‘No, you keep something like that quiet. Wouldn’t want to upset your sister, would he?’
‘I thought Robyn was dropping him off up there?’
‘She did, but once she saw me and Mick waiting with the van, she headed straight off.’ When I pointed out that the tyres had been intentionally slashed, Carrington – Fabian – nodded and said to keep it to ourselves. He didn’t want Robyn to know.
‘And yet you’ve just told me.’
‘Well, you’re different.’
‘And am I supposed to keep this little nugget of information to myself? Not tell Robyn?’
‘Up to you.’ Dean was heading for the door. ‘It’s probably some ex-con that’s got it in for him. You know, for not getting him off whatever he’d been up in court for, after paying Carrington a shedload of dosh or something.’
‘In London? Why would they come up here?’ I frowned.
‘Dunno, not my problem. Four new tyres for that machine of his is going to cost him a packet. I can make a good percentage on those. Mind you, he’s not without, is he? Right, I’ll be over for my tea then?’ Dean said hopefully.
‘In your dreams,’ I shouted after him.
* * *
‘Queen’s Gardens, Queen’s Gardens,’ I muttered, driving slowly down the main road out of Beddingfield village and into Rich Man’s Land. I’d done a private party here almost immediately after I’d started Jessica Dining in the year before Covid and, being one of my first jobs, as well as for a couple’s silver wedding in the poshest part of the village, I’d pulled out all the stops. Spotting Queen’s Gardens on my left, I indicated and drove slowly down the avenue of beautiful houses – they must be worth at least a million apiece – until I saw one of the old red telephone boxes ahead and pulled in behind it.
‘Willow, Willow something,’ I muttered as I cut the engine and peered through my windscreen, looking for a willow tree that would indicate I’d arrived. Vera van, all that was left from Jessica Dining,was certainly out of place amongst the upmarket machines parked on each side of the avenue as well as in every driveway and behind each forbidding gate.
I quickly added a layer of lipstick, fluffed up my hair and got out of the van. ‘Willow? Willow?’ I continued to murmur, trying to catch sight of a house name, any name that might give a clue to which door Lola might be behind.
‘Will-O’-The-Wisp? Ah, that must be it. Willow my backside,’ I continued to murmur to myself. ‘Silly bloody middle-class name for a house.’ The large neo-Georgian box sat, as Dean had said, behind enormous black gates. Locked gates, I found as, shaking at them, I tried to find a way to get them to open. I hunted for a bell, a buzzer, anything, then realised there was a keypad in the stone gatepost with some sort of intercom. I pressed at the pad and a disembodied woman’s voice crackled into life.
‘Yes?’
‘Oh, I think you might have my daughter here? Lola? Lola Butterworth? She…’ I stopped speaking as the gates inched slowly open, allowing access. Which way to go? I walked up the rather grand pathway towards a huge black front door set behind a heavily corniced stepped entrance. Blimey, this place wasn’t unlike the Acropolis in Athens. Not that I’d ever been to the Acropolis. Or to Athens. But both were on my bucket list if I was ever able to overcome my homesickness phobia. One day…
I climbed the steps, but there appeared to be no knocker or bell. What the hell was the matter with these people that they didn’t have a knocker on their front door? I reckoned I’d better make my way round to the back and, walking back down the steps, carried on round the gravel path that led to another gate. A cacophony of ferocious barking brought me to a standstill.
‘Woah, down, get down. Hang on a minute.’ A man’s voice came through the gate, followed by yelps and scuffles and a volley of swearing. Who was yelping and who was swearing, I couldn’t quite make out, but presumably the human was gaining control over however many animals were also there. I did hope Lola hadn’t been subjected to these rabid creatures I imagined were now muzzled and leashed into submission.
‘Who is it?’ The man’s voice came again.
‘Erm, Jess Butterworth. I think my daughter, Lola, is with you…’
‘Youthinkshe is? Don’t you know?’
‘Well, no, I don’t actually. My husband – my ex-husband – left my daughter somewhere without my permission…’ Even to my ears this sounded bloody ridiculous.
‘Hang on,’ the voice said once more. ‘Down, Tiger, Bruno…’
Oh, please notTyson! Hadn’t I had enough of clichés with Dean earlier?
‘…Tyson.’
The gate opened just enough for me to ease my way through. Waiting for the first hot breath of ravaging dog at my throat, I closed my eyes.
20
‘Oh?’ I was momentarily nonplussed to find not three snarling out-of-control German shepherds or Rottweilers, but three fussy little balls of fluff.
‘Damned dogs.’ A tall fair-haired man in jeans and a black roll-necked sweater was attempting to swipe the creatures from his legs, but with little success. I started to laugh. ‘Goodness, I thought they must be guard dogs.’
