baby down. Perhaps they’d been released from prison by then. They try to kidnap her and that’s when her adoptive father has a heart attack which was most unfortunate because that poor man was totally innocent. That misfortune spread when his wife, Julie’s adopted mother, faded away and died because she was broken hearted at the loss of the love of her life.”

Liz wondered, briefly, if she might die through the loss of her love, but only briefly as she was really getting into the swing of it all now. She could see herself, a female Poirot, a Poirette maybe, holding forth in the last scene. As one does.

“What makes you think I know anything at all about any of this?” he asked.

She ignored him, carried away on the incoming tide of her theories. “The kidnap attempt failed. Come to think of it, I’m not sure why. Hardened criminals like that wouldn’t have let someone having a heart attack stop them, surely. Anyway, it failed. Then Julie received a note that said: ‘Malvern Road, Bristol’ and she just knew it was an attempt to point her in the right direction towards her real family, or at least, that’s what she wanted to believe. She was devastated by the loss of her adoptive family. She’s only young. So, she followed it up, came here in disguise, or perhaps it really was because it’s easier to wear that many clothes than to carry them — to stop the criminals following her. But then again, how did she know they might? Did she know what the kidnap attempt was about? Did anyone know?”

Hmm. Too many questions, not enough answers. Losing sense of authority. Clive had relaxed back into his chair and was nibbling round the jam bit in the middle of a biscuit. She would rather he was sitting on the edge of his chair, alert and fascinated, but there you go.

“Julie checked out the males of a suitable age in Malvern Road and worked out that Simon Medley was her father. And they all lived happily ever after.” She beamed at her host, who dragged his attention away from his biscuit. He’d reached the middle bit now and was holding it between his thumb and forefinger all ready to stuff the best bit in his mouth. Politeness, however, forced him to lower it as he looked at her.

“Got that all worked out then,” he said. “So, why are you telling me all this?”

As an accolade in praise of her deductive powers, it was somewhat lacking.

“Because Simon isn’t Julie’s father. You are.”

“What leads you to that conclusion?”

“Floppy hair. Right age. Continually looking through your windows. Thugs ready to cut your finger off even if they didn’t. You’re obviously well off enough not to need to go out to work. In other words, you’re living off your ill-gotten gains. Now that I think about it,” she said, getting another wave of pure intuition. “It’s obvious that those thugs were after your money, but you managed to fob them off. That’s why they kidnapped Simon, because they think he’s Julie’s father and has all the money.”

“And you’re happy to have closeted yourself in here with a hardened criminal? And eat all his biscuits.”

“You might be a hardened criminal but you’re still my neighbour. You’ve got all these books. You must be all right now. You’ve probably changed over the years since the crime and all that. Look how you keep your nets.” Proof positive. She couldn’t imagine a hardened criminal keeping his nets in such pristine condition. “And besides, you must have retired from the hardened criminal bit, I’d had thought.”

“Because you haven’t seen me enter my house wearing a striped sweater, a black eye patch and carrying a loot bag over my shoulder?”

“You’re being silly now. Because, well, because… have you?” When in doubt, attack. “Anyway, when they came for your finger thinking you were Julie’s father, you then told them that Simon was Julie’s father and that’s why they made the attempt to kidnap him. Which also probably means they’ll try it again. Perhaps Julie and Simon should move out for a while, until we’ve caught the criminals.”

“We?”

“It was your responsibility, you know. You started all this by keeping the loot to yourself. It’s only fair.” She helped herself to a handful of those particularly delicious shortbread type biscuits, very thin with their ends dunked in dark chocolate. Mmm.

“Anyway, it shouldn’t be that hard. They’re not very good at it are they? Not only that, but one of them has given it up to concentrate on his Tip of the Month Club so there’s only two to go. I’m sure we could manage that.” She munched away happily. They’d soon have this sorted out and then she could get back to worrying about money. Not that she wasn’t worrying about money right now, just that it didn’t have that uncomfortable edge it usually did. It could also be that having discovered she suffered a terminal case of unrequited love for her ex, nothing else mattered very much anymore. So, she was being particularly brave and noble trying to interest herself in other people’s concerns.

“Oh, by the way, do you want to claim Julie as your daughter?”

“Certainly not!”

“Criminy. No need to be quite that revolted by the whole idea. She’s all right really. Bit wimpish for my liking but there’s no harm in her I don’t think.”

“Nevertheless, I think I’ll give it a miss, thanks.”

“So Simon can be her father and they’ll live happily ever after. That’s good. He will be pleased.”

He looked at her curiously. “Don’t you think Julie should have the choice?”

“She hasn’t got any choice, has she? You’ve made it quite clear you want nothing to do with being her father.”

“That’s not the point. You can’t let her believe that Simon is her father if he isn’t.”

“Why ever not? If it makes her happy to think it.”

“How well do you know Simon?”

“He was my first lodger,” Liz announced proudly. Boy, had she learnt a lot about taking in lodgers since then. “He’s the most mild and unassuming and gentle person you’re ever likely to meet. So’s Julie come to that. They suit each other.” She moved on to the cream filled biscuits. A dainty custard cream found itself in her hand, unerringly heading for her mouth. She took a bite into its crispness, her nose taken over by the sweet smell of the delight to come, and the biscuit simply melted away until her tongue reached the creamy centre. The flavour woke her mouth up and forced her hand to reach for more.

“You don’t really know him, though, do you?” Clive persisted. “Are you really such a good judge of character that you could know him, or her, inside out? How do you know you’re not endangering that young girl? She’s still a child.”

Oh, so he did have some paternal feelings for her after all. Oddly, that was reassuring.

“Well, I… I suppose I’m not a great judge of character when I think about some of my lodgers, and my ex and my next door neighbour — both of them.” The biscuit suddenly lost all its charm. Carefully she laid it back on the cake stand thingy. Clive glanced at it with distaste. She looked at it and realised that putting the soggy remains of a half-chewed custard cream back in the company of untouched Viennese crunches may not be in the best of taste, but she’d suddenly realised how right he was and the middle of her stomach had dropped out.

Liz caught his gaze and it came to her that he wasn’t fascinated by her reasonings at all. No, it was a calculating and coldly intent look he bent upon her. She shifted uneasily in her chair. Once again, he was closer to the door than she was — when would she ever learn? She sighed heavily.

She also remembered the extraordinary spectacle of Simon losing it with those thugs and wondered just how vicious and dangerous he could be if he wanted.

The world, she realised uncomfortably, was a very insecure place for one as unperceptive as her. She really should stay in her safe and homely attic and never leave it, no matter the temptation. She thought of Lydia and how horrible she’d been to her. Liz had always thought of her as being lonely and sad and soft hearted. Just a Poor Thing. The extremely well-hidden capacity she had to be really foul with no provocation whatsoever had come as a severe shock. She’d said her dog reeked with an awful stench of carrion. How uncalled for! How unkind! He just smelled like a dog. Her lovely loving dog — the only creature on the entire planet that she could really trust. Her sister and her mother didn’t count. They were family, or they kept swearing they were, even though she found it difficult to believe. And she wouldn’t trust them anyway, come to think of it.

“Also,” Clive continued, as if her whole world disintegrating in messy chunks onto his front room carpet counted for nothing. “She should have a choice as a matter of principle. You believe that people should choose for themselves? You must do. It’s the way you live.”

What did he mean by that?

“Yes, I do. You’re right. I’ll have to tell her.”

“Simon should tell her.”

“Surely it’s his choice whether he tells her or not.”

“You’ve got me there. Have a biscuit.”

But she didn’t want one any more. She felt insecure and friendless. She felt stupid. She wanted to go home.

Back home, the sound of someone beating hell out of something in the downstairs bedroom assailed her ears as she walked in. She peered around Tony’s door and saw him, sleeves rolled up, concentrating on whatever it was he was doing to the French windows. She’d forgotten about them. She tiptoed away and left him to it. What a handy chap he was! Kept himself to himself too. Washed up. Cooked and cleaned. Just the sort of lodger she should have. But then again, what did she really know about him? Nothing.

She climbed the stairs, past Simon’s room from which she could hear the soft murmur of voices — his and Julie’s she presumed. Moocher greeted her in the attic. He was having a rest after towing Simon and Julie around the block, down to the park, around the block and back again. Being lead-husky was hard work. So he was resting. On her bed. He feebly lifted his tail and let it drop back on the bed. That was it. That was her greeting after a hard hour’s work deducing and then realising how unsafe her world actually was. Just one feeble tail thump. That was all she deserved.

She pulled up her domestic spreadsheet to see how broke she was and that was when she realised that her phone was not on the hook properly. That explained Lydia’s accusation. She was tempted to leave it as it was. It had been peaceful on the phone front recently, but she might be missing clients’ phone calls too. So she replaced it properly and the thing immediately rang. She remembered her injunction to herself to remember that no, she did not know for sure who was ringing before she picked up the phone. A virtuous feeling flooded through her as she answered: “AccountsRUs. Good Afternoon. How can I help you?”

“You do sound silly, Liz. Why don’t you change it to something a bit more traditional?”

Her sister. Might have known. Just had to think about her and next minute she was in her ear again, being all superior and big sisterish. She was so annoying, Angela. Liz drew a deep breath. A very deep breath. “AccountsRUs is my trading name, Angela. My clients know me as such. It would be a bad move to change it now.”

“You’d have more clients if you changed your name. It holds no credibility whatsoever. You’ve been on the telephone an awful lot lately. Whenever I’ve rung up you’ve been engaged. You’ll have to watch your telephone bill.”

“Thank you, Angela. Have you rung up with anything useful in mind or was it going to be more of your usual un-asked-for advice? I would like to remind you that I have asked you not to ring up in business hours. I am trying to work here.”

Well, she was. Sort of.

“Well, that’s nice, that is. I ring up to give you the benefit of my advice and you’re rude to me!”

Her sister was unbelievable. She could be rude to Liz and call it advice. Liz could react to Angela’s rudeness to her and it was rudeness. It was always a no-win situation for Liz.

Angela chuntered on, “Mind you, I can’t think why I should expect anything different from you. Ever since you split up with poor old Hugh, you’ve been unreasonable and nasty.”

Aargh — not this again. Liz couldn’t think why Angela didn’t marry Hugh herself. Always going on about how much better off Liz was married to him, how much better a person she was married to him. Blah, blah, blah.

“I’m waiting,” Liz said. “With bated breath.”

Angela fell for it. “That’s better. Anyway, Betty’s been round this morning.”

Betty? Who’s Betty? Liz didn’t want to interrupt to ask because she’d be there for an hour getting the low-down on Betty’s family and friends and whether she ironed her clothes correctly or not.

“Gave me the chance to show her my new kitchen.”

What’s with the new kitchen bit? What’s the big deal about new kitchens?

“I gave her some of my ginger biscuits I’d made from that new recipe book I got from the author herself at the signing. She signed it specially to me.”

Liz said nothing. Angela didn’t need her around for this ‘phone call.

“They’re made with corn flour rather than ordinary flour. It makes them so much lighter and melt in the mouth.”

“Wake me up when you get to the point please.” Waste of breath of course.

“I must say, she sat there with a crumb on her chin the whole time she was with me. She must have been mortified when she got home and found it there knowing she’d sat in my kitchen, with me, the whole time with a crumb on her chin.”

Mortified! Must have been. She must have rushed to the mirror when she got home and seen that offending crumb. Bet she cringed with embarrassment and swore she’d never go out in public again without a veil. Poor old Betty. Ruined, she was, ruined for life. How could anyone live it down? How could anyone ever live down the painful and ruinous experience of sitting in Angela Rowbottom’s brand new kitchen, eating melt in the mouth, made with corn flour, you know, ginger biscuits, from a recipe book signed to the owner personally and not next door’s cat, with a crumb on her chin. Good grief, the shame, the shame.

“… and said she’d seen you standing in the middle of the road in front of an oncoming car, but she didn’t think it could be you — even you’re not that stupid…”

Certainly not! Boadicea might be, but not her. Oh, no, no, no.

“But what she wanted to tell you about because you won’t have seen it, always buried in your attic playing at your accounting stuff was that Hugh, good old Hugh, went to the rescue. He was superb apparently. He dived onto the bonnet and brought the truck to a skidding halt. The criminals were so frightened at his appearance they gave themselves up and released their prisoner.”

Liz woke up with a start. “They weren’t so frightened that they didn’t get away though.”

“Oh, that. Yes, but the point was that Hugh was magnificent. All the females in Malvern Road must have been swooning at his feet.”

Liz noticed she made no mention of skateboarding teddies, but then, Angela wouldn’t. She’d ignore something like that so successfully that for her it might as well not have existed.

Angela was still blabbing on about Hero Hugh. “You really need to grab him before anyone else does. You can’t manage without him. Look at all this silly stuff about having lodgers in your house. You don’t know where they’ve been. Not only that, but I can’t begin to imagine having to share my kitchen with a load of unwashed and un-house-trained lodgers.”

Horror of horrors.

Liz wondered whether to tell her about Charity.

“Betty was particularly interested because she noticed that Kevin’s vehicle, which was stolen the previous night, presumably for this criminal activity, had a back light out and he could get in trouble so of course, she’s round there now to tell him. You don’t always know if it’s a back light do you, so it’s not your fault, but the law doesn’t always make allowances does it?”

“Do you think she’s recovered enough, then, to go out in public so soon after her awful faux pas round at your place”

“What are you talking about now?”

“The crumb on her chin.”

“Oh dear. You do talk a load a drivel sometimes, Liz. In fact, that’s been the case ever since you split up with…”

“Yes, Angela. I know. Talking of which, by the way, you might like to know that your Hero Hugh is engaged to be married,” Liz said, before she realised she was going to.

A silence greeted her, which went on so long she wondered if Moocher had chewed through the telephone wire while she wasn’t looking, but it seemed intact when she checked.

Pity he hadn’t. When Angela got her voice back she said, “So you’ve lost your chance to get him back. You shouldn’t have messed him around so much.”

“I didn’t want him back, Angela,” she said. “We’d already tried all that and it wouldn’t have worked.” She tried to make it sound as convincing as it had been for the last couple of years whenever she’d had need to say it, regardless that now she no longer wanted it to be true. Too late.

“Her name’s Charity,” she added hastily before the silence got too long.

“Charity? I’m sure she’s very suitable. What else do you know about her?”

“Well, she’s made Hugh stop having milk in his coffee, and she doesn’t want him coming round to see us, and she doesn’t like him seeing Moocher…” Liz trailed off miserably, conscious that if she continued her voice might wobble.

“Yes, well. See how cold the world feels,” Angela said, “…when you lose someone who loved you. It’s like when someone dies and you know there’s one less person to love you, one less person to make you feel special. It’s very hard.”

Liz couldn’t speak. If she’d tried she’d have howled her head off. Angela sounded as though she was the one who’d lost the love of her life, not her. But Liz couldn’t think who she could have lost to make her feel like that. As far as Liz was aware she’d married her first love and was happy.

So they both sat in silence for quite a lengthy period of time. Liz spent the whole time trying to stop her eyes from melting.

Eventually, Liz coughed. “Yeah, yeah.” Just to get Angela off the subject, she asked: “Who’s Kevin anyway?”

Angela cleared her throat. “Her nephew. You haven’t been listening have you?”

And just like that things were back to normal.

“Kevin’s the one who won that cup for table tennis and then got in trouble because he swapped it for an old skateboard which he took down to College Green to learn how to jump the steps down there. He’s the son of Roger, her brother, or rather her half-brother, because her mother married again after finding her husband in flagrante delicto, you know, (giggle giggle) with the girl at the cricket ground and then finding that she couldn’t even cook, let alone iron a shirt properly…” On and on and on. “…so when she realised that Hugh was scratching Kevin’s bonnet, not that she holds it against him, of course. He was so brave and courageous…”

“Hang on a minute. Are you saying the truck that Hugh was reclining on in male model fashion belonged to Kevin, Betty’s nephew?”

“You don’t listen do you? Of course that’s what I’m saying. But anyway, Hugh…”

A lead! A lead! “Must go,” Liz said, trying to keep the excitement out of her voice. “There’s someone at the door.”

“Somebody else can get it. Yes, Hugh looked particularly fetching, I gather, not that Betty’s got any taste whatsoever in the clothes department. Did I tell you she was wearing…”

“There’s no one else in. I must get the door. It might be a client.”

“…and a checked blouse with it. Well, really. How unsuitable for someone her age, especially with green shoes. Those shoes didn’t come from…”

“I’m sorry Angela. I must insist on going. I have to take a cake out of the oven. It’ll be burning by now.”

“Oh. Why didn’t you say before you silly girl? I’ll call back later.” And she was gone, the phone burring in Liz’s ear.

She had a lead! Kevin’s truck, it appeared, while it was stolen, was the getaway vehicle. This was something substantial she could follow up. Magnificent! She leapt out of her chair and suddenly stopped. Who the hell was Betty? Dohh! She smacked her forehead and dialled Angela’s number. Of course it was picked up immediately: “The Rowbottom Residence. Good Day.”

And she had the nerve to say Liz’s greeting sounded stupid!

“Oh, Angela. It’s me again. Just before I take the cake out of the oven — who’s Betty?”

“You haven’t taken the cake out yet? Good Lord, you never did get your priorities right! Betty Needles and I ran the tombola together for the church fete when that nice vicar was there, not that she was Needles then. No, she was Podger. She was always trying to get one up on me, but there’s no chance of that. After all, look who she married. She lives at number two hundred Malvern Road. Fancy not knowing that! You’d better get the cake out. Talk to you later.”

Fancy Angela falling for the cake in the oven routine. She was not very bright.

Number two hundred, eh? Liz could feel the thrill of the chase coursing through her veins. She really was on to something. Nothing could stop this fearless crusader pursuing justice now! The day had brightened. Even Moocher wagged his tail more enthusiastically. He stayed where he was, though, as if to say that having found the bed, his rightful place in life, he wasn’t ever losing it again.

Maybe she wouldn’t miss Hugh so much if she spent her life dedicated to crusading, selflessly and nobly, on other people’s behalf. Yeah, it was the only thing to do when one was going to die young of unrequited love.

Chapter Fourteen of ‘White Lies and Custard Creams’ is here!

Chapter Sixteen of ‘White Lies and Custard Creams’ will be here next week!

All ‘White Lies and Custard Creams’ chapters to read are here.

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