Felicity Young - Take Out

He told everyone he was a businessman, but to Lilly Hardegan, her son Ralph would never be anything more than a trumped-up greengrocer.

He put her tea on the table next to her sewing and settled himself on the footstool at her feet. He often complained about the stool, said she should have another chair for visitors, said he hated sitting at her feet like a child. It kept him in his place, Lilly liked to think.

‘Listen, Moth,’ he said as he took one of her hands.

She used to have such pretty hands, she reflected without self-pity. These days they looked more like something found under the lino—too much sun maybe?

‘It’s really important that you tell me exactly what you said to the police,’ Ralph went on. ‘It would be awful if they were given the wrong impression of the Pavels, or of me for that matter, wouldn’t it?’

‘Your friends.’

‘Well, not exactly, Jon Pavel is a business associate really. It’s not necessary to mention my connection with him at all. You see, if you mention me...’ He paused, his eyes becoming sharp slits, nothing like Branson’s at all. ‘You’ll be dropping yourself in it too.’

I was stupid. A stupid, naïve, ignorant old woman. Lilly’s head began to pound. She felt as if she might be having another stroke. Maybe it would be easier for everyone if she did.

His clammy hand gripped hers once more. He was worried now, really worried, but only for himself. No, erase that. He wasn’t merely worried; he was bloody terrified; she could smell the fear in his sweat.

‘I might have to go away for a while, Moth, just to be safe, just until this business with the Pavels calms down. I won’t tell you where I’m going; I think it’s best you don’t know in case they come here looking for me.’

Who did he mean ‘they’—the police? Or was he talking about those awful people he’d got himself mixed up with?

‘Don’t worry, they won’t want you, they know you can’t tell anyone about anything. In the meantime, I’m getting things in motion to get power of attorney. It’s a pain I didn’t organise it before your stroke. Things are tricky now, but I should be able to get it sorted—it’s the only way, you can see that, can’t you?’

No, Lilly couldn’t see it at all. Skye had said she was making a splendid recovery. Her right leg had improved to the extent that she didn’t need a stick any more, and her hand was now good enough to let her tackle a basic cross-stitch. Skye said her speech was sure to follow, and when that happened, she would be taught to read and write again. No, he didn’t need power of attorney. She drummed her feet ineffectually upon the lino. He didn’t, he didn’t, he didn’t! (Image 4.1)

Image 4.1

CHAPTER FIVE

Stevie tried the other window in the room, but like the one overlooking Mrs Hardegan’s place, it was locked and she couldn’t find the key. ‘What a bloody idiot,’ she cursed aloud, kicking at the heavy door. Lucky she didn’t get claustrophobia; lucky, too, the smells from downstairs couldn’t reach her in this hermetically sealed room. On the other hand, could any air get in at all? She panicked for a moment, not daring to breathe. Then she spotted the two air-conditioning vents in the ceiling. The aircon was switched off, but at least it meant that a certain amount of air could get through from the roof space. She let out her pent up breath, whew.

Stay calm, she muttered to herself, pacing the room. You’ve got your mobile with you and you must use it. You don’t get claustrophobia. Someone will get you out, and when that happens you’ll just have to come clean and face the consequences.

But maybe, just maybe, she could find a way around this.

She reached into her overalls for her mobile, relieved to see she had plenty of battery power left. Her first call was to Monty.

‘I’m going to be late home,’ she told him. ‘Skye called with a problem. I need to stick around a bit longer and sort something out for her.’

‘Fine, no worries—where are you?’

‘I’ll explain later. There’s something I need to know, though.’

‘Shoot.’

‘Do you remember a guy called William Trotman? A general duties officer when you were with Joondalup Detectives.’

‘Blinky Bill? What’s he got to do with Skye?’

‘For now I just need his mobile number.’

‘Hang on I’ll check my phone.’

He seemed to be gone an age. When he finally returned he told her he no longer had Trotman’s number in his phone. She started to swear.

‘But I did find it on the old Cardex in the study.’ She tried to ignore the infuriating smile in his voice, remaining calm as he read out the number, returned his ‘love you’ and hung up.

A police car pulled away from the curb. Stevie prayed Trotman was in the remaining one, that he still had the same mobile number.

He answered on the second ring. ‘William Trotman.’

‘It’s Stevie Hooper, Bill. Don’t say a word. Just get out of the car and get away from the others. I need a private chat.’

The car door opened and she saw Trotman’s gangly form unfold into the street. ‘It’s fucking raining, Stevie.’

‘I’m trapped in the upstairs room. Come and get me out without telling anyone.’

Trotman let out a whooping laugh.

‘Just do it, you bastard!’

The door opened easily from the outside. To stop Trotman from asking what she was doing in the upstairs bedroom, she quickly pointed out the missing doorhandle, asking if it had been noted.

‘No idea,’ he said as they thumped down the stairs. ‘That’s the first I heard about it.’ They paused on the front porch, waiting for a break in the rain. A van pulled up alongside the police car. Stevie recognised the high-heeled form of the woman from the deli, hauling herself out with a box of snacks for the troops. Stevie’s stomach gave a hungry moan. It seemed hours since she’d eaten that salad sandwich.

‘But the room was like a prison,’ Stevie said. ‘I still think you should point it out to Fowler, just in case. Get yourself some brownie points.’ God knows he must need them. Fifty-five if he was a day and still a constable first class.

‘It’s probably just something to do with the redecorating that’s been going on,’ Trotman said, as if she should know what he was talking about.

‘Redecorating? What do you mean?’

Trotman took off his glasses and wiped them thoughtfully on his uniform jacket, making them streakier than they already were. ‘The neighbours told one of the lads about a fire here last year. Apparently an electrical fault damaged quite a bit of the inside of the house and they’ve been slowly getting the place reorganised. I guess they were just waiting on some more doorhandles.’

That would account for the fresh paint and lack of personal effects around the house; possibly, too, the boxed items in the storeroom. But what of the dirt, Stevie thought, the neglect of a beautiful house by a family who could easily afford to pay someone to clean it? And more importantly, how could the state of the baby be explained? A figure ran through the rain towards the porch before she could continue with the thought.

Her heart sank. Luke Fowler.

It seemed that during her absence her kitchen had been transformed into a Chinese laundry. Stevie blinked as she looked around the place, at the sheets of pasta draped over every available surface, from the oven doorhandle to the chair backs, the kitchen shelving to the wooden clotheshorse. Limp doughy strips even hung from Monty’s tropical fish tank. ‘See, curtains for the fish!’ Izzy proclaimed.