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‘Like I say, I know I put them down somewhere in the kitchen, when I were getting more cleaning spray,’ said Jax, changing gear with brisk authority. ‘I remember thinking:put them there, Jax, and you won’t forget them.’
But you did forget them,thought Liz. Aloud she said, ‘And these keys are for—?’
‘The holiday lets,’ said Jax grimly. ‘All my Friday and Saturday cleans I tell you, Liz, without them keys I am up the proverbial creek without a paddle and that is somewhere I do not need to be, believe you me!’
‘What were you doing in Nev’s house in the first place?’ said Liz, thinking of their speculation on the subject earlier that day. ‘Weren’t you and Thelma cleaning the Snuggery?’
‘I needed more spray, didn’t I,’ said Jax smoothly. ‘Nev used to say: “Jax, if you need more spray, just help yourself.”’
Liz frowned, trying to remember if Thelma had said anything about cleaning spray running out. ‘Don’t you think you should ring Ffion – check it’s all right,’ she said. ‘I know you say she’s not in, but you thought that before … And what if Ffion found them and put them away somewhere?’
Jax swung the cherry-red Nissan into the driveway of the Old Barn. ‘Liz!’ she said, stopping the car with a sharp crunch of gravel. ‘How many more times do I have to say it.There’s no one here. And I need them keys for tomorrow. I have got to get into them holiday lets – I cannotafford to lose that contract – if not for me, then for Chelse.’
Liz duly nodded, feeling a tug to her heartstrings as she remembered the unhappy girl. And, she firmly reminded herself, upset people do impetuous things. She scanned the front of the Old Barn; there was no sign of the black four-by-four – indeed, aside from Sidrah watering her garden, Chapel Lane seemed utterly deserted. Maybe if they went straight in and straight out everything would be okay.
‘We need to be quick,’ she said.
The ponytail nodded energetically as Jax turned off the engine and snatched up her large tote bag. ‘Thanks,’ she said somewhat perfunctorily. ‘I couldn’t have done this on my own; I know I’m being silly, but I just cannot face going in that building alone.’
Liz felt like pointing out that the Old Barn wasn’t where Neville’s body had been found, but something told her she’d be wasting her breath. Like Thelma before, she couldn’t quite rid herself of the feeling that there was some ulterior motive to this trip; but what, she had no idea. In Jax’s voice, sneaking beneath the urgently professed need, there was a tone Liz recognised from their days in class together, when Jax would tell some convoluted tale outlining some dilemma – a missing reading record, a query about dinner numbers. These dilemmashad all had similar solutions: Jax absenting herself from the class for lengthy periods of time.
Looking over Jax’s shoulder into the dim hallway of the Old Barn, Liz felt how most people would at the prospect of walking into a stranger’s house uninvited: a sense of appalled guilt. ‘I better wait outside,’ she called.
‘No, it’s fine, come on,’ said Jax, shifting her tote bag onto her shoulder.
Together they walked inside, Liz convinced Ffion would suddenly appear, possibly sliding down the bannisters, certainly with a shriek of rage.
‘Oh my God,’ said Jax, looking around. ‘What a tip!’
She wasn’t wrong. Coats and boots were heaped like brown and black fungi over and around what were presumably coat pegs. A sack of what looked like some sort of feed was propped against the bannisters and there was the faintly pervasive smell of stables. ‘You can tell Nev isn’t around; he’d never have stood for this,’ said Jax in disgust. ‘You wait here. I’ll not be two seconds.’
Jax disappeared into what Liz could see was the kitchen, leaving Liz sighing and glancing nervously at the front door.Two seconds!Why did people always say ‘two seconds’ when they invariably meant considerably longer? She stood in the hallway, barely daring to move, but aware of another, growing feeling. Not two hours ago she had been stood in Tesco, wondering about the true nature of Neville Hilton – and here was an unexpected chance to find out. She looked round the hall with its jumble of jackets and bags. Not much to be learned here; the place to see would be Nev’s study.
Jax appeared in the kitchen doorway and Liz felt a warm surge of relief. ‘Found them?’
But Jax shook her head. ‘Not yet. There’s a few places I need to look,’ she said. ‘Just make yourself comfortable.’
Make yourself comfortable! Liz shook her head. Just how on earth was she supposed to do that? Use the feed sack like abeanbag? Again, her eyes strayed to the front door … and then to the door next to it. It was standing slightly ajar and through it she could just make out a bookshelf. Liz crossed to the door and peeked into a room that was as pin-neat as the hall was untidy. Two of the walls were taken up by shelves full of books and ring binders; the third was painted a sharp lemon colour and adorned with a plethora of framed photos and certificates. The polished gravitas of a large wooden desk and an adjacent smaller unit of drawers dominated the fourth wall. Here was a window with a view onto the drive and Sidrah’s cottage across Chapel Lane.
It was definitely a home office of some description – Neville’s? Dare she go in? She reminded herself of her earlier thought; here was a golden opportunity to find out more about Neville Hilton dropped right into her lap. What’s more, she was pretty sure neither Thelma nor Pat would have hesitated; in fact, this could well be what Thelma referred to as a ‘nudge from the Almighty’. And she need only have the quickest of quick looks – considerably less time than Jax’s ‘two seconds’. How many times over the years had she conducted the same sort of lightning fact-finding expedition into her son’s bedroom?
Without giving herself time to think further she entered the study, heart pounding, fully expecting some sort of klaxon alarm to sound. She walked over to the desk, but it was locked; of course it was. Anyway – just what was she expecting to find? A folder of racy love letters from a mistress? A sheaf of receipts labelled ‘embezzled fund’? She realised that her breathing was so rapid she was almost panting; she took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing down the rising feeling of panic.
Get a grip, Liz!She wouldn’t find anything at this rate. But where to start?
Her eyes dropped to the cupboard next to the desk. No, not a cupboard – one of those wooden filing cabinets.Dare she?Looking over her shoulder she dropped (stiffly) to her knees and tugged at the handle. Like many wooden drawers it stuckslightly then opened in a series of scraping jerks, each jerk echoed by a panicky start from Liz’s heart. Inside was a neat range of labelled sections – tax, insurance, Lodestone, Ofsted. She sat back, frustrated, again wondering just what it was she was hoping to find? A folder labelled ‘Shenanigans’?
Hang on –what was this?
One of the folders was labelled ‘Complaints’.
Intrigued, she extracted it from its divider and began leafing through the contents. These were – as one would expect – complaints. Chiefly from Neville, about various subjects: a faulty toaster, a blocked footpath, a substandard NightPrem Inn bedroom. Smooth words and phrases of displeasure curled up smoke like from the pages:disappointed … unhappy … express my displeasure … direct contravention … failure on your part.The latest one, dated only a few months previous, was a series of complaints about the dangerous state of the A171 moors road. There were some ten or eleven letters on this topic alone.
The feeling of sadness intensified as she stood looking at the litany of grumbles and complaints – trivial, piffling grumbles – all now made irrelevant by death.
